I take a deep breath. Here goes. ‘Right. My current headaches are that my mum’s been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer, just this week, and as the entire world is aware, Jackson appears to be shagging his gorgeous co-star fromVet, and the paps won’t give me or the kids a moment of peace.’
I pinch the bridge of my nose as the others respond in horror. Stacey lunges forward and envelops me in a huge, heavenly-scented hug.
‘That guy is such a douche. I know he’s divine, and he’s JacksonJamesfor chrissakes, but he needs to grow the fuck up and remember he has a wife and kids. Get your nasty little pit-bull-fixer-guy to take care of it for you, and I amsosorry to hear about your mom, sweetie. That’s just awful. What do you need—what we can we do to help?’
‘Thanks.’ It’s lovely to be held and heard, and to be in this safe place with my girls. I feel my shoulders drop a little as Stacey releases me. ‘Ally and I are still reeling, to be honest. As is Mum. But Elaine said her son’s going to drop in later—he runs a hospice, apparently.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Stacey winks at Elaine. ‘The delicious Dr Noah. He’s just what you guys need. Seriously, wait till you see him.’
‘Keep your paws off my darling son, Stacey Fisher.’ Elaine’s tone is steely, but she returns the wink.
We work our way around the circle of women. Siobhan Quinn, event planner extraordinaire, has split up from her husband and is struggling to cope with the huge onslaught of events requests that have popped up from so many top brands as restrictions have eased and face-to-face socialising has become possible again. Astrid’s dealing with a similar ramp-up in demand for her clothes, which is a high-quality problem.
And wonderful Evelyn Macleod, who I secretly hero-worship, just beams and hugs her glass and tells us she has everything under control. Evelyn is one of the most impressive humans I know. She was one half of a celebrity power couple—a bit like me and Jackson—when her very attractive husband, Seb Macleod, got outed as gay by the paps a couple of years ago.
Evelyn and her little boy fled down to her friends’ gorgeous resort, Sorrel Farm, in Kent, and promptly fell madly in love with the farm’s even more gorgeous farm manager, Angus. She and Angus are now married, and last year they added a baby daughter to their family. Evelyn is now the farm’sCommercial Director and is in the process of turning it into a mega-brand. It’s one of my favourite retreats.
I’m in awe of how endlessly smiley and upbeat Evelyn always seems to be, in the face of everything life has thrown at her in the past few years. Her personality seems to be in stark contrast to mine. I feel like a bag of nerves, even at the best of times.Neuroticis how I’ve been described in the press.Fragile. More than once. And I know I do a worse job than others of holding it together, of juggling all the balls, of wearing my privilege lightly and shrugging off the first-world problems and worries and scandals that instead seem to bear down on me all too heavily.
But life seems particularly exhausting at the moment, and as I stand there and drink in the heady company of these incredible women, it’s easy to feel fragile and neurotic and inadequate and bloody exhausted. Despite how much I need this evening and this camaraderie (and this champagne), I also need a teeny little break to catch my breath. Gather my thoughts. Be totally alone. And so, after a few minutes of fielding lovely and well-meaning commiserations about Mum and Jackson, I slip off for a moment, to the little powder room downstairs, to pull myself together.
CHAPTER 3
Noah
Istick my head around Mrs Barrowman’s door. She’s propped up on her pillows, fast asleep, catching flies. The sash window is fully open, and the fine voile curtains flutter in the breeze. The hum of traffic and voices and birdsong carries through from outside, but I suspect they provide white noise rather than a disturbance. I smile and nod, even though she’s blissfully unaware of me, and carry on my farewell rounds.
Today has been a good day at the Good Vibes hospice. The weather is so beautiful that all our guests (never patients, always guests) have been able to have their windows wide open, and this has meant that those too weak to leave their rooms can still enjoy the dreamy chords from the string quartet that my team arranged to come and play in the building’s garden this afternoon.
We do as much of that kind of thing as possible. Everyone’s here because there are very few other realistic options open to them. Some guests have tried everything and nothing has worked, some got remissions and extended life spans that are now in the past, and some have declined treatment on thebasis that they don’t want their last months on this earth to be spent in a hospital bed, with tubes everywhere.
But my team and I are determined that this is not a place to wait around to die. No matter how compromised their circumstances, no matter how much the quality of life they’re used to has been relentlessly chipped away, our guests are still living, and these last few days or weeks or months of life should bemoreprecious, and more magical, than before their illness, notless. Even if what a person defines as magical or precious now, in these final moments, varies greatly from how they would have defined those qualities when they were in full health.
