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The Other Life of Charlotte Evans
Louisa George
Would you sacrifice your future to understand your past?Life is rosy for dance studio owner Charlotte Evans, who is about to marry beloved fiancé, Ben. But when Ben finds a lump in Charlotte's breast, it sends her on a journey of self-discovery which she knows she must do alone. Because Charlotte is adopted, and she suddenly, desperately, needs to know who she is and where she comes from.Finding and reconnecting with her birth family, the life Charlotte could have had unfolds before her. As her wedding day draws closer, and her past merges ever more into her present, Charlotte must decide on the future she really wants…A heartrendingly beautiful novel about love, family and finding your own path to happiness.


Would you sacrifice your future to understand your past?
Life is rosy for dance studio owner Charlotte Evans, who is about to marry beloved fiancé, Ben. But when Ben finds a lump in Charlotte’s breast, it sends her on a journey of self-discovery which she knows she must do alone. Because Charlotte is adopted, and she suddenly, desperately, needs to know who she is and where she comes from.
Finding and reconnecting with her birth family, the life Charlotte could have had unfolds before her. As her wedding day draws closer, and her past merges ever more into her present, Charlotte must decide on the future she really wants...
A heartrendingly beautiful novel about love, family and finding your own path to happiness.
Also by Louisa George
The Secret Art of Forgiveness
The Other Life of Charlotte Evans
Louisa George


ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Award-winning author LOUISA GEORGE has been an avid reader her whole life. In between chapters she managed to fit in a BA degree in Communication Studies, trained as a nurse, married her doctor hero and had two sons. Now, she spends her days writing chapters of her own in the medical romance, contemporary romance and women’s fiction genres. To date, she has 19 books available in ebook/print.
Louisa’s books have variously been nominated for the coveted RITA® Award and the NZ Koru Award (which she won in 2014 and 2016 for the Short Sexy Category) and she won the prestigious HOLT Medallion Award in 2017. Her books have been translated into twelve languages. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand and, when not writing or reading, likes to travel, drink mojitos and do Zumba®- preferably all at the same time.
Acknowledgements
Behind every writer is a support team of amazing people without whom a book would be just thoughts, words and ideas, and never get into the hands of readers. I am very lucky to have such an amazing group of cheerleaders.
To the HQ team, thank you for all your support and for another stunning cover.
To the Blenheim girls, the Wilders and all my writing friends, thank you so much for the help and advice and friendship over the years, I’ve loved walking this journey with you.
To Flo, my fabulous editor, you have sprinkled your editorial glitter all over my stories and turned them into books I am proud to have out in the world. I can’t tell you how grateful and blessed I am to have you. Thank you. Thank you. xxx
To Warren, Sam and James, this book is all about family and I couldn’t ask for a better one. I love you.
Contents
Cover (#ue1ac1f5b-fa9c-5cb5-9663-af6f0bc255c8)
Blurb (#u4b4a09a6-710a-5b42-a5d7-c6b36be9be21)
Book List (#ulink_c09bdced-0a71-57b6-89b9-e8db5d0cc070)
Title Page (#u42941777-6d57-5960-bd4b-11e1b61eb9bd)
Author Bio (#u670554a0-f047-51d4-8187-a23a3c7ffa09)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_a06caafc-a80b-5b6d-8ef2-983b34e8154c)
Chapter One (#ulink_fa611300-6093-55fc-af6f-a2a9b9145ffd)
Chapter Two (#ulink_ffcd4e87-5086-5bb8-81a4-40d008df8561)
Chapter Three (#ulink_53fd87a0-3c83-5cb0-894f-6cd6b9693242)
Chapter Four (#ulink_99aa25ff-4394-58a9-bd37-0ded3c6f6871)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_ec4c2400-4374-5778-9677-9c327a9c60cd)
‘Would it be too much, do you think, to have sixteen flower girls?’ Charlotte Evans asked her team teacher and best friend, Lissa, as each of the sixteen pink-faced, tutu-ed three-year-olds ran forward in turn and gave very serious but wobbly curtsies at the end of the preschool dance class. Adorable. Every one. ‘Yes, thank you. Thank you. Thank you, sweetie. See you next week.’
‘Given I’m your chief bridesmaid, then yes, absolutely, that would be fifteen too many. Imagine the chaos if I had to control them. You’re the one with kiddie charm, not me.’ Lissa laughed, sliding her a sideways grin that said not a chance, and closed the door behind the last class of the morning. Leaving them in a blissfully quiet dance studio, except for the murmurs of excited but tired chatter as the little ones crunched away up the gravel path with their proud, doting mums, towards home for lunch or a nap.
Judging by the dark smudges under her eyes Lissa looked like she needed both too. With a groan she extended her left leg up onto the barre and stretched forward, nose to knee. ‘God, that feels good. I teach this class because you asked me to, Charlie, and I’d do anything for you. But you know I prefer the ones who can actually listen and do as they’re told. I’m not good with them until they’re teenagers. I just don’t get the cute thing.’
‘Oh, but they’re all so gorgeous.’ Time to play with the hungover friend. Charlotte laughed to herself, knowing how allergic Lissa was to anyone who couldn’t communicate on her level, and how much of a favour she was doing for Charlotte by helping her with these toddler classes. ‘Imagine all of them at the wedding in floor-length white satin dresses and big red bows, and you could have a dress to match. We’d make it into the pages of Bride magazine, for sure.’
Lissa shot her another not a chance look. ‘And I’d make it into the nearest pub and never leave.’
‘I know, I know, I was only joking.’ A little bit. Truth was, Charlotte would have invited all one hundred and fifty of their dancers along to the wedding if money were no object.
Unfortunately, money was indeed very much an object. Finding enough to pay the mortgage on a house just off Westbourne Grove, plus the rent on the dance studio and general everyday living, took pretty much every penny she and Ben earned. ‘Can you imagine, though? Some people actually do have that many bridesmaids. We’d need to save up for another three years just to pay for the fabric for all the little dresses. And I don’t think Ben’s going to wait any longer.’
‘No, that man wants you as his, that’s for sure. Did you get any further with convincing him to do a proper first dance at the reception?’
‘Other than his very uncoordinated Gangnam style, he’s not into learning anything.’
Lissa smirked and shook her head, always unable to fathom how it was that some people just didn’t have the rhythm gene. ‘But he has a dancer for a girlfriend. Surely he wants to be able to keep up with you?’
‘No. He’s too focused on making sure the house is ready for his parents coming over from Ireland for the big day. And I know he’s right, but he’s such a perfectionist. He has an idea of how something should be and he won’t rest until it’s done properly. It’s very endearing, but a little frustrating.’ Charlotte felt a little disloyal talking about her fiancé like that. He didn’t want second best, and that was a good attribute to have, right? ‘It would be fun to do something, though, on the night. Don’t you think? Is everyone expecting it?’
Another groan and Lissa swapped her long, slender legs – legs Charlotte had envied since back in their days at the Royal Ballet School – on the barre. ‘These days everyone expects something a bit different at any wedding they go to. Well, darling, you’ve got eight weeks, so there’s time to convince him yet.’
Time seemed to be rushing by. ‘Eight weeks… sounds miles away, but I bet it creeps up on me. I’ve so many lists I don’t know where to start.’
‘I do. Lunch! I’m starving. And knackered. I need either a big sleep or a huge injection of caffeine. IV, straight into the jugular.’
Charlotte took a long look at her friend’s face. Yup, she’d definitely been better. ‘Late night was it?’
‘Yes. There was a band on at the Apollo, then we went to a party over in Camden. It was great. You should have come.’
‘Oh, I was far too busy choosing light fittings. Because that’s how I roll these days.’ Thinking back to the days before Ben, and the crazy things she used to get up to with Lissa, Charlotte grinned. ‘I don’t have the stamina to do an all-nighter and then come and dance like we used to. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Coffee, mainly. And food.’ Wrapping her arm into Charlotte’s, Lissa led her to the studio door. ‘Come on, before I die of starvation. The salad bar? Or a burger? Please say burger.’ The last statement was a loud, rushed whisper.
But Charlotte shook her head and unhooked her arm. ‘Not today, hun. I’ve got a hot lunch date with a paintbrush. But I’ll walk with you to the high street.’
‘Wow, the glamorous life of a homeowner. You have changed, my girl. Who’d have thought you’d be all domesticated by the age of twenty-five?’
There was a fierce swirl of pride in Charlotte’s gut. They’d worked hard for this. Their ramshackle house had so much potential and she didn’t care how long it took them to do it up – they had the rest of their lives to play interior decorators. Plus, the studio was a walk away from both home and her mum’s round the corner. Perfect. ‘I know, I know. It’s exciting… working towards a future.’
‘And a mortgage. Shudder.’ Her friend grimaced. ‘Maybe, when I’ve scratched my travel itch and been around the world three times, I might agree with you, but don’t hold your breath.’
Here they were at that intersection of life, straddling adulthood and responsibility and independence, wondering whether it was the right time to settle down or whether to hang on just a little bit longer to being carefree.
Charlotte smiled to herself. It was definitely the right time for her and Ben. Something had just clicked when she’d met him at a friend of a friend’s party and she’d known, right then and there, he was her future. Sounded silly admitting it, but there it was. ‘Well, we’re planning foreign holidays for when we’re not quite so financially stretched and before kids, so who knows? We might meet you somewhere halfway across the world for a catch-up. Ben’s just finished night shift and has a couple of days off, so we thought we’d get another coat of paint on the lounge. I said I’d help when I could. Just more things to cross off our pre-wedding list.’
And saying that reminded her of all the other things she needed to do before the after school classes. After the painting, it was sorting the accounts for the end of year, which were already overdue. Organising a fitting for her wedding dress and thinking about flowers and… and… her head started to swirl. She took a big, deep breath and blew it out. Two months out and things were busy already.
