BETTER THAN THE ALTERNATIVE
7 JULY
Oh my God, I think she’s actually going to eat it.
I screw my face up in horrified disgust, unwilling to accept what my eyes are showing me.
. . . yep.
She’s definitely going to eat it.
Allie is sat across the table from me, about to pop a honey-glazed dead cricket into her mouth, and I think I’m dying inside a little.
‘Ew! Ew! Don’t do it!’ I plead, physically pushing myself away from the table.
Allie goes bug-eyed with delight at my revulsion and ever so slowly pops the cricket into her mouth, biting down on it slowly so I can hear the crunching.
‘Aaaargh!’ I wail, feeling my kangaroo fillet steak and sweet potato chips threatening to make a triumphant return to the outside world.
Allie swallows the edible insect, still with that look of delight on her face, and starts to laugh her head off at my reaction.
I knew coming to this restaurant was going to be a bad idea. I mean, what good can come from dining in a place called Control, Alt, Del-Eat?
Eating dead insects, that’s what. That’s what you get when you come to a restaurant that prides itself on its ‘alternative approach to high-class cuisine’.
I enjoy a meal out as much as the next person, but when Allie suggested this achingly trendy eatery for our fourth date, I knew I should have suggested we go to Nando’s instead.
But this has been the dynamic of my ever-so-brief relationship with Allie so far. She is doing an extremely good job of pushing me outside my comfort zone, whether I like it or not.
Our second date was to an art-house cinema that she suggested to watch a subtitled French thriller – which unbelievably kept me rapt for its entire two-hour running time.
I picked the third date – a nice, sedate lunchtime trip to a country pub. Less than two hours into it, however, Allie had me wading through an icy stream half a mile away, looking for dragonflies in the sunlight filtering in through the trees. Ten minutes after, we were both swimming in the same icy stream in just our underwear.
It was the most fun I’ve had in months.
But I’m not having much fun now, as Allie has just reached for another bloody cricket . . .
‘Oh God. Why on earth did you order those?’ I ask her, trying not to gag as she pops another one in her mouth. ‘I thought you loved little insects. I still have chilblains on my toes to prove it.’
‘But I do love little insects, Nathan. Especially tasty ones covered in honey!’ To underline this, the second cricket goes in and gets munched up. ‘Om nom nom nom nom nom!’ she exclaims with pure pleasure after it’s swallowed.
‘You’re gross,’ I point out, accurately.
She then offers me the toothiest grin I’ve ever seen. The teeth are covered in crunched-up cricket. ‘Would you like to give me a big kiss right now, Nathan?’ she asks in as innocent a voice as she can muster.
I make the sign of the cross with both index fingers. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ I mutter.
This sends her off into a loud gale of laughter. I eventually have to join in with it, as Allie has a knack for comedy that is rather hard to resist.
Unfortunately, the laughing sparks off the headache I’ve been keeping at bay all evening. I pull out a couple of co-codamol to take while Allie helps herself to a third – and hopefully final – honey-glazed fried cricket.
As she watches me take the pills, a frown crosses her face. ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
I wave a hand. ‘Oh yeah, just a bit of a headache. Nothing to worry about.’
Okay, okay, I still haven’t told her about the tumour.
We’ve been having too much fun and I don’t want to put a dampener on things. I just have to pick the right moment, and I don’t think that is sat in the middle of Control, Alt, Del-Eat on either side of a plate of dead insects. It wasn’t right to tell her about it on our first date, and it still doesn’t feel right to do it on our fourth. I’ll know when the time is right.
. . . trust me.
Allie sits up. ‘Are you sure? We could leave if you want to?’
I shake my head. This hurts quite a lot. ‘No, no. It’s fine. We’ve still got drinks, and despite having to watch you eat fried crickets, I’m still having a great time.’ I force out a smile as I say this.
‘Okay, if you’re sure.’ She pauses and gives me a closer look. ‘I did think you looked a little peaky, even before I started eating the insects.’
‘Oh really? I guess I haven’t been sleeping much at the moment.’
. . . which is true. Sleep has been a long time coming in recent weeks. Even when it does arrive, the nightmares have been horrific. ‘Guess I’m just a bit tired,’ I tell Allie, yawning as I do so.
It transpires that the nightmares are in fact a symptom of the tumour, according to Mr Chakraborty – or at least he tells me that he wouldn’t be surprised if they were. I am learning that in the field of brain tumour research and treatment, there is a lot of woolliness. There’s as much conjecture and guesswork as there are hard facts. Not surprising, I suppose, given how complicated the human brain actually is.
