The Cancer Guide (eBook)

Chapter One

Big social gatherings are like running – I know they’re good for me but, God, they’re painful.

I had to take deep breaths before walking in here tonight, tell myself five times that it would be okay and I wasn’t going to bolt home. So tempting to get in my pyjamas and lose myself in a book, though. I could even pick up a takeaway.

Samira only invited me tonight because she had to. We’re part of a team of three at work and, as she’s genuinely friendly with Zoe, she had little choice but to include me. I got the pity invite, in other words.

Normally, I would have pretended I was busy, but Samira happened to catch me in a rare ‘I should make more of an effort’ moment of weakness. This wasn’t unrelated to the fact I’d just had a call with my mother, the main purpose of which seemed to be telling me how she worries I’m ‘all work, work, work’ and ‘never seem to have any fun’.

So, here I am gulping metallic-tasting Prosecco out of a penis straw, trying not to mind that the two people I know said cheery ‘hellos’ when I arrived but then went back to the conversations they were having. This left me to make small talk with strangers which is very much not my forte. I never see the point. I don’t need to know what someone does for a living, I’m perfectly well aware that it’s warm for this time of year and I don’t have a funny story about how I know Samira.

I’ve done okay so far, though. I negotiated the introductions (wondering why so many of the women have absurdly puffy lips and eyebrows that look as if they’ve been daubed on with felt tip), put on my pink ‘hen’ sash and tiara without complaint and managed to be very discreet about sanitising my hands under the table. (Why do people insist on shaking hands? Nice to meet you, let me transfer microbes all over you.)

Harriet, a small loud thing who organised tonight, tells me I’m lucky because even though I’m late, there’s still time for me to have my tarot cards read.

‘Oh, no reading for me, thanks.’

‘Everyone has had one,’ Harriet barks. ‘That side room over there.’

I rise from my seat. There’s no point making a fuss. Or thinking about how I could be halfway through a lamb pasanda right now.

Anne the tarot reader has a doughy face and tiny dark eyes like currants. She is dressed like an estate agent and exudes very little in the way of psychic powers (not that I believe in such things).

‘Do you have a specific question about your future?’

There is one question about my future I’m obsessed with right now and that’s whether I’m going to get this big promotion I’m chasing. There’s no way I’m opening my heart to a complete stranger, though. ‘No thanks.’

Anne starts moving the cards around and spouting nonsense. ‘Blah, blah, blah aura … blah, blah, blah energy … blah, blah, blah you’ve experienced pain in the past …’ (Who hasn’t?) ‘Ah ha,’ she says, turning over the final card. ‘I see a child in your future.’

It’s all I can do not to laugh in her face. She must have thought she was on to a safe bet saying that to a woman in her thirties who’s wearing an engagement ring, but if there is one thing I’m 100 per cent certain of, it’s that I don’t want kids. Why on earth would I take a blowtorch to my life like that? ‘Err, I don’t think so.’

‘It’s the Empress card,’ Anne says sullenly, rapping her forefinger on it.

I glance down at the card which depicts a woman in what looks like a winceyette nightie with a crown and sceptre. ‘Riiiight.’

Anne’s eyes flash and she draws in a deep breath before sweeping up the cards.

‘Bye then,’ I say.

I go back to the group.

‘What did she say?’ Jenna asks.

‘That I was going to have a baby. Which is absolutely ridiculous—’

‘Aww, lovely,’ Jenna says. She whips out her phone and starts showing me pictures of her baby. He looks like a potato.

‘He’s gorgeous.’

It’s the correct response and Jenna’s eyes light up. I feel like I’m on a gameshow and the buzzer has just sounded: Score!

Jenna starts telling me about the potato’s nappy rash. The ‘poor little mite’ has a bottom that’s red raw; she’s been to the doctor three times now but none of the creams they have given her have made a jot of difference.

And people find me dull.

My mind drifts to the meeting I have in New York next week with a prospective client. I am very excited about it, especially as Greg, my boss, made no secret of the fact this could be the clincher in terms of my promotion. I picture myself in the conference room. The world is neat and ordered, I am giving the presentation of my life, I am surrounded by people who don’t talk about nappy rash.

A hyena-ish laugh from further down the table snaps me back into the present.

Jenna is still talking about the nappy rash. She feels so responsible because, if she hadn’t tried towelling nappies, none of this would have happened. It’s all very well worrying about the environment but what about poor little Zack?

It strikes me, not for the first time, that I have no idea why our society venerates motherhood so much. Why everything, from newspaper articles to TV commercials, peddles the idea that a halo appears somewhere around the third trimester, turning hitherto normal women into the epitome of selflessness.

In my experience, mothers are just as shitty as the rest of us and I’m pretty sure Jenna would shoot a polar bear in the face if the trade-off was Zack’s bottom being restored to its former levels of health.

I don’t say this, of course. I’ve learned it’s almost always a good idea to keep my thoughts to myself. She’s a quiet one, people say, or she likes to keep herself to herself.

I’ve had to work on this skill. I changed school often as a child and every time I made myself the solemn promise that I’d learn from previous experiences. I’d be more like my oh-so popular sister. I would edit between brain and mouth. This would always work for a few days and then something (me) would slip out.

I tried to look like everyone else too. You’d think that wouldn’t be hard in school uniform but, somehow, I always managed to get it wrong. My hemline was too long, my bunches too babyish, my shoes too ‘sad’.

I tune back into the conversation to see we have reached the obligatory oversharing part of the evening.

Harriet blurts out that her husband never goes down on her.

Jenna says she isn’t sure if having a baby wasn’t a massive mistake.

Kate admits she hates her ‘dream job’ in TV production.

Christ, it isn’t even 10 o’clock! I sit back on the red velvet banquette, sip my Prosecco and try to smile.

Why is this emotional incontinence considered a good thing? I don’t want to open my heart here any more than I do on Instagram. I don’t believe a ‘good cry’ ever makes people feel better, think a problem shared is often a problem doubled and know the world would be a far nicer place if people learned to control their anger.

‘You’re very quiet, Loretta.’ Harriet’s eyes are locked on me.

‘Oh, y’know.’

Harriet cocks her head to the side in the manner of a small dog.

I squash down a wave of irritation. I don’t have some big secret I want to discuss and if I did, I wouldn’t pick to share it with Harriet who I barely know (even if I do now know that she always showers before sex and keeps everything very tidy down there).

‘When are we going dancing?’ Farida says. ‘It’s not a proper hen party if we don’t have a boogie.’

I murmur my approval. At least if we go dancing people will stop behaving as if they are on The Jeremy Kyle Show.

‘Maybe we could try that new place in Frith Street?’ Harriet says.

Maybe? Has Harriet not decided where we’re going? If I’d been in charge of tonight, every part of the itinerary would have been planned to within an inch of its life. Not that I would ever be in charge of anyone’s hen night. I have friends (sort of) but I’m certainly not anyone’s best friend.

Hmm, that’s not strictly true – I may be Robert’s best friend but only in a de facto sense because he generally ‘doesn’t have time for friendships’. Robert is my fiancé, a statement that, four months after his proposal, still seems improbable. I say proposal but there was no going down on one knee or single moment. We just started talking about how we’d been together a few years and it made sense to think about pooling expenses. Plus, there are considerable tax breaks when you’re married.

‘Let’s have another round here, first,’ Harriet says.

I excuse myself to go to the toilet, not so much because I have to pee but because I need a few minutes locked in the cubicle in blissful solitude. Does anybody actually enjoy events like this? They’re just so exhausting.

I sit on...