Jenny Downham - Before I Die aka Now is Good

‘Bit late for that.’

I meant it as a joke, but he’s not smiling. ‘Adam’s just a kid, Tessa. You can’t rely on him for everything: he might let you down.’

‘He won’t.’

‘And if he does?’

‘Then I’ve still got you.’

It’s weird hugging him in the dark on the landing. We hold each other tighter than I ever remember. Eventually he eases his grip and looks at me very seriously.

‘I’ll always be here for you, Tess. Whatever you do, whatever you still have left to do, whatever your stupid list makes you do. You need to know that.’

‘There’s hardly anything left.’

Number nine is Adam moving in. Deeper than sex. It’s about facing death, but not alone. My bed, no longer frightening, but a place where Adam lies warm and waiting for me.

Dad kisses the top of my head. ‘Off you go then.’

He goes off to the bathroom.

I go back to Adam.

Spring is a powerful spell.

The blue. The clouds high up and puffy. The air warmer than it’s been for weeks.

‘The light was different this morning,’ I tell Zoey. ‘It woke me up.’

She shifts her weight in the deck chair. ‘Lucky you. Leg cramp woke me up.’

We’re sitting under the apple tree. Zoey’s brought a blanket from the sofa and wrapped herself up in it, but I’m not cold at all. It’s one of those mellow days in March that feel as if the earth is tipping forwards. Daisies sprinkle the lawn. Clusters of tulips sprout at the edges of the fence. The garden even smells different – moist and secretive.

‘You all right?’ Zoey says. ‘You look a bit weird.’

‘I’m concentrating.’

‘On what?’

‘Signs.’

She groans softly, picks up the holiday brochure from my lap and flicks through the pages. ‘I’ll just torture myself with this then. Tell me when you’re done.’

I’ll never be done.

That rip in the clouds where the light falls through.

That brazen bird flying in a straight line right across the sky.

There are signs everywhere. Keeping me safe.

Cal’s got into it too now, although in a more practical way. He calls them ‘keep-death-away spells’.

He’s put garlic above all the doors and at the four corners of my bed. He’s made KEEP OUT boards for the front and back gates.

Last night, when we were watching TV, he tied our legs together with a skipping rope. We looked as if we were entering a three-legged race.

He said, ‘No one will take you if you’re tied to me.’

‘They might take you as well!’

He shrugged, as if that didn’t matter to him. ‘They won’t get you in Sicily either; they won’t know where you are.’

Tomorrow we fly. A whole week in the sun.

I tease Zoey with the brochure, run my finger over the volcanic beach with black sand, the sea edged by mountains, the cafés and piazzas. In some of the photos, Mount Etna squats massively in the background, remote and fiery.

‘The volcano’s active,’ I tell her. ‘It sparks at night, and when it rains, everything gets covered in ash.’

‘It’s not going to rain though, is it? It must be about thirty degrees.’ She slaps the brochure shut. ‘I can’t believe your mum gave her ticket to Adam.’

‘My dad can’t believe it either.’

Zoey thinks about this for a moment. ‘Wasn’t getting them back together on your list?’

‘Number seven.’

‘That’s terrible.’ She flings the brochure on the grass. ‘I feel sad now.’

‘It’s the hormones.’

‘Sadder than you’d ever believe.’

‘Yeah, it’s the hormones.’

She gazes hopelessly at the sky, then almost immediately turns back to me with a smile on her face. ‘Did I tell you I’m picking the keys up in three weeks?’

Talking about the flat always cheers her up. The council has agreed to give her a grant. She’ll be able to swap vouchers for paint and wallpaper, she tells me. She gets quite animated describing the mural she plans for her bedroom, the tropical fish tiles she wants in the bathroom.

It’s strange, but as she talks, her body begins to waver at the edges. I try and concentrate on her plans for the kitchen, but it’s as if she’s caught in a heat haze.

‘Are you OK?’ she says. ‘You’ve got that weird look on your face again.’

I sit forward and massage my scalp. I focus on the pain behind my eyes and try and make it go away.

‘Shall I get your dad?’

‘No.’

‘A glass of water?’

‘No. Stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Where are you going?’

I can’t see Adam, but I can hear him. He’s turning over the soil so his mum can plant flowers while we’re away. I can hear the push of his boot on the spade, the wet resistance of the earth.

I go through the gap in the fence. There’s the whisper of growing things – buds opening, delicate fronds of green pushing their way into the air.

He’s got his jumper off, is only wearing a vest top and jeans. He had his hair cut yesterday and the arc of his neck as it joins his shoulder is shockingly beautiful. He grins when he sees me watching, puts the spade down and walks over.

‘Hey, you!’

I lean in to him and wait to feel better. He’s warm. His skin is salty and smells of baked sunlight.

‘I love you.’

Silence. Startling. Did I mean to say that?

He smiles his tilted smile. ‘I love you too, Tess.’

I put my hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.’

‘I do mean it.’ His breath makes my fingers humid. He kisses my palm.

I bury these things in my heart – the feel of him under my fingers, the taste of him on my mouth. I’ll need them, like talismans, to survive an impossible journey.

He brushes my cheek with one finger, from my temple to my chin and then across my lips. ‘You OK?’

I nod.

He looks down at me, gently puzzled. ‘You seem quiet. Shall I come and find you when I’m done? We could go out on the bike if you like, say goodbye to the hill for a week.’

I nod again. Yes.

He kisses me goodbye. He tastes of butter.

I hold onto the fence as I go back through the gap. A bird is singing a complicated song and Dad’s standing on the back step holding a pineapple. These are good signs. There’s no need to be afraid.

I go back to my chair. Zoey’s pretending to be asleep, but she opens one eye as I sit down. ‘I wonder if you’d fancy him if you weren’t sick.’

‘I would.’

‘He’s not as good-looking as Jake.’

‘He’s a lot nicer.’

‘I bet he gets on your nerves sometimes. I bet he talks utter crap, or wants to shag you when you don’t feel like it.’

‘He doesn’t.’

She scowls at me. ‘He’s a bloke, isn’t he?’

How can I explain it to her? The comfort of his arm around my shoulder at night? The way his breathing changes with the hours, so that I know when it’s dawn? Every morning when he wakes up, he kisses me. His hand on my breast keeps my heart beating.

Dad comes up the path, still clutching his pineapple. ‘You need to come in now. Philippa’s here.’

But I don’t want to be inside. I’m having trouble with walls. I want to stay under the apple tree, out in the spring air.

‘Ask her to come out, Dad.’

He shrugs, turns back to the house.

‘I need to have a blood test,’ I tell Zoey.

She wrinkles her nose. ‘All right. It’s freezing out here anyway.’

Philippa squeezes her fingers into sterile gloves. ‘Love still working its magic then?’

‘It’s our tenth anniversary tomorrow.’

‘Ten weeks? Well, it’s doing wonders for you. I’m going to start recommending all my patients fall in love.’