Did you know that your brain has over eighty-six billion neurons in it? How exactly is that possible? How is it possible for something the size of a small side of ham to contain eighty-six billion of anything? And for that matter, do you even know what a neuron is? It sounds like the kind of torpedo that Captain Kirk would fire at the Klingons, but it is in fact a cell in the brain that is electrically excitable and can transmit information faster than a supercomputer in a wind tunnel.
I’m learning a lot about the human brain as mine continues to destroy itself. Know thine enemy, and all that.
Anyway, there is an extremely good chance that the nightmares I’ve been having are caused by Herman the Grumpy Tumour’s assault on my cerebral cortex, and I haven’t found a decent way of combatting them yet.
Allie gives me a concerned look. ‘Any reason you’re not sleeping?’ she asks.
Yes, Allie. I have a killer brain tumour that I don’t want to tell you about because I’m loving the sound of your laughter and don’t want to stop hearing it.
I shrug. ‘Not sure. Maybe it’s because I can’t think of any good songs to write and it’s stressing me out a bit.’ This at least is half-true. I haven’t been able to come up with a decent tune or lyric since the diagnosis.
Allie’s look of open sympathy makes me squirm inside a little. ‘Aww. That sucks.’ An idea then seems to occur to her. ‘Have you thought about trying a herbal remedy?’
‘Herbs?’ I say, attempting to keep any derision out of my voice.
‘Yeah. Herbs can be very beneficial, you know.’
I chuckle. ‘If I’m making a shepherd’s pie, possibly.’
Allie makes a face. ‘I’m serious, Nathan. If you take the right ones, they can do you a lot of good. I’ve used them before when I wasn’t getting any acting work and felt stressed out. They really calmed me down.’ She holds up a finger. ‘Camomile can be your best friend, if you let it.’
I chuckle at this. I’ve never tried to be best friends with a herb before.
Allie brings out her mobile phone. ‘I know someone who specialises in it. I’m sure she’d be able to help you with your disturbed sleep.’
‘Really?’ I reply, unsure.
‘Yep. Belinda is a lovely woman and a well-respected herbalist. She runs the bookshop my mum works in. They’ve been friends for decades. The herbalism is something she does on the side,’ Allie says. ‘Her concoctions have got me through some tough times, I can tell you that. I can send you in her direction, if you’d like?’
The fact that her name is Belinda is probably a good start. If Allie had said her name was Tinkerbell Foxwings – or something similar – I would have run a mile. But surely anyone with such a stout, sensible name like Belinda can’t be all that weird, can she?
I’m aware that this train of thought is what got me into trouble with Martin and his commune of sex maniacs, but I’m willing to risk that this was an isolated case, such is my desire for a decent night’s kip – and to make Allie happy, of course.
‘All right,’ I agree with a smile. ‘I’ll give it a go. What have I got to lose?’
‘Great,’ Allie says. ‘I’ll get her to give you a call.’ She picks up another cricket. ‘Now, why don’t you gaze at me lovingly for a while as I consume this tasty cricket?’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re insane,’ I remark, face scrunching up again.
‘Insane for tasty crickets!’ she exclaims, and gobbles the damn thing down.
It says a lot about Allie that I’ve had more fun watching her eat dead insects in front of me than I ever did doing anything with Sienna.
It probably also says something about the way I’ve changed since the diagnosis as well – but I’m too grossed out right now to think about that, given that Allie is now picking bits of the last cricket out of her teeth with one of its remaining legs.
Four days later and I’m sitting at my kitchen table waiting for Allie’s friend Belinda and her herbs to arrive. I’ve already spoken to her on the phone to arrange this appointment. She asked me a few questions about my general state of health, which I answered – avoiding all mention of the tumour and just concentrating on the sleepless nights and nightmares. There’s no real point in telling her about Herman the Grumpy Cerebrodondreglioma, as I’m fairly sure you could chuck an entire forest of lavender at the thing and it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference.
Belinda told me she definitely has something that can help me with the insomnia, though. This is just as well, as I’m still sleeping worse than a second-string character in a Nightmare on Elm Street movie.
Allie is at an audition this morning for a coffee commercial in the city so will miss seeing Belinda, but she’s coming over later this afternoon for a look around my home studio. I’ve promised to show her a few chords on the guitar, as she thinks being able to play a musical instrument will look good on her CV.