Her phone buzzed as Lissa started to close down the computer in the office and make moves towards the front door. ‘Hang on, Liss. I’ll just check…’
I like paint pots and I cannot lie.
What the? Charlotte looked at the text and laughed. Typical Ben. She flicked him an answer: I thought it was big butts?
He came back almost immediately: I like those too. And hot little sexy ones like yours. I have a loaded brush and I’m not afraid to use it…
She quickly replied: Tease
Ben: Fancy a roll-er in the bedroom?
God, his jokes were bad, but that was just one of the reasons she loved him: I’ve only got a couple of hours and we’re supposed to be doing the undercoat…
Ben: Plenty of time to strip and roll…?
Charlotte: Later?
No. She deleted her instinctive answer, because perhaps Lissa was just a little bit right; maybe she was starting to feel the weight of responsibility, all grown-up. Since when had things come to this? Putting sex off to do chores? There’d been a time when they couldn’t get enough of each other, sneaking out of work to meet up. He used to swing by the stage door at Sadler’s Wells when she was in the corps, and they’d find a dark corner somewhere backstage and… well, now things were just so much more grown-up. with sex in only appropriate locations and, usually, on his day off, otherwise he was too tired. Lissa would be appalled. Thinking about it now, Charlotte was too.
She quickly tapped on the keys: I’ll be back in five… who gets to strip first?
Ben: You. And I’ll be waiting, tools at the ready ;-)
She felt the blush start at her face and quickly spread. He’d always been like this; playful, loving, attentive. ‘Ha! Everything’s about sex with this man.’
Lissa was watching her, hands on her hips and foot tapping. ‘Not such a bad thing?’
‘No. Not at all. It’s just…’ She thought about what kind of snappy reply she could give him.
But Lissa nudged her in the ribs. ‘Hello?… I’m literally dying here and you’re giggling and writing sweet nothings. Is my near death by starvation not registering with you?’
‘Sorry, Lissa. Ben’s just… you know how he is.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Her friend did a pretend gagging action. ‘But he’s a good guy, I guess… Mr Perfect for you. If ever there was such a thing. I’ll save you the women are doing it for themselves lecture for another day – I prefer to do that on a full stomach. Actually, I prefer to do most things on a full stomach, so let’s get locked up and go.’
Charlotte checked she’d locked the door and started towards the footpath. ‘One day you’ll meet the perfect man for you too.’
‘Nah. Gosling’s taken. Even I couldn’t take on both Hemsworths – and don’t ever make me choose between them. And Tatum’s already got two kids… I couldn’t deal with all that, thanks.’
Poor Lissa. Determined to play the field and fight the aging process every step of the way. ‘Okay, so go ahead and get your Mammoth burger. I’ll see you later, when you can tell me all about your night at the Apollo.’
Her friend grinned and blushed… which was so not like her. ‘It’s what happened after the Apollo that I want to tell you about.’
‘Oh? Tell me now.’ Charlotte’s phone buzzed.
Ben again. You have four minutes, then I’m coming to find you. I’m starting the strip right now…
She laughed. ‘Shoot, I think I’m on a promise. Tell me later.’
There was a tired but satisfied glint in Lissa’s eyes that Charlotte hadn’t registered until now. ‘We can swap the gory details after class. Go. Go. Booty calls.’
London was putting on a very sunny show, considering it was early June and really only just dipping into summer. There was a smattering of colour in people’s gardens and a promising heat in the air. The sunshine always put a smile on everyone’s faces, and knowing what was waiting for her back at their half-renovated two-up two-down Victorian terrace put a spring in Charlotte’s step too.
‘Hey, gorgeous!’ She bounded into the house. There was a flutter in her stomach which made her feel as if she was doing something illicit, very naughty. Sex in the afternoon! On a school day. Instead of painting more coats of Farrow and Ball’s best Cornforth White on not-quite-straight walls.
He met her at the door, but she was slightly disappointed to see that, even though his top half was stripped bare and his honed muscles were rippling, his DIY jeans were still in situ. There was a definite glint in his lovely dark-brown eyes, though, a heat and a warmth – sex and love. He pressed a kiss on her mouth. ‘Hi, honey, you’re home.’
‘I certainly am. But you appear to be very overdressed…’ Her hand reached for his waist and she pulled him closer, playing with the top of his jeans zip.
What she’d first been attracted by – apart from the police-fit body and sense of humour – had been that Ben always attacked everything with determination and enthusiasm. He was also a physical guy, good with his hands.
She smiled to herself; he still was whenever he got the chance. The lust-filled ache in her gut and the desire to touch him hadn’t dimmed either. His skin was soft and smooth and flecked with white paint. She didn’t need to make her voice sound sexy, it just was. ‘Bedroom or lounge?’
‘Right here.’ Clearly ready for action, he started to lower her onto the stairs. But she pushed him away. Wriggled to standing.
‘I think I’m too old for sex on the stairs.’ Lissa would tut and sigh, but she wasn’t the one about to get carpet burns and a sore back that would interfere with her teaching. Taking Ben’s hand, Charlotte tugged him up the first step, her free palm scraping over his cop-short buzz cut, feeling the rough softness under her fingertips. He was a man of opposites; fun and serious. Sport-fit and focused and yet happy to laze away whole afternoons on the sofa watching action movies. Loved to eat, but hopeless at cooking. She met his gaze and her stomach purred, low and hot. ‘Bed or shower?’
‘Bed. No… shower. Hot. Wet. Nice.’ His hands went to cup her face but she drew back.
‘Wait! You’ve got paint on you. Look – still wet.’
‘In that case…’ His eyes brightened and he pressed a paint-covered hand over her black lycra top, over her left breast, and squeezed. ‘Gotcha!
‘Ben!’ But she couldn’t help laughing as she looked down at the white fingermarks. ‘This is – this was – my good teaching top.’
‘Well, let’s take it off then.’
‘Oh… if you insist.’ She tugged it over her head and laughed as he kissed her neck, his breathing getting harder, and faster. ‘Bed? Or shower, Benny boy?’
‘Hmmm… too tough to call. Wow. Such life and death questions. Too hard… You know… if someone held a gun to my head and asked me to choose… I’d have to say…’ He backed her against the stairs again, pushed his hand under her bra and pressed a kiss to her cleavage. ‘These two beauties are my absolute favourite part of you. Perfect… Juicy… Not sure which I love the most; left or right—’
‘Be serious. One minute… these stairs hurt. Okay. I’ve decided. Bed it is.’ She pushed him away and ran up to the bedroom, then jumped onto the bed.
He was two steps behind her, wiping his hands down his jeans until he was convinced they were dry. Then he climbed onto the bed next to her.
‘Hell, Charlie, I am serious. About you. About the wedding and making a home, for us. I’ve never been so damned serious about anything in my life.’ He slid his mouth over hers. For a few moments she was lost in him, in them, as he murmured, ‘I can’t wait. I love you… I want you. Every bloody day.’ Like a pro he unclipped her bra, cupped her right breast as he kissed her harder, then pulled away, breathing fast and looking at her with seriousness and mischief in his eyes. ‘I hate night duty. I hate missing you, thinking of you sleeping here without me. Thinking of all the things we could be doing instead of pounding the bloody streets and arresting some stupid prick for DUI.’
Charlotte wrapped him closer. ‘I miss you too. I hate hearing the sirens and thinking it could be you out there, chasing, hurting… I hate hearing the news…’
He silenced her with another kiss. This was one conversation they’d had countless times and there was no answer to it. It was his job and he loved it; she could no more ask him to give it up than contemplate giving up her dancing. So they were stuck – or just had to make the most of it.
She ran her thumb down his cheek. ‘Let’s never go to work again. Let’s just stay here for ever and do this. We’ll feast on marshmallows and salt and vinegar crisps and drink buckets of ice-cold chardonnay. For breakfast, lunch and dinner.’
‘Always. Just you and me, in here.’ His fingers played over her left breast and she curled against him, wanting him. Loving him.
‘No one else.’ It was a game they’d played since they first met – since that very first party. He’d asked her if she wanted to go somewhere… quieter… and she’d agreed, liking the way he looked and the damned cheek of him for asking her outright and knowing exactly what he wanted: her. In bed.
They’d nipped out from the party and bought a bag of crisps and marshmallows from the all-night store and staggered back to his place. Had a competition to see who could fit the most fluffy sweets into their mouths. Then downed it all with white wine – out of the bottle. He’d let her win and made her laugh and made her feel sexy and funny and likeable.
Just after their first – unforgettable – kiss he’d said something like let’s stop the world and get off. And she’d thought I could do that. No intrusions. No other commitments. I could make a world with him.
And they had.
His words were whispers against her ear. ‘Until we have to pay the mortgage, obviously… then I’ll send you out to teach and just lie here waiting for you to come home and service me as required.’
‘Watch it, mate. Serviced? You’ll be lucky.’ She slapped his backside gently and then squeezed – because, God, she loved that bum. ‘Slave driver.’
‘You bet.’ He shifted a little against her and his mouth nuzzled her neck, this time his hand cupping her right breast. Soft. Caressing. A playful tweak of her nipple, another caress as she arched against him, relishing the way he managed to find all her sensitive parts and make them sing for his attention.
His hand went to her left breast again and he squeezed. She moved against him. He squeezed again, fingers stepping across her skin, skimming over to her right breast. He was certainly giving them lots of attention today.
Yummy.
Then he went completely still.
It was a strange kind of still. As if someone had flicked an off switch.
‘Hey?’ She wriggled against him, feeling his heat through his jeans. Stroking his back. Stroking the soft skin and rubbing against it, because she suddenly felt a strange and unwelcome need for comfort. ‘Hey? Benjamin Niall Murphy, don’t tell me you’ve fallen asleep on me?’
There was a moment where she felt him inhale deeply. Then she felt the soft breeze on her shoulder as he blew the breath out and he pulled away. Definitely not like him. Ben was a man who liked to finish what he started.
