She was reminded of sitting on a beach more than thirty years ago, the sand itching between her toes. From somewhere along the crowded shore music had crackled through the static of a transistor radio, Madonna singing about getting into the groove. Lily had been reading The Catcher in the Rye, unsure whether she was enjoying the novel or simply that it was contraband reading: her English teacher had refused to let her borrow it from the school library, had told her it was too grown-up for her, so she had gone to the public library and borrowed it from there instead.
She remembered how her sisters’ laughter had rung out across the beach as if taunting her, how she had glanced above her sunglasses, watched Zoe and Jess throwing seaweed at each other, bowing her head back to her book before they caught her watching them, beads of sweat dripping from her forehead onto the page.
Why don’t you go and play with them, Lily? You’ve been reading all morning. You must be in need of stretching your legs?
Her mum had been sitting on a portable green camping chair surrounded by cool boxes filled with foil-wrapped sandwiches, apples and bottles of squash. She had been reading Enormous Changes at the Last Minute by an author Lily had never heard of. Next to her, Lily’s dad had been sitting in an identical chair with a copy of The Times which he had been reading – one column inch at a time – since they had arrived at the beach nearly two hours before.
Lily remembered looking over her shoulder to where the twins had resumed work on their sandcastle, an ambitious triple-storey construction with towers, moats and flags, the kind of project which Lily might once have attempted with help from her dad. She remembered shaking her head even as a part of her craved involvement.
Oh, do join in, Lily. It won’t be a proper summer holiday if my three musketeers don’t build the biggest sand palace on the beach.
She could hear now – as if the clocks had rewound and her mum was standing right next to her – the good humour in her voice. But back then Lily’s fingers had curled around the corners of her book.
My three musketeers. Her mum had called them that for years and Lily had often wondered whether it had once been an accurate description or whether it was something she’d said because she wanted it to be true.
I’m fine reading my book. I don’t want to build stupid sandcastles. It’s babyish.
Even all these years later Lily could hear the despondency in her voice, could sense the confusion that she didn’t know where her sadness had come from or why it had sneaked up on her like that.
There’s no need to be rude, Lily. Mum’s only offering a suggestion.
Her dad’s voice had been firm, unyielding. It was a voice he had only ever used on Lily, never on Zoe or Jess, a fact Lily had pointed out many times, only to be told she was imagining things.
Lying on the beach that day, Lily had thought about all the years she had wished for a sister to play with, all those weeks when her mum’s swollen stomach had offered such promise, before the news that there were to be two babies, not one. Lily had understood, even then, that after all that time together in her mum’s tummy, those twin babies would be close in a way Lily could never hope to be a part of.
Abandoning their sandcastle, Zoe and Jess had begun acting out Rapunzel: Jess the helpless princess, Zoe – as always – the handsome woodcutter come to rescue her.
Hey, Lily. We need someone to play the evil witch and cast horrible spells. Want to come and join in?
Zoe had grinned, fearless and defiant, as Lily had glared at her. She remembered her eyes stinging behind her sunglasses as Zoe had flung an arm around Jess’s shoulders, the two of them giggling with an intimate camaraderie. She remembered how a single thought had circulated in her head that day as she had lain on the beach at Woolacombe Bay, the smell of chips and vinegar and suntan lotion filling her nose, listening to the sound of other people’s happiness: she had wished they could turn back the clock to the time before the twins had been born, and discover that there was only one baby, not two, waiting inside her mum’s tummy to be her little sister.
An announcement over the Tannoy hauled Lily back into the present. She allowed herself one last glance along the corridor to where the little girls had been playing but they had disappeared, replaced by couples, families, parents and children who now crowded the passageway in both directions as far as Lily could see.
Chapter 37
Audrey
From somewhere along the corridor, Audrey could hear the sound of instruments being tuned; the glide of a bow along strings, the triple-octave span of a flute, the deep growl of a tuba.
She glanced down at her watch for the second time in as many minutes. It was almost half past six: thirty minutes until the concert began, nearly an hour until Audrey and the choir were due on stage. They were third on the bill, after the cast of Les Misérables had opened with a rousing medley that had caused the hairs on the back of Audrey’s neck to stand on end during rehearsals that afternoon, followed by the BBC Symphony Orchestra and Chorus performing the fourth movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony: the Ode to Joy.
‘Everything OK there, Audrey? You look as though you’ve lost something.’
Audrey turned to see Ben standing next to her, almost unrecognisable in a dinner jacket and black bow tie rather than his usual jeans and T-shirt.
‘Not something. Someone. Phoebe popped to the bathroom ages ago and I’m worried she’s got lost.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ve still got heaps of time. She’ll find her way back. How are you feeling anyway?’
Audrey was so used to the question being asked in relation to her health that it took her a few moments to remember that Ben didn’t know she was ill. ‘A little nervous, I suppose. But that’s only natural, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely. There are rock stars and concert pianists who throw up before every performance. A little bit of nerves does you good – gets the adrenaline pumping, gives the performance that extra edge.’
A voice came over the backstage Tannoy announcing thirty minutes to curtain up.
‘But are you OK, Audrey? I haven’t wanted to pry, but is everything all right after your trip to hospital?’
Audrey thought about the half-truth she’d told Ben at the first rehearsal after her collapse: about the low blood sugar and the blackout, but nothing about the cancer. She was about to repeat herself, felt the little white lies line up in her mouth like foot soldiers intent on protecting her. But then she saw something behind Ben’s eyes – a glimmer of light struggling to break through a thick, dark cloud – and suddenly the words were tumbling out before she was sure she wanted to set them free.
‘Not really, no. I’ve got cancer. Stage four: breast, liver, lymph nodes, lung. The doctors think I’ve got about three months left. I haven’t wanted to make it public – I’m sure you can appreciate why.’
She might have said more but horror was spreading across Ben’s face like ink on blotting paper.
‘God, Audrey, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I don’t know what to say. Should you really be here? Shouldn’t you be – I don’t know – at home resting or something?’
Audrey couldn’t help smiling. ‘I joined the choir to escape unnecessary fussing. I’m more than well enough to take part this evening so please don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
It was only as she spoke that Audrey realised the truth of it. Waiting to go on stage, she finally allowed herself to acknowledge how much she’d been looking forward to the concert, how much she’d been holding onto it with both hands, determined not to let the opportunity slip from her grasp. There had been so many times over the past three months when she’d thought she might not make it, when she’d feared the cancer would beat her to the finishing line. But here she was, about to head out onto one of the most famous stages in the world, and there was nothing she’d let get in her way.
‘Well, I’m very glad to hear it. We wouldn’t want to do it without you. But I really am very sorry. If there’s anything I can do to help – not just tonight, but whenever – you will let me know, won’t you?’