“...it was quite a tricky procedure, because the patient’s bowel had perforated and fecal matter was leaking...” Outside, Dr. Quarani was sipping grape juice and telling Polly about a particularly gruesome surgery. Polly’s champagne was untouched, and she gave Annie a furious look. What the hell?
Annie avoided her eyes. Dr. Max swept over. “Sami, Polly! Isn’t this nice? What’s this god-awful rubbish you have on?” He switched off the iPod. “We can do better than that, I think.” In the corner, under a red cloth, was a piano. “The Friends of the Hospital put this here, thought it would boost morale or something. Ah, here we are.” He pulled off the cover and sat down on the stool. “Any requests?”
“You can play the piano?” Annie said, breaking character in her surprise. Was there anything the bloody man couldn’t do?
“’Course,” he said. “It’s all in the fingers. How about some Frank—not your tumor, Polly—to get us started?” And he began to sing “I Get a Kick Out of You,” the notes rippling in the empty room, his voice ringing out deep and throaty. At the line about getting no kick from champagne, he nodded to Dr. Quarani, who actually smiled. Annie was glad he didn’t do that more often—no one in the hospital would get any work done.
Costas and George crept out of the kitchen to listen, and Dr. Max played, and Polly picked up her drink at last, and Dr. Quarani lifted his glass in a toast. Oh, God, don’t wish her a happy birthday. “Here’s to you, Polly,” he said. And that was all.
*
“Want me to help you with the dress?” The date/not-date didn’t last for long, as Polly was too tired to stay sitting up, but at least she ate a vine leaf and two spoonfuls of moussaka and half a baklava.
“There are literally a million layers of pastry in that,” George had said. It seemed silly for them all to hide on the sidelines, so it had ended up with the six of them around the table, in the candlelight and with Bublé back on, under protest from Dr. Max, and they’d eaten the food and talked and laughed, and it had actually been fun.
Polly shook her head. She was lying on her bed, still in the red dress, staring at the ceiling. “I think I’ll keep it on. It’s too...beautiful to take off.”
“Was it okay, your date?”
“He didn’t actually know it was a date, did he? I wondered why he’d...agreed to it.”
Annie busied herself smoothing the pillows. “You need to talk to George about that.”
“It’s okay. I got what I wanted—a handsome man...picking me up, a pretty...dress and an evening with the best people I know. Maybe all first dates should be...group dates.” She paused. “He told me what’s happening over there. His family.”
“Oh.”
“Will you keep an eye on him? You and Dr. Max? I think he’s lonely. Imagine being stuck in Lewisham, of all places, and not even able to drink. Poor man.”
“I will,” she said. Polly hadn’t added after I’m gone, but Annie knew what she meant. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
“Oh, no. Get some...sleep.”
“If you’re sure.” Annie moved to the door, dimming the light. “Ding if you need a nurse to take your makeup off or something. That’s what they’re paid for, after all, to wait on your every whim.”
“’Kay. Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for this. It was the...best not-date I’ve ever...had.”
“Night.”
“Night...Annie Hebden-Clarke.” As she left, Annie looked back at Polly—lying above the covers in her scarlet dress, still and white as a statue, the remains of her golden hair gleaming in the dull light.
DAY 84
Say goodbye
Ringing. The phone was ringing. Annie groped under her pillow, eventually finding it and stabbing at buttons. The ghostly blue light filled her room. “Uh?” What time was it? Still dark out.
“Annie?”
“Uh?” It was George. Why was George calling in the middle of the... Annie sat bolt upright. “George?” Her voice sounded remote, as if coming from outer space. “Is...?”
He didn’t answer. She heard a small watery choke. He didn’t need to say anything else. Annie was out of bed, throwing on jeans, looking around for her keys. “I’m coming. I’m coming right now.”
*
She could never remember much about the journey. The burn of orange lights as she sped through Catford, the silence of her Uber driver, who seemed to pick up on her anxiety and drive fast, braking hard at every light. She got out, thanking him and running inside, into the green glow of the nighttime hospital, the beeps and harsh lights and shuffling people, tired-eyed doctors and nurses keeping watch. Rather than wait for the lift she panted up the stairs, huffing and puffing. At the end of Polly’s corridor, she could see a gathering of people. Her eyes took it in but her mind couldn’t grasp at it. Valerie, crying into George’s shoulder, while he patted her back, his face ruined with tears. Roger standing to the side, shoulders vibrating like a shaken-up bottle of champagne. Annie skidded to a halt at the door of the room, looking in the glass panel. For a moment she didn’t understand—they’d moved her? Why was everyone just standing there if they’d moved her and...
“Annie.” Dr. Max was there, in the same clothes, the same smear of tomato on his sleeve of his shirt. He clearly hadn’t been home.
“Where is she?”
“Annie. I’m sorry—she just slipped away...”
“No.”
“It must have been not long after you left. She was still wearing the dress, and she looked peaceful, she really did.”
“No.”
“You gave her a good last night. But she’s gone, she’s gone, Annie. I’m sorry. Polly died, about an hour ago. She went in her sleep, and she wouldn’t have felt it. I promise you. It’s the best we could have hoped for, under the circumstances.”
“No!” How could she be gone? It was only two hours since Annie had left her, happy and alive, talking, laughing, drinking champagne. How could she be here one moment and gone the next?
Dr. Max had his arm around her waist, moving her away gently but firmly. “Come on now. There’s nothing you can do. We need to get everyone out of here.”
“But...it’s her pretend funeral in a few days!” Annie said stupidly.
“I know. I think—I think maybe she always intended it this way, Annie. I think she wanted us all to be ready. She knew she wouldn’t make it that far. Come on now. Please.”
Annie stared back, in disbelief, at the room Polly had occupied for weeks now. The sheet of the bed was pulled neat, the machines dark and dimmed. It looked as if she had never even been there at all.
DAY 85
Lie in bed and cry
Polly was dead.
DAY 86
Take the packet of pills out
of your bathroom cupboard,
stare at them, but then put
them back again
Polly was dead. She was dead. Dead. How could she be dead? It was so unfair. So bloody, bloody, fucking unfair.
DAY 87
Sit mindlessly on your living
room floor, staring at the
turned-off TV screen
Polly was dead. She was dead she was dead she was dead she was dead she was dead.
“Annie?” Costas’s light hand on her shoulder. “I take Buster for walkies now.” The little dog was snuffling around Annie’s feet, but her heart felt too heavy to pick him up. “You want I bring a pizza?”
She found her voice, deep inside her. “No. Thank you.”