This Beautiful Life

by Katie Marsh

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Abi Cooper is living her happy ending. She's in remission and is ready to make the most of her second chance. But during Abi's illness her family has fallen apart. Her husband John has made decisions that are about to come back to haunt him, while her teenage son Seb is battling with a secret of his own.
Set to the songs on Abi's survival playlist, This Beautiful Life is the moving and uplifting story of what happens as Abi tries to put her family back together - and of why life, and love, are worth fighting for.

Release date: June 15, 2017

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

2nd September, 2014

My boys,

So. Now we know. That whirlwind ambulance to A&E. The pain that was cutting me in two. The shivering in a tiny hospital gown while people investigated parts of me that I normally keep private for a reason. And last week, under the clock that seems to be permanently set to 5 a.m, the surgeon gave me her verdict.

Cancer.

So, it seems I won’t be celebrating my birthday tomorrow with a warm white wine or six at the pub near work. Instead I’ll be flat on my back under bright hospital lights having some lymph nodes and a large section of my colon removed. Party on, people. I wonder what music my surgeon will listen to as she works. Pray to God it isn’t Enya. I know I’ll be under anaesthetic, but I swear I’ll rise up and give them the fright of their lives.

Three weeks ago I was wondering whether I could still squeeze into my silver dress for my big 3-6 tomorrow. Now the world will be saved from that delight, because apparently I have cancer. Even when I see those words written down I can’t bring myself to believe them. I was so convinced I was fine, telling myself I was glued to the loo because of my lifetime addiction to chilli sauce, or blaming my dad’s dodgy home-brew for my apocalyptic stomach pain and for being so tired I was in bed by eight every night.

As I sit here in my favourite chair, I pray that miracles can happen. That I haven’t waited too long. That it hasn’t spread. That I will get my second chance. I want more time with you. Seb and John. My boys. I’m not giving up – I will try and try and try to keep living. But I’m writing this and putting it away for you just in case – in case my story ends now.

Telling you two was the hardest part. I wanted to shield you and instead I had to drag you with me into whatever comes next. Even writing this is so hard. You would think that I of all people would have the words I need. You are always asking me to be quiet, and I never listen. I bubble with words. I love to share. I talk over TV programmes and when you’re trying to hide behind the cereal packets at 7.30 in the morning. But now I have no idea what to say. I need to give you words you can treasure. Words to last a lifetime.

If I have to leave you now, there is so much I will miss. Not the crappy things, like the huge crack in the bathroom ceiling or pretending I know how to iron. But you two – the hearts and the laughs of you. John, I love the way you talk to the car when you think no one’s listening, and the way you can make a party out of a packet of Doritos and some ancient sloe gin. I love the feel of your cheek against mine, your kindness, your incredibly complicated cooking and the way you always pretend to love my latest favourite band.

And Seb. Our beautiful son. I know my exclamations are random at best, but I love screaming your name every week as you sprint around the football pitch, a flask of coffee in my hand and the inevitable rain screwing up my mascara. Thank you for never disowning me, even when all the dads are staring at me like I belong in a padded cell. You are tall enough to lift me up and pat me on the head (SO annoying), but now when I look at you I see the boy who wouldn’t let go of the front gate because he didn’t want to go to school without me. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to let you down. You’re sixteen and strong and I know you currently spend more time with your phone than with me, but I hate the thought of you growing up without me. Of not being there when you need an arm around you, or a smile, or to be told how bloody brilliant you are.

And then there are all the amazing things you’ll do. I don’t want to miss a minute. I want to see your face as your beautiful fianceée walks down the aisle. I want to meet your children – who will be funny and bright-eyed and insanely good with their left feet, just like you. I want to cheer as you get your exam results, or pretend I’m not crying as you cram your beloved football boots into your rucksack and head off on your adventures.

I know you’re both angry that I have cancer. God knows, I am too. People keep telling me how brave I’m being, but the truth is I’m just furious. I keep asking why it’s happening to me – wondering if it’s payback for all those years of cheating on pub quizzes and pretending I had made the biscuits I took to school bake sales. It’s all happening too soon and too fast. But as I sit here listening to Bob Dylan being tangled up in blue, I have faith in you both. I know how much you two will achieve without me if this turns out to be my time.

John – you could finally bike round the British Isles, like you’ve been planning ever since we met. Seb – you CAN date Chloe¨ Grace Moretz (and good taste there, by the way) and become a surgeon, just as you planned aged ten after watching an episode of ER. And if a day comes when it’s just this chair left and I am gone, please go to the shelf and take down the CD I’ve edged in silver. I know, Seb, nobody listens to them any more, but bear with me. You can write in the sleeves of CDs, and that’s exactly what I’ve done. It’s my survival playlist – full of the music that reminds me of the people I want to live for and the life that I don’t want to leave.

So, John, turn off Radio 5 Live – I promise that your heart won’t stop beating. And Seb, I know some of these songs are – whisper it – really old, but bear with me; they are keepers for a reason. They will be with me every day, the soundtrack to the weeks and months to come. The days when I’ll head round the back of the hospital, past the bins and the staff ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ signs, into the world of clinics, chemotherapy and doctors staring at me with the sympathy I have already learnt to dread.

And as you listen to Queen and The Lemonheads, and to Black Beauty galloping home with his head held high, think of the best of me. Please. The moments when I managed to say the right thing, or to cook you a meal without using every single pan. The time when I had you both in hysterics when I put my neck out dancing to ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’. My arms folding around you. And – let’s not get too Hollywood about this – think of the rest of me too. Me shouting at you to pick up the turkey sharpish, that Christmas when I dropped it on the manky bit by the bin just before everyone arrived. Me delaying the start of yet another family outing as I endlessly searched for my keys. Me navigating us in a circle in Calais and ending up back at the ferry terminal just as Mum’s sixtieth was due to start.

