My best friend has just told me she has breast cancer. Lyn sips red wine from a large balloon-shaped glass. Her hair, newly coloured, hangs over her eyes, I can’t see how she feels, her vivid orange hair is hiding her eyes.
‘It’s malignant,’ she says as if spitting out a pip.
‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ I ask while my heart dives to the pit of my stomach. ‘You could have phoned, I would have come.’
She settles back into the sofa, puts her feet up. ‘It started with a normal mammogram, I have one every four years or so, thought nothing of it. They called me back for a needle biopsy.’ Her petite shape looks brittle next to the soft cushions. Her diamonds flash at me as she talks. The light catches her rings and while she moves her left hand around, explaining, the light is flashing white dots against the dark walls of her room.
Her sitting room is stuffed with ‘things’. Cranberry glasses sit on a sideboard, the ornate cupboard holds a collection of antique china, they are on show behind glass doors. Bisque figures in her glass cabinet above the sideboard stare out at me, there are more than a dozen, small and tall, some are pink-faced, some pale with blank expressions, they look like they have been cut short, caught in an act of some kind. All are still, waiting.
‘I’m being very positive about it. Mike not so.’ She puts her glass down. ‘I told him I would tell you tonight. We haven’t told the mums yet.’
The door opens and a waft of garlic hits us. Mike pushes the door fully open with his foot. He places olives and nuts on the table. ‘Nearly ready,’ he says. He refills his glass and returns to the kitchen, shutting the door.
‘He’s started drinking,’ Lyn says. ‘About three bottles a night when we stay in.’ She leans over, picks up an olive. ‘He doesn’t do cancer.’
‘It’s you doing cancer, not him. I’ll have a word before we go to bed,’ I offer. ‘When did you find out?’
‘Last Thursday. After the lumpectomy they’ll know what to do. It will be chemo or radiotherapy afterwards. Depending on what they find Rachel.’ A handful of cashew nuts interrupts her flow.
I have the burden of being the only person who knows. I have the burden of talking to Mike, asking him to support her, go through it with her, and talk about it.
‘He won’t talk about it,’ she says, as if reading my mind. ‘He says it’ll be nothing - they will take it away and abracadabra – all gone.’
‘You know what this week is? Breast cancer awareness week.’
‘Yep, we know that. Does it help? Does it heck?’
The table, behind the sofa, is laid with the finest cutlery. Ivory handled fish knives and forks, dark red napkins are folded over small side plates, silver coasters are waiting to be covered. A spray of red roses is at one end of the table by a silver tray with softening cheese and crisp biscuits. I remember the last time I came for a meal and all this ‘stuff’ was laid out - it felt false - felt not like them, not like Lyn. When they first moved to the green belt we used to eat at the old pine table in the kitchen, pick at food with forks from the pan it was cooked in. My best friend has changed, she’s become what Mike wants her to become - perhaps?
‘Mike’s changed,’ she says, reading my mind again, ‘he’s buying me antiques for birthdays, diamonds for anniversaries. Other stuff when there is no reason for buying it at all. Mike is doing OK – we are doing OK or we were - and he wants everyone to know it. He opened an account at Harrods last month and I filled the house with food from luxurious hampers, wine boxes, and baskets of fruit. It was fun.’ She takes up her glass and sips the red wine. ‘It was fun. For me. He wanted things not food. He was disappointed.’ She sips at the balloon-shaped glass.
Over dinner we chat about days at work, days gone by, when we were training to be doctors. Mike doesn’t join in, he concentrates on the food, serving it up, offering more, opening another bottle and more. We are nearly crying from laughter, remembering all the stupid things we did in training. We relax, become calm, become still – like the bisque in the glass cabinet behind us.
The cheese melts in our mouths, the biscuits snap nosily as we bite into them. The quietness isn’t bad. Not at all. It is good. Mike has to speak soon, if he doesn’t he will be lost.
‘Rachel, will you stay here with us when Lyn comes home from hospital?’ he asks. He has a look about him, a small boy leaving his mother look, going to school for the first time look. ‘Can you? Do you mind?’
‘I’ll stay with you two whenever you want me to,’ I say. ‘But, what…?’
‘No buts,’ he says. ‘It will be good to have you around, you can go for walks, go shopping with Lyn. She’ll be back at work soon after.’ He takes the plates from the table and retreats into the kitchen.
‘See what I mean?’ Lyn says. ‘Ignorance. He thinks, as I’m a doctor, I will be fine. Nothing wrong with me at all.’
We laugh some more before we cry, we go upstairs leaving Mike to clear away.
‘I will wave a magic wand’, she says, holding an arm up with an imaginary wand, ‘abracadabra – all gone - the lump, the breast, then me.’
Tricia cries into my breasts. My healthy breasts.

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