Authors: Jill Mansell
Kiss (54 page)
The consultant was no longer smiling. Gliomas - fast-growing malignant tumours formed from the central nervous system’s supporting glial cells - weren’t funny. And from the appearance of the scan, he had no doubt at all that this was the type of tumour with which Gina Lawrence had been afflicted.
‘We operate,’ he replied, his tone carefully matter of fact. Experience had taught him that this was the best way to avoid hysterical outpourings of grief. ‘The plan is to remove as much of the tumour as possible before commencing radiation therapy. I’ve already made the necessary arrangements. Surgery is scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘It
is
a glioma then,’ said Gina, only the convulsive tightening of her fingers as she clutched Sam’s hand betraying her agony. It was a glioma which had killed her mother.
is
a glioma then,’ said Gina, only the convulsive tightening of her fingers as she clutched Sam’s hand betraying her agony. It was a glioma which had killed her mother.
The consultant hesitated for a second, then nodded. ‘I’m afraid that’s what it looks like,’ he admitted quietly. ‘Mrs Lawrence, I wish I could have given you more hopeful news. I really am very sorry indeed.’
The operation the following day went on for three and a half hours. Doug, unable to cope with the interminable waiting, had gone for a walk in the rain. Izzy and Sam, left alone in the waiting room, occupied seats opposite each other and drank endless cups of coffee. Since idle conversation would be too cruelly inappropriate, neither said much. Izzy tried hard not to imagine the surgical procedures being employed in the theatre downstairs. She wondered what Sam was thinking. Then she tried not to think about Sam and how differently things could have turned out if only there hadn’t been all those stupid obstacles between them.
‘You’re fidgeting,’ said Sam.
Putting down her cup and jamming her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, she rose to her feet and went over to the window. Outside it was still raining; a sea of multi-coloured umbrellas bobbed in the streets below. Katerina would be finishing her final biology paper around now. Thousands of city workers were taking their lunch break, wondering whether to choose cottage-cheese salad or lasagne and chips. And Doug, umbrella-less and no doubt by this time soaked to the skin, was still out there somewhere, just walking . . .
Wishing she’d gone with him, Izzy said, ‘I don’t even know why we’re here.There’s nothing we can do.’
‘Gina wanted us to be here.’
‘Yes, but I hate it.’ Unable to look at him, she continued to gaze blindly out of the window. ‘I feel so
useless
.’
useless
.’
‘Don’t be so bloody selfish,’ Sam replied evenly. ‘There are some things in life that even you can’t control.’
When the surgeon erupted into the room ninety minutes later, Izzy reached for Doug’s hand and found it as clammy as her own.
‘Well?’ said Sam, only the muscle ticking in his jaw betraying his tension.
‘It wasn’t a tumour.’ The surgeon, his mask still dangling around his neck, beamed at them. ‘Quite extraordinary . . . I must say, I haven’t seen anything like it in all my years of working. The scan appearances were so typical I’d have bet a year’s salary we had a glioma on our hands . . .’
‘So, what was it?’ Izzy almost shrieked, unable to bear the suspense. ‘Is she going to be all right? What
was
it if it wasn’t a tumour?’
was
it if it wasn’t a tumour?’
‘It was an angioma,’ explained the surgeon in pacifying tones. ‘It’s a collection of abnormal blood vessels, rather like a bundle of tangled wool. As the vessel walls weaken the likelihood of haemorrhage increases, and that of course can be fatal.’ Pausing for effect, he rubbed his hands together and beamed triumphantly once more. ‘Happily, we got there first and were able to . . . defuse the time-bomb, as it were! Mrs Lawrence’s angioma was very amenable to surgery; I simply tied off the offending vessels and effectively disconnected them from her circulatory system. The operation was a complete success in every respect, and there’s no reason at all now why Mrs Lawrence shouldn’t enjoy a long and healthy life.’
Izzy promptly burst into tears.
‘She isn’t going to die,’ whispered Doug. Sweating profusely and looking quite dazed, he enveloped her in a mighty bear-hug.
‘Thank you,’ said Sam, shaking the surgeon’s hand.
