DAY 37
Give something back
“Where do you want these guns, Annie?”
Annie checked her clipboard, flustered. “Um, I guess those are for the Guys and Dolls number. If you can find some people dressed as gangsters, give them to them?”
“Okay.” Zarah, who was helping out backstage, rushed off.
It was hectic. Dozens of people were coming up to Annie, asking her questions. Amazingly, she did know the answers to most of them, because somehow, against all the odds, they had pulled this fundraising concert together inside a week. They’d kept it as simple as possible, roping in the staff to sing songs or do skits, as well as George’s acting friends who were dancers and performers in West End shows. Annie had been amazed how many people were willing to help at short notice, and even more amazed when the tickets starting selling to rich members of the hospital board and their mates.
It kept growing. Polly’s former corporate clients from when she worked in PR wanted to help, booking up rows of seats. “Cancer card,” she’d explained. “Everyone feels bad for me, so I can ask for whatever I like.” And it went on. Suze knew everyone in the media. Costas was very happily sorting out costumes borrowed from Polly’s stylist friend or Valerie’s am-dram group. Miriam’s husband, an electrician, was doing the lighting. And Annie herself had pulled it all together, creating spreadsheets, delegating tasks, handling the money.
She’d even stood up in front of the hospital board—seriously formidable men and women—and explained her idea. Word had got out, fast. The goodwill had grown and grown, from patients, from their families, from everyone who knew Polly. So now they were expecting a hundred people to watch the variety show they’d somehow cobbled together. Annie was doing her best not to think about it, in case she threw up all over the front row. How did she, Annie Hebden, Annie Clarke, end up doing this?
Polly. Polly was the answer.
“Annie.” Dr. Max was approaching down the aisle of the hospital’s lecture theater, squinting at her in the dark. “New hair?”
“Oh, yes.” She touched it self-consciously.
“Thought so. Very...bonny.” He stooped, picking up a large yellow feather. “I see you got Big Bird in to do a turn.”
“Oh, that must be one of the burlesque dancers.”
“There’s going to be burlesque? You know we have some quite-senior board members coming tonight?”
“Polly says it’s tasteful. Not like stripping. She once did the PR for a cabaret club or something.”
“Taking your clothes off to music? That sounds like the dictionary definition of stripping. Not that I would know.” He rubbed his hands over his head, making his hair stick up again. Once again he looked exhausted, in rumpled clothes. Did he ever look in a mirror? Annie wondered. How could someone perform brain surgery and yet not be able to do up the buttons on their shirt right? “I guess this was Polly’s idea. Where is she, anyway?”
“It was my idea actually. She’s up there.” Annie waved to where Polly was up a ladder, stringing fairy lights.
Dr. Max gritted his teeth. “For the love of God. She’s not well enough for this, Annie. I’ve told you. She needs to rest.”
“She doesn’t want to rest!” Annie tried to keep her voice low. “She knows she doesn’t have a lot of time, and she doesn’t want to spend it lying in a hospital bed! Okay?”
“I know. I know that. But trust me, she’ll need her strength. When the time comes.”
Annie shrugged off the cold chill his words gave her. “Look, maybe instead of moaning you could get involved? We’re trying to raise some money for the children’s ward. Buy them some toys and so on.”
Reluctantly, he tucked up his coffee-stained tie and stooped to move some of the boxes littering the stage. “That’s all very laudable, Annie, but what those kids need is proper NHS funding. Time spent researching cures. Nurses and doctors who aren’t knackered and demoralized.”
Stung, Annie bent down to pick up a box herself. She’d thought he was on her side since he’d helped sway the hospital board. “I’m just trying to do something.”
“I know. I know you’re trying to help. But really—things like this? Where everyone has a nice time and goes home feeling good about themselves? I worry that it’s just a way to not ask the hard questions. The bigger ones. But you carry on. It won’t do any harm, I suppose.”
Carry on. Like he was patting a child on the head. Annie glared at him. “At least I’m trying. I’m not a scientist or a doctor, but I can do this small thing, and so I am. Okay?”