‘Ben?’ She peered at him, holding his face in her palms. ‘You okay?’
He had a small, uncertain smile on that gorgeous face. The kind of smile he’d had when she’d told him about her father dying. And about the confusion and pain she’d felt when her parents had told her she was adopted – and how them telling her she’d been chosen was supposed to somehow help her get over discovering she’d been rejected by her birth mother. It hadn’t.
And like the time he’d told her he’d tried to save a jumper’s life on the Tube… and failed. It was a brave smile. He was being brave.
What the hell?
‘What’s the matter?’ Her heart started to thump hard and fast against her ribcage. Why would he do the whole smexy thing and then stop midway? So many things ran through her head, but none of them made sense. ‘Ben. What’s the matter? You’re scaring me.’
‘It’s okay. I mean…’ He took both of her hands in his and a sudden cool wind came from nowhere, lifting goosebumps onto her flesh, stripping the heat she’d felt inside and out. ‘Baby, it’s probably nothing, but…’
‘But, what?’ The thumping in her heart doubled and there was white noise in her head.
He let one of her hands drop and his fingers found their way to her left breast. The white noise stopped, time stopped, and his words seemed to echo through the silence. ‘Here. Here, baby. I’m sorry. I don’t know…’ She’d never seen her confident, decisive, soon-to-be husband so stuck for words, and that made her fear escalate a thousand times more. ‘There’s a lump.’
Chapter Two (#ulink_015434c1-2a72-5060-b4bd-970fa7e44b85)
‘What do you mean? A lump? No. Don’t be silly. I know what my breasts are like.’ Small. Barely there. Just enough, Ben always said. More than a handful and all that…
But Charlotte could tell by the way he was looking, by the way he was pressing on her breast, that he was being far from silly.
She followed his fingers with her own. Eyes closed. Heart now completely stalled as her stomach rolled and rolled. She pressed the soft skin of her breast. At the edge of her fingertip she felt something. Maybe.
Something. She moved a half inch over.
There.
There, above her nipple. Towards the left. A hard, round lump.
He was staring at her as if she’d broken his heart… as if his heart was breaking. ‘Can you feel it?’
‘Yes.’ Yes. She crawled away from him, but fought the urge to fold herself into a fetal ball. ‘It’s probably nothing, right?’
‘Yeah.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s probably nothing. Just a…’ His shoulders heaved up and down and he curled his fingers and stroked them down her cheek. ‘Something and nothing. It’s probably just the way you’re made and we haven’t noticed it before.’
Because, it wasn’t there before. ‘Maybe it’s… I don’t know. I’m too young for it to be anything serious, right?’ Her fingers jabbed against the hard ridge on her breast again. Found the lump. It was something. Not nothing.
‘Sure thing. We’ll sort it. You’ll be fine.’ He pulled her towards him and wrapped her tight into his embrace. Hauled her against his chest and she let him stroke her back and rock her a little.
A lump. That could be… she couldn’t bring herself to think the word, never mind say it out loud. Scenarios ran through her head – images she’d seen on social media, shaved heads, pink ribbons.
Twenty-five is too young for all that. She wasn’t going to panic. She wasn’t going to be dramatic.
She felt the lump again.
No. She wasn’t going to be dramatic. She was going to suck it up and be brave and adult and sensible. ‘So, should we get on and do some painting?’
‘What? Now? After this?’ Ben’s eyes burned with compassion. And something else. Pity?
Please don’t look at me like that. Like I’m suddenly something less. ‘Yes, we were going to do some painting, right? So let’s do it. Life has to go on.’ She hauled herself from the bed, dragged her bra back on – taking one more moment to check. Yes. It was something. Something she didn’t want to think about or talk about or acknowledge, like her fear. Another hard lump, this time in her gut. She clenched her fists tight, squeezed her fingernails into her palms until the pain overrode her panic. Then she took three deep breaths, the way she did when she was just about to go onstage – harnessing the fear and the rapid beat of her heart. Breathing it out.
She was too young. It was nothing serious. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.
And then she went to put the kettle on, stepping over her paint-stained teaching top on the stairs, which had the handprint that seemed to mock her.
She could hear him on the phone, his voice starting out all authoritarian and police-procedure and then rapidly going downhill. ‘What do you mean, there’s nothing available until Tuesday? She’s going to have to wait over the weekend? Yes, she can see the trainee. Any bloody doctor – they’re all medically trained, right? Yes. She needs a check-up and a referral. Any bloody one will do just to write the damned form out.’
‘Ben!’ Charlotte ran through to the lounge and hissed at him, gestured at him to calm down.
He threw the phone onto the plastic-covered sofa, clearly harnessing his fear into anger and action. ‘I don’t believe this. They can’t see you until Tuesday. Three-forty.’
The panic gave over to numbness. She had a lump and she was going to have to wait to find out what it was. Her stomach contracted, twisted, and she had to be honest: she was scared. It might be serious. ‘But I can’t do three-forty. I have a class starting then and more all afternoon.’
‘Not now you don’t. Lissa can take them. Or phone Shelley. You’re going to see the doctor on Tuesday.’ He rifled through a pile of things on the floor and picked out his black work notebook, scribbled something onto it, then tore off a sheet and handed it to her. ‘Here, so we don’t forget. Dr Montford or something. Tuesday. We’ll get it sorted, love. It’ll be nothing. And if you don’t phone Shelley, I will.’
‘I will. I will.’ Her mind was racing, chasing words, images, feelings and grasping none of them.
‘Come and sit down, you look very pale.’ He took her by the shoulders and sat her down on the plastic-covered sofa. ‘Do you want to call your mum? Talk it through?’
Charlotte imagined her mum’s reaction; the fallen face, the probability of tears and pain, and her stomach recoiled in panic. The usual instinctive response of making sure she never did anything to upset her mother.
Anyway, there was no point bothering her when all they had was a possibility and a hunch. Nothing concrete. ‘No. No, let’s keep it between us two, shall we? No point in jumping the gun. It’ll be nothing, and then we’ll have upset her for no reason.’
Keeping secrets from her mum had never been easy – although she’d perfected it eventually. But now, two days later, Eileen was watching her with a concerned expression and a question in her eyes. Charlotte looked across her mother’s lovely, familiar, comfortable lounge and met her gaze, gave her a, hopefully, reassuring smile and tried to focus over the noisy chatter and giggling.
Planning a hen weekend away had sounded like a lot of fun – a welcome distraction from Charlotte’s black thoughts too, she’d hoped – but getting seven women from different generations to decide on one single destination was like trying to get the United Nations to agree on a Middle East peace deal. In other words, never going to happen.
And, to be honest, planning something a couple of months ahead wasn’t on her radar right now. Because even though she’d decided to ram the whole lump thing to the back of her mind, she simply couldn’t stop it from jumping out every now and then, taking her unawares. Even though her head told her it would be fine, her body had started to fizz in panic at the mere thought of her breasts.
Stop being so bloody dramatic.
‘Charlie? You okay?’ It was Lissa, who was wearing the same expression as Eileen. There was definitely no hiding her emotions from her best friend.
Charlotte shook herself. ‘Sorry? What? Yes, I’m fine.’ She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Lissa, because saying it out loud would make it real, and she wasn’t willing to do that.
Lissa topped up Charlotte’s now-empty glass. ‘Have you had too much champers already, you lush? I asked you if there was anywhere particular you fancied going.’
‘Oh. Anywhere. I’m easy. Whatever works.’
‘Ibiza sounds perfect. Honestly, Tasha went there for hers and they had a ball. Partying all night and sunbathing during the day – what’s not to love about that?’ Lissa was scrolling through package deals and images so quickly it made Charlotte dizzy. Sea. Sand. Bottles of wine. Waving hands in a nightclub. Foam.
She felt distanced from it all. From making decisions. From even joining in the conversation. Would she even be going on a hen weekend, or would she be recovering from an operation? Treatment?
‘What about Tenerife?’ Shelley, another of the dance teachers at the studio, and bridesmaid number three, took a sip of champagne then pointed her glass to the screen. ‘Look, it says the average temperature’s twenty-one and there’s less chance of rain, only two per cent compared to seventeen in Ibiza.’
‘Anything’s better than London, that’s for sure,’ added Mia, Lissa’s younger sister, who felt like a kid sister of Charlotte too, they’d spent so much time together over the years. Bridesmaid number two. ‘What about Benidorm? Disneyland? Dublin?’
‘Can’t go to Dublin, that’s where Ben’s going. Definitely off limits.’ Europe had so many exciting, vibrant cities… who knew it’d be so hard to choose just one to visit?
Eileen shook her head. ‘I’ve always fancied going to Prague. It looks so lovely and there’s a lot of history and culture there.’
‘History? Culture? On a hen weekend? Are you serious?’ Lissa’s eyes widened, as if that was the most ridiculous idea anyone had ever had. She nudged Charlotte’s mum and winked. ‘Hey, you never know what could happen – you might find a man, Eileen.’
‘I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be looking for one, thank you.’ Her mum busied herself with clearing up the bits of foil and metal from the top of the fizz bottles and putting them into a little pile on the table, which she then pushed absentmindedly around on white tablecloth. Charlotte’s heart pinged; her mum was trying, really hard, to be part of this, but she had very different ideas about a weekend away. As an old-fashioned grammar-school English teacher she’d been exacting as regards standards of manners and behaviour and had set the bar high for her daughter and pupils alike. Foam nightclubs weren’t going to appeal.
But Lissa wasn’t giving up. She’d spent a lot of time at Charlotte’s in her youth. Lissa’s mum hadn’t been too impressed with the hours Lissa kept or, often, the male company she entertained, so Charlotte’s house had been a safe haven, a buffer from the inevitable mother-daughter arguments. She was well versed in ways of winding Charlotte’s mum up – in the nicest possible sense. Just fun. ‘It’s been a long time, Eileen. Don’t you miss it?’
