Anyway, the talkaoke wasn’t the main thing that got to me, although admittedly it did sound like much more fun than Gorky’s
Summerfolk.
It was when Nicki said that this gorgeous hunk called Dennis had been sitting next to her round the doughnut. The two of them had got into heated discussion as to why the British were normally so rubbish at sport and always performed so badly internationally and one thing led to another and she went back to his place and for the first time ever she’d experienced multiple orgasms.
“Question Number Eight. In England, which of these may a male do at sixteen without parental consent, but not a female: a) marry b) drive a tractor or c) join the army?”
None of us knew, so we guessed that it was ‘join the army’. But I didn’t care. Who gives a toss? I’d never even had
one
orgasm and Nicki the Beast had had loads of them in a row! Where was the justice? I was so mortified I actually considered going outside to play with Pele!
“This is the last question, which day was declared an official bank holiday in 1972?”
We looked at each other blankly. For the sake of putting something down we wrote May 1
st
. Then Simon Shufflebottom, Shuffs for short, came and took our answer sheet away for marking. He shook his head, tutting. “Laydeez,” he said, looking first at the paper and then at Amber. “You should have known the last one. It’s New Year’s Day.”
Ten minutes later he announced the winners. We’d come second, with only one wrong answer. Amber started getting her stuff together, saying she’d left Pele tied up long enough. We were on our way out the door when the quizmaster came running after us.
“Laydeez, you’re not going already?”
Even though there were four of us there, he only had eyes for my best friend. Amber pointed to Pele.
“I’ve got to take him home.”
“Any chance the beautiful lady in the red hair would give me her number?”
She looked him up and down.
“You can have my e-mail address,” she said, searching her bag for pen and paper. She dug out a biro, scribbled her address on an old receipt and I noticed her rubbing her head again as we waved goodbye to the beauteous Analise and her beast of a friend Nicki and headed back home.
*****
I look at Hugo sound asleep next to me on our über expensive Carlton Hotel bed. I feel guilty. I shouldn’t be lying here thinking about the fact that I’ve not given my number to anyone in years. Besides, I don’t even fancy Simon Shufflebottom. I shouldn’t be lying here jealous about Nicki’s multiple orgasms either. I should be singing for joy. Look at me, how lucky I am, to have a good-looking boyfriend who whisks me off to Cannes for a surprise dirty weekend. Isn’t that what everyone looks for? A man who you love, who loves you back and treats you well? Hugo’s a pretty great catch. What more do I want? Am I asking too much?
I resort to counting sheep. Ram number 97 has a wise, guru-like air about him. Before I float into blissful slumber, I ask him a question. Tell me, oh woolly one, is it the relationship thing or the orgasm thing that’s overrated?
I feel like I’ve only just nodded off when an annoying irritation stirs me out of my slumber. It’s my mobile phone buzzing on my bedside table. It takes a while to remember where I am and when I do, I pull the pillow over my head and wait for the phone to stop ringing. It does. Once again I start to drift off, but the damn buzzing starts up again. I open an eye. The digital clock on the room’s huge flat screen TV says it’s only five a.m.
Now, I don’t know about your mother, but mine has the uncanny knack of dying for a chat-about-nothing-in-particular before the sun rises. She’s never quite grasped the fact that on the whole people without kids
don’t
wake up at the crack of dawn and don’t
want
to wake up at the crack of dawn unless needs must. It doesn’t matter how often I tell her not to, nine times out of ten that she picks up the phone to call it's eight a.m. or earlier. She never calls this early though. If it’s only five a.m. in France that makes it four a.m. in England and even my mother, I am sure of it, wouldn’t dare call
this
early for a chat-about-nothing-in-particular, even if she was dying to discuss this stupendous surprise. And that’s why all of a sudden, as my mobile buzzes for a third time and I stretch to see who is calling and see that it
is
my Mum, I’m paralysed with fear. My throat constricts as a million thoughts rush through my head. This has to be an emergency. Nobody was ill before I left home, but my parents aren’t getting younger and even though they’re not yet that old you can’t be complacent. Nobody’s infallible. As it’s my mother that’s calling it’s unlikely it’s her, but it could be Dad and why, oh why, did he never listen when I told him to take more exercise, drink less and eat healthier. I pray that he hasn’t had a heart attack and if he has that he’s still alive.
