“Where do you want these guns, Annie?”
Annie checked her clipboard, flustered. “Um, I guess those are for the Guys and Dolls number. If you can find some people dressed as gangsters, give them to them?”
“Okay.” Zarah, who was helping out backstage, rushed off.
It was hectic. Dozens of people were coming up to Annie, asking her questions. Amazingly, she did know the answers to most of them, because somehow, against all the odds, they had pulled this fundraising concert together inside a week. They’d kept it as simple as possible, roping in the staff to sing songs or do skits, as well as George’s acting friends who were dancers and performers in West End shows. Annie had been amazed how many people were willing to help at short notice, and even more amazed when the tickets starting selling to rich members of the hospital board and their mates.
It kept growing. Polly’s former corporate clients from when she worked in PR wanted to help, booking up rows of seats. “Cancer card,” she’d explained. “Everyone feels bad for me, so I can ask for whatever I like.” And it went on. Suze knew everyone in the media. Costas was very happily sorting out costumes borrowed from Polly’s stylist friend or Valerie’s am-dram group. Miriam’s husband, an electrician, was doing the lighting. And Annie herself had pulled it all together, creating spreadsheets, delegating tasks, handling the money.
She’d even stood up in front of the hospital board—seriously formidable men and women—and explained her idea. Word had got out, fast. The goodwill had grown and grown, from patients, from their families, from everyone who knew Polly. So now they were expecting a hundred people to watch the variety show they’d somehow cobbled together. Annie was doing her best not to think about it, in case she threw up all over the front row. How did she, Annie Hebden, Annie Clarke, end up doing this?
Polly. Polly was the answer.
“Annie.” Dr. Max was approaching down the aisle of the hospital’s lecture theater, squinting at her in the dark. “New hair?”
“Oh, yes.” She touched it self-consciously.
“Thought so. Very...bonny.” He stooped, picking up a large yellow feather. “I see you got Big Bird in to do a turn.”
“Oh, that must be one of the burlesque dancers.”
“There’s going to be burlesque? You know we have some quite-senior board members coming tonight?”
“Polly says it’s tasteful. Not like stripping. She once did the PR for a cabaret club or something.”
“Taking your clothes off to music? That sounds like the dictionary definition of stripping. Not that I would know.” He rubbed his hands over his head, making his hair stick up again. Once again he looked exhausted, in rumpled clothes. Did he ever look in a mirror? Annie wondered. How could someone perform brain surgery and yet not be able to do up the buttons on their shirt right? “I guess this was Polly’s idea. Where is she, anyway?”
“It was my idea actually. She’s up there.” Annie waved to where Polly was up a ladder, stringing fairy lights.
Dr. Max gritted his teeth. “For the love of God. She’s not well enough for this, Annie. I’ve told you. She needs to rest.”
“She doesn’t want to rest!” Annie tried to keep her voice low. “She knows she doesn’t have a lot of time, and she doesn’t want to spend it lying in a hospital bed! Okay?”
“I know. I know that. But trust me, she’ll need her strength. When the time comes.”
Annie shrugged off the cold chill his words gave her. “Look, maybe instead of moaning you could get involved? We’re trying to raise some money for the children’s ward. Buy them some toys and so on.”
Reluctantly, he tucked up his coffee-stained tie and stooped to move some of the boxes littering the stage. “That’s all very laudable, Annie, but what those kids need is proper NHS funding. Time spent researching cures. Nurses and doctors who aren’t knackered and demoralized.”
Stung, Annie bent down to pick up a box herself. She’d thought he was on her side since he’d helped sway the hospital board. “I’m just trying to do something.”
“I know. I know you’re trying to help. But really—things like this? Where everyone has a nice time and goes home feeling good about themselves? I worry that it’s just a way to not ask the hard questions. The bigger ones. But you carry on. It won’t do any harm, I suppose.”
Carry on. Like he was patting a child on the head. Annie glared at him. “At least I’m trying. I’m not a scientist or a doctor, but I can do this small thing, and so I am. Okay?”
He held up his hands. “Annie, I didn’t mean—”
“Let’s just leave it.” She turned back to her clipboard, hiding her face.
“It’s Dr. McGrumpy!” Polly called down, swaying on her ladder. “Come to tell us we’re violating health and safety or something?”
“You certainly are, up a ladder in those shoes. Would you ever get down, woman?”
“In a minute.” She was peering hard at the loop of the fairy lights, trying to secure it with some tape. It seemed to be taking her ages.
Dr. Max was watching. “Do you want a wee hand with that?”
“’Course not, it’s only tape. Bugger!” The string of lights fell to the floor, fusing out. Dr. Max met Annie’s eyes, with a clear I told you so.
“Polly,” she called, “I need your help with something here. Um, the burlesque dancers have run out of...hairspray. Can you come down?”
“Oh, okay.” Dr. Max rushed to hold the ladder as she wobbled down it in her silver stilettos and floaty pink dress. “I’m not an invalid,” she grumbled. But she looked like one. She was so thin, Annie saw. Even thinner than a few weeks ago. How could you lose so much weight so quickly? The dress hung on her, her body lost inside the floating layers of chiffon. But she was still smiling. “Now, what’s this hairspray... Oh, my God.”
“Pollleeeeee!” Two voices chimed as one. Milly and Suze had flung open the door of the lecture theater. They were both in high heels, both in skinny jeans and both snapping away with iPhones.
“Who are those?” Dr. Max was staring as they approached, aiming their phones like a SWAT team sweeping a crime scene.
“Those are my friends. The PR Platoon.” Polly waved to them. “Ohh emmm geeeee, you came! Let me do introductions. This is my neurologist, Dr. Max, and this is Milly and Suze. These women basically run the UK media.”
They fell on him.
“Omigod, I love your look. Noble yet careworn. How would you feel about doing a quick to-camera?”
“Er, ladies...”
“Omigod, he’s Scottish! Even better. I’m thinking radio. Give Sunil a bell over at Today.”
Their fingers tapped at their phones, unceasing. Milly said, “The fundraising page is racing ahead, P. We’re already at 5K. It’s all over Facebook, Twitter is blowing up. The Telegraph want an interview.”
“I’m going to bell Ivana at the Guardian. Human interest, caring, etc., etc. They’ll love it.”