You Me Everything Page 11

  Distracted by what was going on between Adam and me and focused heavily on the pregnancy, I accepted her reassurances. Because at that point, before I knew the truth, the really devastating effects of her condition were yet to come. I convinced myself that Mum was just one of those women who couldn’t sit still and that I must’ve exaggerated my recollection of what’d happened in the car. It was easy to put it to the back of my mind.

  I miss those days. When Huntington’s disease was not part of our daily vocabulary. When I didn’t know that what my mum had was fatal, hadn’t heard it called the cruelest condition known to man. And certainly didn’t know that I had a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the faulty gene that causes it.

  Chapter 26

  Before I discovered that Mum had Huntington’s, my attitude to my own body was the same as most people’s.

  We assume good health is our God-given right, to be taken for granted, as if we’ll always feel this well. Serious illness is meant to be something that happens to other people. People in the newspapers or on Facebook, sharing noble stories and personal battles.

  Only, overnight, we became the other people.

  My mum and dad told me together about her HD diagnosis, a few weeks after Adam and I had split up.

  They sat me down at the big pine table where I’d eaten dinners as a child. I remember their usually spotless kitchen showing unfamiliar signs of neglect. There were coffee cup rings left unwiped on the wood, a small stack of dishes at the sink, a floral tea towel screwed up in the corner by the washing machine, stained with angry splodges of food.

  I was trying to feed William, but he wouldn’t stop crying, his incessant fussing only abating when I stood pacing with him, rocking him back and forth.

  “Here, let me take him,” Mum said as she rose to her feet, and I placed him in her arms. He settled instantly. She looked into his eyes, holding my gorgeous boy, and looked so content that nobody could have predicted what she was about to tell me as she sank into her seat again and rocked him silently.

  “The doctors have found out that I have a condition called Huntington’s disease.”

  I narrowed my eyes, taking in her words. “What?”

  “Have you heard of it?” she asked gently.

  “I think so . . . I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m going to tell you everything I know.”

  When she explained that she had HD, what it was and that there was a 50 percent chance I’d inherit the faulty gene that produces it, it was in straightforward but unflinching terms.

  She was forty-three at the time, too young, I thought, for anyone to have a fatal illness. She was oddly calm when she spoke, serene almost. And although she was effectively telling me the most shocking, cruel joke I’d heard in my life, she didn’t cry. She was saving her tears for later. The effects of the disease will kill my mum, probably sooner rather than later. She’s a fighter by nature, but time is running out for her.

  “There’s a lot to take in, Jess,” she said. “But I want you to know that . . . that no matter how tough things get, we’re all going to be here, for one another.”

  I started sweating. I could feel my skin going clammy and my head getting fuzzy. I felt as though I was having an out-of-body experience, a feeling that, bizarrely, took days to wear off, after which I just cried. Big gulping sobs that wouldn’t stop.

  I spent that evening on the Internet and could probably still recite the first article I read about it, on the website of the Huntington’s Disease Society of America.

  Huntington’s disease (HD) is a fatal genetic disorder that causes the progressive breakdown of nerve cells in the brain. It deteriorates a person’s physical and mental abilities during their prime working years and has no cure. Every child of a parent with HD has a 50/50 chance of carrying the faulty gene.

  Many describe the symptoms of HD as having ALS, Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s—simultaneously.

  Symptoms usually appear between the ages of 30 to 50, and worsen over a 10 to 25 year period. Over time, HD affects the individual’s ability to reason, walk and speak.

  Symptoms Include:

  Personality changes, mood swings & depression

  Forgetfulness & impaired judgment

  Unsteady gait & involuntary movements (chorea)

  Slurred speech, difficulty in swallowing & significant weight loss

  Ultimately, the weakened individual succumbs to pneumonia, heart failure or other complications.

  Only a handful of people know the full details of our situation, Becky and Natasha among them. For everyone else, I’ve avoided putting a name on what Mum’s got, saying vaguely what I said to Adam: that it’s simply a neurodegenerative condition, which everyone seems to conclude is ALS.

  I don’t like being secretive. I know this is something that should be out in the open. My conscience tells me I should be helping to make more people aware of HD, or taking part in runs to raise money for research.

  But until I’ve found the right time to tell William, this is how it has to be.

  I’ve thought long and hard about when I should do it. Whether to drop it into conversation a few times, or sit him down and have a big talk. But it comes down to this: I can’t bear the thought of him knowing about what—potentially—both my future and his may hold when he’s only ten years old.

  I want William to live as a child should—with excitement and optimism, where the only thing he has to worry about is not being able to master a decent kick in soccer.

  Chapter 27

  By the time William’s team has conceded an 18–3 defeat, I’ve managed to have a long text exchange with Dad and undo four months of Grit classes by ordering a platter of calorific delights: saucisson sec served with tangy celeriac coleslaw and darkly crusted bread.

  “I can’t believe we lost,” William says, sloping over despondently.

  “Oh, never mind. Shall I get you a drink?”

  I order an apple juice from Delphine, the young waitress on duty.