“Mum,” I whisper. “Are you okay, is Dad okay?”
I carry on babbling because I’m nervous and if I babble then I don’t have to hear the news which I instinctively feel is going to be bad.
“Danni, Danni, shush,” Mum interrupts. “We’re both fine, but I’ve just had a call from Mrs Slater and I thought you should know that Amber’s been rushed to hospital. It’s not looking good.”
*****
I’m given sketchy information. Apparently Amber had developed a really bad headache a couple of days ago, so she’d gone to her Doctor who told her that most probably it was a touch of flu and she should take paracetomol, rest and let him know if it got worse. Well, it got much worse. She’d started feeling dizzy and sick so the Doctor sent her straight to hospital where they’d done a scan which showed bad news.
“What do you mean when you say ‘bad news’ Mum? They must be able to do something?”
My whisper is barely audible.
My mother replies really softly. And believe me, my Mum is not known for being a soft speaker. Even speaking normally you can hear her clearly from at least fifty meters away. The fact that she’s controlling her volume now is because Amber has felt like a daughter to her and if she raises her voice to what she’s telling me she’ll have to accept the true horror of what she’s saying.
“Darling, I don’t fully understand it, but something is leaking in her brain, a blood vessel I think, and if it bursts it could haemorrhage and that’s the bad news.”
She won’t spell it out to me, but I’m beginning to get the message and quite frankly I don’t want it spelt out.
“Can’t they operate, take out whatever it is that’s leaking and then she’ll be as good as new?”
“Yes Danni, they can, and they’re going to try, but apparently it’s in a really difficult place to get to and they’re telling everyone not to get their hopes up.”
“When are they going to do it?”
“They’re hoping to do it later this afternoon.”
*****
Like an automaton I jump out of bed and toss my clothes into my bag. Hugo stands up, unsure of himself. “Danni,” he says really quietly. “I get the gist, but what exactly has happened?”
I briefly stop what I’m doing. “It’s Amber, Hugo. I’m so sorry. I’m going to have to go home. You don’t have to come. You can stay if you like.”
He pulls on his jeans. “Of course I’m coming,” he says. He picks up the room phone. “Hello, can we have a taxi to take us to the airport please, straight away? That’s room 201. Merci beaucoup.”
It takes five minutes to pack. Half an hour later we’re at Nice airport and I take control. I find out which is the first flight back to London and buy two tickets on it. The economy’s fully booked, so we go business class. It costs a fortune, but you can’t put a price on your best friend’s life. I’ve got to get to her immediately and that’s that. I’m remarkably calm, amazingly together. That’s what crises normally do to me. The more desperate the situation, the less panicky I feel. I’m the perfect person to be with in an emergency.
As our plane takes off and banks to the left over the twinkling Mediterranean, the reality of it all starts to sink in. Jesus, Amber ...JEEEEEEZUS. This can’t be happening, not my best friend, not now, so young. My eyes well up, overflowing a lifetime’s memories in quick, millisecond flashes. Amber yanking back Pele that time he jumped on me, urging him to stop with all the nine-year old strength she could muster; drinking homemade lemonade in her back garden; stuffing our faces with her Mum’s famous custard tarts, leaving crumbly traces stuck to the sides of our mouths; me almost getting Amber expelled. She’d never much liked English, so I’d once tried to help by composing an essay for her, but her teacher could tell she hadn’t written it and wanted to know who had or else. I remember Amber feeding me generous amounts of ex-lax once, mistaking it for chocolate, then feeling terrible when I’d sat groaning on the toilet the rest of the day; I recall Amber getting so upset when Brown Owl laughed at the patch of knitting she’d sewn for her house orderly badge that she stuck up two ten-year old fingers at her, ran out of Brownies and never went back.