‘Miss what?’ Eileen’s cheeks went a deep red as she realised that, as was generally required, the hen talk was about men and sex. ‘Oh. Well. No. Well, yes. I miss him.’
‘Ignore them, Mum, they’re just trying to embarrass you.’ And it’s working, poor thing. Charlotte dove to the rescue, squeezing her into a hug, inhaling her familiar scent of Estée Lauder foundation, flowers and cupcakes. ‘Maybe we could compromise on somewhere like Amsterdam where there’s history and a good nightlife. We could hire bikes, maybe stay on houseboats or something?’
But Mum didn’t look enamoured with that idea either. ‘Aren’t there a lot of drugs in Amsterdam? Could we go to Paris? Rome?’ Throwing up her hands in despair she shook her head. ‘Oh… you all decide. I’m not sure I can make that weekend anyway. You don’t want me cramping your style.’
‘Of course I want you there. Don’t be silly. We’ll make something work for all of us.’ Charlotte threw Lissa a look she hoped would quell any more men talk. Ever since Dad’s death there’d never been a hint of her mum wanting to find someone new.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m only joking. We can’t go without you. You’re the mother of the bride.’ Lissa filled up all the glasses and gave one to Charlotte’s mum. ‘Let’s keep looking. Come on, Eileen.’
‘Eileen tooloo rye aye!’ sang Sonja and Niamh, Ben’s older sisters, chinking glasses. ‘Come on! Eileen!’
Uh-oh. The Prosecco was kicking in – and they hadn’t even left the house. God help them when they left the country. And even though it was all about celebrating her, Charlotte just didn’t feel the celebratory vibe. She had too many other things on her mind. ‘Hey, Mum, should we go grab those dips I brought?’
She bustled her into the kitchen, which smelt, as ever, of baking and home. Eileen had always made sure her daughter was well cared for in every way. For a few moments they worked in silence, putting dirty plates into the dishwasher and tidying up a little, taking advantage of the quiet time to clear their heads. At least, Charlotte did.
Eileen put down the tea towel she’d been using to wipe some plates dry and peered at her daughter, the previous fluster turning into concern. ‘Are you okay, Charlotte? You don’t seem yourself today.’
‘Just tired, thanks. I’m fine.’ Charlotte pulled out the taramasalata and spiced hummus from the fridge, along with the baby vegetables she’d brought for dipping, and started to arrange them on a large white platter. ‘We’ve finished the first coat of paint in the lounge, though, and it’s looking heaps better.’
‘You’re working too hard, love. Running the studio and then trying to do all that painting and decorating. Then there’s the wedding and all that entails. It’s making you thin. And tired. I’m starting to worry about you.’
‘I’m a dancer, mum. Thin’s my job.’ Bless her. She’d always showered her daughter with affection, been open about her emotions. Sometimes it felt a little too much – as if the entire weight of responsibility for her mother’s emotional wellbeing fell to Charlotte.
Which made her feel vindicated for not sharing her lump discovery, because why needlessly upset her now?
In her jeans back pocket she could feel the ridge of the folded paper with the appointment details on. Having shucked loose from her phone wallet where she’d slipped it after Ben gave it to her, it was sticking into her buttock. But she couldn’t talk about it here, with all their friends in the next room. And she certainly didn’t want to put a downer on the mood.
Tuesday, after the appointment, she’d pop round at dinnertime and tell her. Sit her down and have a good chat once she knew what the plan was.
Eileen snapped open a packet of crackers and tipped them onto a plate, her movements slow and measured. She looked tired. Drawn. Old, actually, in a huggable, grandmother kind of way. ‘Thanks for hosting this today, Mum. You’re a star.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m your mother. I wouldn’t dream of letting you have it anywhere else.’ She balled her hands into fists and there was the glimmer of tears in her eyes. ‘I do wish your dad was here to give you away. He’d be so proud.’
‘I know. I miss him, too. Lissa was only teasing, you know. She doesn’t really think you need another man in your life.’
Eileen sat across the well-worn pine table that Charlotte had spent hours doing her homework on while her mother had kneaded, rolled and sieved, making dinners and packed lunches and snacks. They’d blown out countless birthday candles here.
When she was eight, her parents had sat her down at this very table and told her about the reality of her birth and reassured her that she was loved more than enough, more than any child could be loved, even though she was adopted. Emphasising, unconvincingly, that she’d been chosen, rather than given away.
The next evening they’d all sat here again and Charlotte had watched them recoil in horror as she recounted that, at school, Michael Maloney had said, if she’d been adopted, then her parents could also give her back any time too. That they should have, because she looked stupid with her crazy frizzy hair and too-pale freckly skin, and no wonder her real mother hadn’t wanted her. That if she was chosen, she could be un-chosen too.
She’d discovered that day that she had to be very careful what she told her parents. Because she didn’t want to make her father so angry, and her mother cry so hard, ever again. She didn’t want them threatening to phone the school to bring that boy down a peg or two. She didn’t want to upset them or rock the boat.
Because, what if Michael Maloney had been right? What if they did decide to un-choose her? What would happen to her then? Would the woman who’d given birth to her still not want her? Who would?
She ran her hands over the old knotted pine, feeling the indentations in the wood, like tiny chinks in her heart, of memories, moments this table had borne witness to over two decades of family life.
Eileen sighed. ‘You know, the older I get, the more I find it hard to deal with change. I didn’t think I’d be like that. I always thought I’d be more bring it on. But I like my life, Charlotte. I love having you round the corner. I love my routine, my yoga classes and my embroidery. I have enough, you know? I don’t feel like I’m missing out, not much. I do get a bit lonely at times, but that passes when I think about washing a man’s socks and having to compromise. It’s not what Melissa would call exciting, but I’ve had enough of that, thank you very much.’
Finding her husband stone-cold dead on the kitchen floor and suddenly being a single parent with an eleven-year-old child had been hard on her. ‘I think she just wants you to have fun, that’s all, Mum.’
‘I know. And I do. Watching you grow up has been all the fun I need. And… you never know, there may be grandchildren soon to help me fill my time. I mean… you and Ben are thinking of it, aren’t you?’ The tired eyes looked lovingly at her. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask. All the magazines are full of women complaining that family ask them when they’re going to have babies and say it puts more pressure on. So I’m sorry if it’s rude, but you don’t want to be getting to your forties and having a newborn to look after like I did. That’s… well, you weren’t difficult, not at all. But it was a challenge.’
A challenge. Charlotte’s heart pinged. Would it have been a challenge if she’d been Eileen’s natural-born daughter? Or did unconditional, blood-ties love mean the difficulties of child rearing were laughed off as just little bumps in the parenting road? Charlotte had no doubt her mother loved her, but sometimes she wondered how it could be possible to love an adopted child as much as one you shared DNA with.
And having babies? Charlotte couldn’t have this conversation. After Tuesday, perhaps, but right now she was having a hard time imagining fitting into her wedding dress without boobs, never mind babies. ‘We’re building the business and all our money is going on the wedding. Besides, I’m way too young to be thinking about babies, Mum.’
‘I know. I just don’t want you to miss out on one of the most rewarding things in life. We left it too late and when we tried it just didn’t happen. We were lucky to get you. A lot of people said forty-two was too old for us to get a baby, and they wanted us to have a four-year-old or something. Which would have been fine, of course, but then you came along and it was… well, it was a miracle.’ There was an uncharacteristic sniffle and then a smile. ‘The challenge was me being so set in my ways by the time you arrived, if I’m honest. Look, grab that plate and let’s go through and find out what they’re doing. If we’re not careful we’ll be on some naked cruise to Mykonos.’
‘I don’t think there are naked cruises to Mykonos. At least, I hope not.’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t find a man with a body like this bared to all and sundry.’ Eileen straightened her cream blouse and ran her hands over her straight navy trousers. With her neat silver bob and thin frame she put a lot of other women her age to shame. She had long legs and a slim build she didn’t have to work hard for, unlike Charlotte, who had always found maintaining a dancer’s build hard work.
When she was younger she used to wish that, just by living with this tall, slender woman, she’d somehow absorb some of those genes. She didn’t want her own genetic pale-blue eyes and that stupid frizzy, mousy hair; she wanted her adoptive mother’s deep-chocolate eyes and the rich, dark, straight mane. But no amount of wishing got her her dream. Just straighteners, a lot of hair dye and a heck of a lot of exercise.
‘Don’t be daft – you’re gorgeous, Mum. And maybe a romance is just what you need. Oh…’ There was a vibration in Charlotte’s back pocket. She pulled out her phone. ‘Hang on, it’s Ben. Probably wondering what’s for dinner or which room to attack with the paintbrush next. Now, there’s romance for you.’
‘Oh… something’s fallen out of your pocket. Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’ Eileen waved at her to carry on the phone conversation, and bent to pick up the paper, completely missing the sudden panic Charlotte knew was in her eyes. Not hearing the rush of breath or the thump in her daughter’s tight chest. ‘What’s this? Dr Montford? What’s… oh? A doctor? Charlotte, are you okay?’
For a brief second Charlotte saw fear in her mum’s eyes. She took a breath, the habitual alarm rising in her chest as her mind scrambled to find ways to appease her. Usually, playing down the severity of a situation tended to work. ‘I’ve got to go, Ben. Sorry. Later. Mum… it’s…’
Laughter floated to them from the open door. Something about a male stripper and matching T-shirts, and Charlotte suddenly wished they’d all go home. Which felt unbearably selfish considering they were all here to make her transition from single to married a memorable one. And she loved each of them dearly. Just… the timing really wasn’t working.
Charlotte sat back down at the table and motioned for her mum to sit again too. She took the paper from her trembling, liver-spotted hands and folded it. ‘I was going to tell you… honestly, Mum. Just not today. Not with all this going on. I wanted us to have some time to talk it all through. I’ve… well, I’ve found a lump in my breast and I need to get it checked out.’
