Polly’s face fell. “All right. But will you look at the photos with me? I’m kind of nervous.”
“Of course I will.” Polly had her shoulders slightly bowed in the pictures, as if she was trying to protect her body, when it had been through so much. You could see it all—the bruises, the scar from the cannula on her hand, the bags under her eyes.
Polly’s voice thickened. “I just—I wish I’d had this done years ago, you know? I always wanted to, and I was healthy then, and I was—oh, crap, I was hot. I can say that because I have cancer. I was a hot babe, and all I did was moan about my cellulite and thread veins and talk about getting Botox. I used to spend three hundred pounds on face cream! What was I thinking? I should have taken a naked picture every single day. I should have covered my house in them and walked down the street in the buff.” She sniffed. “Oh, bollocks. This is it, isn’t it? Even this is as good as I’m ever going to look again. I’m only going to get worse and then I’m going to die.”
Annie looked at Theresa in alarm at Polly’s sudden mood swing, but the artist was placidly packing up her photography equipment. She looked down at own body, hidden under her baggy jumper, and bit her lip as fierce tears unexpectedly burned her nose. No, she wasn’t going to cry, over her own saggy stomach and barrel thighs, her yellowing toenails and cracked feet, which hadn’t seen a pedicure since her wedding day. Polly’s body had let her down in the worst possible way—the least Annie could do was not hate her own healthy one. She pushed back her (lank, greasy) hair. “All right, then. Maybe just a few pictures.”
*
“Lovely. Could you push your chest forward more? Shame to hide those fantastic bosoms!”
Annie blushed and shuffled forward. Somehow, for some mad reason (Polly), she was lying on a blanket-draped couch in a “draw me like one of your French girls” pose, totally naked. Everything was on display, from her unwaxed pubic hair to the ridges her socks had left around her ankles. Only instead of Leonardo DiCaprio on board the Titanic, she was being photographed by a seventy-year-old lady.
To Theresa she said, “Is there any way you could, uh...this scar? Sort of hide it?”
“I like to draw people exactly as they are, Annie,” Theresa said gently. “Trust me. No airbrushing here. What was it, a cesarean?”
“Um, yeah.” She avoided Polly’s eyes. “I wish I’d had time to go on a massive diet first,” she said hurriedly.
“You look great, silly,” said Polly. “Like a painting by Rubens. Voluptuous.”
“Who?”
“You know, the painter...in the National Gallery? Never mind. I’ll take you sometime.”
Annie blushed again. She was so clueless. “Isn’t voluptuous just another word for fat?”
“I’d rather look like you than me,” Polly said, extending a bony leg.
Annie tried, “But you look great. You’re so slim.”
Polly burst into laughter. “Oh, Annie. For God’s sake. I’m slim because I have cancer. I’m dying. Hey, does my tumor look big in this?”
“Sorry, sorry.” Annie sighed, knowing she’d messed up.
“Nurse! Is this chemo low-cal? Toxic chemicals are soooo fattening!” Polly twirled around the room, high-kicking her thin, bruise-marked legs.
Theresa was peacefully snapping away. “Is this your first experience of cancer, dear?” she said to Annie.
“Er, yes.”
“Then don’t worry. It’s normal, this kind of up and down. It’s all the emotions, you see, hitting her at once like a wave. Trying to live your hardest at the same time you’re dying. The old rules don’t apply anymore. You just have to strap in for the ride.”
DAY 7
Spend time with family
Bing-a-ling-a-ling.
Even the doorbell was upbeat. Annie stood once again on the doorstep of Polly’s parents’ house, nervously wiping her hands on her jeans. She’d spent ages choosing a bottle of wine, bewildered by the choice in Sainsbury’s. Rioja. Sauvignon. Chablis. In the end she went for one at eight pounds, thinking it had to be decent at that price.
She wasn’t sure why she’d said yes to Polly’s casual invite, intended to “make up” for the surprise of all the nudity: “Come around for Sunday lunch tomorrow. Mum and Dad like to make a big thing of it.” Manners, probably. Or the idea of spending yet another Sunday alone. They were always the hardest—the day when she and Mike used to go to the pub for lunch, or take Jacob to the park.
The door was opened by a young man with dark-rimmed glasses and a scowl. “Yes? You’re not one of Mum’s God-botherers, are you?”
“No, I’m, um, Polly’s friend?” It felt presumptuous to say the word.
“Oh. Shall I take that?” He examined the bottle, holding it away from him. “Hmm. Okay.”
“Is that Annie?” A woman in a purple wrap dress came out into the hallway. Chic and slim, with bobbed gray hair and glasses on a jeweled chain, which she put on to peer at Annie. “Darling. We’re so glad Poll has a new friend. You are brave.”
Annie didn’t like the sound of that. She wasn’t up for anything brave. Polly’s mother looked at the wine, too. “How lovely! My favorite.”
“Chardonnay?” the young man said doubtfully. “Really?”
“Shh, now. There was a piece in the Obs food just last week about how it’s coming back in.”
Annie looked between them. Had she brought the wrong thing?
“I’m Valerie, darling, and this naughty boy is George, my son. Georgie, get Annie a drink. We have a Sancerre, or a Malbec, or we could even scare up some Riesling, I imagine?”
Annie had no idea what those things were. “Um, whatever’s open, thanks.” Valerie led her in—she smelled of some exotic musky perfume that made Annie think of orange groves and desert moons. Her own mother had always smelled of cooking and Hall’s soothers. Now she just smelled of the hospital.
“You mustn’t mind George,” Valerie whispered in her ear. “He’s very protective. This nasty business has brought all manner of people out of the woodwork. Grief tourists, you know. It’s horrible, the way they want to gawp at Polly being ill.” Did they think she was a grief tourist, too? Annie looked behind her at the door—if only she’d changed her mind and not come, after all. This was going to be a disaster; she could just feel it.
Polly was perched on the arm of the pink Indian-print sofa, talking to an older man in a navy jumper and slacks.
“You see, the problem with the euro is...” He had a booming voice and was sloshing back a giant glass of red wine.
Polly saw Annie and jumped up. She was in dungarees, her hair tied back with a red scarf. Annie felt drab in her jeans and hoodie. “Annie! Thank God you’ve come to rescue me from this hellish discussion of finance. I don’t care, Dad! I didn’t care even when I was going to be around to see the consequences.”