Tears start to trickle down my face. Hugo interlocks his hand in mine, but says nothing. He knows me well enough to understand that silence is what I want. I need my own quiet time to allow the memories to warm me, convince me that everything’s going to be okay, because there’s too much to lose, too early, too soon. I’m desperate to ask Hugo if he thinks this will all have a happy ending, but I keep my lips sealed, secure in the frightening knowledge that nobody can give me cast iron guarantees, even my ever reliable trusty, crusty Hugo.
I suddenly remember the possible early warning signals, Amber putting her head in her hands that day on the Heath. Christ, was that really only five days ago? Were we really there? Did that really happen? I’m in denial. I feel like I’m on the outside looking in. I’ve picked up the wrong script pages. This is a scene from somebody else’s life because it sure as hell can’t be from mine. I feel numb. The only sensation I have is of Hugo’s fingers tightly clasped in mine. I look down at our two hands intertwined and guilt starts to seep in. I should have paid more attention to Amber’s headaches, taken them more seriously, sensed danger, read the signs better. We know each other inside out. We’ve spent more waking hours together than some married couples do in a lifetime. I should have realised that Amber isn’t a headachy type of person. People who spend loads of time outdoors rarely get headaches. If only I’d seen her since Sunday, spent time with her instead of alternating between sunbathing in the back garden and watching morning TV, maybe I’d have cottoned on and encouraged her to see a Doctor sooner, which might have made all the difference. If Hugo hadn’t whisked me off to Cannes, I would have been at home and not worrying that I might not make it on time. I’m painfully aware that even though I’m doing everything I can to be with her as soon as possible, I still might be too late.
Hugo squeezes my hand gently. Perhaps he’s seen my head shaking, rattling with too many thoughts, peppered with guilt, he wants to reassure me. He doesn’t realise that I’m starting to blame him for taking my time, for taking me to Cannes, for separating me from my best friend. He could have made all the difference. Hugo never existing could have made all the difference, couldn’t it?
As I recline morosely in my roomy, business class, Air France cabin seat, that day on the Heath feels so distant, like a different life. It
is
going to be okay. It’s got to be okay.
****
We land at Heathrow. Hugo asks if I want him to come with. I tell him no, I think it’s best if I go alone. So he pops me in a taxi, kissing me goodbye and tells me to send Amber all his love and call if I need anything. As I ask the cabbie to take me to the Royal Free Hospital, Hampstead, Hugo is starting his journey to Luton, to go and pick up his car which we parked there two days ago.
It takes us too long to get there. I’m anxiously clock-watching, too busy in my head to begin to make conversation with the cheeky chappie driving me, desperate to chat. “Hurry up,” I want to yell in my frustration. “Take some other fucking route. Get me there quicker. Can’t you tell how important this is?” But I say nothing, because I don’t want to engage and haven’t got the energy to explain any of this to a stranger. I need every ounce of energy for Amber, for later, to find the strength for her, for us, to make it through. How often do people say: “hurry up, I haven’t got all day”? I must hear it at least five times a week, but never before has it felt so pertinent. For the first time ever I realise that I might not have all day and that every second counts. Why can’t the cabbie see that?
Eventually we crawl past the expansive, wild heath of Hampstead, because that’s where the tall, ugly tower block that houses the Royal Free Hospital is, right near the pub quiz pub, where Amber, beauty and the beast and I were five days ago. Property prices round here are at a premium, probably a higher premium than anywhere else in the whole country, all because of its location next to the heath, which is why it’s always struck me as ironic that such prime land space is wasted on a bunch of patients, many of whom are unlikely to breathe fresh air ever again.
I shake my head vigorously to rid it of the sobering thought that half my family’s older generation left this building in a coffin. But they were all old. This doesn’t happen to young people. As we pull up outside the main entrance I have a change of heart. The fact that the Royal Free is right next door to Amber’s favourite stomping ground is a positive thing. A great incentive for her to get better, to make it through, so that she, me and Pele can all go walking again soon and breathe in that fresh heath air again soon, the freshest air London has to offer.