2
‘Will you be okay?’ Louise placed a hand on her friend’s arm and left it there for a moment.
They were just outside Stella’s bedroom door.
‘Fine thanks, honestly.’
‘Good. Let’s leave the kids asleep tomorrow and go for an early walk. We can talk properly then.’
It was a relief when she’d gone. Stella sat on the end of her bed and stared out of the window. The shutters were wide open and the sky was a rich, velvety black, sprinkled with sparkling stars.
All she could hear was the faint chorus of buzzing cicadas. She wasn’t sure she’d ever stayed anywhere as quiet, but she didn’t find it troubling. It seemed to wrap her in a comforting cocoon, providing a welcome layer of protection against the harsh daytime world.
Her mind, usually so noisy and intrusive, was a little quieter too, as if darkness had lowered the volume to a level she could just about cope with; for once, she didn’t feel the urge to try to run from her thoughts, anyway.
Drawing up her legs, she hugged her arms in tight and rested her chin on her knees until a sharp pain made her pull back. She’d forgotten she’d tripped on that step earlier in the day. A big bruise was already blossoming.
Replacing her chin gingerly on the other knee, she relaxed again. She’d showered earlier and put on her pale-pink cotton pyjamas, which felt cool and soothing against her skin.
They’d been a present from her oldest and dearest friend, Harriet, many moons ago, and Stella wore them every night, except when they were in the wash. They seemed to bring the two women just that little bit closer.
Stella still missed Harriet so much. It was more than eighteen months since she’d died, but the grief never seemed to ease.
Everything had happened so fast. Prior to the summer before last, Harriet had just seemed a bit down, complaining about feeling super tired. Her irritable bowel syndrome had flared up again and she had stomach pains and was losing weight without meaning to.
Stella urged Harriet to see her GP, but she insisted she was too busy at work; and anyway, her doctor would only say the same stuff as usual – find ways to relax, do some exercise, avoid foods that trigger the IBS, and so on.
If Stella had known what she knew now, she would have tried to force the issue, but Harriet had a stubborn streak, which was partly what made her such a successful lawyer, and Stella knew she’d be difficult to budge.
After a few weeks had gone by and the symptoms still hadn’t improved, in desperation, Stella had secretly phoned Harriet’s husband, Jon. She was hoping he’d succeed where she’d failed, but Harriet dismissed his concerns, too. Even her seventeen-year-old daughter Jemima’s pleas fell on deaf ears, until she noticed her mother’s skin had turned a strange yellowish colour, along with the whites of her eyes, and insisted she must see her GP.
By then, Harriet had put up with her symptoms for three or four months. She hadn’t told anyone she’d also been throwing up several times a day and had diarrhoea, on and off, too.
When she finally saw her doctor, she was given an urgent referral to a specialist. Stella could still picture Harriet’s face when she told her the news.
‘It’s such a bore,’ she’d said, frowning with irritation. ‘They want to see me next week. I’ve had to cancel a very important meeting with a client, plus lunch with a former colleague I haven’t seen for ages. I really wanted to catch up with her and she’s quite difficult to pin down. I’m sure it’s just my wretched IBS playing up again.’
She and Stella were having coffee in a venue halfway between their southwest London homes. It took them both about fifteen minutes to get there and it had become something of a Saturday morning ritual, followed by a stroll in the nearby park.
‘I’m sure you’re right, but it’s best to get checked out,’ Stella had said with a reassuring smile. In truth, though, fear fluttered in her stomach and all of a sudden, she felt horribly cold.
She’d offered to go with Harriet to the hospital, but Jon wanted to take her. The results came back within days and the news was devastating: Harriet had Stage Four pancreatic cancer. It had already spread to her liver and lungs and the only thing they could offer was palliative care.
At first, Stella couldn’t take it in.
‘There must be something they can do – chemotherapy, radiotherapy?’ she’d asked Harriet dumbly. Jon was holding his wife’s hand on the sofa in their sitting room, having just returned from the appointment with the consultant. He couldn’t look Stella in the eye.
Harriet was as pale as a ghost but seemed eerily composed.
‘I’ve got six months to a year,’ she said with a paper-thin smile. ‘Rubbish, eh? I’d better make the most of it.’
In the event, she died in just over three months. During that time, Stella visited most days and came up with a list of enjoyable activities to entertain her friend and help take her mind off the grim reality of what was happening. She splashed out on tickets to the opera, and they spent self-indulgent afternoons in the theatre and cinema, catching up on old movies they’d never seen and watching some they practically knew off by heart.
They drove to the beach in Stella’s open-top Mini, singing along to the radio, with the heating up full blast and Harriet wrapped in blankets with a hot water bottle on her lap.
In the last few weeks, when her condition had deteriorated to such a point the pain was too difficult to manage at home, she was transferred to a hospice. Heartbreaking as this was, Stella was determined to stay upbeat for her friend’s sake. She gathered together the phone numbers of all Harriet’s friends and family and set up a WhatsApp group to make sure they worked together and she was hardly ever alone.
Next, she compiled a list of Harriet’s favourite music and sat, holding her hand, while they listened to each track. Sometimes they were joined by Jemima or Jon; at other times, it was just the two of them.