When the three of them were alone once more, he handed Izzy a clean white handkerchief. ‘It’s good news,’ he said, sounding faintly exasperated. ‘There’s no need to cry.’
‘The bastard,’ sobbed Izzy, still clinging to Doug. ‘He could have sent someone in here
hours
ago to tell us that.’
hours
ago to tell us that.’
‘I cut my best friend’s hair once, when I was seven years old.’ Izzy, her tongue between her teeth, gingerly combed Gina’s blonde hair over the shaved area. ‘It ended up looking just like this. Her mother belted the living daylights out of me when she saw it.’
‘Let me see in the mirror,’ said Gina. Turning her head this way and that, she smiled with relief. Now that the dressing was off and the stitches had been removed, her remaining hair fell naturally over the scar, concealing it so well that it hardly showed at all. ‘I can’t believe it . . . I thought they’d shave my whole head.’
‘You look fine,’ said Izzy, giving her a hug. ‘You
are
fine, thank God. And it’s great to have you back home.’
are
fine, thank God. And it’s great to have you back home.’
Gina was glad she was looking her best when Sam arrived to see her a couple of hours later.
‘More flowers,’ she protested, burying her nose in the pale apricot roses and inhaling their delicate scent. ‘I’ll soon be able to open my own branch of Interflora.’
Sam, looking distinctly edgy, pulled up a chair and sat down. Gina raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Is something wrong?’
The fact that he had been planning this speech for days didn’t make it any easier now, but the words had to be said. And at least, he’d reasoned with himself, he had a legitimate excuse for getting them out of the way sooner rather than later.
‘I have to leave for NewYork tomorrow,’ he said without prevarication. ‘There are serious problems with the club over there which may take some time to sort out.’
‘Sam, that’s terrible.’ To his profound relief, Gina seemed more concerned for him than for herself. ‘What kind of problems?’
‘It seems the acting manager has been embezzling the accounts on a major scale, in order to finance his drug habit.’ Sam paused, then shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s my own fault for not keeping a closer eye on the business myself. But the IRS are involved now and it’s evidently going to take a while to work out.’
‘You poor thing!’ she cried sympathetically. ‘And with Christmas coming up, too. What rotten luck.’
‘Yes, well.’ That was the easy part over with. His grey eyes serious, he said, ‘Gina, there’s something else we have to sort out before I leave. I don’t quite know how to say this . . .’
But Gina, the colour rushing to her cheeks, forestalled him. ‘Please,’ she begged, reaching for his hand. ‘You don’t have to say it. I know what it is and you really don’t have to say anything. It was all a silly mistake on my part . . . I panicked, and you were nice enough to humour me . . . but all that’s behind us now and I don’t expect . . . expect you to . . .’ Stumbling over the words, by this time redder than a beetroot, she silently pleaded for his forgiveness. She was guilty of having put him under the most terrible pressure and, being Sam, he had shouldered it without a word of complaint. All she could hope for now was understanding and absolution.
‘. . . I was just so afraid,’ she concluded in a whisper. ‘Of dying. Alone.’
Sam, scarcely able to believe it had all been so effortlessly sorted out, felt the great weight of responsibility lift from his shoulders. The sense of freedom was indescribable.
‘Anyone would have been afraid,’ he assured her, lifting her thin hand and kissing it out of sheer relief. ‘Considering what you’ve been through, I think you were amazingly brave. Now all you have to do,’ he added solemnly, ‘is get on with the really tricky part.’
Gina smiled. ‘And that is?’
This time, leaning out of his chair, Sam planted a brief kiss on her cheek. ‘My dear Mrs Lawrence,’ he said, his expression deadpan, ‘living, of course.’
‘I don’t know how Lucille’s going to cope when Gina moves back to Kingsley Grove,’ said Katerina drily, ten days later. ‘If we aren’t careful, she might even defect.’
Izzy, who had been engrossed in the task of dyeing her hair good old Glossy Blackberry, wiped a trail of dark blue dye from her cheek and spun around to gaze at her in surprise.
‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Why on earth should she?’
From her position in the bath, Katerina watched as a shower of inky droplets hit the basin. Hoping that none were also staining the expensive ivory carpet, she soaped her arms and explained patiently, ‘Where Gina goes, Doug follows. It just occurred to me that Lucille, in turn, might want to follow Doug.’