More raucous laughter, and now music. Charlotte imagined the girls dancing and singing with no idea about the fallout in the kitchen.
‘A lump. I see.’ Again, Eileen ran her palms down her thighs, choosing her words. Measuring her emotions. Always, she was the invested, interested parent using difficult situations as learning opportunities, protecting her child from heartache – it worked both ways, it seemed. Tiptoeing around each other, taking care not to offend or upset or hurt. But this time, Charlotte knew, her mum was out of her depth. Eileen slid her hand over Charlotte’s, unease turning to fierce protection. ‘I’ll come with you to the doctor’s. If… that’s what you want? Or is Ben going to go with you?’
‘He has to work.’
‘Or Lissa? I’m sure you’d prefer her…?’ There was a break in her mum’s voice and Charlotte felt it resonate deep in her heart. Because yes, given a choice, she would usually have chosen her best friend over her mother. It was easier that way.
Ben had said he’d phone in sick and they’d argued and she’d told him she was a grown-up and could manage by herself. She hadn’t told Lissa yet and there was the issue of the classes to cover and, while she could go on her own, Charlotte suddenly felt the need for her mum’s support. ‘I’d like you to come, if that’s okay? Please.’
Eileen breathed out heavily and swiped the back of her hand over her forehead. ‘Of course. You know that. Anything.’
‘Thank you.’ Charlotte felt a rush of relief, wishing she’d shared this news with her before. They’d never particularly clashed, but there hadn’t been those moments of intense intimacy Charlotte had heard about between mothers and daughters; sharing clothes and confidences.
There’d been a line somewhere, spinning off, she now thought, from Michael Maloney’s childish comments and her own immature reaction; cemented by an episode in her awkward teens when someone asked her why her real mother had given her away. Which had made her question all over again whether Eileen was her real mother at all, even though she did real-mother things every day.
It was a line that made Charlotte feel a little distanced from her parents. Distanced a little from everyone if she was honest. As if tiptoeing was always the way to go… always keeping real feelings locked in to save hurting someone else, to save rejection.
Being given away did that to people sometimes, she’d read. Gave them a feeling they didn’t quite belong anywhere. But she knew she belonged here, didn’t she?
Knowing and feeling were two different things.
Charlotte squeezed her mum’s hand. ‘Thank you. Safety in numbers and all that.’
Eileen smiled. Another one of those brave smiles Charlotte kept on seeing. ‘These things are always scary, love. But I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Just a cyst or something. Lots of women have lumpy breasts.’
Just hearing this gave her hope. ‘That’s what I keep telling myself. And Ben. That’s what we keep saying.’
‘Hey, you two, what happened to the dips?’ Lissa burst into the kitchen. ‘I’m starving. Oh. Are you both okay? You look upset, Eileen. Was it me? Was it what I said? Because I was only joking. I know John was your one and only for ever. I was just pulling your leg about finding a man.’
Finding a smile, Eileen stood and picked up the plate of vegetables. She had her don’t mess with me teacher voice on. ‘Don’t be silly, Melissa. I know you were just playing. Charlotte and I were just going through a few things, that’s all. We got distracted…’ To everyone else Eileen probably looked her usual self, but Charlotte could see the way her mum bit down on her lip, the hitch in her shoulders as she gave herself a silent talking to, and then the shaking off of emotion, bringing herself into party mode again. Or, as much as she could muster under the circumstances. There was a moment when she caught Charlotte’s eye and there was a flicker of anxiety there, then it was gone, replaced by a determination that everything was going to be okay. That she would make it so. ‘Right, where are we going for this hen party? Have you girls got any further with our plans? Please don’t tell me it’s a naked cruise to Mykonos?’
‘Hey! Everyone!’ Lissa bustled back into the lounge, her voice loaded with Prosecco. ‘Eileen’s got this stellar idea about a cruise…’
Allowing herself a moment to collect her thoughts Charlotte put the paper back in her pocket. She didn’t know if she could share her mum’s optimism. But she had to try.
Chapter Three (#ulink_17fa5965-a109-53fc-8df4-c0d9988bf6de)
Charlotte scanned Dr Montford’s face for giveaway clues as the medic examined first her left breast, then her right. Then back to the left, concentrating on the area Charlotte had shown her.
‘It’s quite bruised,’ the doctor said. ‘Do you keep checking it? Prodding it?’
‘Yes.’ Charlotte’s voice was so small, her throat tight with fear. She coughed, tried to stop the drumming in her ears. Of course she’d kept on checking it, hoping that this time she wouldn’t find it. ‘Yes. I can’t help it.’
‘Well, you’re going to make it sore. I understand why you’d do it, but try not to prod too much. In fact, I’d suggest you keep your hands off it completely until we get it checked out.’ Dr Montford smiled warmly, infusing her voice with a kindness Charlotte hoped wasn’t pity. It was probably something she’d learned in her training; lower the voice and it keeps the hideous blow from being too sharp and blunt. That was how it felt: a sharp sting of panic and the bluntness of realising her own mortality. I’m not finished yet. I have so much more to do.
In her dancing she’d always pushed her body to its limits, enjoying the challenge and the strength and the way she felt extending herself. But maybe she wasn’t infallible after all. Maybe there was a limit and this was it? It was only a lump but it felt as if she’d been knocked sideways – her overactive imagination stripping joy and replacing it with panic. Scary how one thing could change your perspective.
‘So there is definitely a lump, right? It’s not my imagination?’
‘Yes, Charlotte. There is a lump and I think I can feel the edges. But there’s no swelling in your lymph nodes so that’s a good sign. Women have lumpy bits for lots of reasons. It’s not always cancer, although it is often the first thing you think of.’
Charlotte shuddered at the word. It was the first time it had been said out loud. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘I’ll do a referral and you’ll go have a mammogram – but at your age the breast is quite dense and clarity isn’t great on the films. So there’ll probably be an ultrasound too… and an appointment with a specialist. There is a protocol we follow and things move quite quickly once you’re in the system. Usually, for someone under thirty they suggest a non-urgent referral. As I can actually feel a lump I’ll see if I can hurry it along for you, but it might be a couple of weeks or so. Hop off the couch and let’s have more of a chat. I’ll check your blood pressure and ask a few routine questions.’
‘Sure. Okay.’ Charlotte slipped her top down and crept back from behind the curtain before sitting down at the desk next to her mum, who was pale and clenching her hands in her lap. They gave each other a hesitant smile and then looked at the doctor. Dr Montford was a new GP in the surgery, but Charlotte wasn’t a new patient. She’d been registered there since just after her birth. ‘You’ll have all my details on there, I think?’
‘Yes.’ The doctor scrolled down through the computer notes. ‘Aha. All seems fine. You’re on the Pill, right? No other medications?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘How’s the Pill going for you?’
‘Fine. Really great. Pregnancy’s not an option for us at the moment. We’re just starting out, you know? Mortgaged up to the hilt and stretching ourselves quite a lot.’ Which was putting it mildly. Ben had it all worked out with a financial advisor and everything; a five-year plan of working hard to pay off as much as they could, before they contemplated a family. Their financial borrowing had been planned to precision. ‘A baby would be a disaster.’ She had another thought; so would cancer. ‘Could the lump be anything to do with the Pill?’
‘Well, the lower dose of oestrogen in the Pill you’re taking shouldn’t have any effect on susceptibility to breast cancer.’ The blood-pressure cuff squeezed tight round Charlotte’s arm, then released with a pffff. The doctor looked from Charlotte to Eileen and back again. ‘BP is fine. Is there any family history of breast cancer, though? Ovarian cancer?’
Family history. It was always this question that made Charlotte’s heart bump and her stomach contract tight. It seemed so lame not to have a satisfactory answer. And she felt somewhat lacking. Who didn’t know which diseases ran in their families? Who didn’t have a clue about their genetic history? All she had was a bit of paper with the same amount of information as she’d had contact with her blood family. Nil of note. She looked down at her fingers, at her mum, who looked away, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders.
This wasn’t a subject they’d talked about since Charlotte had watched them crumble with panic at that kitchen table. More tiptoeing, more care not to upset. Even though she’d often wondered who she was, she’d never ever dared broach it with Eileen. ‘I… er… I don’t know. Is it important?’
Dr Efficiency looked up from the screen and smiled. ‘Oh? Well, family history counts for quite a lot in health. Genetics, yes? And we just don’t know the effects of the Pill on breast-cancer risk combined with a strong family history.’
‘Well, I’m adopted. I just don’t know.’ Charlotte shook her head, looking directly at the doctor, because it wasn’t something she was ashamed of, it was just what it was.
‘Is it important, though?’ It was the first time Eileen had spoken and her voice was shaky. Not something Charlotte had seen in her usually together mum. ‘We didn’t have many details, to be honest, on the adoption papers. Just a name and age of the birth mother. There were a lot of blanks.’ Blinking quickly she seemed surprised to have said so much. ‘It was all so rushed, you see. Unexpected. Lovely, of course. But we didn’t have the opportunity to ask questions. It was a long time ago.’
But Dr Montford just shook her head and smiled again. ‘It’s fine. It’s fine. Look, let’s go with what we know. You have a small lump in your breast. We don’t know what’s causing it, and right now I’m guessing it’s a cyst. Please try not to worry until after the tests.’
Easy for you to say. ‘Okay. I’ll do my best.’
‘I’m going to pay for you to go private,’ Eileen said, definitively. ‘Things will move faster then.’
They were outside now, blasted by a cool June wind – a far cry from the cloying artificial heat in the doctor’s surgery. People walked around them tutting as the two women stood in the middle of the pavement trying to make sense of things. Which direction to go in? Left to Mum’s, right to the dance studio? But neither of them seemed capable of making a decision. All that agony of waiting and still no real answer. Just more waiting. More agony.
