He nodded. A sob tore out of him.
“Then Polly wants you to get back with her, and be happy. Because you and she weren’t happy, not really, and she’s run out of time, but you haven’t. And life is too short for any of us not to be happy.” Annie glanced at Polly, who nodded faintly. She was getting it right. “So, go home and call her and be together. And if you want to come to the funeral you’ll be welcome, she promises. You can even bring Fleur.” Polly had insisted she add the last bit, though Annie winced for Tom. From the look on his face, you would have thought something was pressing on his spine.
“But I can’t... How can she just...? Jesus, Polly! This can’t be it! You’re my wife!”
She tapped Annie, who said, “That’s okay. Consider yourself divorced, Tom, but without all the paperwork. I’m sorry, she made me promise I’d say all this.” Polly glared at her, which was hard to do when you’d no strength left in your face. “She doesn’t mean to be cruel. She just thinks we’re all wasting our lives, being unhappy, when we could be happy. I know it’s not as simple as that, but there you go.”
Polly tapped Annie’s hand again, imperious, and shut her eyes. Her breathing was labored. “She’s tired now. I think that’s all she needed to say.”
Tom pushed past Annie, grabbing Polly’s thin hand, pressing it to his face. Polly tensed for a moment, then let him gather her into his arms, and her own feeble ones went around him as he rocked her, choking out sobs. Annie quickly left the room, hearing the quieter sound of Polly’s crying mingle with his. Weak, worn-out sorrow. The tears of someone who’d almost cried themselves out. That had been her, once. Would Tom ever be able to forgive himself? Would it spoil any future happiness he had, knowing what he’d done to Polly? Annie realized she had to make herself truly forgive Mike and Jane, once and for all. For herself more than anyone.
Soon Tom was back in the corridor, the one that was the color of pain, openmouthed, shoulders heaving. “Is there really...there’s nothing they can do?”
“No. We have to let her go now.”
He slumped against the wall, still giving out loud heaving sobs, as if he was about to be sick. “There’s a chair behind you,” Annie pointed. “Sit down a minute.”
He did, crashing into it as if his legs had given way. He wept into his cupped hands for a few moments, then lifted his wet face. “You must think I’m awful. Cheating on my sick wife.”
“You didn’t know she was sick.”
“It’s just... I did love her once. I think. I can’t remember. Isn’t that awful, that I can’t remember if we were happy? We were sort of—we had a good life. Nice house. Holidays and that. I thought we were happy. Both of us working all the time, seeing each other when she was off to yoga and I was back from golf, on our Blackberries in bed, working till three in the morning. Then one day I met Fleur—and I realized we weren’t happy, not at all. We were just like strangers, living together in a show home.”
“Do you miss her, this Fleur?” Annie was picturing a twentysomething in spandex.
“So much. I cried the other day when one of her gym socks turned up in the wash.”
“There you go, then. Go get her. And, Tom—I know you’ll probably feel really shit about this—Polly dying and you cheating on her and everything—but it’s just bad luck. She really meant what she said. All of us—me most of all—have to let her go, and then we have to do something even harder.”
“What’s that?” He was wiping his face, trying to tidy himself up. She imagined a man like Tom hadn’t cried in about thirty years.
“Live our lives. Try to be happy. That’s all.” As Annie walked away she could hear his ragged sobs follow her all the way down the corridor.
DAY 82
Write your own obituary
“No, no, no, no, absolutely no way.”
“But...why?” wheezed Polly.
“For God’s sake, Polly. I don’t want to write a eulogy for you when you’re still alive!”
She was sitting up in the bed, her bald head covered by one of her wigs, a short pink one. Aside from her thinness, she looked all right. Was this the “last good day” that they talked about in cancer lore? “Why not? This way I’ll get to...hear it.”
“Because it’s—it’s mawkish, and it’s attention-seeking, and God, it’s like real-life Instagram or something.”
Polly was calm. “I just want to know...what people thought of me, before I die. What’s the good of saying nice things once I’m...gone? Why don’t we tell people we love them while they can still...hear? You do realize I’m...dying, yes?”
Annie tutted. “How can you say that? Everything we’ve done, all of us, for months now, it’s been about you dying. You’re so busy dying you forget that we’re all living still.”
Polly tried to roll her eyes. “If anyone forgot they were living it was you, Little Miss...Boxsets and No Chill.”
Annie hated it when Polly was right. “Fine, then. You’ll only get your way on this, like you do on everything. What do you want?”
Polly smiled. “I want a...mock funeral. I guess in the chapel here, since I can’t really...go out. But zhuzz it up a bit, will you? You know, flowers and candles and...stuff. It’s so...depressing in there. Ask Sandy. She has...a degree in interior design. Also don’t let anyone wear...black. Especially not you. It’s so depressing. I want color, color...and more color.”
“Anything else?”
“List of all the music I want.” She tapped a leather-bound notebook on the bedside table. “For God’s sake...don’t let my mother play ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’ or anything...cheesy like that. Mum will probably want...a vicar. She’s secretly a real...traditionalist. But I want my mate Ziggy to officiate, as well. He’s a...humanitarian Zoroastrian and lives in a tree. She’ll hate that. Tell her it’s what...I want.”
“But you’ll be there, won’t you? You can tell her yourself?”
Polly waved a hand. “Sure. Next, food—not from the canteen. It’s too...hideous. Ask Tom for the company who did our...wedding. Tell them...no gherkins under any circumstances.”
Annie made a note on her phone. “This is going to be the weirdest event ever.”
“Classic Polly, am I...right?”
“You can’t say that about yourself. It just makes you sound totally narcissistic.”
“Why change the habits of a lifetime...darling?” She stretched out her feet under the blankets. “I could use a...pedicure. Can you see if anyone will come to the hospital? Not someone who does people’s awful...corns. One who knows about gel nails. I want them to really...pop.”
Annie wrote, Popping toenails. “What am I, your PA?”
“Do you have...anything else to do?”
“No, since someone got me fired.”
“What do you think I should...wear? Do you wear black to your own funeral?”
“You can wear whatever you like. You will, anyway.”