From my first breath, I was destined to be a freak. The signs were there in my childhood, concerns as I grew up, narrowing down to a vanishing point of the here and now, where everyone in the room is staring, waiting for me to speak. An awkward cough here, the clearing of a throat there, a chair leg scraping over the wooden floor as someone shifts, all absorbed by the expectant silence of the small community hall.
The circle of twenty or so plastic chairs cups me as I prepare to talk. Once, that would have made me too self-conscious to speak, but instead it comforts. I know the deepest, darkest secrets of all the people looking at me, leaning forward to catch every word. They know mine, too – or a sanitised version, anyway. This is a safe space created for confession. Still, I’m trying to decide how much truth to tell. This started as little white lies. Then the white turned to a black blight that blotted out everything, running out of control.
My name is Alex Appleby. I’m 44. I’m a dressmaker… The words are so clichéd I can’t help silently sounding them in my head before I take the plunge. A deep preparatory breath assaults my nose with the smell of Pledge and Windolene. I suppress a sneeze, then speak.
‘I’m a liar. Well, a recovering anorexic, and all I did during my illness was lie to cover my tracks and keep my addiction alive.
‘“I ate earlier, and I’m still stuffed.”
‘“I’m saving myself for my big meal tonight.”
‘“That was so tasty, I’ve scoffed the lot” – this one, incidentally, is the best: I always had the food hidden in a napkin, or my pockets, or my handbag.
‘It’s only just occurred to me, now I’m recovering, how many lies have been told to everyone who cares about me. I’m ashamed. I always thought of myself as an honest person. Of course, that could be a lie, too.’
My laugh is self-deprecating, and my audience take their cue, faces breaking into smiles.
The support group started out when the leader, Jackie, had been in a car accident and found it hard to cope. She’d wanted to talk to others who’d suffered a similar trauma but hadn’t been able to find a group locally. Being a bustling force-of-nature type who, once she makes up her mind about something, won’t let go of the idea, she started this one herself. Her second member had been Lainey, who had joined because she’d been mown down while on a pedestrian crossing and suffered flashbacks; but she was also grateful because as a result of the accident, doctors had diagnosed her pancreatic cancer early enough to save her life easily. Eventually, Lainey left, but not before recruiting first me – after we got chatting one day in the hospital café, over in Newcastle – and then Carrie, a fellow cancer sufferer, although hers was breast.
There were other members, too, who had been through all sorts, from rape to bereavement to the shock of being burgled. Jackie didn’t mind that her group had morphed into support for people who had been through all manner of trauma, rather than only for accident victims. It was nice for all of us to share in the group, getting to know each other. Even though our experiences were so different, at the root of our issues were similar emotions: fear, anger, difficulty in coping, the urge to pretend to be strong as we fell apart. Dealing with the change in the way people reacted to us. The sense that our lives were split into Before and After.
In the circle, I seek out Carrie’s reaction to my words. She grins, gives me a double thumbs up of encouragement, still unaware that I, her new best friend, have other lies that involve her. There’s an ulterior motive in taking her under my wing.
My words are for her more than anything, warning her I’m not all that I seem.
‘I haven’t just fibbed to others, I’ve failed to be honest with myself – some of the biggest lies people tell are to themselves,’ I add. ‘At my lowest, even my own body tricked me. My starving carcass released endorphins, chemicals designed to make me feel good, to mask the pain it was in and help keep me going. Giving up that rush is hard, and now I’m no longer in the grip of my eating disorder it’s a struggle without those endorphins. I need to find something else that can fill that hole and make me feel good about myself, but what, and how?
‘At my worst, I hallucinated, my eyes literally deceiving me. After three days without food or sleep, I thought I was caged in a red and white circus tent, like something from a freak show, while an audience trailed past me, pointing and laughing. It felt so real. See how easily we can deceive ourselves into accepting an altered reality? The doctors told me it was most likely caused by an electrolyte disturbance, probably due to inadequate nutrition. Whatever it was, I was so delirious that two nurses had to hold me down. That was when I was at rock bottom.’
The memory makes me feel shame at how low I’d reached, but also pride at how far I’ve come. Everyone is silent, intent as priests at confession. Carrie nods at me.