  The sun is beginning to sink in the sky, the cascading orange light bathing over the cypress trees and soft hues of the château’s stone walls. The pool is empty but for a lone swimmer doing laps, goggles tight across her face. The dying heat of the day has intensified the fragrance in the air, of cyclamen and thyme.

  “Did Dad think I did well when he came to watch the match?” William asks, as we wait for his drink.

  “He thought you were fantastic.”

  “Did he see me nearly score that goal at the end?”

  I can’t imagine what he’s talking about; as far as I could see, he couldn’t have been further from scoring if he’d been standing in São Paulo.

  “He couldn’t have missed it, William. Well done,” I say enthusiastically.

  I look up and realize Natasha has arrived but has been sidetracked—she’s talking to a guy seated farther along the terrace.

  “You should have a kick around with your dad,” I continue, as Delphine appears with the juice. “He used to be good at soccer. Maybe he can give you a few tips.”

  “Great,” he says with a shrug, guzzling his drink as Natasha walks towards us, with the guy she was talking to next to her, glass of red in his hand.

  “Jess, this is Joshua. He lives near me in Islington. We’re virtually neighbors.” Her eyes bore into mine meaningfully, and I realize via the power of female intuition—or possibly because she couldn’t be less subtle if she’d thrown a brick at my head—that she sees potential in him.

  “Oh, how lovely. Come and join us.” I smile and pull out a chair. “This is William.”

  “Great to meet you.” Joshua has seaside blue eyes and a hard-earned tan that hides the faint bloom of rosy cheeks. He’s slightly pudgy around the middle and a good five years older than Natasha. But he has a nice smile and the kind of thick, neat ha
ir that would make my grandma consider him a dreamboat.

  “I’ll be on the swings,” William announces, skipping off to join the other kids who are hanging about in the play area.

  “I was just trying to persuade Natasha that she’d be right at home in my new flat when she gets back to London.” Joshua grins.

  I frown, wondering what I’m missing, but Natasha laughs.

  “I dabble in property development,” he explains, raising a smooth eyebrow.

  “Ah.”

  “I’m afraid I’m very happy in my place,” Natasha tells him. “And it took me so long to find it, I’m not going anywhere soon.”

  He twists his mouth to one side. “That is a pity. I’ll just have to think of another excuse to see you again.”

  Over the next half hour, they seem to get on famously. This is despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that Natasha doesn’t seem to notice that Joshua’s favorite subject is very clearly . . . Joshua.

  Eventually, when we’ve exhausted topics including his two cars, his house, the antiques business that brings him to the Dordogne, his golfing handicap and his snowboarding trip to Verbier earlier in the year, he looks at his watch.

  “Well, I need to run. But I hope I see you very soon.” She lifts up her hand and waves as he strides away.

  “Do you think he likes me?” she whispers.

  “Yes, I do.” I take a sip of my drink. “Is the feeling mutual?”

  “Well, he ticks all the boxes. Intelligent. Solvent. Well educated. Speaks five languages. Lovely hair. Oh, there’s our neighbor again.”

  I glance up and spot Charlie, his eyes fixed on us. He seems momentarily unsettled by the fact that I’ve caught him looking, before his face breaks into a wide smile.

  Natasha lowers her sunglasses. “You are definitely in there.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  She grins. “So what did Adam have to say after the rafting shambles?”

  I sigh. “He apologized, said he was grateful for everything I do as a mother, that he loves William and only went to that hotel because it was Simone’s birthday and she’d booked it ages ago.”

  She purses her lips and lets out a small hmm sound. “Well, I hope you’re not going to be sucked in by a word of it.”

  “Of course not. What sort of moron do you take me for?”

  Chapter 28

  In the days since Natasha arrived, we’ve developed a little routine that involves rolling out of bed later than William is used to, having a breakfast bigger than he can really stomach then going on a visit somewhere or relaxing by the pool.

  I am there in body, if not entirely in spirit, for these simple pleasures. As soon as my eyes flutter open each morning, I start thinking about Mum, and the rush of thoughts that follow stay with me for the rest of the day, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

  Still, I’m happy to see the arrival of Becky and her family—and if anything is going to drown out the noise crashing in my head, it’s that lot.

  “I might have to keep some of this plonk in your fridge if that’s okay, Jess? I’m not sure there’s enough room in ours,” Becky tells me, as Seb staggers under the weight of a crate of beer. He has the same pale green eyes and playful grin he had at university, but time and three children have made his hair a bit greyer, his skin a bit sallower, his general demeanor more battle worn.

  “What she means,” Seb says, “is that we bought so much booze in the supermarket that the suspension on the car looks as though there’s a kangaroo in the boot.”

  He thumps it down on the table and marches over to give me a bear hug.

  “Oh, I’ve missed you two!” I squeeze him to me.

  “When did I last see you, Jess?” he asks.

  “New Year’s Eve,” I tell him. “Excellent party, by the way—though someone should tell your wife she should’ve grown out of waking up in the bath these days.”

  Becky and Seb’s cottage is some way from where we’re staying, in a workers’ cottage close to the château that was renovated last year. It’s a pretty little place, with old stone walls big enough to accommodate the five of them and smothered in creamy yellow honeysuckle. I peer into the back of their 4x4. It is piled high with pushchairs, toddler equipment, nappies and Barbie dolls. “Traveled as light as I did then?”