The staff members at Good Vibes aren’t just doctors and nurses. I hope we are friends and family and magicians and counsellors and holders of hands and whisperers of comfort and bearers of tea. Lots and lots of tea. And the building itself isn’t a facility so much as a guesthouse, where medical equipment is state-of-the-art but as unobtrusive as possible, and great care and expense has gone into the furnishings and lighting and artwork, and we’ve designed every detail to soothe and delight and uplift and inspire. For a place people go to die, Good Vibes is a surprisingly happy place.
And indeed, guests and family members and friends always profess their amazement that it isn’t depressing or scary or even apologetic for its mere existence, but rather a joyful and peaceful sanctuary where gratitude and the power of human connection reign.
Sure, there are really tough days when guests leave us and their loved ones are unprepared and devastated and wrung-out. But I always find that facing up to death, and grief, and the undeniable fact of our own mortality, is the biggest step we can take to fully appreciating this human experience with which we’ve all been blessed. There’s a reasonmemento moriis the motto of so many people.
I’m thankful it’s been an easy, lighthearted day, because I’m due at Mum and Dad’s for a quick drink. If I’d had a tough, draining day of assuming the pain and bewilderment of others, I’d probably make my excuses. But as it is, my steps are light as I run down the shallow main staircases and pop my head around the open doorframe of the nurses’ station to say good evening.
It’s a beautiful evening, and the short walk down from Avondale Park, where Good Vibes is based, through Holland Park to High Street Ken, where Mum and Dad live, is a real pleasure. Apart from a quick bask in the afternoon sun when the string quartet was playing, I haven’t really been outside today.
I cut down through enchanting Clarendon Cross, home to my parents’ favourite London restaurant, Julie’s. The outdoor dining space is full, and the fairy lights strung across the trees will undoubtedly have their moment later, when dusk falls, rendering this little corner of London as pretty as a Working Title movie set.
I stroll down Portland Road, past endless narrow but immaculate townhouses, and once I’m over the main Holland Park Avenue, I’m into the realm of serious money, where enormous stucco-fronted villas border the park.
Oh, to have a hospice here! We could take the patients into Holland Park and sit with them for hours in the Kyoto Garden. But these villas are tens of millions of pounds, and unless your surname is Beckham, they’re not an option. Avondale Park works great as a location for us. It’s far less posh than the surrounding areas, which means it’s actually a (just about) viable base for Good Vibes, but it’s nestled right up close to some of the most impeccable and privileged streets in London.
Mum mentioned that one of her friends’ mothers has just received a terminal pancreatic cancer diagnosis and she asked if I could pop along to talk to her. I’m not clear which friend.Mum runs in some pretty glamorous, impressive circles. Dad does too, but he’s far more introverted than Mum and tends to leave the socialising to her. Mum’s zest for life has never waned, and she has more energy in her sixties than he’ll ever have. Her girlfriends tend to be as accomplished and driven as her.
I socialise with my parents as little as possible, not because I don’t love them, but because being around people who are dying all day means that all you want at the end of a shift is a quiet pint in a beer garden or a home-cooked meal at a friend’s house while their kids run around the kitchen table. You want humanity, not high-octane glamour. Not that Mum’s friends are remotely vacuous—no one could call them that. These women—the ones I’ve met, anyway, like Stacey and Evelyn—are powerhouses. They run circles around me.
The park is so gorgeous that I can’t face leaving it just yet. I find a bench overlooking the formal flower gardens and flop down onto it. Its wood has been wonderfully warmed by the sun. I shut my eyes and tilt my head towards the evening rays. There aren’t many better human experiences than the feeling of the sun on one’s face. I can’t wait to get to France next week.
After a couple of minutes of catching rays, I open my eyes. There’s an abandoned Evening Standard on the bench next to me, lying face-up. On the cover is a grainy photo of Honor Chapman crossing the street, head down. She has her son with her; he’s in his school uniform. There are two faces inset next to her—Jackson James and that actress, Leila whatever-her-name. The headline screamsHONOR DEVASTATED BY JACKSON’S LATEST FLING.
For fuck’s sake. That guy is such a twat. A great entertainer, that’s for sure—apparently he even does most of his own stunts—but a useless fucking husband. What the hell is he thinking? He has literally the world’s most beautiful wife,and he cannot seem to keep it in his pants. Not that the papers usually come out and say that, but you can’t avoid the consistent rumours about him if you move in certain circles in West London.