He held up his hands. “Annie, I didn’t mean—”
“Let’s just leave it.” She turned back to her clipboard, hiding her face.
“It’s Dr. McGrumpy!” Polly called down, swaying on her ladder. “Come to tell us we’re violating health and safety or something?”
“You certainly are, up a ladder in those shoes. Would you ever get down, woman?”
“In a minute.” She was peering hard at the loop of the fairy lights, trying to secure it with some tape. It seemed to be taking her ages.
Dr. Max was watching. “Do you want a wee hand with that?”
“’Course not, it’s only tape. Bugger!” The string of lights fell to the floor, fusing out. Dr. Max met Annie’s eyes, with a clear I told you so.
“Polly,” she called, “I need your help with something here. Um, the burlesque dancers have run out of...hairspray. Can you come down?”
“Oh, okay.” Dr. Max rushed to hold the ladder as she wobbled down it in her silver stilettos and floaty pink dress. “I’m not an invalid,” she grumbled. But she looked like one. She was so thin, Annie saw. Even thinner than a few weeks ago. How could you lose so much weight so quickly? The dress hung on her, her body lost inside the floating layers of chiffon. But she was still smiling. “Now, what’s this hairspray... Oh, my God.”
“Pollleeeeee!” Two voices chimed as one. Milly and Suze had flung open the door of the lecture theater. They were both in high heels, both in skinny jeans and both snapping away with iPhones.
“Who are those?” Dr. Max was staring as they approached, aiming their phones like a SWAT team sweeping a crime scene.
“Those are my friends. The PR Platoon.” Polly waved to them. “Ohh emmm geeeee, you came! Let me do introductions. This is my neurologist, Dr. Max, and this is Milly and Suze. These women basically run the UK media.”
They fell on him.
“Omigod, I love your look. Noble yet careworn. How would you feel about doing a quick to-camera?”
“Er, ladies...”
“Omigod, he’s Scottish! Even better. I’m thinking radio. Give Sunil a bell over at Today.”
Their fingers tapped at their phones, unceasing. Milly said, “The fundraising page is racing ahead, P. We’re already at 5K. It’s all over Facebook, Twitter is blowing up. The Telegraph want an interview.”
“I’m going to bell Ivana at the Guardian. Human interest, caring, etc., etc. They’ll love it.”
Milly caught at Polly’s chin. “Babe, you’re a bit pale. We’ve got a photographer coming by—shall I contour you up a bit?”
Suze was snapping pictures of Dr. Max from every angle. “The surgeon, too. Keep the shadows but blend out the nose a bit and—”
“Ladies!” he roared. “I will not be interviewed, and I will not have makeup put on me! I have paperwork, and sick patients to visit, and wounds to check. I don’t have time for this.”
“Love the anger.” Suze sighed. “Maybe we can harness that. I’m thinking Channel 4 News. I’ll bell Liam.”
“The money’s coming in.” Milly waved her phone. “Big Twitter surge. But we need a personal story, Polly babes. So people can relate. Quick video diary?”
“Money,” Polly said to Dr. Max. “Wouldn’t that go toward the new scanner you wanted? The extra MRI machine? So people don’t have to wait as long for diagnosis and maybe you can catch their cancer earlier?”
He considered it for a moment. “No makeup. I draw the line there.”
“Ace!” They spirited him away, tapping and snapping and chatting all the while.
Polly sighed. “Those two could run the world. I shouldn’t have shut them out, I guess.”
“It’s your cancer. You can shut people out if you want.”
Polly laughed. “That’s why I like you, Annie. No pressure to be positive or organize fun runs or write long blog posts about how I feel.”
“I thought that’s exactly what you wanted to do?”
“On my own terms. Not because people expect it of me.”
“But tonight, though, we have to pretend we’re all positive and happy and that we can make a difference?” Whatever Dr. Max said.
“We do. Except I think we might have a small problem.”
Panic gnawed at Annie’s stomach. “What?”
Polly checked her watch. “Well, I know he has the lead role and everything, but have you actually seen George at all tonight?”
