Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

‘Really. Are you having fun?’

‘I’m having a ball,’ she said, stepping away from the models and steering us towards the lift that would take us to the ground-floor exit. I noticed her wince as she turned.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked when we’d emerged from the crowd on to the landing. I gestured to her naked midriff. ‘You made a face.’

‘It’s nothing. I think I must have put my back out picking Jimmy up. It’s been bothering me the last couple of days. I’ve made an appointment with the osteopath. Little bugger’s getting too heavy.’ She pulled me into her arms and kissed me on the mouth. ‘You’re a total mother hen, Steph. You need to loosen up,’ she scolded me.

‘Be grateful somebody gives a toss about you, sweetie,’ George said as the lift arrived.

We all laughed. And I went home and thought nothing more about Scarlett’s back pain. More fool me.

42

Idon’t buy the red-tops unless it’s for professional reasons. But I will glance at the headlines if someone on the train or in a café is hiding behind their paper. I’m only human, after all. And that’s how I learned my friend was dying.

In fairness to Scarlett, she wasn’t holding out on me. She’d only had the news confirmed the night before. She wasn’t ready to share with anyone yet. She certainly wasn’t ready for the whole bloody world to know she’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

The headlines screamed the story. SCARLETT’S DEATH SENTENCE. TV STAR HAS ONLY WEEKS TO LIVE. I’d only gone into Costa Coffee for a quick latte, but instead I’d been hit with the worst possible news.

I wanted to snatch the copy of the Daily Herald out of the hands of the plaster-stained workman reading it. But good sense prevailed and I ran out of the coffee shop and down the street to the nearest newsagent. I grabbed a copy off the shelf and threw a pound coin on the counter, not waiting for change.

I stood there on the street, the sun shining as if it had something to celebrate, and read the terrible news.

TV show host Scarlett Higgins has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. The former Goldfish Bowl star has been told she has only weeks to live.Last year, Scarlett was treated for breast cancer. After undergoing surgery and chemotherapy, she was given the all-clear.But doctors have revealed her body is riddled with secondary cancers which have invaded vital organs and her spine. The cancer is inoperable.One of her medical team said, ‘I’m afraid the news is as bad as it gets. The tests have confirmed our worst fears.’Scarlett was not available for comment last night. Her agent, George Lyall, said, ‘This is devastating news. I would ask that you respect Scarlett’s privacy while she comes to terms with it.’Only last year, tragic Scarlett’s ex-husband, DJ Joshu, died from a drug overdose. Cont p3–4 .

The rest of the article was a rehash of Scarlett’s background and career, lavish with pics of Scarlett with Joshu, Scarlett with Jimmy, Scarlett (or possibly Leanne) falling out of a limo, Scarlett with shaved head and swimsuit promoting her charity swimathon for Timonescu. My eyes scanned the article, but nothing was really sinking in. I was appalled, numbed, shattered by the news.

I closed the paper and walked the short distance home. It was as if I had forgotten how to walk. Every step of the way needed concentration, like when I’d had to learn how to walk properly again after the accident.

I don’t remember how I got there, but I seemed to come to on the doorstep, fumbling the key into the lock. I wasn’t sure what to do when I got inside. My first instinct was to call Scarlett, but I didn’t know if that was a good idea in my present state. I felt dazed and stupefied, unable to make the right connections in my head. Instead, I called George. He always knew what to do.

I had to hold for a couple of minutes. I barely noticed. And then his rich chocolate voice was on the line. I’d never noticed before how very comforting his voice is. But then, I’d never needed comfort from him before. ‘Stephanie, my dear. You’ve heard the terrible news, I take it?’

‘Is it true?’

‘Lamentably true, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry, Stephanie. I know how fond you are of her. And she of you. We’ve no idea how the media got hold of it. Someone at the clinic must have leaked.’

‘Some greedy selfish pig,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘She was having back pain—’

‘I remember, at her birthday party last month. She was complaining about it.’

‘That’s right. Her osteopath couldn’t resolve it and she was concerned enough to suggest Scarlett consult a doctor. The only doctor she knows enough to trust is Simon Graham, so she went to see him. And because cancer is always Simon’s first thought, he gave her an MRI. And the shocking truth was there to see.’

‘Christ,’ I said. ‘And when was this?’

‘A couple of days ago. Simon’s very thorough and he insisted that she not panic until he’d carried out further tests. The results came through yesterday afternoon and he tried to call her. She wasn’t answering her phone because she was on set. So he left a voicemail confirming that what they had feared was indeed the case.’

‘That sounds suspiciously like the quote in the paper.’

‘That’s what Scarlett said too. She’s convinced someone hacked her voicemail. But I think it’s more likely that a nurse or technician overheard Simon leave the message and got on the blower to some hack at the Herald . These people sicken me,’ he said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. ‘They know no boundaries of taste or decency. The woman has a child, for God’s sake.’

His anger was shielding his sorrow. It’s the only way men like George know how to express their pain. I was pretty sure George was as distraught as I was. How much worse must it have been for Scarlett? She’d fought through so much, but this was one battle she couldn’t win. ‘How is she? Or is that a stupid question?’

‘Still stunned, I think. Is there any possibility you might get over there? I really think she ought to have someone with her who cares about her. I’m stuck here holding the fort. But if you could . . . ’

‘That was my first thought. But I wanted to check with you. I wondered if maybe she wanted to be left alone with Jimmy.’

George made a strange, choking sound, like a man struggling with his composure in the face of tears. ‘Stephanie, if I was attempting to deal with what Scarlett has on her plate at present, I would want my best friend by my side. You know she won’t ask. But she would be much better off with you there. Please, if you can, go to her.’

I didn’t need telling twice. I wasn’t sure whether I was fit to drive; I kept breaking down in tears and having to pull over on to the hard shoulder. Even so, driving would be a lot quicker than trains and cabs. And it would provoke less curiosity. Nothing attracts attention like sobbing on public transport. I really didn’t feel up to dealing with the kindness of strangers. As it was, I had to convince one traffic cop that I wasn’t having some sort of nervous breakdown.

Of course, when I got to the hacienda, it was even more of a media brawl than when Joshu died. Scarlett had a much higher national profile than her ex-husband and they all wanted a piece of her tragedy. There was something profoundly disgusting about their display. The hunger, the lack of compassion, the blatant parasitism of their desire to feed off Scarlett’s suffering: it all made me feel tainted by my own tangential connection to their world. The only real difference between us was that I operated by consent. I drew a line that respected what my subjects wanted to keep private. But we were all in the business of satisfying an appetite that was rooted in prurience. As I inched my car forward through the press of press, I wondered whether I needed to reconsider how I earn my living.