Deep down, we both know this is one giant excuse to jump into bed with each other for the first time, but these are the little rituals you have to go through when you’re in the first blushes of a new romance. You can’t just invite someone over for a shag. It’s just not the done thing, is it?
Before all of that, though, I have to meet with Belinda.
Ding-dong.
And there she is, right on time.
I walk out into the hallway and open the front door. It reveals a woman who is as stout and sensible as her name and her voice. She’s wearing an awful lot of wool, and wool is always stout and sensible. There’s a bit of tweed in there as well. Belinda looks like someone who’s more likely to sell me shortbread than herbal remedies.
‘Good morning!’ she says, proffering a stout hand for me to shake. In the other is a wicker basket that I assume contains everything I need to get a decent eight hours.
‘Hello, Belinda,’ I reply. ‘Please come in.’
I take the herbalist through to the kitchen, where she plonks her basket down on the table.
‘Would you like some tea?’ I ask her.
‘Just a cup of hot water, thank you,’ she replies. This sounds like an odd request, but it’s one I can fulfil quite easily.
When her hot water and my tea are made, I return to the table. She takes a small, home-made teabag out of the basket and pops it in the hot water. I instantly get a whiff of lemongrass and camomile. Belinda obviously likes to make her own tea. By the smell of things, she does a good job.
‘So, thank you for coming today,’ I say.
She smiles. ‘My pleasure. Such a shame to miss Alison. Lovely girl. But I’m hoping we’ll find something this morning to help you with your problem.’
‘So do I. What exactly do we do?’
‘I’ll get you to answer a few questions, then I’ll put together a remedy solution that I think will help you. It’ll be something you can pop into a cup of hot water like I’ve just done with my tea.’
‘Okay.’ Certainly sounds simple enough.
We spend the next twenty minutes or so discussing my insomnia and night terrors. Once again I don’t mention the tumour, because I very much doubt there’s anything in Belinda’s basket that’ll help me with that. Besides, if I can’t bring myself to tell the new lady in my life about it, a herbalist I’ve only met once stands no chance.
Belinda nods several times during the conversation, indicating that she’s heard of this kind of thing before. She then takes several minutes to rummage around in her basket and writes a copious amount of notes on her crisp A4 notepad. I give her some space by making more tea and hot water.
Eventually, she places twelve neat little packets of see-through material in front of me. Inside each is a collection of dried and fresh herbs. The smell they give off is rather delightful, it has to be said.
‘Okay, Nathan, this should get you started,’ she tells me. ‘Each of these bags contains a mixture of ingredients I believe will help you with your problem.’
‘What’s in them?’
‘Camomile, passion flower, valerian and Siberian ginseng.’
‘Sounds . . . herby.’
Belinda can’t help but smile a little at that. ‘Yes, it does. You should steep each bag in a cup of hot water for five minutes before drinking, about half an hour before bedtime.’
‘Okay.’
‘However, I’d like you to drink some now, just to check whether it’s a taste you like or not. There’s no point in prescribing you a solution that you’ll hate to drink!’
‘Fair enough.’
Belinda picks up a bag of the home-made herbal tea and places it in the cup of hot water I’ve provided for her. It seems my need for herbal tea is greater than hers right now.
We chat about my bifold patio doors and well-manicured garden while the tea steeps. Everyone loves my bifold patio doors and well-manicured garden. They are a universal constant.
‘Please try the tea now, Nathan,’ Belinda suggests.
I do so, and I have to say I’m pleasantly surprised. It tastes quite sweet and fresh. I was expecting some kind of bitter, twiggy weirdness, but this is actually very nice.
‘Excellent,’ Belinda says when I tell her this. ‘Then please make sure you drink the rest over the next couple of weeks. I’ll give you a call to see if the remedy is having any effect. If not, we can always try something else.’
‘Sounds like a good plan.’ I reach into my back pocket for my wallet. ‘What do I owe you for this?’
Belinda holds up a hand. ‘I don’t charge until I know my remedies have worked.’
‘Well, I hope to be paying you some money very soon, then!’ I say with a smile.
‘I’m sure you will,’ Belinda glances at my kitchen clock. ‘I must be going now, Nathan. I have another two appointments to keep today.’
‘Oh, okay. Sure.’
I show Belinda to the door, thanking her again for her time.
‘Do give Alison my love, won’t you?’ she asks me at the door.