* * *
Annie had sweated all the way through her black vest top. Backstage was full of people—comedians running through their routines, dancers limbering up, singers going through scales, even someone juggling with IV packs. But of George, who was meant to MC the whole night, there was no sign. “Call him again?”
“I’ve tried.” Polly was even paler. “Oh, God. I bet he’s bottled it. That’s what happened, you know, when he got his West End break—back of the chorus line as a soldier in Miss Saigon. He couldn’t go on. Got fired after one night. I bet he’s with fucking Caleb. I’m going to kill him.”
“His ex-boyfriend?” But Polly wasn’t listening. “Look, maybe there’s an explanation. Maybe he got stuck in traffic or—”
“He’s coming on the tube!” Polly was starting to lose it, something Annie had never seen before. “It’s all going to fall apart. All those media people—we’re going to let them down, Annie. The kids. The hospital. We’re going to fail.”
Fail. The word stuck in Annie’s throat. Of course she couldn’t pull this off. Why had she even tried? She wasn’t the kind of person who could change things. She was the kind of person who got dragged along by life, and eventually towed under. But through her cloud of yammering thoughts, she could hear something. “What’s that noise?”
“What noise?” Polly’s hands were squeezed together so tightly they’d gone white.
“It sounds like...” It was crying. She was sure of it. She hunted around the small backstage corridor, eventually throwing open the door to the disabled loo. In there, perched on the seat, in his spangly red MC suit, was George. His hands hid his face and his shoulders were working. “What happened? Are you okay?” She rushed forward, but Polly stood where she was.
“Let me see your face,” she said coldly.
He shook his head.
“George! Let me see it.”
Slowly, George looked up. Annie gasped. His left eye and the side of his face were covered in another purpling bruise, blood matted in his hair.
“Did he do this?” Polly demanded. George just nodded. Polly swore. “We’re calling the police this time. Okay? You promised.”
George spoke in a tiny voice, one Annie had never heard before. “I can’t go on. Look at the state of me.”
“But you have to!” Polly said. “You have to do it!”
George sobbed. “Look what he did to me. I—I loved him. And look what he thinks of me. I—I’m nothing. I’m a nobody. I’m a fat nobody. And he’s this big TV star and I’m just a failure and...” Annie suddenly put it together. Of course, Caleb. He was that guy in that thing about the vet.
“You got back together?” Polly sounded livid.
George shook his head, ashamed. “He wouldn’t take me back. We were just...seeing each other sometimes. But now it’s...” Fresh tears drowned his voice. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Poll. I wanted him to come tonight. I wanted him to see me do well. So I called around and...this is what happened.”
Polly strode in, kneeling in front of her brother. “Listen to me, George. You’re not nothing. He’s the one who should be ashamed. He should be in jail. But you’re my brother and I need you right now. I really need you. This is your big night. But it’s more than that—we could raise thousands tonight. We could help so many people, people who are sick like me. We could catch cancers earlier, give people a chance... Look.” She pulled at her bag. “Where is it, where is it...here.” She took out her hat of the day. “Fedora today, luckily. Put this on, knock it into a rakish angle, and we’ll get someone to patch you up—that lovely nurse Leroy is about—then a bit of makeup and no one will know. It’ll be dark. I promise.”
He just swallowed, so hard Annie could hear it from where she stood. She heard herself say, “The show must go on. Right?”
Shakily, George stood up. When he turned to the light, the bruise was livid, and Annie winced. “I’m not wearing a fedora,” he sniffed. “I’m not a bloody men’s rights activist. See what else you can find and get me the buffest nurse and the best makeup person we have, and we’ll try to pull this off.”
“Done.” Polly held out her hand. “Come with me. We don’t have much time.”
“Annie?” She turned to see Dr. Max standing in the corridor. “Is everything okay?”
Annie was distracted, watching some dancers get their tail feathers perilously close to the lights. “Look, I know you think this is stupid, but it’s really not helpful if you just keep criticizing things and—”
“I don’t think it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
She gave him a look.