But it was worth the wait to Charlotte if it meant her mum didn’t spend a fortune on private appointments. ‘You can’t afford it, Mum. Who knows how much all those tests will cost? You don’t have the money.’
Eileen bristled. ‘I have a little put aside for emergencies. I’d say my daughter having a health issue is an emergency, wouldn’t you?’
‘No. You heard the doctor – it can wait. We don’t need to worry.’ Although saying it was a lot easier than believing it. Charlotte ran her palm across her T-shirt, palming her breast. Then remembered she wasn’t supposed to. ‘Let’s just do it the way the doctor suggested.’
But her mum’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I want to do something, for God’s sake. I feel so bloody helpless.’
‘Mum. It’ll be okay.’ Wishing her stupid body wasn’t so defective that she’d caused her mum such anguish, Charlotte looped her arm into Eileen’s. ‘Come on, let’s go get a cuppa or something stronger.’
Once settled in the salad bar opposite the studio, Charlotte broached a subject that had been pricking her mind since the appointment. Because, why worry about one thing when you can worry about so much more? ‘Do you think it might be important, though? My family history?’
‘I just don’t know. I mean, probably not, not really. And even if it is, there’s not a lot you can do about it anyway.’ Eileen shrugged, wrapping her hands around her mug of tea and cradling it to her like a shield. This was territory they’d barely stepped on for almost eighteen years.
For Charlotte, because it had never felt like the right time to ask, or explore. For her mother, Charlotte guessed, because she didn’t want to lose her daughter to a crusade that might leave things on rocky ground for all concerned. There had been that conversation when Charlotte was eight about the fact she was adopted, then another ten years later when her mother had given her the adoption papers and said, You have a legal right now to find out who she is. I won’t stand in your way, but please… please let me know when and what and how, so I can prepare myself.
And in between there had been times, so many times, when Charlotte had desperately wanted to ask more questions, to fill in the gaps of who she was – and always, always that worry that delving deeper would cause a deeper rift between her and her mum. She’d been the lucky one, the chosen one, but how easy was it for that luck to run dry? For her mother to realise she’d made a huge mistake and send her back. Away. Somewhere else.
She’d never wanted to take the risk and find out.
But now she was starting to get the enormity of the issue for herself and, more so, for Eileen. For her mum, it was about being a woman, a fiercely protective lioness, a mother. It was about loving someone so much you didn’t want to share. The same way, Charlotte imagined, she loved Ben, but more so. Deeper. Harder. Stronger.
Which kind of brought up a load of questions in and of themselves… if a mum’s love was so strong, why had her birth mother given her away in the first place? Why would you do that?
Charlotte thought about those mothers picking up their girls from the studio after class. How could you turn your back on that? A lifetime of love? A life? A precious gift?
Maybe she just hadn’t been precious enough.
Charlotte stuffed those questions away. This wasn’t about any of that; it was about genetics and science. Not emotions. ‘The doctor wouldn’t have asked about family history if it wasn’t a part of the jigsaw, though.’
‘Is it something you feel you need to find out? Right now? When there’s so much else going on?’ Eileen’s eyebrows rose. ‘Ask yourself this; will knowing all that help in any way?’
She had a point. ‘You heard what she said, though… information helps. This has been a bit of a wake-up call, to be honest. Over the last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of future I might have. ‘
‘A very long and happy one.’ Eileen’s hand covered Charlotte’s – warm from the tea, but comforting and a gesture filled with love. ‘You really have been thinking too much.’
‘Ben says I’m a panic merchant. But this has made me wonder what this blood is inside me. I don’t know anything about me really. What or who shaped these genes.’ Charlotte looked at their hands entwined. Eileen’s thin, wrinkled ones and her own, holding on to each other. ‘Is this lump anything to do with family history? Or is it just random chance?’
‘Probably the latter. No rhyme or reason. Some people have lumps, some don’t.’
Is it genetic, though? No one was willing to answer that. Not out loud, at least.
‘Don’t you ever wonder? About who I really am? About her? About her genes inside me?’ All the panic and worry of the last few days was bundled up in those words and she couldn’t stop them coming out, but she regretted them the moment she said them.
The hand was withdrawn and wrapped around the mug again, leaving a fading warmth. Eileen’s eyes darkened as Charlotte had guessed they would and she wished she could take her questions back. ‘I hope she’s happy. I hope she managed to move on, although God knows how you ever get over giving a baby away. She must have been desperate, poor woman. Things were different back then; there was still a lot of stigma about being a single parent. So yes, there isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think about how lucky I was to get you. But other than that, I don’t want to think about her at all. I’m scared to, Charlotte. I’m scared you’ll go looking and it might mean things change between us.’
‘I love you, Mum. You know that.’
‘I do know, love. I wouldn’t stand in your way, you know that, but let’s get this over with. Let’s get the tests done. Let’s get some answers from the doctors. You have so much to look forward to without digging up a load of things from the past that might not be relevant.’
‘You’re right. Yes. Of course.’
That made Eileen’s face brighten a little. ‘Think about the wedding. The future.’
But the years of curiosity had had life blown into them again. Charlotte tried to douse the flames by listening to her real mum. The one who’d given her a lovely and safe twenty-five years and who was here with her as she faced the possibility of a dark challenge.
‘Yes. The wedding.’ Charlotte tried to make light of things. ‘We should probably bring it forward so I can snag him while I’m healthy. He hasn’t actually agreed to look after me in sickness yet.’
Now her mum just shook her head. ‘Oh, Charlotte, stop being so silly. Of course he will.’
‘And… into arabesque… streeeeetch, extend that right arm, a little more…. lovely, ladies. Ruby, keep your foot pointed please. Nice. Turn out more, left leg. Yes. Perfect. And… lower into… Oh!’ There was a huge bunch of flowers walking through the Studio Two door. It had legs encased in grubby jeans and was making a sound something like ‘hmmmfpph…’ Charlotte clapped her hands, switched off the music and called out, ‘Take a break, ladies.’
‘Hmmmpf,’ the bouquet said again. This time a little more loudly.
Charlotte ran over to relieve the bearer of the flowers, but Lissa beat her to it, saying breathlessly, ‘I think you’ll find they’ll be for me. Channing’s obviously got word I’m available and he’s probably trying to woo me. It won’t work. Alas, my heart’s given over to the Cumberbatch now. Hopelessly.’ She grinned, taking the bunch, which was almost as big as her, and tugging out an envelope from deep within the stems and leaves and flounces of pink ribbon. ‘Shoot. Fancy that, it’s got your name on.’
‘It says…’ Charlotte ripped open the paper. This was a first. No one ever sent her flowers. ‘Meet me outside in ten minutes. It must be from Ben.’
‘Yep, you’d better hope so, because if there’s any secret admirer lurking around he’s got my name on, not yours. That just wouldn’t be fair.’
It had to be her fiancé, who else would it be? Bless. ‘But flowers? And ten minutes? I’ve got a lesson to teach, he knows that.’
Lissa restarted the music and said, ‘And that is why I’m here. Right? Intermediate is my jam; they can all count to four. Easy peasy. So, go get changed or freshen up or something. Let me know what the big secret is tomorrow. Because we never have secrets. Okay? I know things have been crazy, but I don’t feel like we’ve had a good chat for ages. Sunday doesn’t count, because I had to share you with the rest of the hens. Let’s make some time – okay? We need to catch up properly.’
‘Definitely. Soon.’ And that had the guilt ricocheting across Charlotte’s chest. Because she hadn’t told Lissa anything about the lump, and she was going to need her more than ever if there was going to be treatment involved. But now wasn’t the time.
Nine minutes later, Charlotte stepped out of the studio with her arms full of fragrant blossoms, blinking into the early-evening light. Ben was leaning against his trusty old red Astra. ‘Hey, pretty lady, fancy a ride in my car?’
‘My mother always told me not to get into cars with strange men.’ She threw him a look, over the blooms, that said get over yourself, gorgeous. ‘Thanks for the flowers, they’re stunning. But…’
‘But what?’ His eyes narrowed.
They were supposed to be saving up. He’d made a spreadsheet. In fact, he had a lot of spreadsheets detailing their five-year plan – mortgage repayments, career-advancement plans, and finally… when they could afford it, a family. Breast cancer was not factored in. Or flowers, for any occasion other than their wedding. Frivolous and Ben were never mentioned in the same sentence, so this was more than a surprise; it was a personality transplant.
Which meant he loved her. Or felt sorry for her. Or both. ‘Thank you. They’re stunning. And just a huge surprise, that’s all.’
‘Can’t a man surprise his woman every now and then?’
‘Yes. Yes. Always.’ She leaned sideways and gave him a leaf-filled kiss. ‘So, what’s the occasion? Why am I leaving work early?’
Taking the bouquet, he opened the car door and gestured for her to get in. Then he tucked the flowers in through the rear door, filling the vehicle with delicious fragrance. ‘It’s a magical mystery tour.’
‘Oooh… to where?’
‘If I told you it wouldn’t be a mystery, would it?’ After he started the engine he took a left onto Westbourne Grove, then a couple of twists and turns, across Notting Hill Gate and down to Kensington High Street, before pulling into a tiny side street and parking a few feet away from The Cake Fairy. It was close to six-thirty on a Thursday evening.
‘The cake shop? Won’t it be closed?’
‘Nah.’ He grinned. ‘I booked us a late-night slot. Thought it might take your mind off… you know.’ His eyes dipped to her cleavage and then his expression turned sad and he didn’t even try to hide it. ‘We need to make a decision about our wedding cake and have some fun. Because, I love cake. And I want to eat all the samples. Feed me.’ He beat his chest in a poor attempt at a caveman impression, which had her laughing, but not quite taking her mind off… you know.
Even so, it reminded her of all the reasons she’d fallen for him in the first place. ‘Well, you’re just revelation after revelation.’
‘Indeed. I aim to please.’