‘Of course,’ I reply.
We shake hands again and I watch her walk back to her car. It’s a Volvo. What else would it be? Once she’s gone, I return to my funny herbal tea and drain the rest of it, smacking my lips as I do. Who’d have thought such a strange collection of herbs could taste so nice? Belinda really does know her onions. And her garlic, her basil and her rosemary as well, I’m sure.
After lunch and while waiting for Allie to arrive, I’ve entered a state of calm well-being that can only be put down to the herbs Belinda has provided me with. When I greet Allie at the door, I do so with a content smile on my face. I’m still a little nervous at the prospect of consummating our relationship, but the bag of herbs has definitely taken the edge off. If they do for my sleep patterns what they’ve done for my levels of daytime calmness, I’m on to a winner here.
‘Hey,’ I say to Allie as she comes in.
‘You look like you’re in a good mood,’ she replies.
‘Just happy to see you, I guess.’
Allie sniffs the air and then smiles. ‘I take it Belinda has been?’
‘She has indeed.’
‘And?’
‘You know, you might be on to something with this herbal stuff. I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages.’
She chuckles. ‘Told you so.’
‘Thank you for putting me in touch with her,’ I say, and on impulse I wrap my arms around her in a grateful hug.
‘My pleasure,’ Allie says, and plants a kiss on my lips. I return it with about a thousand per cent interest. ‘Easy there, fella,’ she says with a wicked smile. ‘I want to see that studio of yours, remember? You promised to let me have a go on your guitar.’
I take her by the hand. ‘Well, Mademoiselle, shall we go through, then?’
She giggles. ‘Yes, let’s.’
When I bought this house three years ago, I did it purely for the large double garage. I probably paid a good ten per cent more than I should have for the place, but the size, shape and position of the garage were perfect for conversion into a studio. Six months and forty grand later, I had that studio, and it has served me very well ever since.
I lead Allie back past the wide front hall and through the door that connects the studio to the house.
‘Wow,’ she says as we enter. This is the reaction I like to get from my guests when they see it for the first time. It is a constant source of pride for me.
‘You have a lot of instruments,’ she says, noting the rack of guitars on the wall. There’s a couple of banjos and a mandolin up there as well. I’m not all that great on either, but they look nice and are always fun to play when you’ve had a few.
‘I do. Too many, probably. When I see a guitar I like, I have to buy it.’
‘The grey, pointy foam on all the walls – that’s for soundproofing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s all of that?’ she asks, pointing to the console of equipment in the far corner.
‘That’s the stuff I use to record on. I basically set up the microphones where I need them, flick a few switches and lay down whatever comes into my head.’
‘Cool! Have you written anything good lately?’
I shrug. ‘Not recently.’
‘Can I hear any of it?’
Oh dear. That would be a terrible idea. What music I have managed to make in the past few months has been either morose, suicidal or downright terrifying. I don’t think five minutes of crushing death metal would put Allie in a romantic mood – unless I’ve misjudged her character completely.
‘I think I’d rather play you something live!’ I tell her.
She claps her hands together. ‘That’d be great!’
‘And you get to accompany me,’ I say, waggling my eyebrows.
‘I do?’
‘Yeah. I’m going to show you a couple of chords you can play along with me. Here, sit down on this stool.’
I carry two of my four chrome and black leather stools over from the side of the studio and put one down in front of her. She sits on it, an excited expression on her face.
I go over to the guitar rack and pick out a suitable one for her. It’s a light and breezy hollow Fender Telecaster that I bought for stage appearances. It should suit her fine. I grab my black Les Paul from its customary place at the front of the row.
‘Wow. That’s a nice one,’ Allie says as I put the guitar strap over my head.
I pat the Les Paul affectionately. ‘It is, isn’t it? It’s a 1958 custom model, signed by the man himself.’
‘Is it worth much?’
I gulp. ‘A fair bit, yes. You could probably get yourself a decent sports car for what this guitar would cost these days.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Yep.’ Talking about things like this tends to make me uncomfortable, so I move the conversation on. ‘Right, then,’ I say as I hand her the Fender and sit down. ‘Let’s see if I can teach you a thing or two.’
Alison nods.
‘First off, this is how you hold a guitar properly . . .’
I’ve never thought of teaching the guitar to anyone before, but on the strength of the next half an hour with Allie, it feels like something I could very much enjoy doing in the future. It probably helps that she’s a quick study. I’m sure my enjoyment levels would be tempered if I had to teach someone who took longer than thirty minutes to learn the C, G and F chords.