“Fine, okay, it’s not my thing. But...you’ve done a good job. An amazing job, really, in the time you had. It’ll be good, I’m sure.”
“Will it?” Suddenly Annie’s own panic showed. “I don’t know, because we really didn’t have much time at all and it’s all a bit thrown together, and you’re right, there are important people here, and George is having a meltdown and there are seminaked dancers about to go onstage, and, oh, God. You’re right. I shouldn’t have done this.”
“Hey, come on.” Awkwardly, he held out his burly arms. “It’s going to be fine. Calm down. Deep breaths.”
Annie found herself squashed up against him, his lanyard digging into her cheek. Dr. Max was hugging her. She was hugging Dr. Max. She pulled back a little, dazed, and his face was very close to hers. As if in a kind of trance, he put up a hand, one of his capable surgeon’s hands, and stroked her cheek. “Annie. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
“I...” Was he going to kiss her? Surely not. He was Polly’s doctor, and the show was about to start any minute, and no one had kissed her in years, and why would he fancy her, anyway? But he wasn’t pulling away.
The moment continued. Annie held his gaze. Thought of Mike, and Jane. Her heart still felt like a raw piece of meat. What if she kissed him and fell in love with him and got hurt again? She wasn’t sure she could stand it. But shouldn’t she take a risk? He was just so nice. He smelled of soap, and coffee. His arms were so solid around her.
“Annie!” Damn it. Polly was standing behind them, frowning. “What are you doing?”
Annie stiffened and pushed at his chest. Dr. Max stepped away, clearing his throat. “Annie wasn’t feeling well. Just a bit of nerves, I think.”
“We’re ready to start now.”
She pulled herself together. “Great, great. I’ll just...”
“Um, I better...” Dr. Max began to shuffle away.
“Okay...” She watched him walk away.
“Are you ready?” Polly was still frowning.
“Sorry. Yes, yes, I am. Let’s do this.”
* * *
Afterward, Annie could only remember the night as a blur. Sequins, lights, laughter and sighs from the audience, applause. The sound of tapping feet on the stage of the lecture theater, which normally only showed slides about disease. A place full of death, death and more death, and they’d filled it with life, loud and bright and shimmering. At least on the stage. Behind it things were a little more fraught, everyone losing their costumes and makeup and cues and dance partners. Annie raced around with her clipboard, barely seeing any of it. By the end she was doused in sweat, sure that she had a damp oval on her back, and her feet were aching. She could hear the final applause now, as George stood making a speech. He’d been onstage the whole night, smiling, entertaining, totally in control. You’d never have known he was the same man weeping in the loos. It was so easy to put on an act, Annie realized. She wondered what would happen now. Would he ditch Caleb, as Polly wanted? Or keep going back for more? She knew it wasn’t as simple as leaving the minute someone hurt you.
She stopped to listen for a moment.
“Ladies and gentlemen, nurses and doctors, parents, patients. Tonight, we’ve done something wonderful. With online donations, we’ve raised an incredible sixty thousand pounds.” There were gasps. Annie’s mouth fell open—how could it be so much?
The lecture screen behind George flickered into life, and Annie saw a fundraising page, the target exceeded hundreds of times over.
George was saying, “To explain why this money is needed, I’d like to introduce possibly the most annoying patient in the history of this hospital—my sister, Polly.”
Thunderous applause. Annie’s head swiveled, and then she saw Polly come onstage from the other wing. She was moving slowly, as if her back hurt, but she was waving and smiling. Annie saw Milly and Suze standing up in the front row, ready to film the whole speech and put it online.