‘You do. Very much.’ She’d been planning on looking up wedding cakes on Pinterest but hadn’t quite got round to it, and so now she could do this and cross something else off her list. She leaned over and gave his unshaven cheek a kiss and told herself to be happy regardless of everything pulling her down. And to be grateful. All the websites said that; be grateful for things, even if you didn’t feel like being anything other than pissed off and angry. And be happy for cake too, because there were very few circumstances where cake couldn’t be enjoyed. ‘Thank you, Benjamin Niall Murphy. Now, let’s go in. I’m starving.’
Margaret Taylor, purveyor of exquisite baking and chief cake fairy, certainly knew her stuff. Dressed in vintage fifties clothes complete with a little frilly pinny tied round her waist, and with a whiff of a Liverpudlian accent, she introduced them to such important issues as whether the cake should be naked – that was without any icing at all – or semi-naked with a thin spread of buttercream, in pastels or bolds, showing some of the cake layers through. Which Charlotte thought was lovely and rustic-looking but not quite appropriate for the semi-formal affair they’d been planning. Ben came from a huge family who, he said, did things right. So it was going to be a big church wedding with lots of relatives coming over from Ireland and a three-layered, fully-clothed cake, and speeches and all the trimmings.
Which would make her side of the proceedings – her mum and a smattering of friends – look a little lopsided. But she couldn’t whip up relatives she didn’t have, or uncles and aunts that didn’t exist, given both her parents were singletons. As was she.
What about the possibility of other relatives, though? Birth ones?
She shut that thought down immediately, having promised her mum she wouldn’t even think about her family history until after the tests and the wedding. She had enough to focus on right now. Namely… cake.
Which was definitely not a hardship. Whether to have thick, jelly-like drips down the layers – that were made on purpose instead of just because of a wobbly hand and too-runny icing, like something Charlotte would have made. Or with metallic icing. Metallic. Who knew? Gold or rose-gold or bronze or copper or silver… Or a tower made of blush-coloured, chocolate-dipped strawberries flecked with gilt. Or… So many choices that Charlotte almost did forget about the lump and start to enjoy herself. And it felt so nice to play for a change and not have to take things seriously.
Finally, they were down to the nitty-gritty choices of ganache, salted caramel, red velvet, white royal icing, carrot, double-chocolate and traditional rich fruit. Every time Charlotte said something was a possibility, Margaret added two morsels of it to a huge silver tray covered in baking paper. Once they’d decided on all possibles, she showed them to a little silver-metal bench in front of an ornate matching coffee table and told them to sit. Then Margaret offered them tea to go with the cake samples and asked whether they wanted milk and sugar.
‘Yes please,’ said Ben, as he squeezed Charlotte’s hand and settled next to her on the overstuffed cushions. So big and broad, and dressed in casual jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked utterly out of place in the twee, nineteen-fifties-decorated shop, surrounded by dainty teacups, tiny vases of single-stemmed purple flowers and white tablecloths covering tables holding myriad cake toppers and cake stands. ‘This is amazing. I thought it was going to be just dry old fruit cake or, what is it my mum makes, Victoria sponge?’
‘I know. My mouth’s watering.’ Charlotte reached out her fork and stabbed the double-chocolate sample first, because… well, it was chocolate, just as Margaret bustled back in with a tray of teacups and sugar bowls and milk. ‘One lump or two?’ she asked Ben.
It was a harmless question. A stupid, simple word. Lump. She meant sugar but, judging by the dark eyes and fixed jaw, Ben had a completely different perspective.
‘Oh… er…’ His gaze flicked between the two women and he looked suddenly out of his depth, which took a lot for a big, strong policeman.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and fixed a smile. A pretend-everything’s-okay kind of smile, and Charlotte realised then that the lump thing was really affecting him too.
Why she hadn’t thought about that before she didn’t know. But of course he’d be reeling – about to marry a woman he might have to look after and then, possibly, lose. Or go through a lot of painful extraordinary stuff when he’d signed up for just plain ordinary. The happy atmosphere seemed to shatter, brittle as it had been. Brittle as everything felt at the moment. He nodded at Margaret. ‘Just one, please.’
‘Excellent. I’ll just leave you two to try them all and have a chat, maybe make some decisions. Here are some files with photographs, and of course we can do any variation on a theme, match the colour of your dress or flowers, etcetera. And this here…’ She heaved another file over, oblivious to the shattered mood. ‘…Is the file of toppers, anything from fun to downright romantic. I know it’s a bit overwhelming, so take your time. No hurry.’ She bustled off into the back room, from which came lovely smells and the strains of easy-listening music, no doubt to stop the growling stomachs and oohs and ahhhs at the deliciousness from filtering through and disturbing Margaret’s cake-decorating prowess.
Charlotte’s fork was still stabbed into the double-chocolate sample, at an acute angle that didn’t look as if it would stay upright for long, but she didn’t feel particularly hungry any more. Did Ben still want to marry her? Was he scared like she was? Scared about what the future held?
She looked at him and saw the dark edges under his eyes. The way his jaw twitched as his teeth ground together. The last week had taken its toll on both of them; lying in bed not touching, just staring up at the half-painted ceiling, not speaking. Sleepless, and listless. He turned to look at her. ‘You haven’t eaten anything yet. Are you okay, baby?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her stomach was feeling weird. This whole experience was getting harder and harder to deal with, raising more and more questions amid the malingering presence of panic.
‘Have some cake, you’ll feel better.’
‘I don’t feel hungry.’ It was better just to get it out in the open, wasn’t it? ‘Do you still love me, Ben?’
He twisted on the cushion to face her, his expression incredulous. ‘What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’
‘It’s just… you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I give you a get-out-of-jail-free card. No strings. Nothing. If it turns out I do have cancer, you can walk away.’
‘Bloody hell. Is that what you think I’m about? Really?’ He pushed the tray of samples away, across the table, edged them up against the files they hadn’t opened. ‘One whiff of something and you think I’ll bail?’
‘No. No. I just don’t want you to think you owe me anything.’
His voice was dark and fractured, but low. A strain to maintain. ‘I owe you a lot. Everything, actually. I’m marrying you, Charlotte, whatever happens. I’ve made promises I would never break. I love you. ‘
‘I know.’ But things had changed; the dynamic between them was different. It wasn’t that she was suddenly needy – she’d never needed anyone before and she’d get through all this on her own if she had to. But she could see the balance between them shifting and that made her feel uneasy. It was probably just the normal ebb and flow of relationships, adjustments to the changing sands of life. But she didn’t like it. ‘You haven’t touched me since you found the lump. Not in any way.’
‘I was giving you some space. The doctor said not to touch it, you told me. I didn’t know what to do… say. I was…’ He scrubbed his hand across his shaking head. ‘I was giving myself some space too, trying to work things out, read up on it. My first thought was cancer. My first thought was that I would lose you and I didn’t know how I’d handle that. I was trying to be strong for you by holding it all in. Stupid, eh? Especially when we have no diagnosis.’
‘And what have you read?’
‘That it’s probably nothing. That we’re being hasty… but you see so much stuff, right, on the internet? Everything’s about cancer. But you haven’t got it. You’re too… vibrant to be ill.’ This was the most he’d said about it at all. Since that hug on the day he’d found the lump he’d kept a distance, but so had she. They usually shared everything, but some of the panic they’d kept to themselves. ‘Anyway, whatever happens, we’re walking down that aisle in six weeks. And we’re eating cake. Okay? So we’d better get a wriggle on and choose which kind.’
Tears pricked her eyes and her throat was so full, so raw, there’d be no way she’d get even a tiny morsel of food down it. ‘Okay. Okay. So you’re not completely repulsed?’
He sighed. Blew out, hard. ‘By what? You? Come on, Charlie, give me some credit. I’m a copper. I see a lot of bad things. You are definitely not one of them.’
‘I didn’t mean… me. I mean… this.’ She pointed to her chest.
‘I’d love you with no breasts or three breasts.’ He wrapped his arm round her shoulder and tugged her against him, pressing a soft kiss on the top of her head. ‘For God’s sake, don’t do this. Don’t doubt me.’
Now she’d made things a hundred times worse between them, when he’d bought her flowers and brought her here in an effort to make her feel better. Blood rushed to her cheeks. She was ruining everything by concentrating on the wrong things. Even though her brain kept sliding towards the lump and her growing need to discover what was going on in her genes, she had to stop. Stop all this thinking and focus on the things that mattered to her and Ben, not just to her. She looked down at her new non-paint-streaked work top and tried to lighten the rapidly deteriorating mood. ‘Hey, maybe that’s what’s happening… Maybe I’m just growing another boob. Put me in a circus – we could make some money.’
That put a flicker of a smile on his beautiful face. ‘It’d pay for the flowers, I suppose. They weren’t cheap.’
‘They’re gorgeous.’
He shrugged. ‘You deserve them. I know I can be pretty strung-out about money, and it’s for good reason, but perhaps we can be a bit more flexible every now and then.’
‘We’re just building a life. We have a plan. It’s okay.’
‘Yup. But we can splurge every now and then. You’re worth it.’
Charlotte’s heart started to slow. Things were getting back on an even keel again. ‘I’m sorry for the wobble. I seem to be having a few of them at the moment. I think I might have upset mum earlier too. I didn’t mean to. But I told her I was thinking of looking up my birth mother. Well, I didn’t exactly say that… but we talked about it. About her.’
‘That seems a bit out of left field, Charlie.’ He looked at the tray of cake. Shook his head. The poor cake fairy was probably in her back office hearing every word and not knowing whether or not to come out. Weddings. Cancer. Adoption. All in one visit. That was pretty heavy for a Thursday evening and they hadn’t had even one mouthful yet. ‘You’ve never even mentioned her really.’