‘At one point, my twins appeared at my bedside to say they could no longer cope with seeing me kill myself. “Why aren’t we enough for you to live for?” my son, Edward, asked. God, he looked so hurt and angry. How could I find the words to explain that he was enough for me to live for? That when he’d left, I’d lost my reason to live. That by trying to find my own identity again I stumbled down this rabbit hole and fell into some kind of weird other world where the only thing that mattered to me was food. I had something I could control again. Something that no one else could mess with.
‘There is good news, though: I’m finally starting to climb out of this hole and see that there is more to life. I’m seeing the damage done and trying to repair it. I’m determined to get better. This week I put on another two pounds, and am feeling really proud.’
A ripple of clapping spreads and grows as I sit down. After several beats, Jackie speaks, her Belfast accent softened after years of living here in Tynemouth.
‘Members, thank you so much for taking part tonight. Some of us have had a tough week.’ She nods at Pat, who is dreading her birthday in a fortnight, the first since her husband, James, died. ‘Others have had a more positive one. Some have spoken, some have had the strength only to listen. Together, we support and celebrate every step. Long may it continue. Have a good week, everyone.’
With murmured thanks, people stand, break into groups, drift away. Outgoing and chatty, Carrie normally stays behind after the meeting has finished. Actually, she usually persuades us all to go to the pub for a ‘liquid debrief’, despite it being a Monday night. She’s the type of person who, at a party, dances on tables, whooping and doing shots. I’m the type who sits in the corner, watching and worrying someone will fall off the furniture and hurt themselves.
Tonight, though, Carrie’s slim body slips quickly through the crowd of fellow confessors, and through the door that says ‘emergency exit only’ but is permanently propped open. I see her expression reflected in the glass before she passes through the opening into the car park. She is biting her lip, frowning. I’m sure she catches my eye for a moment and sees me behind her, but doesn’t slow, even as I hurry to catch up.
‘Carrie, fancy some company?’
She stops, turns, but as I approach it’s clear to see her shoulders have risen, even if she doesn’t realise it. She doesn’t want to stop, but can’t think of a polite way of ignoring me, obviously. I’m pushing myself in where I’ve no place, I know, and consider making my excuses and leaving her alone, as she so obviously wants. But I also know from bitter experience that sometimes it’s when we need people that we’re most likely to isolate ourselves. It can be dangerous for someone like me, an anorexic, who hides everything all the time. So many skeletons in my closet. Carrie isn’t a recovering anorexic, though, I remind myself. Still, I can’t help sticking my nose in and hoping it won’t get bitten off.
Just in case she needs me.
My skeletons won’t let me do anything else.
Now I’ve caught up with Carrie, she’s had time to plaster a smile on her face. It’s not enough to remove the small line between her barely-there eyebrows that peeps below her green and white bobble hat. An arctic easterly breeze swirls round us, coming off the North Sea that is a few streets away, as we look at each other, awkward.
‘You don’t mind, do you? I’m going your way, so… ’ I trail off.
She laughs to fill the silence.
‘No, that’d be lovely.’ She’s a good liar, almost pulls it off. Only a professional such as myself can hear the tinkle of dishonesty.
Hands deep in pockets, bent against the nose-tingling cold, we walk swiftly in the direction of her house, exchanging chit-chat about the meeting. Although we might seem like a strange pair – she’s only twenty-four – our friendship works, not least because we’ve unconsciously fallen into a mother-daughter role. Right now, my mother’s instinct is on full alert. While I rack my brains about how to raise the subject, we leave behind us the jagged, 2,000-year-old ruin of Tynemouth Castle and Priory, which watches proudly over the east coast and town alike. To my right, and far below, the crashing sea urges me to hurry. We bullet past Percy Gardens, and I’m no closer to a solution, only half an ear on the conversation.
‘Poor Pat, so I thought I’d organise something. What do you think?’ Carrie asks.
‘Great idea!’ My enthusiasm disguises the fact that I’ve no idea what she’s organised. ‘Anniversaries can be tough, I’m sure,’ I add, keeping my comment vague.
