Over the course of an hour, we have learned that Zoe’s mother is suffering from uveitis – it can be cured, or it can cause blindness and in Julie Goldman’s case it is uncertain which is the more likely. She was diagnosed about six months ago, but opted to keep the news from her recently bereaved daughter – at least until it became clear exactly what the news was. Zoe’s parents have been waiting for the right opportunity to talk to Zoe, and while tonight was not the scenario they had been waiting for, it all came out around the kitchen table. The business about cutting their holiday short for a meeting was a half truth. There is a chance that Julie’s condition is a symptom of a ‘broader pathology’, and they have an appointment with a neurologist to run a series of tests for multiple sclerosis. The appointment isn’t until Tuesday; however, after five days in relentless sunshine, Mrs Goldman’s eyes were causing her so much pain she couldn’t bear to leave the hotel, so they caught the first available flight home.
‘The red eye,’ Mrs Goldman joked, and it’s clear where Zoe got her sense of humour.
She is worried, confused, upset, conflicted.
‘I shouldn’t go,’ Zoe says.
We are once again in bed. Goodnight hugs and kisses on the stairs, but without the awkward discussion of where I (Zoe’s ‘friend’) will be sleeping. A bit late for that in every sense of the expression.
‘It might clear up.’
‘Or it might not. Or it might clear up then come back, you heard what they said.’
‘You’ve bought your ticket, though.’
Zoe shakes her head as if irritated by me rather than the facts. ‘What if she goes blind? What if it’s MS and she ends up in a wheelchair? What then, Henry? Honestly, sometimes I wonder if you won’t be glad to see the back of me.’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? I mean, seriously, why wouldn’t I say that?’
‘Because it’s not true, Zoe. It couldn’t be further from the truth.’
‘Well, I’m not a . . . you know . . .’
‘Mind reader?’
Zoe laughs. I take hold of her hand, put my arm around her shoulder.
‘Did I tell you about my dad’s accident?’
Zoe shakes her head.
‘Broke both wrists, a rib and collapsed a lung.’
Zoe sits up, wipes her eyes. ‘Fighting?’
I laugh. ‘Loading stolen beer kegs into the cellar at night after too much whisky.’
‘No!’
‘He went in first; did his wrists. Then the barrels followed him down and took care of the rest.’
‘Fuck!’
‘Yeah, fuck. Both bones on this wrist’ – indicating my left – ‘came through the skin. This one . . . was really nasty.’
‘What, and bones through the damn skin isn’t?’
‘He had a cage on his wrist for about two months; metal rods through his skin – about half a dozen of them – holding the bone together.’ Zoe makes a barfing sound. ‘Precisely. And . . . well, there’s a lot you can’t do for yourself with two broken wrists. Couldn’t feed himself, wash, shave . . . you get the picture.’
Zoe nods grimly, her nose wrinkled as if at a bad smell. ‘But he’s okay now?’
‘Yeah, fit as a bull. My point is, and I’ve never told anyone this, when it happened I’d just been offered a job in Australia.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, hadn’t told anyone because I’d only just had the offer; the plan was to head out within about four weeks.’
‘And then . . .’
‘And then Dad got himself smashed up. They couldn’t afford extra staff, and Dad’s a danger to himself, so . . .’
‘You didn’t go?’
I shake my head. ‘Deferred it for a month, and then he got an infection in his lung that nearly did him in. That took six months to clear up, by which time . . . well, the world moves on, doesn’t it.’
‘So you agree with me. You think I should stay?’
‘I’d love you to stay. But . . . I think you should go.’
‘But what about your dad? You said your dad nearly . . .’
‘I was working and living in Sheffield, coming home and helping out at the weekends. When he collapsed, it wasn’t me who found him. It was . . . someone else.’
Zoe stares at me while she takes this in. ‘Her?’
‘April, yes. Saved his life.’
‘Oh my God, that’s . . .’ Zoe shakes her head, as if trying to shake off a cobweb.
‘Your mum isn’t terminal,’ I say.
‘But she could go blind. End up in a wheelchair.’
‘Whether you’re here or not. And if something drastic did happen . . . well, you’d be as much use in London as you would in Thailand. Unless you’re planning on moving back down here. And I don’t . . . well, it’s not for me to say.’
‘Do you regret not going to Australia?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know. But, listen, if you do go . . . and I hope you do . . . I’ll miss you.’
I’ll miss you a lot.