‘Have I got cancer?’ Never one to beat about the bush.
‘I can’t say. But we need to do more investigation.’ The nurse patted Scarlett gently on the shoulder. ‘It’s turned out to be the best thing you could have done, this TV show.’
Since Scarlett was already in the right place, she was instantly subjected to a full battery of tests. Mammogram, ultrasound, MRI, needle biopsy – the works. The worst of it was that she was in such a state of shock that she agreed to have them film the whole bloody lot. They sent her home in a studio car still reeling. The first I knew about it was when Leanne rang me in a state of rage.
Two hours later, I felt like I’d been travelling in a time machine. Just like the worst days of Scarlett’s notoriety, the media pack was baying at the gates. Satellite TV vans, photographers with long lenses, reporters with thrusting mics – they were all there, thronged round the entrance. Nothing travels faster than bad news in the twenty-first century.
I thought I was actually going to have to mow a couple of them down in order to get through the gate, but they backed off at the last minute. Most of them didn’t have a clue who I was but they snapped me and my car and my snarl anyway, on the off-chance I might turn out to be somebody important.
I found the girls in the nursery. Scarlett was playing pirates with Jimmy, steering his pirate ship across the ocean of the carpet to the harbour of the walk-in wardrobe where he was defending his Viking castle against her forces with the full force of his lungs. Leanne was lying face down on the bed, hanging over the edge and lobbing plastic cannonballs at both of them. When I walked in, Scarlett flashed me a look of exquisite pain but managed somehow to continue her assault on the castle. As she crashed the ship into the castle walls, she pretended to run aground and capsize. ‘That’s me done for, Jimmy. You win.’ She crabbed across the floor and scooped him up, covering him in kisses as he wriggled and giggled. ‘Time for your bath now, my sweet poppet.’
‘No,’ he yelled in protest. ‘One more time. I want to be the pirate.’
She tickled his tummy and carried him towards the bathroom. ‘You can be a pirate in the bath, mister.’
He giggled and squirmed, face pink, shouting, ‘Dead man’s chest, dead man’s chest.’
‘I’ll see you downstairs in a bit,’ Scarlett said over her shoulder.
I followed Leanne to the kitchen. This wasn’t a Prosecco night. We went straight for the brandy. ‘What exactly have they said to her?’ I asked.
‘They won’t say for sure till they’ve got the test results back. But from the way they took it all dead serious, it’s not looking great.’
‘You don’t think they might have exaggerated a bit because it was being filmed?’
‘Not from what Scarlett said.’
We went out on to the patio so Leanne could smoke. Scarlett found us there a little later, huddled over our drinks in the twilight. She helped herself to a cigarette and hunkered down with us.
‘You don’t smoke,’ I said mildly.
‘I used to.’
‘Like a chimney,’ Leanne added helpfully.
‘I gave up before I auditioned for Goldfish Bowl. I knew it was going to be hard enough without craving a fag all the time.’ She inhaled with all the panache of a serious smoker who had never been away. ‘If I’ve got cancer already, I might as well have a fucking smoke.’
‘It’s not the recommended method for fighting it,’ I said.
‘I know that,’ she snapped. ‘Have you forgotten I’m not fucking stupid?’ She closed her eyes and breathed heavily through her nose. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not planning on taking it up again.’ She gave me a lopsided smile. ‘Not unless the diagnosis is terminal. Then I’m planning on devoting myself to everything that’s bad for me.’ She took another deep drag. ‘I just want to smoke tonight. Don’t get on my case, Steph. Not tonight.’
She leaned into me, head on my shoulder. I stroked her hair back from her face, feeling the damp of her tears on her cheek. ‘What are we going to do, Scarlett?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know about you, Steph, but I’m going to fucking fight every inch of the way.’
And fight was exactly what she did. The diagnosis was horrible – invasive lobular breast cancer. Something I’d never heard of before. I soon learned more about it than I ever wanted to know about any disease because of course there was going to be a book in Scarlett’s ‘battle for survival’. The presumption was that she would win, of course. But I knew that as far as the publisher was concerned, the outcome wasn’t the important thing. It was the tear-jerking quality of the story. Which of course would be written as a second epistle to Jimmy.
Naturally I had to be by her side every step of the way. I like to think she’d have wanted me there anyway, but I’m not sure I would have chosen such an intimate relationship with the process of her treatment.
My journey started at her first appointment with the specialist who would accompany her every step of the way. Simon Graham was the antithesis of the stereotypical consultant. No Savile Row suits, no expensive cologne, no golf bag in the boot. That day, he wore black jeans with a pink-and-white striped shirt, no tie. On his feet, beautifully tooled black leather cowboy boots. You could always hear Simon coming from a long way off.
He didn’t look old enough to be a consultant either. He had those perennially boyish looks that leave some men apparently stranded in their twenties for decades. Men like Alan Bennett, who look like overgrown children into their sixties and seventies. Men you have to get close to before you can see the fine lines and the silvering at the temples that reveal they’re not quite what they seem. Simon had thick dark hair whose style was apparently modelled on the early Beatles, when it was still reasonably short and mildly unruly. He had serious blue eyes behind the kind of steel-rimmed glasses that science teachers wear in 1950s American films. His mouth seemed always to be on the verge of a smile. When he gave in, he revealed a single dimple in his left cheek. He was a doctor made for reality TV. I wondered if he’d been chosen to supervise Scarlett’s case when a TV documentary had still been on the cards.
Oh yes. George had indeed tried to talk Scarlett into having a camera crew do a fly-on-the-wall film of her treatment. Now, you might say I didn’t have a moral leg to stand on, given how much money I stood to make out of telling Scar lett’s story, but even I baulked at that. The difference, as I pointed out to Scarlett, was that she’d have control over what appeared in the book. Whereas she’d be entirely at the mercy of the TV company when it came to what appeared on the screen.
I was far too tactful to point out that, if she didn’t make it, what went into the book would be up to me, not her. But she was smart enough to work that out for herself if she stopped to think about it.
George tried to persuade Scarlett that doing the documentary could be another way to raise funds for TOmorrow, but she wasn’t having it. ‘I don’t want to go through this treatment wondering about what people will think of me. If I need to cry or swear or howl like a fucking werewolf, I want to be able to let rip. I’m not having some poor sod break bad news to me three different ways because the crew missed it the first time. No way. I want to be in control of what happens and how it happens. Not the director, with his mind on the ratings rather than my health.’
I really hoped they hadn’t chosen Simon because he was photogenic. I hoped they’d picked him because he was the very best in his field. It was what Scarlett deserved.
That morning, he sat us down in his minimalist consulting room and introduced himself. ‘The first thing I want to do today is to explain the diagnosis we’ve arrived at and what that means for you. None of this will be easy, and I want you to know that my team are committed to helping you make a full recovery. Anything you want from us, any time of the day or night, you can speak to one of us.’ He pushed a card across the low coffee table. ‘There’s a dedicated mobile number there. There is always one of the team on the end of that phone. And my personal direct number is there too.’