Five minutes later, having spent the entire time discussing Pat, we reach Longsands beach and take a left away from it. I’m running out of time. It’s only as we are about to part ways, and stand beside her garden gate, that I find the courage to be candid.
‘You know, I can tell there’s something wrong. Something you haven’t shared with the group. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but… is everything okay? You know you can trust me.’
Can she, though? Why should she, after everything I’ve done? I shudder at the thought.
‘You’re cold,’ she gasps. ‘Do you want to come in for a minute to warm up before you carry on home?’
I feel a little ashamed at being handed success by her pity, but I’ll take what I can get. Rubbing hands as if to warm them, I nod, and soon we’re inside and she’s offering to make me a cuppa. She doesn’t take her hat off. She says she hates feeling a draught on her bald head, even though it’s now covered in short, baby-blonde hair that looks like a stylish pixie crop. I didn’t know her when she was bald, but I’ve seen photos and she’s got such a delicate face that she still looked beautiful.
The first time I met her, she told me how she’d set fire to her NHS wig in an act of defiance against cancer. ‘God, it felt good seeing that thing melt into the flames. Like I was taking control of my body again, you know, and sticking two fingers up to cancer,’ she’d said, hazel eyes dancing at the memory. ‘’Course, I hadn’t realised how cold I’d be without a covering, so started wearing hats. I never thought I had a face for them until I went bald. Every cloud has a silver lining, eh?’ Then she’d given that infectious, machine-gun-fire laugh.
I lean against the kitchen counter, watching her take out the only two mugs she seems to own. Her two-bed maisonette is sparsely furnished, with no pictures on the walls, or even photographs on shelves. She seems to live on the breadline. There’s a big bunch of flowers in a vase, though. Propped up beside it is a card that reads:
Love you more than words can say, Mum and Dad xx
‘Sorry. About earlier. Putting you on the spot.’ I shrug my thin shoulders apologetically, a move I’m currently well built for. But I’m putting on weight. Slowly. Surely. I’ve no choice, if I’m ever going to get better and stand a chance of gaining my children’s forgiveness.
‘No, Alex, it’s fine. I just… I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it yet, is all.’
She hangs her head, bites her lip again. She always does that when she’s trying to hide something; doesn’t seem to realise she’s doing it, but I’ve studied Carrie a lot. I couldn’t help myself, once I realised the terrible thing I’d done to her. Sometimes teetering on the edge of confession, standing on the precipice, but unable to make that final step forward that will send me free-falling towards the truth. I can’t face seeing Carrie’s expression once she knows. Or the judgement of others, the disgust of my children, even though I deserve it all.
Instead, I do what I do best. Lie.
‘Carrie, please, you know you can trust me. It won’t go any further, if you don’t want it to, but surely sharing is better than carrying this burden alone.’
She nods, teeth clamping down on her lip until the skin goes white.
‘You’re worrying me now,’ I add.
‘Oh, Alex, it’s the cancer. It’s back. And there’s nothing they can do this time.’
No. She doesn’t deserve to die. I do.
The room seems to shift beneath my feet, bucking, trying to make me fall. My fingers cling to the counter edge, curling around it to steady myself.
‘Are—’ My voice sounds thick and scratchy. I clear it, try again. ‘Are they sure?’
‘They told me first thing this morning, it was a real hammer blow. I’ve been in shock ever since. That’s why I didn’t tell you earlier – you’re the first person I’ve had to say the words to. Saying them… it’s like getting the news again. I’m dying. It wasn’t a bad dream.’
‘What about a—’
‘Second opinion? There’s no point, Alex. I’ve seen the scans for myself. It’s everywhere. Everywhere.’
She shakes her head, gives a small sigh. No tears. Her teeth clamp down on her lip so hard in her determination to be brave that a pearl of blood blooms.
Right there and then, I know what must be done. Whatever Carrie wants, Carrie gets. I will make her last days the best she will ever have. Whatever it takes to make her happy, I’ll do. We’ll write a bucket list together, and if I don’t have enough money myself to pay for everything she wants to do, I’ll start fundraising if needs be to make it come true. It is the very, very least I can do. My penance seems minuscule in comparison to my crime.