‘Would you like to try and play a song with me?’
Her eyes go wide. ‘Really? I only know how to do three things, and they’re quite difficult.’
I smile. ‘It’s fine. We’ll do something simple. Just follow me.’
I think for a moment about which songs use a simple C, G and F structure, then begin to play the opening C of ‘Danny Boy’. ‘Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,’ I sing in my best cod Irish accent, making Allie giggle.
A thought then occurs to me. If Allie thinks me singing in an Irish accent is funny, just wait until she hears my chipmunk voice. She’s proved to me that she can be funny – what with the dead insect eating and everything – and now it’s my turn to show her I can be just as amusing if I’m given half a chance.
I lean the guitar against the wall and get up.
‘What are you doing?’ Allie asks.
I hold out my hands. ‘Wait there. You’re going to love this!’
I go over to the bank of recording equipment and pick up one of the Bluetooth tie microphones I bought a few months ago. I clip this to my T-shirt and play with the sound panel for a few moments. There’s a brief and quiet whine of feedback as the mic hooks up with the studio’s PA system. I then play with another few buttons on the panel, making sure everything is set up right.
Smiling like the Cheshire cat, I return to my stool, pick up the Les Paul and start to play again.
Then I start to sing.
‘Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling . . .’
Allie collapses into a helpless fit of the giggles. My voice, put through one of the most expensive home voice-modulating systems on the market, comes through the speakers in a high, sing-song chipmunk voice that makes me sound like I’ve just swallowed a truckload of helium.
I continue to knock out a few more lines of ‘Danny Boy’ like this, until I can’t sing any more for laughing.
‘Stop! Please stop!’ Allie cries, her face covered in tears.
I flick the ‘Off’ button on the tie mic and try to compose myself.
‘Right, then, that’s enough of that,’ I say. ‘Let’s do this a little more sensibly, shall we?’
Allie nods. She’s managed to regain her composure and is holding the Telecaster firmly in her hands, waiting for me to tell her what to do.
I slowly play C, then F, then C, then G, nodding as I do to get her to join in. She does so, and manages to keep time with me very well.
I start to sing again, this time in my normal voice, safe in the knowledge that all this effort is without doubt going to get me laid later. There are a few stereotypes about guitar players that I’d like to get away from, but the ability to woo members of the opposite gender out of their underwear with a few well-chosen chords is not one of them.
‘Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen, and down the mountain thide . . .’
Mountain thide?
‘The summer’s gone, and all the rotheth falling . . .’
Rotheth?
‘Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you tho . . .’
Tho?
What the hell’s going on here?
Allie has a confused look on her face and I can see why. I appear to have developed a lisp out of nowhere. I try to carry on singing, hoping it’ll will pass.
‘Oh, Danny boy, the pipeth, the pipeth are callumg, from glen doo gren, and down the mounthin thide . . .’
Oh shit, it’s getting worse!
‘Nathan? Are you okay?’ Allie says with concern, leaning forward to touch my knee.
‘I don’th know!’ I reply, panic starting to set in. Is this a new symptom? Has Herman given me a big, fat tongue?? Will I never be able to speak properly again? Am I having some kind of stroke? Am I about to keel over dead right here and—
Stop it! Stop thinking like that!
‘My tongueth gone fat,’ I say.
‘Sorry?’
‘I thaid my tongueth gone fat, and I can’th thpeak properly.’
Allie’s eyes widen. ‘Oh God! Your face!’
‘Whath abouth ith?’
‘You’ve gone all red and blotchy!’
How the hell does a tumour make your skin go red and blotchy?
‘I don’th think I’m very well,’ I tell Allie, rising from the stool slowly. My Les Paul, something I usually treat like a baby, clatters to the floor, feedback whining through the wall-mounted studio speakers.
‘Oh my God, your lips are swelling up!’ Allie cries, panic entering her voice now.
I touch my face with a shaking hand. It feels hot to the touch and yes, Allie’s right, when I give my bottom lip a squeeze, it feels about three times bigger than it normally does.
Mr Chakraborty never told me about any of these bloody symptoms, did he? If I’d have known that the tumour would cause a reaction like this, I would have worn a paper bag over my head for the last few months.
Then, another thought occurs – one that in equal parts makes me feel instantly better and also about a thousand times worse. This isn’t the tumour. This is something else. I’m obviously having some kind of reaction to something – but to what?
