DAY 43
Ride a roller coaster
Annie stopped in the corridor, the bunch of yellow roses rustling in her hand. She could hear voices from farther down, just outside Polly’s room. Valerie and Roger again, hissing at each other.
“Your daughter is dying, Roger, and you can’t even leave your phone at home for one day?”
“It’s work, Valerie! Someone still has to earn the money around here. What if Polly needs specialist care? I don’t want my little girl in pain or discomfort, and Lord knows you haven’t earned a penny in years.”
“Isn’t that just like you. Using work as an excuse to do nothing at home for nearly forty years now. But this isn’t the time, okay? She needs you home! Not in the office or the pub or swigging whiskey in your study and—”
“Christ, Valerie, why must you always make it about you? I’m not the one upsetting Polly, yelling like a fishwife.”
Annie felt a light hand on her shoulder. She turned to George. “Sorry for intruding,” she said quietly.
“They’ve been like this for days. It’s awful at home. Snipe snipe snipe.”
“I should go. I brought these—can you take them to Polly?”
George shook his head. “Leave them with the nurses. She’s pretending she’s out of it, but she’s not too bad. Just can’t take Mum and Dad anymore.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, you and I have instructions.”
“What? I have to go to work in a minute.”
“Call in sick.”
“But I can’t, I—”
“Please, Annie. I need to do this. I can’t sit around here feeling useless, watching her die, listening to Mum and Dad fight. And Polly was insistent. I know it’s stupid, this hundred-days thing, but it seems to be kind of giving her hope. Or if not hope, then something, anyway. A reason to not give in. To wake up in the morning.”
Annie had thought the same. She looked at her watch—8:00 a.m. “What’s the instructions?”
George held out a piece of paper. Annie looked at it. “Are you serious?”
“Yup. And she wants us to film it. Since she can’t go herself, she says. So, can you call in sick?”
Annie hated doing that—her fake sick voice was deeply unconvincing. “I’m the world’s worst actress.”
“Isn’t it lucky you have a celebrated actor right here, then?” George held out his hand. “Give me the phone. Who am I asking for?”
Annie passed over her mobile, scrolling through to the number. “Sharon. Ask for Sharon. Say I’ve had a nervous collapse or something.”
She had to stuff her sleeves in her mouth to keep from laughing during the phone call. “The thing is, Sharon—can I call you Sharon?...Thank you. You have such a kind voice, Sharon. The thing is, poor Ms. Hebden’s just been working so hard with her mother and her sick friend, we’ve had to keep her in for observation. We think she needs a tonic for her poor nerves.” He was alternating between a noble Noël Coward voice and a stoical Cockney one. “You know what I’m talking about, Sharon. I can tell that you do...Me? Oh, my name’s Kent Brockwood. Chief staff nurse here at the hospital. We do admire Ms. Hebden ever so much. She’s so noble. Upper lip stiffer than a big steel girder...Thank you. God bless you, Sharon.” He hung up, handing the phone back with a flourish.
She mimed a miniround of applause. “Give that man a Tony Award.”
“I try.”
“Where were you even from, Kent Brockwood?”
“Bow by way of Letterkenny, I think. She’ll leave you alone for a few days now, I reckon. And you can stagger in full of noble suffering, and if you’re really lucky you’ll be sent home.” Being sent home from work was the ultimate win. You’d made the effort to go in, but you were really too sick to be there, so you could leave with impunity.
“‘You have such a kind voice, Sharon.’” Annie giggled. “It was brilliant. So, now we go to Thorpe Park?”
“Now we go to Thorpe Park. She said we should pick up Costas on the way.”
Annie looked toward Roger and Valerie, who were still arguing, voices lowered. “Should we—”
“Nah. Let’s just go. Lucky Polly. At least she gets to fake being in a coma.”
* * * * **
Outside, George raised an arm to hail a taxi. Annie held back. “Isn’t it kind of far? Train, maybe?”
“Polly’s given me a load of cash. She wants us to have a good day out. And if we pick him up in a black cab—think how his little face will just light up.”
She studied George as they sank into the comfortable interior, shutting the door on rainy, gloomy Lewisham. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Zorba the Greek? He’s adorable. Too nice for this city.”
“Do you like him like him?”
“He’s a kid. And he spends his days foaming milk.”
“Come on,” Annie chided. “He’s doing his best. He works really hard.”
George looked guilty. “I know. He’s just—he’s so happy, you know? It makes me feel guilty. He’s alone over here, away from his family, getting nowhere with his career. But he’s cheerful. He’s sunny. Even when he’s having a shit time at work.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Oh. We—we’re in the same gym, it turns out.”
“You joined a gym? I thought that was just a lie you told your mum to get out of the house.”
“Yes, yes, I thought it was time to start fulfilling gay stereotypes. We’re going to a Barbra Streisand concert next. Anyway, like I say, he’s too young for me.”
“He’s twenty-two. You’re twenty-nine. And haven’t you only been out for, like, two minutes?”
He shrugged it off. “I was in a small uncomfortable closet for some time. As you’ve seen, my mother is very much not okay about her precious boy associating with nasty gays in leathers and drag. That’s how she pictures it, anyway. What’s your point?”
“So, Costas might be older than you in gay years. Is that a thing? Like dog years?”
“Oh, it’s a thing. I’m practically ancient at my age.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty-eight.” She nudged him. “What would Polly say? ‘Seize the day! Jump off a cliff! Pee in the wind!’ And so on.”
He sighed. “Maybe. I hear you, okay? But for now, with Polly, and since I’m trying to stay away from Caleb, it’s just nice to have a friend, you know?”
She smiled at him. Pictured rolling up to get Costas, how happy he’d be at the prospect of a day out. “I do know. Yes.”
* * *
“Ready?”
“Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.”
“I should not have eaten the floss of candy.” Costas was pale. The roller coaster—an utterly terrifying one that dipped and twisted—was slowly winching them up, and up, and up. Annie felt her stomach churn with the burger, fries and milk shake she’d also wolfed down. She wasn’t eighteen. This would have consequences. Down below, the people on the ground were so small. So far down.
“Here we go!” They were picking up speed. Her knuckles turned white. She felt Costas gripping her hand and, on his other side, George’s. In his free hand George held up his phone, secured to his wrist by a strap. “Right!” he shouted, over the growing noise of the machinery. “Big smiles and don’t swear—ahhhhh! Fuck! Fuck! Holy Christ! We’re going to die!”