Romantic Association - Loves Me, Loves Me Not

‘And then a double mastectomy,’ she finished for him. ‘And more radio. And chemo. And she went on Tamoxifen to keep the cancer at bay. But up it popped in her neck and they dug it out there. And now it’s on her lung and she’s having more chemo. She’s lost her hair again. But—’ she took a deep breath ‘—I don’t have the same kind of cancer as her. I have IBC. Inflammatory Breast Cancer.’

He was shaking. She could feel him thrumming as if he were an idling car. Sweat oozed into the creases of his fingers. In his eyes she saw the same despair as when he’d known there was no hope for Robbie. ‘Is that an OK form of breast cancer?’

She shook her head.

He cleared his throat. Sweat popped up across his cheeks. ‘So why aren’t you having treatment?’

She kissed him again. It might be the last time.

She couldn’t look him in the eyes. ‘Because there’s no point.’

His hands clenched around hers until she thought her fingers would splinter. ‘No point?’

Tears left prickly little trails on her cheeks as they plopped in quick succession onto her chest. The words hurt her throat as she forced them out. ‘IBC is rare. It’s all the bad things, Grant! Aggressive, fast-growing, invasive! So I’ve refused treatment.’

‘But chemo—’

‘Chemotherapy’s oversold. It’ll slow things down a bit but at what cost? You’ve seen Ginny! Losing her hair, can’t keep anything down, exhausted, sleeping twenty hours a day!’

Suddenly he was shouting, right in her face, lips drawn up like an animal’s. ‘You can’t refuse treatment! You don’t know how much time they can give you unless you let them try!’

And she was shouting back. ‘I am refusing treatment, I have refused treatment! Because I’ve watched my sister die by degrees over the last three years while they cut things off her and out of her. Yes, she’s had three years but how much of that has she spent being miserable? It was the same for Mum! At least, this way, I’ll enjoy some of what I’ve got left!’

His eyes blazed with pain. ‘I can’t let you die.’

‘You can’t do anything else.’ She lifted his hands and kissed them rapidly, desperately. ‘I’m not alone, others choose this. It’s a gentler way, Grant. They call it the South of France Option. I just made it the Malta Option because I’m happy here.’

He lurched to his feet. ‘So you’re going to do nothing?’

Her heart was hammering. ‘Not quite nothing. I’ve got an exercise plan to keep me strong. I swim and walk every day, I eat loads of fruit and avoid dairy. I bought some drinks through the Internet that have had amazing results in a few cases.’

His voice dropped. ‘You’re not telling me you’re fighting aggressive breast cancer with herbal tea?’

Exhausted, she let her head drop back. ‘It’s about as much use as anything else.’

Slowly, he backed away.

‘So I’m supposed to just watch you die?’

Fresh tears squeezed out from beneath her lids. ‘I came here so no one has to watch.’

Then he’d backed right across the room and was at the door to the apartment. The door opened and he stepped through it.

She didn’t even watch him leave. He’d watched his child die and he wouldn’t be able to see her go, too. She understood. She understood!

Her tears dried and she watched the sunlight fade from the day, listening to the rumbles and hoots of the traffic on Tower Road and voices on the stairs as other, happier people came and went.

It was midnight. And a tapping at the door.

‘It’s me.’ His voice was low.

She’d been reading in bed in a white nightshirt, too tired to sleep. She let him in. He was a good man and it would rip at his conscience if she made him leave without saying goodbye.

He took her delicately in his arms, stroking her rippled hair back from her face.

‘Is there pain?’

She nodded. ‘Some.’

His fingers moved to her top button and flicked it open. ‘I’ll rearrange my work so that I can stay with you.’ Two more buttons. His hands were unsteady.

Her heart leapt but still she tested him with a protest. ‘You had so much time off last year for Robbie!’

A fourth button and a fifth. He pushed the shirt from her shoulders. It slid, slowly, down her arms. Baring her to his gaze. ‘You’re beautiful. I love you. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just let me stay.’

Hope soared. ‘We could go home to England; you don’t like Malta! The heat—’

‘—is not important. If the Malta Option is what you want and all I’ve got left of you, then that’s what I’ll take.’ He stooped and touched a kiss like a butterfly to her breast. The one that was red and swollen and ridged.

The tears began again. But she was not entirely sad. They’d have to talk about the sensible stuff and the bad stuff. But not yet. First they were going to enjoy what they had.

‘You’re a wonderful man.’ She put her cheek against his collarbone and let herself enjoy the thud of his heart where their bodies touched. ‘Truly. I always find something extraordinary in Malta.’

Victoria Connelly grew up in Norfolk and now lives in London with her artist husband. She has written all her life and has had great success with her magical romances in Germany. The first—about a group of tiny guardian angels—has been made into a film. Her first novel published in the UK, Molly’s Millions, is a romantic comedy about a lottery winner who gives it all away in true Robin Hood style. She also writes for children. Find out more at www.victoriaconnelly.com

The Egyptian rooms of The British Museum are my favourite place to sketch.

I usually start in the galleries where the colossal statues stare down at the hordes of tourists, their stone eyes seeming to see everybody at once.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with all things Egyptian. There was something about the shapes of the hieroglyphs and the graceful figures from their ancient tombs that fired my imagination at school. That’s when I started drawing my own pharaohs and mummies and writing stories about them. Ever since I discovered the collection at the British Museum, I’ve visited at every opportunity. It’s a constant source of inspiration for the books I now write and illustrate.

And here I am again, collecting last minute notes and sketches for a children’s book, climbing the west stairs towards my favourite haunt. I remember how much Matt used to hate me coming here.

‘You spend more time with those mummies than you do with me!’ he’d shout. I never tried explaining my fascination with the mummies to him because he’d never understand. As far as Matt could see, my books were just a nice little hobby. He didn’t even bother to look at them when they were published. I’m glad I never dedicated one to him.

Walking through Early Mesopotamia, I remember the last time Matt shouted and me—calmly and quietly—telling him, ‘Please be out of my flat by the time the British Museum closes. That’s eight-thirty on a Thursday,’ I’d added, ducking to avoid the football he’d thrown. I wouldn’t miss those lying around the flat, I’d thought as I left, seeking sanctuary in the Egyptian galleries for the hours until my home was my own again.

That was three months ago and I still can’t believe that I fell for him. How ridiculously optimistic love can be sometimes. We were so different and yet I’d always thought it would work out somehow. But I was Egypt and he was Everton.

As I enter the Egyptian rooms, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s always such a welcome sight and it’s busy today, which is fun for me because I’m a great people-watcher. I get my sketchbook out and make a start. At first, I focus on the cabinets filled with mummies but I inevitably find myself drawn to the tourists. There’s a young couple with their arms around each other’s waists, moving as one through the room; a young mother with a toddler and her pale face and red eyes tell me she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep for some time; and then there’s a father with his young son—and I can’t help noticing how handsome the father is. And he has the cutest smile I’ve seen in a long time.