  “We really needed a four-ton truck,” Becky says, picking up two bottles of wine, shoving a baby-changing mat under her arm and grabbing a sports holdall. I take a suitcase and follow her.

  Becky’s hair was dyed auburn when we were at university together, and after a flirtation with sixteen or so shades, she’s had a tangle of soft blond waves for the last year. She has gained a little weight, but the curves suit her and the peachy hues of her clear skin and hazel eyes. She’s wearing faded jeans and a slouchy top the color of marsala, with dozens of silver bangles jangling against her arms.

  Despite living in a respectable four-bedroom house in Hebden Bridge, Becky retains the air of someone who wasn’t born to settle down. Maybe I’m basing this on the girl I once knew, who changed university courses twice, moved flats half a dozen times and whose only long-term relationship was with the Student Loans Company.

  At university, Becky and Seb were friends with Adam and me long before they got together romantically. Seb, an economics student from Birmingham, was sweet, shy and, once you’d delved behind the quiet exterior, great fun with that unexpectedly dry brand of humor that makes you spit out your drink. He was beanpole tall, with thick blond hair that sometimes had a life of its own.

  He’d been Adam’s friend ever since they’d met in halls of residence. When I was introduced to him in second year, I quickly came to the conclusion that Seb was a sweetheart, and he still is: a loyal husband, great friend, all-round nice guy and the brother Adam never had.

  My friends’ initial failure to get together wasn’t through lack of motivation on Seb’s part. He adored Becky. Longing radiated from him every time she spoke, his eyes shone with admiration when she laughed and he’d blush when she flirted with him. Sadly, in those days she’d have flirted with a potato if she’d thought it had eyes for her.

  But Seb wasn’t Becky’s type—her type being toxic time-wasters. It was when she was getting over the breakup from yet another beautiful shithead that one of us got tickets to see Oasis play at the City of Manchester Stadium.

  That night, we got nicely stoned, and high on the music and a life we recklessly assumed would always be that easy and that good. Adam slid his arms around me in the dusky half-light, and as the uproarious guitar strings of “Champagne Supernova” throbbed through me, something caught my eye. Seb had slipped his hand into Becky’s. I could see him furtively checking to see if she was going to pull away.

  But a faint look of surprise had appeared on her face. She must’ve realized before that moment what he felt for her. But his boldness seemed to place him in an entirely new light. As music filled our ears, the heady smells of summer in the city drifted around us, and two of my favorite people finally found each other.

  “Becky, have you got a minute?” Seb calls from inside. She sighs and starts to stagger in faster with the wine, where we discover James and Rufus having a loud debate about who hit whom first, while Poppy has a tantrum on the floor.

  “What’s up with Poppy?” Becky asks over the din.

  “There’s no telly so she can’t watch Peppa Pig,” Seb replies, rubbing his head.

  Becky’s shoulders deflate, before she squats down in front of her daughter. “Right, Poppy.” Her voice is calm, authoritative and enough to scare even me. “If you carry on like that you’ll go on the naughty step.”

  “It’s a bungalow,” Seb reminds her, before turning his attention sternly to the boys. “You two: enough.”

  They don’t even register his presence.

  “BOYS. THAT’S ENOUGH!
”

  I’ve never heard Seb raise his voice before. “Look, you’re meant to be on holiday. And that means getting along nicely with each other. Now, I want you to both tell me, quietly and calmly, what the problem is.”

  “HEDIDITFIRST—NOHEDID—BUTHEHITMEAND—I HATEHIMAND—”

  “STOP!” Becky interjects, pushing Seb out of the way, before telling both of them to go and sit on opposite sides of the room. They start arguing about which is the best side.

  “It’s been like this since we left home,” Becky tells me.

  “It’s been like this since 2012,” Seb corrects her.

  Becky sighs. “Well, the place seems lovely. And Seb can’t wait to see Adam.”

  Seb and Adam have stayed friends over the years, but not in the same way Becky and I have. We call and text each other all the time and make the effort to get together at least every few weeks. Seb and Adam have stayed in touch only in that way men do: by commenting on Facebook posts, going on stag dos and buying a pint for each other if life happens to lead them to the same general vicinity.

  “Adam’s in demand,” I tell her. “He’s got a new girlfriend.”

  “There’s always a new girlfriend,” she says dismissively. “Seb’s been introduced to dozens over the years and couldn’t tell you the name of a single one.”

  “Matilda,” he interrupts.

  “What?” she mutters.

  “Matilda,” he repeats. “I remember her.”

  “Was that the classical cellist with a figure like Jessica Rabbit?” Becky asks. “Can’t imagine why she’d stick in your mind.”

  “You know how much I love Stravinsky.” He grins.

  Chapter 29

  Given the journey Becky, Seb and the kids have endured, Natasha and I offer to host a barbecue for dinner. So we head to the nearest supermarket in the afternoon to stock up on burgers, sausages, a couple of steaks and another unidentifiable meat-based product that the lady at the counter was under the misapprehension we wanted. It felt too difficult to put her right.