Heather, Ginny, Edna and Eric wore a variety of expressions ranging from blank to terrified.
“Sounds fun,” Loretta said, mischievously. “It’s my eighteenth birthday in two days’ time. Time to celebrate.”
“Come on,” Curtis pleaded. “Make a poorly guy happy. I’ll foot the bill. My treat.”
And the thing was, after they’d all pushed him into revealing his heartache, how could anyone refuse?
24
Rooftops
Curtis
Curtis perched on the edge of his bed and spun his cap in his hands. Spilling his guts hadn’t been on his agenda. He’d had a firm handle on things and didn’t need anyone’s sympathy. He’d had enough of that from hospital staff to last a lifetime, and he didn’t want any chance of his insurance company finding out he’d traveled overseas with a terminal illness.
His plan had been to chillax in Italy, soak up some sun and eat great food. If Ginny was offering to provide it for free, that was even better.
Throughout his life, Curtis had never been averse to taking advantage of folks’ generosity. He’d had to forge his own way in the world after losing both his parents in his early twenties. They were in their midforties when they had him, having given up on being able to have children, so it had been like a miracle when he was born. He supposed they’d spoiled him throughout his childhood, doting on him like he was a little prince.
Because of their ages, Curtis had always expected to lose them sooner rather than later in life, but nothing had prepared him for such an early loss and how hard it hit him.
As an only child, he’d had to clear out and sell the family home on his own, whittling down his parents’ furniture and belongings until there were only a few photos, his dad’s fountain pen and mum’s wedding ring left. He’d put the house on the market at a ridiculously high price and learned how to charm prospective buyers. The rush he got when he sold the house, at well above market value, was like no other and selling houses became Curtis’s thing.
He hadn’t earned many qualifications at school and learned his trade on the job. His easy manner and chatty way with words meant he could befriend anyone from any walk of life, from bank managers to plumbers. One of his ex-girlfriends described him as a rough diamond and Curtis was fine with that. He was happy doing what he did without being all polished.
He set his sights on the outer areas of the city, where housing was run-down and cheap. If owners fell on hard times, he offered to pay cash for their properties. He installed budget kitchens, basic bathrooms and carpets and resold the houses pronto, making a profit. Curtis moved into more prestigious areas, too, developing a neat property portfolio. Wheeling and dealing were his way of making a living and getting things done. Although they weren’t here any longer, he wanted to make his parents proud.
Curtis’s business quickly grew. He bought a fancy office but didn’t occupy it much, preferring to get out and about, checking out properties and sealing deals. He celebrated his bigger triumphs with a bottle of champagne in his outdoor Jacuzzi with a view of the city rooftops. If a pretty girl agreed to join him, even better.
One day, he wanted one of those prestigious blue plaques on the wall of his apartment to signify historical importance—Curtis Dunne lived here.
As Curtis reached his midthirties, he watched his friends settling down, buying houses in the suburbs and having kids. He noticed the people dancing in clubs were getting younger. His life of working, partying and hooking up suddenly seemed like a sandwich with a lack of filling and he started to think about the future. A nice wife and a couple of kids suddenly appealed to him.
But then he’d developed headaches that made his head feel like a huge church bell, with the clapper continually striking the bronze rim. Sometimes the pain in his skull was so great he crouched in the corner of his bathroom with his arms cradling his head, dizzy and nauseated.
Curtis initially attributed it to the amount of booze he consumed. He was rarely without a bottle of lager, pinot noir or champagne in his hand. He cut down on the demon drink but still fell over in his kitchen, scoring a black eye when his forehead hit the worktop, when he was totally sober.
He’d laughed when a doctor had first told him about the tumor. It couldn’t be true. Curtis didn’t even believe it when he saw the results of his MRI scan. A gray-white mass on the image looked like a small floret of cauliflower, so harmless. Surely, it couldn’t bethatserious.
He told himself he was invincible, that the docs would be able to zap the cancer and decimate it.
Except the bad news kept coming. The wordsmonths not years,chemotherapyandprolonging lifecame at him like army tanks with their guns pointed in his direction.
He’d initially dealt with his diagnosis by throwing himself into work, going out at night and sleeping with too many women, until he realized it was making him feel worse.
Going in the opposite direction, he started to drink coconut water and introduced kale into his diet. He grew nostalgic and bought clothing brands he used to wear in his teens: Reebok, GAP and even a G-Shock watch. He revisited his favorite hip-hop tracks from the nineties and bought an iPod on eBay.
Each time Curtis went to a hospital appointment, he convinced himself his condition would have improved. The doctor would scratch his head and say, “My word, this is incredible. Your tumor has completely vanished.”
And Curtis would raise his finger and blow on the end in victory.
But when the news grew ever graver, Curtis tried to cheer up the doctors and nurses. “Come on guys, it could be worse. I’m still standing and looking good.”
His words didn’t raise any smiles.
Eventually, it dawned on Curtis that there was no holding back the inevitable. His diagnosis was a mix of bad luck and biology, nothing he’d personally done wrong.
It was difficult to accept he’d never meet someone to read newspapers and enjoy a cup of tea with, like his parents had done, something he’d once thought was lame. He’d never get married, or take his child to play football in the park. His thirty-eight years on earth would be snuffed out like a candle flame between damp fingers, with a small hiss and a wisp of smoke.