Then the answer hits me square between the puffy eyes – the bloody herbal tea Belinda made me. It’s that, isn’t it?
I look at Allie. ‘I think I’m having an allerthic reacthun do tha tea that’s thuppothed to help me thleep.’
Allie looks understandably confused. I sound like Sylvester the Cat after a heavy concussion. Instead of trying to explain again, I grab her hand and pull her back out of the studio across the hall and into the kitchen, where I rush over to the kitchen table and grab one of the carefully prepared teabags that Belinda left.
‘Allerthic reacthun,’ I repeat, waggling the bag.
‘Oh Christ!’ Allie exclaims, realising what’s going on for the first time. ‘I’m so sorry, Nathan!’
I look at her aghast. ‘Ith noth your faulthhhh, Alithon!’ I try to reassure her.
‘But I suggested you see Belinda!’
I shake my head. ‘You weren’th to know!’
I hurry over to the mirror I’ve got hanging up above the toaster and gasp when I see what damage the herbs are doing to my poor face. It looks like Sloth from The Goonies has mated with a sentient tomato and the resultant offspring has been pumped full to bursting with helium.
As I gaze in horror at my grizzly visage, I start to feel a deep and awful itching sensation spread across my chest. The reaction is obviously getting worse. I scratch my chest right where the itching is at its most awful, getting relief for a few moments.
I also manage to accidentally switch the Bluetooth tie microphone back on in the process.
‘I think ith would probably be a gooth idea to go tho hothpital,’ I say, spitting all over the mirror, before turning back to Allie with an imploring look on my puffed-up face. From across the hall I can hear my garbled words coming out of the studio’s PA system in a high-pitched chipmunk voice as I say them. It sounds like the Chip ’n’ Dale: Rescue Rangers have been pepper sprayed. I look down to see if I can turn the mic off again, but my vision is now blurry and my hands are shaking too much to do so.
‘Pleath take me to accthident and emergenthy,’ I implore Allie.
She nods frantically. ‘Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.’ Allie pulls out her car keys, her hand shaking. ‘Let’s get going.’
Fabulous. What was supposed to be a slow and effective guitar-based seduction has instead turned into an early-afternoon rush to A & E. The rest of the day promises to be filled with panic, discomfort, injections and distinct nausea.
. . . but first, though, there will be shitting.
Lots and lots of shitting.
Did you know that explosive diarrhoea can be a symptom of an allergic reaction to Siberian ginseng and valerian? No, neither did I, until I was almost completely through the front door of my house.
‘Oh Jethuth!’ I cry, as my bowels start to churn like a fucking butter factory.
‘Oh Jethuth!’ the electronically altered version of my voice screams out of the studio at the same time.
‘What’s wrong?’ Allie exclaims, her hand squeezing my arm.
I look at her with horror. ‘I think I’m abouth to thit mythelf.’
‘Pardon?’ she replies, wiping her face.
‘I thaid I think I’m abouth to thit – never mindth!’
And with that, I’m turning tail back into the house and running across the hallway to the downstairs toilet. I’d rather go upstairs, away from Allie, but my need is too great and the motion of stair climbing would probably just hasten the onslaught before I reached the bowl.
I claw open the toilet door, rush inside and slam it behind me in about a nanosecond. One picosecond later I am sat on the toilet and the world instantly becomes a dark and dreadful place.
‘Oh fuck!’ I wail, as the universe falls out of my bottom.
From outside, I can hear my cries of anguish repeated across the whole downstairs floor of the house via my studio’s speakers. The sound is slightly delayed now, thanks to the closed toilet door and the limits of Bluetooth technology. Not just that, either – the mic is also picking up my bottomly egress extremely clearly.
I’ve never heard the sound of explosive diarrhoea cranked up electronically to a high-pitched chipmunk whine before.
I can only imagine it’s what listening to a Justin Bieber album is like.
‘Are you okay, Nathan?’ Allie shouts, wisely keeping well away from the toilet door.
‘Noth really!’ I tell her, frantically trying to find the ‘Off’ switch on the mic.
‘Noth really!’ the chipmunk version of me repeats, the delay from the Bluetooth mic getting even more pronounced as the signal gets worse.
I fail to find the switch, so Allie gets another chorus of Bieber’s greatest hits to enjoy from the hallway.
‘Pleath turn that offth!’ I wail.
