DAY 6
Celebrate your body
“Oh, God! Sorry, Annie, I forgot you were coming.”
Annie blinked at Polly, who was standing in the doorway of the beautiful three-story house she’d said to come around to. Her jaw fell open. “Um, should I go?”
“No, no, come on through. I’m really sorry. It’s just Bob, you see. Makes me forgetful.”
Annie stared at the floor, which was tiled in a blue-and-white mosaic. Did Polly realize? Maybe this was a symptom of the cancer. “Um, are your family in?” She knew this was Polly’s parents’ house, though not why Polly was living there.
“No, they’re all out.”
Thank God for that. “Um, Polly...”
“Do you want tea or something?”
“Thanks, but did you—?”
Polly spun, her bare feet padding on the tiles. “Did I what?”
“You’re, uh...” Annie could only gesture.
Polly looked down. “Oh. I totally forgot! Ha-ha. I bet the neighbors got an eyeful.” So even though she realized she was entirely naked, she wasn’t planning to put any clothes on. Annie felt her shoulder blades constrict.
But when they went through into the kitchen, she realized what was going on, as an older woman with glowing white hair was there holding a camera. “I’m having my picture drawn,” explained Polly. “In the buff. Just something I always wanted, and I’m never going to look any better than this.” As it was she was marked all over by her treatment, bruises like inky fingerprints crawling up her legs and arms. She was so thin, too, every vein and bone standing out under skin stretched paper-thin.
Annie had been ushered into a large light-filled room, half conservatory and half kitchen, a glimpse of the Thames visible from the large back garden. An ache began to take hold of her heart. This was her dream kitchen, the one she’d read about in design magazines, where she’d pictured her children running barefoot, stealing fruit from the bowl, bringing her their drawings, their bumps to kiss better. Now she would never have that.
“We’re finished, dear, if you want to put your clothes on,” said the artist, who Polly introduced as Theresa.
“Seems a shame. It’s really quite freeing.” Polly spread her arms, making her breasts jiggle. Annie averted her eyes. “Hey, Annie, you should get one done, too. My treat.”
“What?”
“Get a picture. Since Theresa’s here and all. She works from photographs, see.” Theresa was nodding encouragingly.
“I really don’t think—”
“Come on, Annie! To cross the ocean, you need to lose sight of the shore! Do something every day that scares you!”
Oh, God, these inspirational sayings were going to be the end of her. “No. Sorry. I really can’t.” Annie could hear the anxiety in her own voice, which surely was a bit pathetic when Polly was actually dying? When she’d had needles poked into her spine, cameras peering inside her, a probe in her brain even, how could Annie get upset by the idea of taking her clothes off in front of people?
“Oh, come on,” Polly coaxed. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I just can’t,” she said again. “I’m sorry.” It was years since she’d undressed in front of anyone. Even at the hospital they were tactful about it, left you behind a screen when you had your examinations, waited for you to cover yourself with a blanket. They were good about discretion there—tissues and slipping away as you wept, inconsolable, in the dingy little rooms where your heart had broken.
Polly’s face fell. “All right. But will you look at the photos with me? I’m kind of nervous.”
“Of course I will.” Polly had her shoulders slightly bowed in the pictures, as if she was trying to protect her body, when it had been through so much. You could see it all—the bruises, the scar from the cannula on her hand, the bags under her eyes.
Polly’s voice thickened. “I just—I wish I’d had this done years ago, you know? I always wanted to, and I was healthy then, and I was—oh, crap, I was hot. I can say that because I have cancer. I was a hot babe, and all I did was moan about my cellulite and thread veins and talk about getting Botox. I used to spend three hundred pounds on face cream! What was I thinking? I should have taken a naked picture every single day. I should have covered my house in them and walked down the street in the buff.” She sniffed. “Oh, bollocks. This is it, isn’t it? Even this is as good as I’m ever going to look again. I’m only going to get worse and then I’m going to die.”
Annie looked at Theresa in alarm at Polly’s sudden mood swing, but the artist was placidly packing up her photography equipment. She looked down at own body, hidden under her baggy jumper, and bit her lip as fierce tears unexpectedly burned her nose. No, she wasn’t going to cry, over her own saggy stomach and barrel thighs, her yellowing toenails and cracked feet, which hadn’t seen a pedicure since her wedding day. Polly’s body had let her down in the worst possible way—the least Annie could do was not hate her own healthy one. She pushed back her (lank, greasy) hair. “All right, then. Maybe just a few pictures.”
* * *
“Lovely. Could you push your chest forward more? Shame to hide those fantastic bosoms!”
Annie blushed and shuffled forward. Somehow, for some mad reason (Polly), she was lying on a blanket-draped couch in a “draw me like one of your French girls” pose, totally naked. Everything was on display, from her unwaxed pubic hair to the ridges her socks had left around her ankles. Only instead of Leonardo DiCaprio on board the Titanic, she was being photographed by a seventy-year-old lady.
To Theresa she said, “Is there any way you could, uh...this scar? Sort of hide it?”
“I like to draw people exactly as they are, Annie,” Theresa said gently. “Trust me. No airbrushing here. What was it, a cesarean?”
“Um, yeah.” She avoided Polly’s eyes. “I wish I’d had time to go on a massive diet first,” she said hurriedly.
“You look great, silly,” said Polly. “Like a painting by Rubens. Voluptuous.”
“Who?”
“You know, the painter...in the National Gallery? Never mind. I’ll take you sometime.”
Annie blushed again. She was so clueless. “Isn’t voluptuous just another word for fat?”
“I’d rather look like you than me,” Polly said, extending a bony leg.
Annie tried, “But you look great. You’re so slim.”
Polly burst into laughter. “Oh, Annie. For God’s sake. I’m slim because I have cancer. I’m dying. Hey, does my tumor look big in this?”
“Sorry, sorry.” Annie sighed, knowing she’d messed up.
“Nurse! Is this chemo low-cal? Toxic chemicals are soooo fattening!” Polly twirled around the room, high-kicking her thin, bruise-marked legs.
Theresa was peacefully snapping away. “Is this your first experience of cancer, dear?” she said to Annie.
“Er, yes.”
“Then don’t worry. It’s normal, this kind of up and down. It’s all the emotions, you see, hitting her at once like a wave. Trying to live your hardest at the same time you’re dying. The old rules don’t apply anymore. You just have to strap in for the ride.”