‘Hell.’ Izzy nodded. It made sense. Not normal sense, maybe, but certainly Lucille-type sense.
‘Mum, you’re dripping.’
But Izzy, lost in thought, barely noticed. ‘She mustn’t leave. I’ll give her a pay rise.’
Katerina grinned. ‘She’d prefer Doug, gift-wrapped.’
‘Well, she can’t have him. Poor Doug . . . all
he
wants is Gina, and she treats him like a piece of old furniture.’ She shook her head. ‘No, what we need if we’re going to hang on to Lucille is some kind of incentive.’
he
wants is Gina, and she treats him like a piece of old furniture.’ She shook her head. ‘No, what we need if we’re going to hang on to Lucille is some kind of incentive.’
‘You mean another man.’ Reaching for the bottle of bubble bath, Katerina poured herself a generous extra helping and turned on the hot tap with her toes. ‘We don’t seem to be doing terribly well at the moment, where men are concerned. No wonder Lucille’s fed up. Simon’s gone off me, Sam’s gone off to the States . . . even the milkman’s too scared to ring the doorbell any more. There’s nothing else for it, Mum - you’ll just have to find yourself a toyboy.’
‘Either that,’ said Izzy, gloomily surveying the dye-spattered carpet, ‘or we start writing begging letters. To Trevor McDonald.’
Chapter 58
Izzy barely had time these days to so much as fill in a Dateline questionnaire, let alone find herself a toyboy. Christmas was approaching, the album was finally nearing completion and the success of ‘Kiss’ ensured a steady stream of interviews, photo-shoots and public appearances. To her intense frustration, however, being rushed off her feet hadn’t succeeded in getting her over Sam.
Absent Sam, still over in New York, occupied her mind at the most inconvenient times. Izzy tried to tell herself that it was only because she didn’t have a sex life, but it didn’t help. Everyone else was happy - even Doug, still pursuing Gina with dog-like devotion, seemed happy enough in his own way - and it only made her own unhappiness that much harder to bear. Christmas had always been her absolute favourite time of year, but this time she possessed no festive spirit at all. Festive, she thought dismally, was above and beyond the call of duty right now. The only thing she really wanted for Christmas was a decent night’s sleep.
Major Reginald Perrett-Dwyer, ex-Grenadier Guards, veteran of the Second World War and regular contributor to the letters column of
The Times
, disapproved of most things. More than almost anything else at all, however, he disapproved of female singers with disreputable lifestyles moving into the house next door to his own and disrupting his own highly ordered existence. Despite maintaining watch from his drawing-room window, he had yet to ascertain who actually
lived
at Number Forty-five and who was merely visiting, but the non-stop comings and goings of so many people - at what seemed like all hours of the day and night - only served to increase his annoyance and send his blood pressure soaring.
The Times
, disapproved of most things. More than almost anything else at all, however, he disapproved of female singers with disreputable lifestyles moving into the house next door to his own and disrupting his own highly ordered existence. Despite maintaining watch from his drawing-room window, he had yet to ascertain who actually
lived
at Number Forty-five and who was merely visiting, but the non-stop comings and goings of so many people - at what seemed like all hours of the day and night - only served to increase his annoyance and send his blood pressure soaring.
‘Drug-taking and orgies,’ he boomed, slamming down his binoculars and glaring at his poor long-suffering wife. ‘Mark my words, Millicent. That’s what they’re up to in there. If I had my way, I’d launch a dawn raid on that house. These types of people need teaching a lesson . . .’
‘I thought they seemed quite pleasant,’ protested Millicent Perrett-Dwyer, her eyebrows twitching with anxiety. Personally, she thought it rather exciting to be living next door to a pop star, and Izzy Van Asch couldn’t have been nicer when she’d plucked up the courage last week to ring the doorbell and ask to borrow a jar of mustard. Her husband, however, who disapproved passionately of domestic inefficiency, didn’t know about this. Just as he didn’t know that each time he set out on his brisk morning constitutional his wife furtively turned the wireless from the World Service to Radio One and sang along to the music while tackling the breakfast dishes.
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