‘In this case, the spread is extensive. We are going to do everything we can, hit it hard and fast. But. Well.’
‘No promises, eh?’
‘I never make promises when it comes to cancer.’
‘Will you offer me some odds, then?’
‘I don’t find providing statistics helpful, Hattie. Every case is different, and everyone responds differently to the treatment.’
‘And I respond a lot better to knowing what’s likely to be up ahead, rather than being fudged about with vague talk and furrowed eyebrows.’
There was more back and forth along these lines, but in the end, Hattie badgered him into revealing what she’d been after. Hattie should update her will, get her things in order, make the most of every day. There was a good enough chance that this was going to be it.
* * *
‘Is there anything else I can do?’ I asked, once we’d got back to Riverbend and I’d made her a panini to pick at.
‘Two things.’ Hattie gestured for me to sit beside her on the sunroom sofa. ‘Will you help me sort the rest of the house, get as ready as I can to close down my business and bank accounts, all of that stuff?’
‘Hattie, let’s not approach this as if the outcome is certain. You might have years yet.’
‘I want to get things sorted now, while I still can, just in case.’
‘Okay. Of course I’ll help. What’s the second thing?’
Hattie tipped up her chin. ‘Before I enter treatment hell, I’m going to throw a birthday party, one to rival the Riverbend Balls of old.’
‘Dr Ambrose said you need to start chemo as soon as possible.’
‘My birthday’s in a month’s time. The first of May, which is also the bank holiday Monday. He can do whatever he likes to me after that.’
Sort a lifetime of memories and possessions, as well as a thriving business, organise a party and, at Hattie’s insistence, finish a course of art therapy.
It was going to be a busy month.
26
After an early night and quiet morning, Hattie was ready for another afternoon in the attic. The untouched boxes now made for a forlorn little stack in one corner, those we’d sorted into different categories depending upon what Hattie wanted to do with their contents forming neat piles across one side of the room.
After some opening and closing of different containers, she found what she was looking for. A photograph album. A wedding album, stashed alongside an old VHS video, a dried bouquet of flowers, a flouncy veil and tiara, and the kind of miniature bride and groom figurines that traditionally topped a wedding cake.
‘You were married?’ I asked as Hattie turned the first page of the album to reveal her standing outside a large church, a much older man with his hand on her elbow. ‘Who is he?’
‘I was. But not to him.’ Hattie shuddered. ‘That’s my darling father, making sure I didn’t decide to leave Peter at the altar.’ She grimaced. ‘It was a close call. Even then, I couldn’t help fantasising about Aidan showing up at the crucial moment the vicar reached that bit about “speak now, or forever hold your peace”. But, no. Peter was my only option, so I took it. For Riverbend’s sake, as much as my own.’
* * *
Riverbend
Harriet – she couldn’t bear to be called the name Aidan had given her any longer – met Peter Chillington in her final year of university. Approaching thirty, after a good decade of enjoying too much money and ample time to spend it in, Peter was under pressure to knuckle down, find a wife, and at some point, produce an heir to the family pile in Devon.
His path had crossed Harriet’s at a few house-parties, weddings and other events that she’d attended through her closest friends from Madam Bourton’s School for Young Ladies. While Harriet wasn’t wealthy, or from a family of any particular standing, she’d learned how to hold her own in high-class circles. More importantly, she was known for being what her friends called ‘free-spirited’, and others referred to as a ‘hot mess’. Wild, reckless, up for almost anything. After a night spent smoking joints on his family’s private beach together, followed by skinny dipping and bacon sandwiches, Peter’s mind was made up. If he had to marry, it might as well be to someone who wasn’t boring or unattractive.
Harriet was stunned when Peter invited her out on a proper date. She wasn’t the type of girl who men took out to dinner. She was the one they booted out of bed with an apologetic grin and a raging hangover before the girl they were really interested in found out about it.
That first evening, and the whirlwind courtship that followed, felt like an alternate reality. Peter wooed her with sophisticated restaurants, trips to art exhibitions and the theatre. He asked questions about her life – past and present as well as her hopes for the future. After offering an edited version of her childhood, Harriet made no effort to correct his assumption that her erratic lifestyle had been down to the tragic loss of her mother and nothing more.
She felt as though she were holding her breath for the next few weeks, waiting for him to make some throwaway comment, clarifying that this was nothing but a bit of fun before he settled down with someone suitable. To her overwhelming relief, it never came, and she started to wonder if she could actually become the person Peter seemed to believe she was. She did her best to adopt the role of girlfriend, including charming his family and proving to his friends that she could be wifely material, and it seemed to be working. After all, if there was one thing Harriet could do well, it was fight for survival.
