‘It’s practically the law.’
‘Stop it! Do I have to do something outrageous to make you believe me?’
‘Yes.’
He grins. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Keep your promise.’
He reaches over to lift the duvet, but I stop him. ‘Turn the light off first.’
‘Why? I want to see you.’
‘I’m a pile of bones. Please.’
He sighs, switches off the main light and sits back on the bed. I think I’ve scared him because he doesn’t try to get in, but strokes me through the duvet – the length of my leg from thigh to ankle, the length of my other leg. His hands are sure. I feel like I’m an instrument being tuned up.
‘I could spend hours on every bit of you,’ he says. Then he laughs, as if it wasn’t cool to say that. ‘You really are gorgeous.’
Beneath his hands. Because his fingers give my body dimension.
‘Is this OK, me stroking you like this?’
When I nod, he slides off the bed, kneels on the rug and holds my feet between both his hands, warming me through my socks.
He massages them for so long I nearly fall asleep, but I wake up when he pulls off my socks, lifts both feet to his mouth and kisses them. He swims his tongue around each toe. He scrapes his teeth along the soles. He licks the run of my heels.
I thought my body wouldn’t feel heat again, not the kind of urgent heat I’ve felt with him before. I’m amazed as it comes surging back. He feels it too, I know. He pulls off his T-shirt and kicks off his boots. Our eyes lock as he unbuckles his jeans.
He’s astonishingly beautiful – the way his hair is short now, shorter than mine, the arc of his back as he pulls off his jeans, his muscles firm from gardening.
‘Get in,’ I tell him.
The room is warm, the radiators piping hot, but still I shiver as he lifts the duvet and climbs in beside me. He’s careful not to put weight on me. He leans up on one elbow to kiss me very gently on the mouth.
‘Don’t be afraid of me, Adam.’
‘I’m not.’
But it’s my tongue that finds his. It’s me that moves his hand to my breast and encourages him to undo my buttons.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, a deep groan, as his kisses move down. I cradle his head. I stroke his hair as he gently sucks, like a baby might, at my breast.
‘I missed you so much,’ I tell him.
His hand slides to my waist to my belly to the top of my thigh. His kisses follow his hand, work their way down until his head is between my legs and then he looks at me, asking permission with his eyes.
It spills me, the thought of him kissing me there.
His head is in shadow, his arms scooped under my legs. His breath is warm on my thigh. He very slowly begins.
If I could buck, I would. If I could howl at the moon, then I would. To feel this, when I’d thought it was over, when my body’s closing down and I thought I’d have no pleasure from it again.
I am blessed.
‘Come here. Come up here.’
Concern flickers in his eyes. ‘Are you OK?’
‘How did you know how to do that?’
‘Was it all right?’
‘It was amazing!’
He grins, ridiculously pleased at himself. ‘I saw it in a film once.’
‘What about you though? You’re left out now.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s all right, you’re tired. We don’t have to do anything else.’
‘You could touch yourself.’
‘In front of you?’
‘I could watch.’
He blushes. ‘Seriously?’
‘Why not? I need more memories.’
He smiles shyly. ‘You really want me to?’
‘I really do.’
He kneels up. I might have no energy left, but I can give him my gaze.
He looks at my breasts as he touches himself. I have never shared anything so intimate, never seen such a look of bewildered love as his mouth opens and his eyes widen.
‘Tess, I love you! I really bloody love you!’
Thirty-seven
‘Tell me how it will be.’
Philippa nods as if she was expecting this question. She has a strange look on her face – professional, distant. She’s begun to retreat, I think. What else can she do? Her job is to administer to the dying, but if she gets too close, she might fall into the abyss.
‘You won’t want to eat much from now on. You’ll probably want to sleep a lot. You might not want to talk, but you may feel energized enough for good ten-minute chats between sleeps. You may even want to go downstairs or outside if it’s warm enough, if your dad is able to carry you. But mostly you’ll sleep. In a few days you’ll begin to drift in and out of consciousness, and at this stage you may not be able to respond, but you’ll know people are with you and you’ll be able to hear them talk to you. Eventually you’ll just drift away, Tess.’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘I think your pain will always be manageable.’
‘In the hospital it wasn’t. Not at first.’
‘No,’ she admits. ‘At first they had trouble getting the drugs right. But I’ve got you morphine sulphate here, which is slow release. I’ve also got Oramorph, so we can top up if necessary. You shouldn’t feel any pain.’
‘You think I’ll be scared?’
‘I think there’s no right or wrong way to be.’ She sees from my face that I think this is rubbish. ‘I think you’ve had the worst luck in the world, Tessa, and if I was in your shoes, I’d be scared. But I also believe that however you handle these last days will be exactly how it should be done.’
‘I hate it when you say
She frowns. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
She talks to me about pain relief, shows me packets and bottles. She talks softly, her words washing over me, her instructions lost. I feel as if everything is zeroing in, a strange hallucination that all my life has been about this moment. I was born and grew up in order to receive this news and be handed this medicine by this woman.
‘Do you have any questions, Tessa?’
I try to think of all the things I should ask. But I just feel blank and uncomfortable, as if she’s come to see me off at the station and we’re both hoping the train hurries up so we can avoid all the ridiculous small talk.
It’s time.
Out there is a bright April morning. The world will roll on without me. I have no choice. I’m full of cancer. Riddled with it. And there’s nothing to be done.
Philippa says, ‘I’m going downstairs now to talk to your dad. I’ll try and see you again soon.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I know, but I will.’