‘Drinks on a Sunday evening? It’s not like you to be so spontaneous, Alex. I must be rubbing off on you!’
‘Leading me astray, more like.’
‘Well, if this is what a bad influence does, long may it continue. You look good in those jeans, by the way. Told you that you didn’t look like mutton dressed as lamb in them, you idiot – glad you listened to me. Wish you’d gone for another colour, though. Is that top new, too?’
It is. I’m wearing black jeans, black boots, black suede jacket, and have just realised my new top is also…
‘The label describes it as onyx,’ I say.
Carrie herself is a kaleidoscope of colour in her multihued, floaty dress, which is a firm favourite from the charity shop.
‘Well, the outfit matches your hair,’ she laughs.
Actually, I’m a very dark brown and have pulled the frizzy mess into a ponytail.
I fake-tut and, with a gentle hand on the small of her back, propel Carrie towards The Priory pub, on the busy main street. Despite being a small town within half an hour of the city of Newcastle, Tynemouth has its own personality as a quaint seaside resort and bustling town that stares out at the North Sea. It’s unique again from the busy fishing quays and more industrial feel of North Shields, down the road. Independent shops, cafés and pubs thrive along the wide streets of pretty Georgian and Victorian buildings.
From the way Carrie’s pushing against my hand, she clearly fancies visiting one of the other pubs – she’s certainly spoilt for choice.
‘It looks dead in there. I can’t hear any noise coming from it.’
‘Well, that’s great, means we’ll have the place to ourselves.’
‘Let’s go somewhere livelier. How about—’
I yank open the door, shove her through.
‘Hey!’
‘Surprise!’ a sea of faces yell.
Carrie jumps a mile, then her face lights up.
Phone calls, emails, hustling face-to-face, it’s been a whirlwind thirteen days launching the fundraiser and organising this surprise party. It’s taken everything out of me, but it’s worth it to see the look of joy on Carrie’s face.
‘Oh, Alex! This is wonderful!’ she gasps.
Originally my idea had been to make Carrie’s dreams come true myself. It had been easy to start a conversation about things she’d have loved to have had the chance to do or see. I’d discovered that she’d always wanted to go on the Orient Express. ‘No murders, though, hopefully!’ she’d joked.
She’d had loads of ideas, in fact. Go to Marrakesh, meet Brad Pitt ‘and snog his face off’, see the Angel of the North and abseil down it, go scuba-diving. She even mentioned that when things had been particularly bad during her treatment previously, she’d made up her mind to organise a big charity run, ‘to give something back’, but had never got around to it.
Beams of enthusiasm had seemed to radiate from her to me, and despite her protestations that, as lovely as these dreams were, she really wouldn’t want the fuss involved in them coming true, I had made an executive decision. I knew I had to make these things happen – although snogging Brad Pitt might be impossible. In fact, that night, I’d hopped onto Twitter, knowing Carrie would never find out, and tagged Mr Pitt, asking if he’d be interested in doing a favour to a dying woman, and attaching a picture of her. He hadn’t replied, but the tweet had got a lot of likes, comments and retweets.
The kindness of strangers had overwhelmed me – and given me a thought. My counsellor at the eating disorder clinic I attend twice a week is always telling me that when there’s a problem I should acknowledge it, and seek assistance to resolve it if necessary. It’s something I generally struggle with, but looking around the buzzing room, I can’t help thinking she’d be proud of me right now, because that’s exactly what I’ve done. Inspired by the reaction on Twitter, I’d set up a Facebook page. It had been the perfect place to organise the fundraiser in secrecy. Clothes shops had donated stock, a beauty salon had given a makeover, then there were massages, chocolates, cakes, a spray tan, a meal in a restaurant, even a weekend in a luxury hotel; a deluge of incredible prizes for the raffle.
Everything was done online so Carrie wouldn’t know a thing until now. The Priory pub has pulled out all the stops for us. The party was organised at such short notice that it hasn’t had time to change its decorations, which are up for the next big celebration, so it’s full of cotton wool cobwebs, skeletons and the occasional pumpkin.
