SIMON
Montefalco, Italy, three years earlier
11 February
It had begun as an innocuous little lump on her left index finger – nothing you’d notice without searching for it, and certainly no bigger than a small ball bearing.
It itched, Luciana told me, and the more she scratched it, the sorer it became. Two weeks passed and it continued to irritate her, so I persuaded her to make an appointment to see her doctor to check it wasn’t an infected insect bite. He admitted it puzzled him, so he erred on the side of caution and took a biopsy. Within five days, we were called back to his surgery to discover that innocuous little lump we could barely see was going to make our perfect lives implode.
It was malignant.
We carried on with our lives regardless and with relative normality while we awaited the results of an urgent barrage of tests to ensure it was just a one-off, random cluster of cancerous cells. Luciana remained convinced we had nothing to fear, but inside I knew the darkness I’d eluded for two decades had found me again.
Our wealth paid for speedier results, but it couldn’t pay for positive ones. Her cancer was not a rogue occurrence, but a secondary form. Its parasitic parent had already made a home in her right breast before silently creeping around her body.
‘I believe it’s an intrusive cancer that’s already spread to a kidney and your stomach,’ her doctor began solemnly, then paused as we absorbed the news.
Luciana reacted like she would towards one of her businesses failing. Without a hint of self-pity, she was collected, optimistic and sought to formulate a plan of attack. ‘What are my options?’ she asked without expression, staring her doctor firmly in the eye.
‘It has moved far too quickly and it’s incurable, Luciana,’ he replied softly. ‘I’m very, very sorry.’
‘There are always options,’ she said firmly, gripping my hand tightly.
‘We can try and control it as best we can. But the best-case scenario is a year to eighteen months.’
She nodded her head slowly. ‘That’s good,’ she replied. ‘That’s a good time. I can get a lot done in that time.’
We left his surgery too stunned to speak and with a schedule of medical treatments designed to slow down her cancer’s rate of growth. We each had one eye on the clock. Hers was to remind herself of how much longer she had left as the centre of my universe.
Mine was to decide on the right time to leave her.
CATHERINE
Northampton
14 February
The second explosion walloped me almost a fortnight after the first, as I wandered around the supermarket shopping for groceries. It followed the same course as its predecessor – unexpected, excruciating stabs to the brain, darkness, white lights and then dizziness – and it scared me to death. Not just because of how much it hurt, but because it meant the first wasn’t a one-off.
I tried in vain to steady myself against a freezer chest, but I missed the lid and fell into an ungainly heap on the floor. Someone helped me to my feet and took me to the manager’s office, where a kind boy asked if he should call me an ambulance. But I reassured him I’d just had a funny turn and all I needed was to sit down and compose myself.
I tried to fool myself into thinking it was nothing more than a delayed but extreme reaction to my new HRT medication. But I knew the difference between a hot flush and something that was trying to blow my scalp off. And naively keeping my fingers crossed and praying it would go away as quickly as it had appeared probably wouldn’t work.
Nevertheless, I chose denial. I took a few days off and left Selena in charge of the shops so I could hide in the safety of my home. And when a week passed without incident, I almost began to stop waiting for another one. More fool me, because the next was by far the worst.
I was in my granddaughter Olivia’s bedroom at Emily and Daniel’s house, playing imaginary tea parties, when my words became slurred and jumbled.
‘Teddy cake go and find to him,’ I mumbled, unable to correct myself. In my mind, I knew what I was trying to say but when it came out, it made no sense. I tried again, then again and again, but it made no difference.
‘Nana, you’re being funny,’ giggled Olivia, but it was only amusing to a three-year-old. I tried several more sentences but each one failed. Terrified, I lifted myself off the floor and perched on her bed.
‘Mummy for Nana,’ I begged. ‘Mummy . . . Nana.’
Her little face fell and I could tell I was scaring her. She ran from the room yelling for Emily.
I remained frozen on her bed, and the last thing I heard were her feet scampering down the staircase before I fell unconscious.
SIMON
Monte Falco
16 February
It was a myth that God is merciful. To me, he was a cruel, cold-hearted, vindictive bastard who was predominantly interested in punishing me. From birth, he had strewn my path with a deceitful mother, cunning friends and disloyal lovers.
I’d tried so hard to live a good life since I met Luciana, and for a time, he’d fooled me into believing he’d taken notice. He’d blessed me with two incredible children and the love of a woman I didn’t deserve.
I showed my gratitude by being a worthy husband, a doting father and a charitable man. A third of the profits from our winery went directly to a foundation providing aid to the children of poverty-stricken widows in the region. We sponsored five scholarships for gifted students from low-income families to attend the same private school as Sofia and Luca. We’d even donated three acres of land to a sanctuary for retired working horses.
But that wasn’t enough for God. Not nearly enough. By granting us a life of privilege, he’d merely lulled me into a false sense of security before striking me with his next blow. He could have taken Luciana away from me in an instant with a sudden, fatal accident. But he decided he’d gain more pleasure in watching me suffer, watching her suffer.
I’d already experienced life with someone so utterly tortured by sorrow that they were unable to recognise night from day. I’d been the one who had hovered in the corners of rooms, watching as grief devoured Catherine.
Now history was about to repeat itself and I was going to be forced to see the love of my life slipping away. The only way I could prevent his victory was to do what I knew best – run. And when I was miles and miles from her failing body, I would remember with fondness her love – and not someone locked into a death sentence.
Our house had not been built of brick, as I’d thought, but of feathers. A wind I couldn’t harness would destroy it whether I was present or not.
CATHERINE
Northampton
18 February