Page 7 of While I’m Still Here

Of fucking course.

I look down at myself. I’m topless, crying, and cancerous. My phone is ringing, my tea is probably cold, and my bins are unemptied.

Current status:

Cancer: still have it.

Mental breakdowns: one.

Dignity: who is she? Declared missing, presumed dead.

Chapter 2

Thursday, 7:42 p.m.

Age: Thirty-something.

Weight: None of your fucking business.

Alcohol units: Not enough for the day I’m having.

Tumours: 1. Greedy little bastard.

Boyfriends: Technically 0.

Men I would currently like to sit on: 3.

Chances of making sensible decisions following cancer diagnosis: Deteriorating rapidly.

Chapter 3

SEVEN FUCKING YEARS

Colin Fletcher

Bea doesn’t answer the phone.

This isn’t unusual. Bea has never considered a ringing phone to be an urgent matter; if anything, she treats it more like a polite suggestion. One she is perfectly entitled to decline, depending on whether she’s watching television, washing her hair, eating, sleeping, reading, staring into space, or simply doesn’t fancy speaking to another human being.

I once watched her watch her phone ring while she was holding it. When I asked why she didn’t answer, she looked at me as though I’d asked why she wasn’t licking the pavement and simply replied, “Because I don’t want to.”

I let it ring when I call again.

Once, twice, three times.

“Come on, Bea,” I mutter as I tap away at the keyboard in front of me.

Four, five. I almost hang up, then she answers. “What?” she snaps.

I smile immediately. There she is. “Lovely to hear your voice too.”

“Colin.”

Something about the way she says my name makes my smile disappear. I sit straighter behind my desk. “What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she answers immediately.

Bullshit. I’ve known Beatrice James for twenty-two years. I met her when we were eight years old, and she told me my packed lunch smelled like feet.