‘Sorry it’s a bit inappropriate—’
‘No! I bloody love Halloween!’ Carrie’s rapid-fire laugh sounds out. To prove her point, she shows me a pink diamanté skull ring she’s wearing on her finger. I bet my daughter, Elise, would like that.
The religious men of the actual priory would have almost certainly disapproved, but as long as the guest of honour is happy, who cares? Perhaps they would have enjoyed it, I muse, as I look around at everyone’s happy faces. After all, they built above the mythical Jingler’s Cave, which is said to be haunted by infernal souls and demons, so they clearly weren’t without a sense of irony.
Disco classics from the 1980s strike up as we move through the crowd. Carrie looks radiant. She’s the centre of attention. I’m so happy my gamble paid off. Well-wishers and friends surround her, and there is so much positivity it’s inspiring.
‘You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. You don’t deserve this,’ says one woman. ‘You’re in my prayers.’
Her friend nods. ‘Keep fighting, we’re all here cheering you, beautiful.’
‘Stay positive and kick cancer’s arse!’ says a third, punching the air.
‘As long as I’m able to kick, I’ll be doing just that,’ Carrie promises.
The first woman cups my friend’s face in her hand. ‘If this isn’t beauty, I don’t know what is. Stay strong!’
As they walk away, Carrie leans over to me. ‘Are your kids coming?’
I scan the room, then shake my head. ‘I didn’t really expect to see them here, to be honest.’
‘Things no better? Surely they’ll calm down eventually and start talking to you again. I thought I’d actually see them tonight.’
‘They’re angry with me. They blame me for their dad leaving.’
‘Well, if they’re old enough to abandon their mum to go and live with their dad, they’re old enough for you to give them a good talking-to. Tell them the truth!’
‘Reasoning with sixteen-year-olds isn’t always easy. The truth is, it’s my fault my family fell apart, okay? There’s no one to blame but me.’ I force myself to take a calming breath. ‘Anyway, tonight’s about you. You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Of course! It’s so kind of you. Seeing all my Tynemouth friends together is all I could ask for.’
If I were dying, I’d want to get in touch with old friends and loved ones and tell them how much they meant to me. I’d want to say goodbye properly and not have any unfinished business. While thinking about that, after hearing Carrie’s news, I’d had a brilliant idea – I’d organise a surprise party for Carrie, invite friends she hadn’t seen since moving to the area. Doing things was nice, and a bucket list is a wonderful thing to have, but for me, life is about love and people more than anything. When sitting on my deathbed, the material things I’d gathered around me, or the places I’d visited would be lovely memories, but what gave my life meaning was my kids. They were my greatest achievement, and what life was all about: love and family.
Carrie doesn’t have kids, but she has lots of love in her life. I’d tried to do some detective work and get in touch with everyone. But try as I might, I hadn’t been able to find an address book to sneak a look at, and Carrie thinks social media is a waste of time, so I’d no way of finding anyone. Not at the speed things had moved, anyway. It means none of her family are at this do, but at least she’s surrounded by Tynemouth pals from the support group, as well as those eager to discover if they’ve won a raffle prize.
Jackie comes over, squeezes my arm, interrupting my thoughts. Although she’s a whisper under 5ft and barely comes up to my chin, she has the type of confidence that makes her seem taller. She almost vibrates with energy.
‘What you’re doing is amazing. I’m in awe of you,’ she whispers. I freeze and shake my head, embarrassed.
‘Organising karaoke and dance nights, or facing death? I know which I’d rather do. This isn’t about me,’ I protest quietly.
‘Of course not, but that doesn’t mean that what you’re doing isn’t incredible. You’re a good person, Alex, feel proud of yourself.’
A good person. What would she say if she knew the truth?
As I’m worrying, the familiar face of local journalist Belinda Edwards appears across the room. She gives a thumbs up and nods to the man next to her, with a camera slung round his neck. I nod back, feeling the warmth of a smile spread inside me.
It had been one of the supermarkets that had suggested I call the local newspaper.
‘We’d definitely be interested in donating. Would it be okay to invite a photographer along? Get a little write-up in the local press? It might encourage more people to donate, on. . .
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