‘Pleath turn that offth! ’
‘Oh Godth!’
‘Oh Godth! ’
‘I’ll go and turn it off!’ Allie shrieks, and I hear her run over to the studio. As she does I offload once more, sending another blast of high-pitched shitting noise into her ears as she hurries in.
‘Oh God! How do I switch it off ?’ I hear her cry.
‘Jutht turn it offth at the wall thocket!’
‘Jutht turn it offth at the wall thocket! ’
‘Oh thut up!’
‘Oh thut up! ’
‘Sorry? What was that?’
‘Pull the thucking plug outh!’
‘Pull the thucking plug outh! ’
‘The big black one or the small white one?’
‘Both! Pull them both outh!’
‘Both! Pull them both outh! ’
There is a vast screech of feedback as Allie finally yanks the plugs from the wall. That is not the best way to treat expensive audio equipment, but I couldn’t care less if she set fucking fire to it at the moment.
‘Thank you!’ I cry plaintively, this time with no high-pitched echo.
‘I’ll just go wait in the kitchen while you . . . while you finish up,’ Allie says, trying to keep the horror out of her voice. ‘I really am so sorry about this!’
‘It’th okay,’ I say, a little disheartened. I think the worst of the diarrhoea is over now, but the damage to my love life is well and truly done. If having to hear me shit in chipmunk stereo isn’t enough to put Allie off, then the fact my face currently looks like a red bell pepper surely will.
Ten minutes later and I’m very slowly making my way back into the kitchen. ‘I’m really thorry abouth thith,’ I tell her.
She shakes her head. ‘No, no. It’s me who should be sorry!’ She takes my hand. ‘Let’s just get you to the hospital now. I’m worried about you.’
‘Thank ’oo,’ I say with gratitude. This really is a very lovely person. It’s a real shame I’ll never get to have sex with her now.
Allie helps me out to her car. As I’m climbing into the passenger seat, I feel my bowels rumble. For a moment I’m terrified I’m going to really put the kibosh on things by soiling myself all over her upholstery, but thankfully the unpleasant sensation passes as quickly as it comes. It seems I’m going to be spared any aftershocks for the time being.
The ride to the hospital is uncomfortable, as you might imagine. I may have to ask the doctor for some cooling Preparation H.
When we get there, I’m prepared for a long wait, but given that it’s a weekday afternoon and my face still looks like an overinflated balloon sculpture, I am taken in to see a doctor quite swiftly. Allie accompanies me, holding my hand as the good doctor pokes and prods me for a few minutes.
Isn’t that marvellous? Isn’t Allie marvellous? She’s just been deafened by the sound of me crapping out my own internal organs, and she’s still happy to hold my hand.
I could almost cry.
‘Yes, you’re definitely having a reaction to the herbal tea, Mr James,’ the doctor says. ‘I don’t see any obstruction of your airway, which is a very good sign. I think the best thing we can do is give you some strong antihistamine and send you home for some rest. The worst of the symptoms should fade over the next few hours.’
‘Thankth, Doctor.’
‘Are you currently having any other health problems I should know about?’
Oh Christ.
I didn’t know he’d ask that . . .
What the hell do I say?
I should be honest with him. After all, having a brain tumour is no small matter. Any treatments he prescribes could have a knock-on effect. It’s one thing to keep a herbalist and your new girlfriend in the dark – it’s quite another to do so with a doctor.
But Allie is standing right beside me! I can’t say anything! She won’t be holding my hand for much longer if I tell her how sick I am right now, will she?!
For a moment, I’m frozen solid, not knowing which way to go with it.
‘No. I’m quite fine otherwithe,’ I eventually lie.
One of the doctor’s eyebrows shoots up Spock-like, picking up on my hesitation. ‘Are you sure?’
I can’t help but flick a quick glance at Allie.
‘Yeth, I’m thure.’
‘Positive? No other illnesses, problems or transmissions I should know about?’
Oh well, that’s subtle, isn’t it? I know damn well what he’s thinking. He believes I’ve got some sort of sexually transmitted disease that I’m trying to keep from my girlfriend. It would explain the shifty expression on my face and my hesitation before answering. He’s probably been here many times before when treating a cheating spouse with their significant other standing by and watching.
I daren’t look at Allie, just in case she’s thinking the exact same thing.
‘I’m feeling a litthle ligh’-headedth,’ I say. I don’t feel anything of the sort, but I need to change the subject quickly. ‘I think I might jutht lie down for a momenth.’