“Hi!” said Polly. Annie could hear her voice was cracked, her throat dry. “I won’t keep you, as I’m sure you all need to get home.” Meaning, Polly needed to get home. “A few months ago I was diagnosed, right in this hospital, with a brain tumor.” More murmurs of sympathy. She barreled through—that would have annoyed her, Annie was sure. “I know, I know, that sounds awful—and I guess it is—but I can honestly say I’m not brave, I’m not a noble cancer sufferer. The people who are brave and noble are in this room—and also not in this room because they’re still working, changing IVs and updating charts and bringing people drinks and cleaning operating theaters.” Polly looked around at the audience, the staff members crowding into the wings and the aisles of the theater, and she was smiling, despite her exhaustion. “When I imagined where I might die, it wasn’t in Lewisham. It would have been on a tropical island somewhere, maybe in a tragic speedboat accident at the age of ninety.” Laughter. “But now that it’s happening, I feel truly lucky. If I have to die, I can think of no better place to do it than here, with these people taking care of me.”
Annie’s hand went up, shaky, to wipe her face. Was Dr. Max here? She hoped he was hearing this. But probably he was off twiddling with someone’s skull or fighting with the vending machine or drinking one of his horrible triple espressos. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry with her after that weird moment. Maybe he hadn’t been about to kiss her, anyway. Why would he, when the hospital was full of pretty women who all thought he was God’s gift to neurology? It was all so unsettling.
Then she realized everyone was staring her way. She shrank back into the shadows. Polly beckoned to her. “So, as I was saying, the whole credit for dreaming up this amazing night goes to one person. Everyone, please thank my friend Annie.”
Oh, God. She had to go onstage. Oh, Lord. And she was sweaty and her hair was all sticking up. She shuffled forward, blinded by the lights. An impression of hundreds of faces watching her. Everyone was clapping. Polly was pushing her to the microphone. Oh, God. She had to say something. She could feel all the sweat up and down her back. “Er, hi.” This was being filmed. Argh! “It’s not really down to me—it’s everyone who took part, who spread the word, who donated to the online fundraising, who bought tickets...uhhh. But I just want to say that Polly was right. Even in my lifetime of being reasonably healthy, this hospital has so far helped me have a baby, then sent an ambulance to try and save him when he died.” She was aware of George’s sharp double take. He hadn’t known. “It’s also helped my mother when she can’t remember who or where she is. And it’s helping my friend Polly. So, I just want to say...we will probably all need a hospital at some point in our lives. If you haven’t yet, you will, one day. So please support them. All of them. Please don’t let them be destroyed. Just—please. We can’t live without them. Quite literally.” She stepped back, shaking with adrenaline. She’d said too much. She’d gone political.
Someone was coming onstage, taking the microphone from her, gently, murmuring over the storm of clapping. Clapping who? It must be her. They were clapping her. “Well said,” murmured Dr. Max. He’d smartened himself up a little since earlier, in a new shirt and tie, and he’d dampened down his wild springy hair. “So unless you want to say more—and I think that was perfect—do you mind?”
She stepped back. Perfect. He’d said it was perfect. Dr. Max cleared his throat. “Hello, everyone. I’m the chief neurosurgeon here. What Annie just said—it’s why we all go to work every day. We don’t go for the money or the prestige—although it’s fun when people try to sue you...” Nervous laughter. “But I promised I wouldn’t rant. And as I’ve just lost a bet, I’m now going to sing you a song.”
And Dr. Max began to sing, his voice low and rich. She couldn’t place the song for a moment. Something about stumbling and a cup of ambition and... Oh, God. He was singing Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.” A joke, a private joke. Singing it slow and mournful, almost like a ballad, then speeding up until people were on their feet, stamping and cheering and singing along, until his voice was drowned out. Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get any more surreal, a piper came onstage, in full Highland dress, blowing into a set of bagpipes, playing the bass line. Annie recognized one of the nurses from Intensive Care. More clapping. More singing. Annie was looking at Polly, almost strangled with laughter, feeling lifted up by it—the joy of the moment, the silliness, the kindness, the relief—and Polly was smiling back.
Then a look crossed her face. Later Annie would think it was as if a shadow had swept past her friend. A shadow in a long black cloak. Polly’s face seemed to fall in on itself, and Annie was already racing across the stage, as the final applause died down and Dr. Max was thanking everyone. She was already running as Polly’s legs crumpled, and so she was there to catch her friend as she fell to the ground, unconscious.