important that I don’t understand. She’s the brains behind us. I work in public relations for a confectionary company.’
‘So we have a lot of chocolate kicking about,’ Samantha chipped in.
Jaddi grinned. ‘It never lasts long though, does it? And Lizzie, she …’ Jaddi faltered. The smile remained on her face, but the glow behind it had gone.
Another ripple, Lizzie thought with a pang in her chest. She slipped her hand inside Jaddi’s. ‘I was working as an office administrator up until last summer,’ Lizzie said, ‘whilst I figured out what it was that I wanted to do. I’d just started teacher training when I got ill again.’
Tim nodded. ‘Can you tell us about your tumour, Lizzie? I must admit I wasn’t expecting you to look so well.’
‘Thank you.’ Caroline’s words echoed around her head. Speak slowly, be clear, no medical jargon. ‘My tumour is called a benign low-grade meningioma, which doesn’t mean much, except that it’s slow-growing and it’s not cancerous. Generally speaking, these tumours are relatively easy to treat with either surgery or radiotherapy, or both. I should know as this is my fourth one. But it’s a problem this time because of its position in the brainstem.’ Lizzie paused and touched the nape of her neck. Her fingers brushed the prickles of hair that had started to grow back.
Should she describe the radiotherapy? How she’d been bolted to a table by a white mesh mask, the claustrophobia so overwhelming that it had stolen the breath from her lungs. How she’d wanted to scream but couldn’t because the mask was fixed so tightly to her face that she couldn’t open her mouth. Did people want to hear that? She guessed not.
‘The brainstem is the part of my brain which controls my breathing and tells my heart to beat. Any surgery to remove the tumour would destroy the brainstem. Something the tumour will do itself in a few months.’
Frankie touched her ear. ‘My producer is telling me that we’re almost out of time. So I just have one more question for you, Lizzie. As you mentioned, your story has reached many of the national newspapers. How does it feel to be considered a role model to others suffering with terminal illness?’
Role model? Lizzie pulled in a sharp intake of air and tried not to wince from the explosion of pain in her head. The only answer teetering on the tip of her tongue was the truth. ‘I’m not a role model. The truth is that I …’ Her eyes felt drawn to the camera. She stared into the screen and imagined the people sat on their sofas watching her, her parents and Aaron included. ‘I feel lucky,’ she stammered.
Frankie smiled. ‘It’s clear this must be very difficult for you to talk about, Lizzie, but I don’t think any of our viewers would use the word lucky to describe your situation.’
‘Oh, I’m very lucky. This is my fourth brain tumour. The first one, when I was three, was removed by surgery. The second one, when I was nine, was shrunk down to the size of a speck of dust. The third, when I was sixteen was also removed. Most of my life has been about having treatments and operations, and scans. Lots and lots of brain scans. But now … now I’ve been given the opportunity to live.
‘There will be people out there right now, walking down the street, thinking they’ve got years ahead of them. When bam, a bus hits them, and it’s over. I’ve been given a chance to live my dreams. I’ll always be grateful for that, and for all of the people who’ve helped me get here.’
‘Well, you might not see yourself as a role model, Lizzie, but you’re certainly an inspiration. Good luck on your adventures,’ Frankie said, before turning to face the camera. ‘The first episode of Lizzie’s documentary – The Girl with Three Months to Live – will be right here on Channel 6 at nine o’clock this Saturday evening.’
‘Now,’ Tim began, ‘have you ever thought about starting your own business? Up next on the blue sofa, we’ll be chatting with entrepreneur, Anne Thornton-Smith, about how to make your business a success, and more.’
‘We’re out,’ a voice shouted from somewhere behind the cameras.
Four women holding make-up pots and hairbrushes rushed forward, crowding around the presenters like fans vying for an autograph.
‘Well done, girls,’ Caroline said with a smile, ushering them off of the sofa and back to the dressing room.
‘Samantha, Jaddi, you’ve got the day to yourselves. I’ll be waiting at Heathrow check-in at six-thirty to introduce you to your cameraman and to say goodbye. Lizzie, we’ve got some magazine interviews lined up this morning. You’ll get a bit of time to yourself this afternoon.’
A caustic remark lingered, but for once Lizzie didn’t voice it. The final question from the presenter had staggered her. For weeks she’d been swept along in Jaddi’s plans, like a guppy caught in a current, unable to change direction or simply stop, and when she’d been given an opportunity to explain herself, she hadn’t taken it. She could no longer blame Jaddi for whatever lay ahead.
Jaddi
Jaddi stepped through the opening in the revolving doors and instantly found herself barricaded between the glass panels as they jolted to a stop.
‘It’s your backpack,’ a man in a rumpled suit said from the other side of the glass. He raised his eyebrows and muttered something under his breath. Jaddi nodded and moved forwards. The automatic doors whirred back into life for a second before dying once again as her foot nudged the glass in front of her. Bloody hell, why would anyone install revolving doors at an airport? Jaddi pictured the airport security team, sipping cups of tea on their breaks whilst sniggering at her incompetence.
‘You can’t touch the doors,’ the man she’d trapped shouted, throwing his arms in the air.
Jaddi resisted the urge to give him the finger, flashed an apologetic smile, and twisted her body sideways, taking crab-like steps until the opening into the terminal appeared and she moved into the throng.
Voices, laughter and the distant beat of music echoed around the terminal. The whir of suitcase wheels rattled on the floor as men and women in black suits wheeling miniature cases strode purposefully around her. Groups of people sat in huddles on the floor, their luggage strewn around them as they ate sandwiches and salads out of plastic packets.
A movement from her left caught her eye. As she turned, the wheel of a luggage trolley clipped the side of her ankle sending a searing pain up her leg.
‘Sorry, did I get you?’ a red-faced man in a dark polo shirt asked before turning away. ‘Kids, calm down, please.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, rubbing a spot at the bottom of her combat trousers where the pain had already started to dull.
Jaddi watched the father with the overflowing trolley of suitcases take the path of least resistance through the airport as three young children danced and skipped around his legs.
She should be feeling that child-like buzz. Tomorrow she would be in Thailand, absorbing a culture and a history she’d dreamed about since her eleventh birthday, when her uncle Prem had given her a light-up, plastic globe. She’d loved spinning the sphere on its axis until the greens and blues had blurred into one, then stopping it with a jab and reading the tiny place name under her finger. She would go to bed every night dreaming of adventures and undiscovered lands.
Instead, all she could think about was Suk, and their argument. If she could still call it that. Did it count as a fight if they’d repeated the same words over and over for the past year? It had started with raised voices and accusations, but after so long, and with no resolution in sight, their tones had mellowed.
‘We really should get married,’ Suk had said, nuzzling her neck as they’d sat behind the black-tinted glass of one of her father’s town cars.
‘Are