‘Remember when we first met?’ Lydia closed her eyes and leaned back in one of the pair of deep red armchairs, which Jon had moved from lounge to bedroom the day before.
I settled myself in the other chair and picked up my mug of coffee from the low, dark wood table which sat between us – another recent arrival from downstairs. ‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘My first impression was that you were scarily organised.’ I sipped my coffee. ‘And I was right.’
She opened her eyes and laughed, and for a moment I saw not the frail twenty-nine year-old, exhausted and disfigured by medication, but the smiling eighteen year-old university student, beckoning me into her room.
‘I think about it a lot,’ she said. ‘I was so grateful to you that day. It was such a kind, brave thing to do – to knock on my door like that.’
I smiled. ‘I was lonely and desperate.’
She laughed again, before starting to cough. I put down my coffee, stood up and walked the few steps to her chair. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘let me move that pillow for you, it’s slipped.’ She leaned forward and I adjusted the pillow.
‘Thank you, Alice,’ she said, as I returned to my chair and sat back down. ‘And I don’t just mean for plumping my pillow.’
I had been reaching for my coffee but now stopped short and looked up at her, hearing a change in her voice which left me afraid of what she might say next. Unable to speak, I simply shook my head.
‘We met with the oncologist on Monday,’ she said softly. ‘There hasn’t been the progress they hoped for. And I just want to enjoy the life I have left.’
I continued to gaze at her; reluctant to accept what I knew she was telling me. I widened my eyes and tilted my head back slightly in a failed attempt to prevent the escape of a tear. I wiped it away, under guise of scratching my cheek.
‘But,’ she continued, without hesitation, ‘I have something important I’d like to talk to you about.’
I found my voice. ‘Like that wasn’t important,’ I said quietly.
She smiled and took a deep breath. ‘Jon would like to join the book group.’
I blinked, the shock nature of the proposal providing a fleeting, but welcome, distraction.
‘He wants to join the book group?’ I echoed, unable to keep a note of surprise from my voice.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ve discussed it, and he’d like to join. Not right away but…’ she paused, ‘…maybe in a few months.’
I fought a renewed urge to cry, determined to be supportive, while feeling devastated at the possibility of being so soon without her.
‘He’s promised me he’ll go and,’ she looked down at her hands, ‘if you’re all happy for him to join, I’d love you to encourage him in that if…,’ she added, ‘…if he ever seems reluctant.’ She looked up. ‘I don’t want him to be alone or to feel alone, Alice,’ she said, her expression suddenly and agonisingly anxious. ‘That’s my only worry. My only worry,’ she emphasised.
I stood up and walked to her for a second time, this time crouching at the side of her chair. ‘We’ll make it work,’ I said. ‘I promise you, Lydia. He won’t be alone.’
She reached out and stroked my hair; her features softening back into their usual calm. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Again.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered and then lowering my head, unable to be strong any longer, I began to cry. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘But I can’t pretend this is OK. I can’t pretend to myself that you don’t matter to me. Even for a moment. Even to be helpful.’
I leaned forward and we held each other, neither of us saying anything more. We remained that way for some time, before I eventually forced myself to let her go. Reaching for a box of tissues on the bedside cabinet, I took one and then passed the box to Lydia. She took a tissue and dabbed her eyes.
‘So, anyway,’ I said blowing my nose and sitting down on the bed. ‘Have you explained to Jon that the book group is just a cover for getting together and drinking lots of wine?’
Lydia sighed, closed her eyes and leaned back in the armchair once more. ‘Oh yes,’ she said quietly, now smiling to herself. ‘He’s quite clear about that.’