I want to spend the whole weekend with Mum. Even though she’s clearly struggling on her crutch, she wants a walk in the woods. She looks so frail, swamped by a coat that used to fit properly. ‘It’s nice just to get some fresh air,’ she says. Her arm is hooked through mine and we take our time, going nowhere in particular.
‘Are you in pain?’ I ask, scared of the answer.
‘To be honest, Fliss, I’m off my face on those pain pills. I’m high as a kite.’
I smile. ‘Well, I suppose that’s better.’
‘If only I could do a poo. I haven’t been to the loo in about four days.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ I laugh.
‘No one ever said cancer was pretty, did they?’ I bristle at the C-word. ‘It’s cold enough to snow, don’t you think?’
It’s actually not that cold. ‘Do you want to go back?’
‘Not just yet. I’m getting cabin fever.’
‘OK. When we do, I could make hot chocolate and maybe bake some brownies or something?’
We reach the waterfall and the air immediately feels cleaner. I wonder stupidly if it can cleanse Mum of the disease in her bones.
‘Fliss, you don’t have to babysit me all weekend.’
‘I want to!’
‘I don’t need a babysitter. It’s so important you keep your friends around – you’re going to need them,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Listen. The one good thing that we have is foresight. Nothing is going to creep up on us. Now that everything’s out in the open, we can actually make plans. For you, for me, for the future. The absolute last thing I want is my last weeks, months, days – whatever we’ve got – to be a snotty tissue-fest.’
‘I know,’ I agree, ‘but Danny and Bronwyn aren’t going anywhere …’ but you are, is the last part of that sentence that goes unsaid.
‘Do you know what I’d really like?’ Mum suddenly stops walking.
‘I can think of one pretty big thing, yeah.’
She grins. ‘Well, aside from the obvious.’
‘Go on.’
‘I would really, really love it if you danced again.’
Oh man, that’s a cheap shot! She knows I can’t say no. What kind of monster would refuse a dying wish? ‘Oh, Mum, really?’
She takes my gloved hands in hers. ‘Oh, come on, Fliss! It used to make you so happy!’
I wince but try to turn it into a smile. ‘Yeah, until it didn’t any more.’
She shakes her head. ‘You had one bad night, just one.’
‘Oh, hi, Understatement! It was a total disaster.’
‘Life usually is! We all fall down, Fliss. All of us. I’ve told you I got fired from my first two jobs in TV. I was a runner on Morecambe and Wise and kept spilling coffee everywhere. It’s not about the falling – it’s how we pick ourselves up again.’ I’m about to argue I’m now two years out of shape and practice, but she carries on. ‘And it’d mean the world to me if I could see you dance again.’
I sigh, my head flopping back. ‘You know I can’t say no, right?’
‘Well, you could … but you’d be the worst daughter in the world.’ She winks theatrically.
‘Fine!’ Already a plan is hatching in my mind.
‘Hi. Is that Danny?’ I sit on the bottom step, cradling the big old beige handset and twisting the cord around my wrist.
‘Fliss? Hi! What’s up?’
‘Are you eating?’
‘Yeah, but it’s just a packet of Wotsits.’
‘Oh, OK.’ I have a sudden craving for Wotsits. ‘You know the crappy old dance studio above the takeaway?’
‘I do.’
‘Does your dad own that?’
‘He does … Where is this going?’
‘Well. Here’s the thing …’
On Sunday afternoon I step over a heap of unopened bills to follow Danny up the narrow, leaf-strewn stairs that lead up to the Stepz studio. A second key lets us into a damp-smelling, fusty room. Newspaper over the windows only lets bleak, grey light in and there’s literally nothing sadder than a broken disco ball in a bin.
‘Yikes,’ I say.
‘Did something die in here?’ Danny says, covering his nose. ‘Other than good taste?’
The lights stutter on and I realise, although it needs a good clean, and the sprung floor is covered with boxes of prawn crackers, MSG and ketchup sachets, it’s actually a good size studio. The wall opposite the windows is all mirrored, even if one panel is cracked. The barre is still attached and seems able to take my weight. ‘Actually, this is OK. I can make it work. Do you think your dad will mind?’
‘Fliss, it’s been about a year since anyone even asked to see it. He uses it as an extra storeroom. I doubt he’ll even notice.’
‘Cool.’
Danny performs a (deeply wrong) pas de bourrée before the mirror. ‘I’m so excited that you’re doing Chess Club Presents! It’s going to be the shiz.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m not doing it out of choice, believe me. I’m a ballet hostage.’
He executes a passable arabesque. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Not a clue. I figure before I attempt an actual dance I should probably train a little so I don’t accidentally dislocate my hip or something.’
Danny pauses. ‘Don’t you think it’d be next lev if we put a pole in here and did pole dancing? Like in Showgirls?’
I give him a very firm NO look.
Later I rummage in the back of my wardrobe. I know they’re here somewhere. I find a box of old cassettes I should probably bin – although I think there are some pretty cool mixtapes in there somewhere – and some old pleather dance pants and leg warmers.
‘Where are they?’ I start pulling things out indiscriminately until I find them under my old wellies. They’re in a black satin bag, which I take over to my bed. I sit down and open it.
My old ballet slippers. They look more battered than I remember: the pale rose-pink almost grey. The toes are hardened and scuffed from pointe work. Even in my comfy knee boots, my toes flinch, remembering the agony. On the inside, sure enough, is a brown layer of dried blood. I sigh, but a little voice deep, deep down asks, Can you still do it? I wonder if I can.
I’m so busy inspecting the shoes, it takes me a few minutes to even notice that the diary is back on my pillow.