be called into the studio and positioned on the sofa with Samantha and Jaddi. Try to remember some of the answers we’ve practised, and, I know I’ve said this before, but I’m going to say it again anyway – please don’t be sarcastic. It really doesn’t play well on camera.’
‘You do know it’s not exact, don’t you?’ Lizzie asked. ‘I might live longer. I might live three and a half months, or maybe even five.’ Who was she trying to convince? Caroline, or herself?
Caroline exhaled through the small gap in her front teeth, creating a low whistling noise. The sound reminded Lizzie of the times she was little, sitting in the dips of the sand dunes near her house on the Suffolk coast, cushioned between her mum and dad, and Aaron just a bundle of blankets on her mum’s lap. The wind had howled around the dunes and the North Sea had smashed on the shore below them.
Long days spent on the beach. Bonfires, barbeques and the sideways glances assessing her. Was she all right? Was she ill? Was that a limp in her run? A tremor in her hand? Followed by the forced cheer and smiles. ‘Who needs to go abroad when we have so many treasures on our doorstep?’ her mum liked to say in her chirping voice, glossing over the real reason for another year without a holiday – the infection risk, the hospital appointments, the cost. Her father losing his job as an engineer after the weeks, sometimes months, when she’d been in hospital.
Her life was like a large pebble thrown past the waves into the calm of the sea, dropping into the water with a plop and sending the ripples outwards, affecting those closest to her. She’d played along; she’d tried to make it easier for them. She’d always done as she was told, without question or complaint. Until now, anyway.
The whistling stopped and Caroline set her gaze on Lizzie. A decision had been made. ‘Ninety days or under would be better.’
A sudden urge to laugh propelled its way up Lizzie’s body, like the bubbles in a glass of Prosecco dancing to the top. The sound exploded out of her, alien and unwelcome, rebounding off of the dressing-room walls. ‘Well, Caroline, I’ll do my best.’
Caroline threw her hands to her mouth and shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Lizzie, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant from an audience-viewing perspective. Obviously, nobody wants you to die; it’s just that the documentary is called The Girl with Three Months to Live, and as you are going to …’ Caroline’s voice trailed off.
‘Ninety days or under would be better,’ Lizzie finished for her as the desire to laugh evaporated, leaving a hollow void inside. She’d finally managed to rattle the producer, but had shaken herself up in the process. Lizzie stood up and stepped towards the door. The small room had an oppressive quality, clouding her thoughts so that she couldn’t think straight.
Before she could reach it, the door swung open, bringing with it a fresh wave of fragrances: honeysuckle and roses, the scents that surrounded Jaddi like an aura.
Jaddi grinned as she stepped into the dressing room, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. Her sleek black hair brushed the middle of her back and shone under the bright bulbs surrounding the mirror in the centre of the room.
‘Did you get what you needed?’ Jaddi said.
‘Yes. Perfect timing, Jaddi,’ Caroline replied. ‘I need to check everything is in place for our cameras. Where’s Samantha?’
Jaddi stepped in front of the mirror and dabbed a finger along the sheen of gloss on her lips. ‘In the toilet throwing up.’
A line formed on Caroline’s brow. She caught Jaddi’s eye in the reflection of the mirror. ‘Is she going to be all right for the interview?’
‘Don’t worry –’ Jaddi smiled ‘– she’ll be fine. She was exactly the same before her final exams at uni, and that assessment-centre thing she did last year, wasn’t she, Lizzie? And she aced them.’
‘I’ll tell the producer to make sure she isn’t asked any direct questions, just to be on the safe side,’ Caroline said, the crease on her forehead disappearing. ‘Stay here and one of the production team will come to collect you in a few minutes.’
Caroline scooped up her leather organiser and smiled at Lizzie and Jaddi.
‘You’ll do fine this morning. Try to enjoy it.’
‘Thanks.’ Lizzie smiled. ‘Not for this –’ she waved her hand around the room ‘– but for making our dream happen.’ The two words didn’t seem enough, didn’t seem right, either, but she felt like she should say them. ‘Thank you.’
Caroline nodded. If Lizzie didn’t know better, she would’ve sworn a tear glistened in the producer’s eye. ‘My pleasure,’ Caroline said, before walking out of the room.
Jaddi turned to Lizzie with another wide grin. ‘Ready?’
‘No.’ Lizzie shook her head and fiddled with the ends of her hair where it tickled the tops of her ears. She wasn’t ready. She’d never be ready, for the interview, or for everything after it.
‘You’ll be fine, Lizzie. It’s just two people talking to us on a sofa. It’s no big deal.’
‘It’s OK for you, “Miss Beauty Pageant winner two years running”.’ She’d meant it to sound funny, but it hadn’t. That was one of the problems she’d discovered since her final round of radiotherapy, since Dr Habibi had sat her down and shown her the brain scans: the things she was supposed to find funny, the things other people laughed at with light-hearted ease, washed over her. And yet, she laughed all the time, maybe more than before, but always at inappropriate moments, always a hollow noise echoing in a silent room. It was the same for jokes. She’d lost whatever knack she’d had for telling them. ‘Besides, those two people you mentioned are actually famous TV presenters, and you seem to be forgetting all the people who’ll be watching.’
‘You do realise that I haven’t done beauty pageants since I was sixteen?’ Jaddi said. ‘My mum practically forced me to do them. It was just something to add to my Indian marriage CV.’ Jaddi smoothed a wrinkle in her charcoal-grey dress.
Lizzie sighed. ‘All I know is that you are so much better at all of this than I am.’
‘You’ll be fine, I promise. You look lovely, by the way.’ Jaddi turned away from the mirror and took Lizzie’s hand. ‘Your hair really suits you that length.’
A pressure built inside Lizzie. She clamped her fingers around Jaddi’s wrist. ‘Seriously,’ Lizzie said, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘What we’re doing is … is insane.’ A brief moment of relief washed over her. Finally, she began to voice the fears that had been haunting her for weeks.
Jaddi pulled her hand out from Lizzie’s grip and touched her arm. ‘It’s a bit late to put the lid back on that can of worms, don’t you think? I know it feels out of control, but if you think about it, nothing has really changed. You’re worrying about the breakfast interview, that’s all.’
‘What about Samantha?’
Jaddi’s shoulders dropped. For a moment, the bravado her friend wore like perfume was gone. ‘You know as well as I do that this was the only way we—’
The door to the dressing room flew open.
‘Only way we what?’ Samantha asked.
Samantha
Samantha’s mobile buzzed in her hand, almost slipping out of her grip as it vibrated against the layer of sweat forming on her palms.
Jaddi mumbled a reply to her question, but Samantha didn’t hear the words. The dressing room and her friends fell away as her concentration fixed on the incom ing message and its sender.
My flat. 1pm. We’re all set xxx
The