What can I tell you? I’m lying on a sun lounger in the garden enjoying the longest, hottest summer since 1976. I am covered from head to foot in Factor Overcoat suntan lotion, because cancer is now a very real thing to me, and having got rid of it from one place, I don’t want it springing up somewhere else through my own stupidity. And stupidity, like cancer, is something I know a lot more about than I previously did.
The chemotherapy stripped my gorgeous, gorgeous hair from my head, but it’s growing back and I’ve given up on wigs and Amish headscarves. I think it’s going to be curlier than ever and a deeper shade of ginger biscuit, if that’s humanly possible. By the time I’ve got a full head again, I’m going to look like one of those rusty wire-wool pan scrubbers. But guess what? I love it. And it just goes to show that the old chestnut “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” is right every time. I think I’d better buy shares in John Frieda Frizz-Ease, though.
And it’s not just my hair that I’ve developed a new appreciation for: The grass is greener, the sky is bluer, the birds are tweetier—and if you think that’s corny, then I really don’t care; it’s true and I hope you’ll just take my word for it and that you never have to find out in the way I did.
I look at my family and feel such a surge of love for them that I could cry with joy. Elliott is in the sandpit, trying to convince Harry, next door’s dog, that sand is a really great diet, and I’m pretending not to notice. Tanya is lying on the grass plugged into her CD player, kicking her bare feet complete with orange-painted toenails in the air. She is growing up fast and has turned into the model teenager. She knows where the kettle is, what a duster is for and has even tidied her room on a weekly basis. I am overjoyed by this turn of events and wonder how long it will be before I’m shouting at her and she’s telling me that I’m the worst mother in the world because all of her friends are allowed to do everything that she isn’t. Not too long, I suspect. And I’ll welcome it, because then I’ll know we are finally back to normal once more. Thomas, unscathed it appears by his dalliance as a drug addict, is reading the latest Harry Potter. Harry Potter and The Ten Million Quid in the Bank—or something like that. Perhaps I ought to write a book. Or perhaps not.
I had a note from Kath Brown offering me my old job back, and I think I may well take her up on it when I’m fully recovered and have enough hair not to scare away her customers, seeing as she’s had the sense to grovel. I knew all along I was indispensable.
A card came from Christian too. It had a cartoon cat vomiting on the front and inside it said SORRY in big, theatrical letters. And I guess that just about sums it up, really. Inside there was a ticket for a pawnbroker in the East End. A pawnbroker who had custody of my engagement, wedding and eternity rings. And I now know how Christian paid for our wonderful romantic trip to the Maldives, by pawning my rings. I showed the tickets to Ed, who, without a word, got in the car, drove to the address on the ticket, retrieved my rings at vast expense and put them back on my finger, where I hope by all that is good, that they will always remain.
I retrieved my drawing from the back of the wardrobe and tore it up in case there was a time when I was ever tempted to think that I really did look like that and remember it with fondness. I wonder one day will I go back past the house in Notting Hill to see if they are all still there peering at each other through the gloom or if Christian has moved on to invade someone else’s life. But I don’t blame him for any of this, not at all. I lay it all squarely at my own feet. It takes two to tango, but I should have been more aware of the trouble that slow dancing with a stranger could bring. Especially a stranger who was a beautiful, heartbreakingly irresponsible boy.
I see a bright future for us all—Ed, Elliott, Thomas and Tanya. They are my life, and I can’t believe how much I took them for granted. You can be sure I won’t ever do it again.
Ed comes out of the house, through the conservatory, bearing a tray of cold drinks. He has taken a month’s leave of absence from work to look after me, and it’s brought us closer than we’ve ever been. The other thing I’ll never take for granted again is the luxury of time, and we’re going to make sure that we have plenty for ourselves.
Wavelength have decided to set up a subsidiary film production unit to find scripts from new, young British writers, and Ed’s going to head it up. Although I think he’ll really miss the commercial and promotional video side, this will give him a new challenge to look forward to.
Ed sets down the tray and hands me a glass of lemonade. He gets more handsome with age or, like the birds and the grass, perhaps I just see him differently now. I kiss his hair, which is warm from the sun. He smiles up at me. “I thought we’d have a second honeymoon,” he says. “When you’re feeling better.”
I stroke his cheek, enjoying the feel of his skin. “I’d like that.”
“Can I come?” Elliott says as he runs down the garden as if this is the only glass of lemonade he’s ever seen.
“The idea of a second honeymoon,” I say, “is for mummies and daddies to spend some time alone without pesky children.”
Elliott pulls a disgusted face. “Just remember,” he warns sternly, “if you’re going to do that gushy stuff, we don’t want to end up with a baby brother just like me.”
“I don’t think there’s any chance of that, Elliott,” I say. Ed and I look at each other, and we both start to laugh.