Page 79 of The Fall-Out

A few of the responses were in French, which I could only read at the most basic level, but as far as I could tell they were all saying much the same thing.

Then, three weeks later, there was another post.

So I had the surgery. Out of theatre now (general anaesthetic is fucking bliss – they suggested going it under local but I said NO NO NO). Feeling a bit woozy but okay. Hopefully they won’t need to keep me in overnight and me and what’s left of my cervix can go home. They kind of garrotted the dodgy bit off rather than lasering it, so they can analyse the cells. Hope whoever’s job that is has fun with it – it’ll be the most action my vag has seen in a while.

This time, there were many, many more replies – over a hundred of them. It seemed that somehow, since her initial post, Zara had gained new friends. Again, the responses were loving, supportive, exchanging the writers’ own experiences.

A week later, she’d posted an update. This time, it was accompanied by a photograph – Zara standing by an open window with a soft-focus view of tree-tops and blue sky behind her. She was wearing a dressing gown, but not the shabby towelling variety that was the only sort I owned – a glamorous garment in what looked like silk, with a print of trees and birds. Her face was bare of make-up but she still looked impossibly beautiful, her skin pale and luminous, violet shadows under her eyes the only sign that she might be unwell.

And the results are back. It’s not looking good. Dr Hubert says there appears to be some malignancy there, which is medic-speak for cancer. The big C. It’s the same word in French so I don’t even have a foreign term to make it sound a bit more… I don’t know. A bit more exotic? A bit less scary? Either way, it’s not exotic and it is scary as hell. Apparently, we’re looking at surgery in the first instance and then drugs – chemo and radiotherapy; just typing those words makes me feel like puking, and I’ve not even started the treatment yet. Guys, I’m scared. What if I can never have a baby? What if – and yes, I’m thinking about this a lot – all my hair falls out? I know none of you wonderful people have the answers, but I could do with a handhold. Or possibly a kick up the jacksy to tell me to get on with it and stop catastrophising.

This time, there were even more responses – they numbered in the hundreds.

And after that was the post Rowan had shown me, of Zara in her surgical gown in hospital.

I read through the sequence of posts again. They didn’t make sense to me. Perhaps, if Zara was ill, she might still have come to London for Andy’s funeral – she might have thought it was the right thing to do. She would probably have been feeling fine at that stage – she’d certainly looked the picture of health.

But after that? As far as I knew, Zara had been in the Airbnb apartment in London the whole time, not in Paris having tests. I’d met up with her to collect Patch’s camera. She’d been to the Girlfriends’ Club meet-up when I’d been ill.

It didn’t add up.

Almost without thinking, I picked up my phone and scrolled rapidly through to Rowan’s name. I was about to hit the call button when I stopped, scrolled down one more place to find her work number, and dialled that. She might not be at her desk but if she was, at least she’d be sure to answer.

She was, and she did. ‘Walkerson’s Elite, Rowan speaking.’

‘Hi, it’s me.’ I spoke as quickly as I could. ‘Please don’t hang up. Have you got two minutes?’

‘Yeah. But probably only two.’ Her tone was guarded. ‘I’ve got to leave for a viewing in five.’

‘Okay, I’ll be quick. Will you hear me out?’

She didn’t say anything. I imagined her nodding reluctantly, the phone trapped between her ear and her curtain of dark hair. I was going to have to get this right – be convincing, give no hint of my suspicions, persuade her I wanted to do what was right.

At least, I told myself, if I was wrong I’d still be doing the right thing. No one would ever need to know my true thoughts – except me, and I’d have to live with that knowledge.

‘It’s about Zara. The cancer thing. Listen, Ro. I feel terrible about all this. I know I’ve been a bad friend to her, and I want to try and make things right.’

‘How?’ Rowan asked.

‘I want to go to Paris. See her, if she needs support. Apologise to her in person.’

‘Seriously? You’re going to go and see her? What about Patch?’

Patch. Shit. In my haste to speak to Rowan, I hadn’t even thought of that.

‘I’ll tell him I could do with a break – a weekend away from home and the kids.’

‘By going to Paris on your own? Really?’ she asked incredulously.

‘Not on my own. I want you to come with me.’

TWENTY-NINE

JULY 2012

Through a crack between the heavy cream curtains, I could see Kate, Rowan and Abbie, all crowded together around the tall, gold-framed cheval mirror. Next to them was a little splayed-leg table holding a bottle of champagne and four glasses; on the other side, its twin held a vast arrangement of fleshy white lilies.

Abbie was wearing jeans and a jumper. She had her back to me, so I could see the hole in one of the elbows – I remembered her telling us that she and Matt had recently been fighting the equivalent of the Cold War against a plague of clothes moths, and it looked like the Iron Curtain wasn’t going to be lifted any time soon.

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