‘It’s not something I talk about, because who wants to hear it?’ Ever since Michael Maloney she’d trained herself not to mention it. Life was easier, safer, if she was on the receiving end of fewer clumsy questions and comments about being given away, sowing the seed that there was a possibility it might happen again if she got too difficult, challenging. That didn’t mean she hadn’t been thinking about it, though. ‘I’ve often wondered… thought about her. And I’ve been thinking about her a lot more recently. About this. My genes.’
‘What did Eileen say?’
Charlotte thought of her adoptive mum dragging her hand away. Not wanting physical contact with her just because she’d asked a question. She shuddered. ‘That I had other things I should be focusing on.’
Ben shrugged. ‘She could be right. You do have a lot on at the moment.’
‘The lump… yes, but maybe searching for her might take my mind off things.’
He frowned. ‘I was thinking about the wedding, actually. But yes, the lump too.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. Yes. Yes.’ How could she tell him that her interest in flowers and cake and wedding dresses had diminished to almost zero? The only thing she could see on the horizon was a black shadow zapping all the fun and anticipation. She needed to focus on positives. ‘Yes. There’s still a lot to get done.’
‘Yip. So listen, it’s all overwhelming and you’re probably all over the place. You are allowed to freak out a bit, but now we’re going to rise up and fight… okay? Together. We’re a team, Charlie.’ He tugged on her hand, wrapped his fingers into hers and made a tight fist. His smile showed her he only wanted to help, to smooth her journey. ‘We’ve got this.’
‘We most certainly have.’ She squeezed her fingers in his too. He was right; they were a team. A bloody formidable one at that. And the countdown was on. Whatever else happened in their lives, they had less than two months before they made that ultimate commitment to each other, and there was still a lot of work to be done and decisions to be made. So she needed to somehow rediscover her interest in wedding bouquets and silk and lace and push everything else to the back burner. She owed him that, owed them both. One little lump wasn’t going to derail their plans. Not at all. Their love was stronger than that. Hell… she was stronger than that. ‘Eek! We’ve got a whole wedding to organise and I’ve dropped the ball a bit, to be honest. No problem. We’re on this.’
He tipped her chin to look into her eyes. ‘Too right. If you need any help, ask me. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Now, baby, have some cake. Please.’ With his free hand Ben picked up her fork and fed her the double-chocolate, which was so divine she pretended to swoon. Then he gave her some of the red velvet and smiled – the tension drifting away, leaving just them and their promises and this minute, and this one… And she smiled too and fed him some carrot cake. He pigged his eyes and copied her swooning and they were back to situation normal.
Thank you. Thank you, Ben. Thank you for making me laugh, she said silently, leaning into him and hoping some of his strength would leach into her. Remembering, too, to be grateful for the small things, which were often the most important. Being silly. Laughter. Moments of love.
While they lasted.
Chapter Four (#ulink_59a4fac3-537a-51f6-b763-f5194d31d838)
It was amazing how quickly things moved when you had money. No matter how much Charlotte had refused, her mother had pushed for a quick appointment, so here they were, the very next afternoon, pushing open the heavy wooden door with the golden plaque bearing the name West London Breast Clinic.
The place looked like a hotel, not a private hospital. With blonde stone and marble floors it oozed grandeur and wealth. It was everything the NHS GP surgery wasn’t: plush, spacious, tidy. In any other situation Charlotte might even have been excited about going into such a place. ‘Wow. Very glam. If only I wasn’t feeling quite so nervous. All the gilt and marble is a bit intimidating.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ Ben squeezed her shoulder, but the tremble in his hand gave him away. ‘Look at the sculptures and the artwork. Now you know where half the consultation fee is going.’
There were huge, comfortable chairs in the waiting room and in each of them sat women a lot older than Charlotte. All of them looked glum. Anxious. Which made Charlotte’s worry quota escalate a hundredfold.
‘Miss Evans?’ A lady with a smart chic French knot smiled across the reception desk, her voice rich and welcoming… and the loaded seriousness of her words made Charlotte’s heart race. ‘Dr Carter is waiting for you. Room two. Down the corridor, third on the left.’
‘Okay.’ She gripped Ben’s hand, sounding a lot more confident then she felt. ‘Let’s do this.’
A short consult. A wait. A mammogram. A wait. An ultrasound. A wait. And now a something-something biopsy. There was a lump. Yes. Yes. They had to see what was in it.
She was lying on an examination couch with Ben seated next to her. To her right was a huge ultrasound machine that beeped and whirred and clicked and made the room too hot.
‘We’ll do a fine needle aspiration…’ The room phone rang. Dr Carter peered at them over his half-rimmed glasses and frowned. He wore a tartan bow tie and a charcoal three-piece suit; very old-school with his speech and mannerisms and clothes. Charlotte hoped he was very new school with therapies and treatments and diagnostics. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to them, pointing to the phone and picking it up. ‘Yes. Yes. I see.’
When he finished he put the receiver down. ‘Excuse me again, Miss… er…. Evans. A query. Outside. Not about you.’
Then he left the room leaving Charlotte and Ben wordless. Being here and seeing the blurry pictures on the screens made everything feel so much worse. She’d always imagined the first ultrasound she’d have would be about a baby growing inside her. Not this.
‘I feel like I’m staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.’ Charlotte finally managed to get words out through a tight throat, keeping her voice low because everything was hushed here. ‘It’s like I’m in a dream. Or it’s happening to someone else and I’m watching.’
Ben gave her a half-smile that tried but failed to reach his tired eyes. ‘I am watching and it’s no better this end, believe me.’
Trying to break the tension she laughed a little, although it sounded forced, even to her. ‘To be honest, I’ve never had so many people touch my boobs, and definitely not all in one day.’
‘Serves you right for flashing them to anyone who asks.’ He winked and tugged her gaping gown across to cover her left breast. ‘Hussy.’
‘Well, I’ve been asked a lot today. A lot of people seem to want to look.’ She paused. Wondered whether to say what she was feeling. Decided, what the hell. ‘I’m scared, Ben.’
That was the truth of it. She felt utterly out of control. Utterly at the mercy of the stars, or fate. In a strange limbo land that had stripped her of the ability to enjoy anything, no matter how much she tried. That had made her see herself in a new light. As something mortal, fragile, vulnerable, and she didn’t like it one bit.
It was, as she’d felt so many times when hanging out to see whether she’d landed a role in a show or the corps or a solo, the waiting that was the worst part.
‘I know, me too. Shit scared with custard on top.’ Ben gave her another half-hearted smile. That was a huge admission. Something she’d never heard him admit even when he’d been posted to the riots a few years ago. Or when he’d been caught up in a stabbing and nearly got hurt himself. Even when his father got sick and it had been touch and go whether he was going to pull through.
That made her feel doubly worse. ‘He’s a bit grumpy, though, isn’t he? Dr Carter. Very serious and pompous. I think I’m more scared of him than I am of the needle aspiration thingy.’
‘Imagine him naked or something, that’ll make you feel better.’
‘Ugh. He’s ancient. Like, over seventy or something.’ That would definitely not make her feel better.
‘I meant, he’s just normal like you and me. He’s nothing to be scared of.’ Ben leaned across the space between them and ran his fingers down her cheek. His mouth close to her ear. ‘You’re going to be fine. I can feel it. You’re going to be okay. And when he tells you there’s nothing wrong…’
Charlotte sighed. ‘When they get the results of the what was it…? The cyt… cytology. It’s a whole new language. Which won’t be for another three days… another whole weekend of worry. Again.’
‘Let’s run away instead of going to work and doing jobs, then. And eat marshmallows and salt and vinegar crisps. Just you and me and no one else.’ Ben’s voice was soothing and deep and warm.
‘And drink chardonnay from a bottle. Okay. Where will we go?’ She fitted her hand into his. Where it was always meant to be.
‘Fiji. The Maldives. Hawaii.’
‘Oh, yes. Somewhere exotic with cocktails. Sun and sea and… you know what?’ She daren’t say that word out loud. Not in here where everyone was so prim and proper. A little panicky giggle started to bubble up from her tummy. Gallows humour probably. ‘I almost said the “s” word.’
‘I’m looking forward to the “s” word more than you can imagine.’ Ben’s eyes flared with warmth. Not quite heat. Because how could he fancy her when she was lying here like this? Vulnerable and pathetic and half scared to death. ‘Should we just forget all of this and go right now?’
But the door swung open and Dr Carter stepped back into the room.
***
Unfortunately, life had a habit of getting in the way, and absconding to Fiji for the weekend wasn’t quite as easy as Charlotte hoped. Instead of sun, sea and the “s” word, she was stressed from work, corseted up and putting on a brave face in front of her best friend.
‘I look like a big meringue.’ Lissa’s hands were on her hips as she twirled in front of the Bliss Brides dress shop’s huge, gilt-edged mirror. The dress was an off-the-shoulder sheath of palest lavender silk that hugged her slim dancer’s frame. In true elegant-fashion tradition, the designer had given it a cutesy name: Isla. Which was reminiscent of the wilds of Scotland and so not inner-city London or goth-inspired Lissa with her mess of raven hair and liberal use of black eyeliner. Still, it worked. She rocked it. Actually, Lissa would have rocked a paper bag.
Charlotte grinned at her friend in the mirror. ‘You look adorable. There’s no way you would ever look like a meringue. Actually, could you try to look a little less amazing, please? It’s my wedding, but everyone’s going to be looking at you, not me. Your bottom might even get its own Facebook page or something, like Pippa Middleton’s.’
‘Honey, I don’t even have my own Fake Book page, so my backside isn’t getting one, that’s for sure.’ Lissa was in the too-cool-for-social-media camp rather than the how-does-it-work one. She rearranged her boobs inside the built-in cups in the dress and winced. ‘Ouchy.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Charlotte frowned. Was everything about boobs these days or was she just hypersensitive?
Lissa growled, ‘P.M. bloody T. Worst I’ve ever had it. Sore boobs and I’m grumpy as hell. Hence the meringue reference and the huge swollen belly. Ugh. Who’d be a woman, right?’

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