DAY 83
Go on a first date
“Hey, look at those toes!”
“Good, right?” Polly wiggled her feet, the nails of which were now painted bright tangerine. “Popping all over the...show.” She waved her fingers, which were each done in a different shade of neon. Lime, sherbet, acid lemon. “I’m gonna be the most on-trend...corpse in the mortuary.”
Annie winced. She wished Polly wouldn’t say these things, but she knew she had no right to feel upset. Polly couldn’t be expected to spare other people’s feelings, when she was the one dying. “How are you?”
“Good. I feel good. Got my hair done, got my threads. I’m ready to...rock.” She did look better—her wig was styled to look like her own hair, the blond curls baby-fine and shiny. Makeup gave her some color, and she was smiling. “Sandy sent over the most...amazing dress. Shame I have to wait for the fake funeral to wear it.”
Annie checked the clock—almost time. “Well, maybe you don’t have to.”
“What?” Polly was wrinkling her nose over her dinner tray, which held a bowl of tinned vegetable soup and some slices of white bread. “Dear God, what is this? I seriously doubt it’s made in a...NutriBullet.”
“Don’t eat that. You’re going out tonight. Well, not out out. Out of this room, at least. They wouldn’t let us take you out of the hospital, sorry.”
“Us? What’s going on?” Polly set down the spoon with a rattle.
Here goes. This could all backfire so easily. “Well, when you said you wanted to go on one last date, I...arranged it for you.”
“What? Who...with?”
“Who do you think? Your hospital crush.”
“Not... Oh, Annie. For Christ’s...sake. I made a total fool of myself flirting with him. He wasn’t interested.”
“Well, he is now.” At least she hoped so. She still couldn’t believe George had got him to say yes. He was so professional, so reserved.
Polly tried to fold her arms, but they were too weak. “This isn’t fair, ambushing me...like this.”
“Oh, as opposed to when you got me fired? Or told Dr. Max I fancied him—”
“—which you do—”
“—or made me pose naked or any of the other hundreds of daft things you’ve had me do? You owe me, Polly Leonard.”
“Hmph. I don’t want some manky...pity date.”
“Think that’s all you’re gonna get at the moment. Sorry, babe.”
“Don’t you...‘babe’ me, Annie Hebden.”
“Oh, stop moaning and get out of those gross PJs and into your frock. He’ll be here soon.”
Polly seemed to consider it for a moment, chewing her lip. Then she held her arms up. “Bollocks, I suppose it is my...last chance. Help me, will you? I’m afraid you’re on...pants-pulling-up duty.”
* * *
“You look beautiful.”
“Thanks. Beautiful in a...dying-of-cancer way, I assume.”
“Nah. All the models look like they’re dying, anyway. You’d fit right in.”
Polly looked at herself in the small mirror of the bathroom, twisting and turning. It was the first time Annie had seen her standing up for weeks. The dress was made of heavy red silk, with a boat neck and tight sleeves to the elbows. It swelled out at the hips, hiding her thin legs and ribs, giving her pale face warmth. Annie handed her a lipstick. “Here. Red, to match.”
“Thanks.” She slicked it on her dry lips, still staring at herself. “I look... God, Annie. I look...normal. I look like me. Me after a month-long...juice cleanse.”
“You’ll knock him dead.”
Polly narrowed her eyes. “Ha-ha.”
“Sorry. Omigod, he’s coming!” Annie peered out the glass panel in the door. “It’s him!”
“Jeez, Annie, I’m not going to...prom.” But it felt that way. Polly clutched her hands, grinning widely. “I’m going on a...date! In the romantic hospital!”
“Shh. Okay, are you ready?”
There was a knock on the door. “Keep him waiting,” Polly muttered. “One, two, three...oh, sod it, I don’t have time to play...hard to get.” She pulled the door open. “Dr. Quarani.”
“Sami, please.” He was dressed in a navy suit and pale blue shirt, and smelled of something lovely and musky. “Polly. You look very beautiful.”
“Oh, this old...thing. So, Sami. Where are you taking me?”
“We’re going to...a little place I know.”
“Is it the canteen?” Polly whispered.
“Of course not. It’s a lovely restaurant that just happens to be in the same place as the canteen. Shall we?” He held out his arm and Polly swept forward, her dress swirling about her ankles, leaning on him heavily. She’d refused to use the wheelchair tonight. It was only ten steps to the lifts so maybe she’d make it.
“Walk slowly,” Annie said, scooting past them. “I happen to know for a fact your waitress isn’t there yet.”
* * *
“So tonight we have a special Greek menu for you. To start with, stuffed vine leaves, followed by moussaka. May I take your wine order?” Annie had to avoid Polly’s eyes, or she knew she would laugh. She had a tea towel draped over her arm, and had shoved a waistcoat, borrowed from George, over her white shirt. The lights were dimmed and candles flickered on the canteen tables, which had been covered in red cloth. She’d set up an iPod dock playing Michael Bublé. It almost looked nice. If you squinted and ignored the strong smell of bleach, which even a bunch of pink lilies hadn’t been able to shift.
“We have wine?”
“Champagne.” Annie indicated the ice bucket Costas had nicked from his friend’s restaurant.
“Am I allowed?”
“Apparently, yes. One glass.”
Dr. Quarani shook his head. “Not for me, thank you. I don’t drink.”
“Not a problem. We have grape juice for Sir.”
He raised his glass once she’d poured it from the carton. “Congratulations, Polly. How old are you?” Polly shot Annie a look: What? Dr. Quarani saw. “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s a rude question, isn’t it. What is it you say—cheers.”
Annie poured Polly’s wine and retreated. “I’ll leave you to chat.”
