And then my eyes spring open as she moves down, her hair brushing my groin. “Then stop, baby,” she says, before wrapping her mouth around me. And all thoughts of chemo disappear.
Chapter 20
Hannah, May
I’ve now beendating George for longer than I was—whatever—with Davey. And subconsciously I’m becoming more invested in working on this relationship rather than hanging on to something that started slowly and ended fast. With George, we started fast and…no, no. I’m working at this.
I’ll take my hat off to him, because George has gotten me thin—although he says that wasn’t his design; he just wanted me to be healthier and have more energy. Mainlining Hobnobs and white bread on a near daily basis isn’t the way to ward off heart disease in later years. Apparently. Health and fitness have been his sole mission, I think, over the past few weeks after I muttered something about how I love pancakes, but pancakes don’t love me, over brunch one morning. We still go for drinks, but now it’s all about gin and slimline tonics, which I’m slowly learning to love, and less about piña coladas, full of coconut rum and cream, which are apparently the Devil.
I’ve been going running with him, too. Getting fit. Eating less. Drinking less. I’ve kicked it up a notch at the gym, and I’ve joined this boot-camp thing that George has started leading, in prep for summer bikini bodies. I am very much a guinea pig in order to encourage more pancake-loving girls like me to get on board, and he keeps taking photos of me in gym gear and we track my lossesreligiously with a tape measure. “It’s all about inches, Gallagher, not stones and pounds.” This was news to me, and I’m encouraged to slide my electronic scale out of sight. I can’t tell if this is a good thing or not.
On George’s birthday at the end of the month I’m going to give him the James Bond book he was desperate for, all those weeks ago. It’s still £100, signed. I’ve been waiting for the price to drop, but George warned me prices for this kind of thing don’t drop—they increase—so I bit the bullet and bought it for him. It’s not exactly a surprise, but I remember his sad face when he realized he’d left it on the bus. Actually I think it was more of an angry face. No matter. He really wanted it. I’ve also bought him a coaster from an online royal gift shop, in the hope he thinks it’s funny. I think it’s funny. Mildly funny. Not that funny actually. I might not give him the coaster.
I put it in my usual “present hiding spot,” in the cupboard under the stairs that leads to the flat upstairs, and when I go to place it inside, something falls out and lands on my foot in the dark. I pull out the object and look at it. It’s the London tour book that I bought for Davey. I put it away after he’d finished things between us. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. I open it. I’d forgotten I’d put an inscription inside:
Davey,
I can’t wait to share all of this with you. By the time I give this to you, it won’t be Christmas anymore, but…
Happy Christmas, love from Hannah xxx
Christmas—flipping heck, that was ages ago. So much has happened since then and, amazingly for me, I haven’t thought about Davey—really thought about him—in, oh, at least a week. That’s good going for me. I saw something on TV that really made me laugh and it didn’t make George laugh, but I thought: Daveywould have found that funny. He’d probably find the coaster story funny too. Oh, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with me?
I put the book on my bookshelf. I think I might actually read it and do some touristy things. I might even be able to do one of those big red bus tours now, without it actually hurting. I could stand next to a Beefeater with George, without thinking that it’s what Davey and I had planned to do. We had planned to do so much. I close the book—onward and upward.
Chapter 21
Davey
I feel emboldened.This is a new me. I have so much more energy now that I’m back together with Charlotte. It’s like it was when we first met. She’s in control and I am being carried on a wave in whatever direction she heads, swept up in her wake. I don’t have to think. I don’t have to react. I just have to go with it. God, this is easy. This is what I needed. Not only the sex, although obviously that’s great. Charlotte gets me. She gets what I need. She doesn’t see me how I am now. She sees me as I was—as I am going to be again, sooner rather than later. And this is because of the decision I’ve made, the decision that Charlotte understands perfectly. I think if we do this, Charlotte and I, if we really do this, then it’s starting perfectly. It’s more adult now. We’ve grown up since we ended things before. It’s good, meeting again like this. Becoming a thing together, because of conversation andlife,is how it should have been last time.
The first time we met we gravitated toward each other in the darkness of a bar, high on life and alcohol and opportunity. Charlotte simply kind of happened to me.
We walk through the mall together, hand in hand, enjoying each other’s company. I’ve hardly been out since I was diagnosed. It was always too risky for my white blood-cell count to be nearpeople who might pass on what, to them, is a mild illness. But we’re headed out for ice cream and categorically no shopping. I don’t have it in me to watch her try on fifty outfits that all look the same. I don’t dare tell her that, but I’ve made it clear I’m too tired to shop. She suggests a movie at the theater next door. I can’t do that, either. I might sleep my way through it. Charlotte gives me her tinkling laugh and then says she’ll come back and watch the movie another time.
“Who with?” I ask a little sharply.
“People,” she teases.
Other things I don’t do with Charlotte include bringing her back to my mom and dad’s. So we hang out at hers mostly. It’s nice. I like it. I feel like a grown-up again—not being fussed over by my mom. Some women want to mother men. Charlotte isnotone of them. She’s happy to let me eat ice cream all day.
As we’re walking back through the parking lot, I spy Grant. He’s got his arm around a girl I don’t know and I can hear him, from here, hamming up his not-quite-English accent for her benefit.
“Yeah, Iamfrom Sydney. How did you guess?” I hear him lie as he approaches. If Grant can’t be bothered to explain his English roots, then it’s the unspoken call sign that this girl hasn’t passed the test and he’s only in it for the night. I smile. And then his face falls as he clocks me.
I glance down at Charlotte, whose teeth look on edge at the sight of him. I stop, ready to talk to Grant. But he nods at me, ignores Charlotte, and walks right past us. I turn, look at his retreating figure as he heads toward the movie theater. But he doesn’t look back at me.
When he’s out of earshot, Charlotte says, “You see? Grant is not nice.”
I frown, watch as he enters through the automatic doors.Charlotte is pulling me toward her car, but I keep watching. Just in case Grant turns around to look at me. He doesn’t. The doors close behind him.
—
I’m determined to get past all this: lose the weight from the steroids, eat less ice cream and more vegetables. I’ve already looked up culinary courses. I can’t wait to feel better, to book some flights. I wonder about Hannah from time to time, and now is one of those times. I feel guilty. I haven’t had the guts lately to type a message to her, even when I know I won’t send it. What if she’s online again? What if I do something stupid like hit send, make contact. I’ve forced myself to forget her, or at least try to forget her. It hasn’t worked. And the worst thing is that I want to talk to her so badly, and now I’m ridden with guilt because of Charlotte. Things with Hannah were so easy, so hopeful. But complicated, because of our distance and my cancer. That distance isn’t shrinking, but at least the cancer is.
When I was fifteen I used to have the hots for a girl called Candice Williams. I used to ride past her house on my bike, multiple times. I used to go by on one side of the street and then back up the other. Over and over again.
I figure what I do with the messages is like that. I go online, see if Hannah’s online. It’s the transatlantic twentysomething equivalent of riding up and down someone’s street, hoping they’ll appear at their front door. Even though I feel guilty because of Charlotte, I still do it now—go online and see if Hannah’s online. Annoyingly she isn’t, and even more annoyingly she’s too similar to me when it comes to social media. She doesn’t post anything online. Ever. And either she’s a hermit crab these days or her friends have the same view on social media that she does and they don’t tag her in anything. I’ve even tried torturing myself by hoping that her new boyfriend, whoever he is, has tagged her in a photo of the two of them looking blissfully happy somewhere. Iwant to know what he looks like. I want to feel that pain. But instead I have nothing new to feed off—like a junkie who can’t get their next fix.
