Page 73 of Midnight in Paris

‘Right, OK.’ Tom looked at her worriedly and she felt a stab of guilt that this was the first time he’d raised his head to look her way. As if he was more worried about this than any other aspect of what they’d just been told. She squeezed his hand again, hoping he’d be reassured. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She just wished she’d realised that before they were on this journey.

The doctor finished his talk and sat looking at them expectantly. ‘If that’s all OK, we could get your first treatment booked in for later this week,’ he said, as if he was a hairdresser fitting them in for a cut and colour. What were they supposed to say – ‘Brilliant news!’ or ‘Wow, thanks – really appreciate it!’?

‘What’s the prognosis?’ Tom asked, his voice seeming loud in the tiny room.

Sophie stiffened.

The two doctors glanced at each other again. She wanted to stand, reach over and bang their heads together. But she managed to stay seated.

‘Well, it’s always hard to say,’ Dr Fieldman said, his voice seeming far too young and light for the situation. ‘Obviously, as Dr Sullivan says, you have youth on your side. You’re very young to have any sort of cancer, and pancreatic in particular is much more prevalent in the over-fifties.’

‘Right?’ Tom prompted. Sophie wondered how he was managing to remain so calm.

‘There have been cases – admittedly rare – in which the patients have lived for ten years or more, with regular treatment and monitoring.’

‘OK, and what about the less rare cases?’

Another glance. ‘Well, on average, people at this stage have six months, perhaps a little more. But again, you’re young. It could be up to a year, perhaps more,’ Dr Sullivan said, as if this were good news.

‘Six months!’ Sophie’s voice sounded shrill, unlike her own.

‘But of course, there are exceptions, and I think in someone so young?—’

‘He’s only twenty-eight!’ Sophie cried, outraged, as if the doctors themselves were responsible for choosing cancer’s next victim.

‘Yes, we realise that. I know this must be very distressing for you, Miss… Miss…’

‘It’s MRS,’ she said coldly. ‘Mrs Gardner.’

Tom was looking at her intensely as they walked out twenty minutes later, still hand in hand.

‘You were formidable in there,’ he said, shaking his head, a slight smile on his face.

‘Tom!’ she said. ‘Is that all you can say after… all that?’

His head dropped a little and she was immediately sorry that she’d spoken.

‘What should I say?’ he asked her, his face impassive. ‘Obviously it’s a shit diagnosis. Possibly the shittiest. But it just means I have to be the unicorn.’

‘You… what?’

‘You think I’m going to quit, leave all this?’ he said. ‘No. I’ll be the ten-year survivor they tell people about during their appointments. Why not?’

She looked at him, incredulous at his optimism. ‘Yes,’ she said, buoyed, ‘yes, you have to be.’

‘And before all of it, Paris?’ he said to her.

‘Are you crazy?’

‘Why not? It’ll get our mind off things. And after all, it is a tradition now.’

39

NOW

Back in their bedroom, Sophie slipped into jeans and a T-shirt, the clean, soft clothes feeling good against her freshly showered skin. Her body felt strong, supple; fitter than it had in her twenties since she’d taken up rowing three years ago and had amazed herself by falling in love with it.

That first morning, she was surprised at the temperature on leaving the house. The days had been cool recently and she’d expected to feel chilly, but the early morning air was surprisingly pleasant. It was 4.45a.m., a time she’d never willingly seen before, and she had a whole day of teaching scheduled in for after the row. She was already regretting it.

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