In the kitchen, things were steamy, and not in a good way. Costas was wrestling with something on a chopping board, his face red. He swore in Greek. “It does not look like this when my mama makes.”
George was also sweaty, his white T-shirt drenched. “Goddamn vine leaves won’t stay stuffed. Did your mother get back to you, Costas?”
His phone beeped and Costas grabbed it, getting meat all over the screen. “She say why am I doing woman’s work. Classic Mama.”
“Not very helpful, though. Bollocks.” George sucked his finger, which he’d nicked with the knife.
“Problems?” said a Scottish voice. Dr. Max was leaning in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his white(ish) coat.
“Vine leaves will not stay stuffed,” Costas said miserably. “I cannot follow what my mama says.”
Dr. Max rolled up his sleeves. “Someone care to tell me what’s going on here?”
“Um, we cleared it all with the hospital,” Annie said guiltily. “She wanted one last night out, you see. One last date.”
“And you made Sami the fall guy? Sami who never puts a foot out of line professionally? He’s on a date with a dying patient?”
George wiped some rice off his cheek. “Um. I maybe didn’t use the word date.”
“What did you tell him?” Annie glared.
“Maybe I said something about just having dinner with her...and maybe I implied other people would be joining them. Look, I told him it was Polly’s birthday party, okay?”
“You what?” Annie felt stupid under the ironic gaze of Dr. Max.
Dr. Max sighed. “Right. And none of you considered that Sami could be struck off for dating a patient? And that if he’s struck off he’ll be sent back to a war zone?”
“How were we supposed to know that?” George flounced away. “Honestly. Cooking, asking out straight men... I didn’t sign up for any of this!”
Costas looked confused, wiping meat off his hands. “We are not cooking the dinner?”
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Max said dependably. “I can do these.” Deftly, he began trussing up the vine leaves.
“How did you know how to do that?” Annie watched, half annoyed, half relieved.
He shrugged. “That’s all surgery is, really. Taking out things that don’t belong, making sure other things stay in.” He threaded a skewer through the leaf, as neatly as he sewed up wounds. “There. How’s the rest coming on?”
“Moussaka is in oven,” Costas said anxiously. “George is making baklava.”
“Not that I’ll get any thanks for it,” George said from the other end of the kitchen.
Dr. Max washed his hands, turning off the taps with his elbows. “Right, then. Annie, come out here with me.”
“Why?” She untied her apron, now splattered with rice.
“If this is Polly’s last chance to have an evening out, it’s up to you and me to save it. Well, me mostly, but you can make up the numbers.”
Make up the numbers indeed. Fuming, she trailed out behind him.
* * * * **
“...it was quite a tricky procedure, because the patient’s bowel had perforated and fecal matter was leaking...” Outside, Dr. Quarani was sipping grape juice and telling Polly about a particularly gruesome surgery. Polly’s champagne was untouched, and she gave Annie a furious look. What the hell?
Annie avoided her eyes. Dr. Max swept over. “Sami, Polly! Isn’t this nice? What’s this god-awful rubbish you have on?” He switched off the iPod. “We can do better than that, I think.” In the corner, under a red cloth, was a piano. “The Friends of the Hospital put this here, thought it would boost morale or something. Ah, here we are.” He pulled off the cover and sat down on the stool. “Any requests?”
“You can play the piano?” Annie said, breaking character in her surprise. Was there anything the bloody man couldn’t do?
“’Course,” he said. “It’s all in the fingers. How about some Frank—not your tumor, Polly—to get us started?” And he began to sing “I Get a Kick Out of You,” the notes rippling in the empty room, his voice ringing out deep and throaty. At the line about getting no kick from champagne, he nodded to Dr. Quarani, who actually smiled. Annie was glad he didn’t do that more often—no one in the hospital would get any work done.
Costas and George crept out of the kitchen to listen, and Dr. Max played, and Polly picked up her drink at last, and Dr. Quarani lifted his glass in a toast. Oh, God, don’t wish her a happy birthday. “Here’s to you, Polly,” he said. And that was all.
* * *
“Want me to help you with the dress?” The date/not-date didn’t last for long, as Polly was too tired to stay sitting up, but at least she ate a vine leaf and two spoonfuls of moussaka and half a baklava.
“There are literally a million layers of pastry in that,” George had said. It seemed silly for them all to hide on the sidelines, so it had ended up with the six of them around the table, in the candlelight and with Bublé back on, under protest from Dr. Max, and they’d eaten the food and talked and laughed, and it had actually been fun.
Polly shook her head. She was lying on her bed, still in the red dress, staring at the ceiling. “I think I’ll keep it on. It’s too...beautiful to take off.”
“Was it okay, your date?”
“He didn’t actually know it was a date, did he? I wondered why he’d...agreed to it.”
Annie busied herself smoothing the pillows. “You need to talk to George about that.”
“It’s okay. I got what I wanted—a handsome man...picking me up, a pretty...dress and an evening with the best people I know. Maybe all first dates should be...group dates.” She paused. “He told me what’s happening over there. His family.”
“Oh.”
“Will you keep an eye on him? You and Dr. Max? I think he’s lonely. Imagine being stuck in Lewisham, of all places, and not even able to drink. Poor man.”
“I will,” she said. Polly hadn’t added after I’m gone, but Annie knew what she meant. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
“Oh, no. Get some...sleep.”
“If you’re sure.” Annie moved to the door, dimming the light. “Ding if you need a nurse to take your makeup off or something. That’s what they’re paid for, after all, to wait on your every whim.”
“’Kay. Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for this. It was the...best not-date I’ve ever...had.”
“Night.”
“Night...Annie Hebden-Clarke.” As she left, Annie looked back at Polly—lying above the covers in her scarlet dress, still and white as a statue, the remains of her golden hair gleaming in the dull light.