Page 50 of While I’m Still Here

Times I have told myself this is a terrible idea today: 6.

Times that have made me want him less: 0.

Chapter 9

CANCER CLUB

Beatrice ‘Bea’ James

Age: Thirty.

Tumours: 1. Greedy little bastard.

Hospital appointments attended: 2.

Hospital appointments enjoyed: Absolutely fucking 0.

Best friends brought to hospital: 1.

Best friends currently carrying my handbag: 1.

Times he has complained about carrying it: 4.

Times he has actually handed it back: 0.

Cancer support groups I intend to attend: 0.

Likelihood someone is about to ruin that statistic: High.

There are few things less dignified than sitting in a hospital waiting room while your best friend, recent sexual partner and possible boyfriend holds a handbag containing three emergency tampons—as if having cancer isn’t enough, God decided that you’re still supposed to bleed once a month—a half-eaten packet of Polos and a pair of knickers you forgot were there.

I know this because I’m living it right now.

Colin sits beside me with my handbag wedged between his trainers and one hand wrapped around a cardboard cup of coffee he’s repeatedly described as a crime against humanity. I gave him the bag when we arrived because I needed to take off my coat, and apparently he’s since accepted custody of it. It looks ridiculous against his jeans and trainers, all oversized flowers and gold buckles, but he’s made absolutely no attempt to give it back. “What?” he asks, after he notices I’ve been staring.

“Nothing. Just think it suits you,” I huff out a laugh.

Colin glances down between his legs. “I think it brings out my eyes, truly. Don’t you think?”

“It does. You should keep it.”

“I’d rather keep the Polos.”

“Colin Fletcher, have you been going through my bag?” I gasp.

“You told me to find your phone.”

“That was implied temporary access. Not a free-for-all for you to be a snoop.”

He takes another sip of coffee and immediately grimaces. I have no idea why he keeps drinking it after saying it tastes like burnt soil, but watching him repeatedly forget he hates it is the most entertaining thing I’ve found in this waiting room.

A significant improvement since I was last here, but then again, it’s not like I’m going to walk in there and have them tell me I have breast cancer again.

I know I have breast cancer. They know I have breast cancer. My mother has made sure half of Britain knows I have breast cancer. Carol knows I have breast cancer.

It’s like herpes.

Titty herpes.