‘Of course, Mr James.’
As I lie back, I do look at Allie’s expression – and yep, she looks suspicious. The groan I let out as my head hits the pillow is partially faked and partially genuine. Here I was thinking that explosive diarrhoea was going to put paid to my burgeoning romance, but it might end up just being an innocuous, routine question from a physician that does it for me instead.
A little later, we’re back in Allie’s car and driving back to my place. She’s been very quiet the entire journey.
By the time we pull into my driveway and she applies the handbrake, the atmosphere is almost palpable.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask her, noting that my voice is already starting to return to normal. The antihistamine is obviously kicking in.
Her head cocks to one side. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘When the doctor asked you about your health, you didn’t seem to be telling him the truth. Is there something you’re not telling me, either?’
Well, there it is. Allie is a smart cookie. There was no way she was going to let this one go.
I still can’t be honest with her, though. Not even now. It’s just too . . . too damn awful.
How on earth do you tell someone you’re falling in love with them, but that you won’t be around long enough to fall all that far?
I elect for the coward’s way out of the conversation.
Taking Allie’s hand, I look her square in the eyes. ‘Look. I really, really like you Allie – and there are things about me I wish I could tell you right now. But . . . I just can’t at the moment.’
She sniffs. ‘I don’t like people keeping secrets from me, Nathan.’
I’m losing her. Totally and completely losing her. Actual tears start to sprout at the corners of my eyes. This is so unfair! ‘Please, Alithon,’ Damn it. ‘I’m not keeping secrets from you. There’s nothing bad in my patht I should be telling you about. I’m not thecretly married or anything.’ Is this going to work? Is she going to believe anything I say? ‘I don’t have any venereal ditheatheth, either,’ I add, making sure I get that one cleared up. ‘There are things about me that I can’t talk about . . . at least not yet. But none of them are bad.’
LIAR.
‘Please, can you just let me have a little time? Let us get to know each other better?’ I sound quite pathetic.
I can see Allie struggle with it for a few moments, her eyes grave and her lips pursed. ‘I guess . . . I guess I can do that.’ She bites her lower lip for a second. ‘I like you, too, Nathan. I really do. You’re kind and funny, and I love being with you.’
‘Even when I’m suffering a huge allergic reaction?’
‘That wasn’t your fault.’ She pauses thoughtfully for a moment. ‘But I also want to be with someone I can trust – who doesn’t keep things from me,’ she continues. ‘The fact there are things you say you can’t talk to me about is a little worrying . . .’
‘I know! And I’m sorry! But I won’t keep them from you for long. I promise I won’t!’
Allie nods her head. ‘Okay, Nathan. I can give you a little time.’ She shakes her head. ‘I mean, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me, either . . .’
I smile. ‘And I hope I get the chance to find out what they are.’
‘All right,’ she says, slapping a decisive hand down on to her leg. ‘Let’s get out of this car and get you back inside.’ Then her eyes narrow. ‘But first, you can give me a kiss. It’s the least I deserve after today.’ Her face clouds. ‘I’m never going to be able to watch Alvin and the Chipmunks again.’
I lean forward and plant a big smacker on her lips. Given that my own are still nearly twice the size they normally are, the suction this causes would be enough to give a Dyson a run for its money.
Back in the house, the first thing I do is grab the rest of the bloody teabags and throw them in the waste disposal. Then I make us both a coffee. I’m not drinking tea again for the foreseeable bloody future. I then order Chinese food. We eat it out in the garden as the last of the summer sun bathes us in its warmth. I can tell Allie has relaxed again, as she spends a good ten minutes taking the piss out of how much I spent on my bifold patio doors. Before I knew about the tumour, I might have been a bit offended by this, but not any more.
I think I’m starting to change.
And yes, there is some sex later that evening, thankfully. It is a far more delicate and slow-paced affair than I was hoping for, and we have to stop a couple of times so I can have a scratch, but it’s still the best sex I think I’ve ever had. Nothing I did with Sienna comes close.
I am falling so comprehensively for this girl that it is quite, quite scary.
After it’s over and we’re lying in the legendary post-coital bliss, my mind returns to the conversation in the car from earlier and me telling Allie that there’s nothing wrong with me.
I instantly feel quite awful.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be leading her up the garden path in this way. It’s just not fair.
In the morning, I’ll tell her the truth.
. . . I honestly will.
. . . without a doubt.
LIAR.