Page 52 of While I’m Still Here

“You can't possibly.”

“It's pink, and you're smiling sympathetically. Whatever you're about to suggest, I'm not doing it.” Beside me, Colin makes a suspicious choking noise. I turn on him. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours.”

“Didn't sound like it.”

“I coughed.”

Claire ignores us both and holds the leaflet towards me. I reluctantly read the heading.

BREAST CANCER SUPPORT GROUP

Absolutely fucking not.

I look at Claire. “No.”

“You might find it helpful.”

“I might find cocaine helpful. Nobody's giving me a leaflet for that.”

Colin rubs a hand over his face. Claire, to her credit, doesn't even blink. “It's just a space where people at different stages of diagnosis and treatment can talk to each other.”

“That sounds horrific.”

“You don't have to talk.”

“So I can sit silently?”

“If you want.”

“Can I leave whenever I want?”

“Yes,” she nods.

“Can I complain?”

“I'm beginning to suspect you'd do that whether I gave permission or not, but it is a support group, Beatrice.”

I stare at her. Colin laughs properly this time. Claire sits in the chair opposite us, and I know from the movement that she's about to become reasonable, which is far more dangerous than if she'd simply ordered me to go.

“A lot of people find the first few weeks particularly isolating,” she explains. “You've got people around you, which is good, but sometimes it's easier to say certain things to someone who's been through it themselves.”

My instinct is to tell her that I have Colin, Mum and now apparently Carol, whoever the fuck Carol is. But the joke doesn't quite make it out because I understand what she means.

Colin can sit beside me at every appointment. Mum can ring me twelve times a day. Danny can deliberately stare at my tits because I've told him I don't want him behaving differently. None of them knows what it feels like to wake up and remember there is something malignant inside their body.

I hate that Claire has a point.

I hate it so much that I take the leaflet from her.

“One,” I say, holding up a finger, and Claire smiles. “Don't look so fucking pleased with yourself, woman.”

“I wasn't.”

“You were.”

“I'll try to control myself,” she says.