‘No, Dad, you don’t have to cancel.’
‘So you’ll go in?’
‘I’ll go in.’
He squeezes my hand. ‘That’s great, Tess.’
A woman comes up the stairs and into the lobby. She strides up to us and shakes Dad’s hand warmly.
‘We spoke on the phone,’ she says.
‘Yes.’
‘And this must be Tessa.’
‘That’s me!’
She puts her hand out for me to shake, but I ignore it, pretend I can’t move my arms. Maybe she’ll think it’s part of my illness. Her eyes travel in sorrow to my coat, scarf and hat. Perhaps she knows it isn’t that cold outside today.
‘There isn’t a lift,’ she says. ‘Will you manage the stairs?’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Dad says.
She looks relieved. ‘Richard’s really looking forward to meeting you.’
She flirts with Dad as we go down to the studio. It crosses my mind that his shambling protectiveness towards me might be attractive to women. It makes them want to save him. From me. From all this suffering.
‘The interview will be live,’ she tells us. She lowers her voice as we get to the studio door. ‘See that red light? It means Richard’s on air and we can’t go in. In a minute he’ll play a trail and the light will turn green.’ She says this as if we’re bound to be impressed.
‘What’s Richard’s angle?’ I ask. ‘Is it the whole dying girl thing, or does he have something original planned?’
‘Sorry?’ Her smile slips; there’s a flicker of concern as she looks at Dad for reassurance. Is she only just able to smell something hostile in the air?
‘Teen cancer units are rare in hospitals,’ Dad says quickly. ‘If we could even think about raising awareness, that’d be great.’
The red light outside the studio flips to green. ‘That’s you!’ the producer says, and she opens the door for us. ‘Tessa Scott and her father,’ she announces.
We sound like dinner party guests, like we came to a ball. But Richard Green is no prince. He half squats above his chair and puts out a fat hand for us to shake in turn. His hand is sweaty, like it needs squeezing out. His lungs wheeze as he sits back down. He stinks of fags. He shuffles papers. ‘Take a seat,’ he tells us. ‘I’ll introduce you, then we’ll just launch straight in.’
I used to watch Richard Green present the local news at lunchtime. One of the nurses in the hospital used to fancy him. Now I know why he’s been relegated to radio.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Here we go. Be as natural as you can. It’ll be very informal.’ He turns to the microphone. ‘And now I’m honoured to have as my guest in the studio today a very brave young lady called Tessa Scott.’
My heart beats fast as he says my name. Will Adam be listening? Or Zoey? She might be lying on her bed with the radio on. Feeling nauseous. Half asleep.
‘Tessa’s been living with leukaemia for the last four years and she’s come here today with her dad to talk to us about the whole experience.’
Dad leans forward and Richard, perhaps recognizing his willingness, asks him the first question.
‘Tell us about when you first realized Tessa was ill,’ Richard says.
Dad loves that. He talks about the flu-like illness which lasted for weeks and didn’t ever seem to go away. He tells of how our GP didn’t routinely pick up the cause because leukaemia is so rare.
‘We noticed bruises,’ he says. ‘Small bleeds on Tessa’s back, caused by a reduction of platelets.’
Dad’s a hero. He talks about having to give up his job as a financial adviser, of the way our lives disappeared into hospitals and treatment.
‘Cancer’s not a local illness,’ he says, ‘but a disease of the whole body. Once Tess made the decision to stop the more aggressive treatments, we decided to manage in a holistic way at home. She’s on a special diet. It’s expensive to maintain, but I firmly believe it’s not the food in your life that brings health, but the life in your food that really counts.’
I’m stunned by this. Does he want people to phone up and pledge money for organic vegetables?
Richard turns to me, his face serious. ‘You decided to give up treatment, Tessa? That sounds like a very difficult decision to make at sixteen.’
My throat feels dry. ‘Not really.’
He nods as if he’s expecting more. I glance at Dad, who winks at me. ‘Chemo prolongs your life,’ I say, ‘but it makes you feel bad. I was having some pretty heavy therapy and I knew if I stopped, I’d be able to do more things.’
‘Your dad says you want to be famous,’ Richard says. ‘That’s why you wanted to come on the radio today, isn’t it? To grab your fifteen minutes of fame?’
He makes me sound like one of those sad little girls who put an advert in the local paper because they want to be a bridesmaid at someone’s wedding, but don’t know any brides. He makes me sound like a right twat.
I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve got a list of things I want to do before I die. Being famous is on it.’
Richard’s eyes light up. He’s a journalist and knows a good story. ‘Your dad didn’t mention a list.’
‘That’s because most of the things on it are illegal.’
He was practically asleep talking to Dad, but now he’s at the edge of his chair. ‘Really? Like what?’
‘Well, I took my dad’s car and drove off for the day without a licence or having taken my test.’
‘Ho, ho!’ Richard chuckles. ‘There go your insurance premiums, Mr Scott!’ He nudges Dad to show he doesn’t mean it badly, but Dad simply looks bewildered. I feel a surge of guilt and have to look away.
‘One day I said yes to everything that was suggested.’
‘What happened?’
‘I ended up in a river.’
‘There’s an advert like that on TV,’ Richard says. ‘Is that where you got the idea?’
‘No.’
‘She nearly broke her neck on the back of a motorbike,’ Dad interrupts. He wants to get us back onto safe territory. But this was his idea and he can’t get out of it now.
‘I was almost arrested for shoplifting. I wanted to break as many laws as I could in a day.’
Richard’s looking a little edgy now.
‘Then there was sex.’
‘Ah.’
‘And drugs…’
‘And rock ’n’ roll!’ Richard says breezily into his microphone. ‘I’ve heard it said that being told you have a terminal illness can be seen as an opportunity to put your house in order, to complete any unfinished business. I think you’ll agree, ladies and gents, that here is a young lady who is taking life by the horns.’
We’re bundled out pretty sharpish. I think Dad’s going to have a go at me, but he doesn’t. We walk slowly up the stairs. I feel exhausted.
Dad says, ‘People might give money. It’s happened before. People will want to help you.’
My favourite Shakespeare play is Macbeth. When he kills the king, there are strange happenings across the land. Owls scream. Crickets cry. There’s not enough water in the ocean to wash away all the blood.
‘If we raise enough money, we could get you to that research institute in the States.’
‘Money doesn’t do it, Dad.’
‘It does! We couldn’t possibly afford it without help, and they’ve had some success with their immunity build-up programme.’
I hold onto the banister. It’s made of plastic and is shiny and smooth.
‘I want you to stop, Dad.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop pretending I’m going to be all right.’
Twenty-six
Dad sweeps a feather duster across the coffee table, over the mantelpiece and then across all four window ledges. He opens the curtains wider and switches on both lamps. It’s as if he’s trying to warn the dark away.
Mum, sitting next to me on the sofa, has a face shocked with the familiar. ‘I’d forgotten,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘The way you get in such a panic.’
He glares at her suspiciously. ‘Is that an insult?’