Whatever you think about, please know that I’ll be thinking of you. I’ll be loving you. And I’ll be cheering you all the way to whatever your futures hold.

I lived over half my life before I met you both, and I hope with all my heart to live many years more. You two are the reason why. Always, always the reason why. That’s not bravery – that’s pure selfishness. I don’t want to miss one minute.

I love you.

Abi/Mum xxx

‘So, it’s official. You’ve done it?’

Abi dragged her mind away from the expression she had seen on John’s face last night and returned Lesley’s smile. ‘Yes.’ She fiddled with the wedding ring on her finger. It was so loose now that she would have to go and get it resized. ‘It’s true. I am officially in remission.’ The words didn’t feel real. Not yet. She could still feel the race of her heartbeat as she and John had waited for the surgeon’s verdict. The clutch of her breath as they had been called into the same consulting room where her world had screamed into nightmare twelve months before.

Lesley grinned. ‘Bloody brilliant. I knew you could do it.’

‘Did you?’ Abi couldn’t quite believe she had. She had to have blood tests every three months, but hopefully she wouldn’t be seeing the bowel cancer team again until her annual check-up this time next year.

‘Yes.’ Her friend’s face was full of a confidence Abi had forgotten how to feel. ‘How about a celebratory dance later? You used to be unstoppable when they played “Ice Ice Baby” at that club next to our flat in Bayswater.’

Abi had used to be a lot of things. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to that yet. It’s been a while since I got my dancing shoes on.’

‘OK.’ Lesley thought for a second. ‘How about some air guitar instead, then?’ She pulled her dark hair out of its sensible accountancy ponytail and fluffed it out around her face. She pinched more colour into her cheeks and her eyes snapped with mischief. ‘I’ll get some Oasis on later. That always gets you going.’

‘Just as long as no one plays “I Will Survive”.’ Abi shook her head. ‘I think I’ve heard enough of that one to last a lifetime.’

She looked up at the birch trees that framed the garden at the back of the pub, admiring the bright pink and blue flags tied to the branches. ‘I love the bunting.’

‘Yep.’ Lesley pulled out a mirror and slicked on some lipstick. ‘We thought you’d like that – you could barely move at your wedding without strangling yourself on the stuff. Your mum’s had your dad up a ladder for most of the afternoon getting it all sorted.’

‘Poor Dad.’

‘Rubbish. He loved it. He even started trying to clean out the gutters, but luckily someone stopped him before he did himself any damage. The two of them bought up all the stock in the balloon shop too.’ Lesley pointed to the colourful tangle of purple, yellow and silver by the back door of the pub. ‘No expense spared, my friend. Not for your survival bash.’

Abi looked upwards, almost expecting a fork of lightning to flare across the sky. She had grown terrified of tempting fate. Every time she had thought that she was getting better, she had been given another unpleasant surprise. A post-operative wound infection that trapped her on the ward. A temperature that spiralled so high she needed a blue-light ambulance to A&E and on to ITU. A blood clot that caused her arm to swell to twice its normal size and ache remorselessly for days on end. For months now her body had refused to let her trust in a tomorrow. Now it was time for that to change.

If only she knew how.

Lesley dropped the lipstick back in her bag and folded her arms round Abi. ‘Wow, there’s really nothing to you any more, is there?’

Abi smiled into her friend’s shoulder. ‘The cancer diet. It’s a real winner.’

‘True. Think of all the money you’ve saved on gastric band surgery.’

Abi didn’t laugh.

‘Too early?’

Abi nodded. ‘Yep. You can get going on the hilarious Big C jokes when I make it to forty, OK? I might feel safe by then.’

‘OK.’ Lesley hugged her even more tightly. She of all people knew how unfunny the last year had been. Despite being in the final throes of a vitriolic divorce, she had been right next to Abi through everything. From diagnosis to surgery to the shock of waking to a stoma bag she had hoped she might never need. Then onwards to chemo and yet more tests in windowless rooms where classical music failed to hide the relentless clack of the scanners. Colonoscopies. Enemas. Radiation tattoos. Scars that would last a lifetime.

Throughout it all, Lesley had never hidden. Never sent cheery texts and not followed through, like some of Abi’s so-called friends. She had held Abi’s hand as she was wheeled to theatre. Made soup. Made playlists blending her own shamelessly poppy taste in music with TV theme tunes from their childhood, distracting Abi from her chemotherapy blues with ‘The Wombling Song’ or the merry flutes of the Rainbow theme tune.

She was so grateful for her thick-and-thin friend. They had been firm allies since their first year of primary school, when they had taken on the playground might of the Hammond sisters and their Scratch ’n’ Sniff stickers together. Lesley could do the monkey bars and soon, despite Abi’s initial reluctance, she had taught Abi to do them too. Lesley didn’t believe in giving up and the last year had proved that beyond all doubt.

They pulled apart and Abi pressed her hand to the place where the stoma bag wasn’t any more, feeling a pulse of freedom. No more emptying it. No more hiding it under baggy clothes. No more turning away from John when he walked into the room and she was in the middle of cleaning it, or staring at the floor when it got blocked and she was in such pain she had to ask him to help.

Over the past year it had become easier to view her body from the outside in; now she was struggling to feel like it was truly hers again.

‘No more cancer jokes, I promise.’ Lesley patted Abi’s arm. ‘I think it might be time for a glass of bubbly, though. Seeing as this is your party.’ She pointed to the enormous banner hanging above the smoking barbecue. ‘CONGRATULATIONS ABI’ was spelt out in bright purple letters against a starry silver background.

‘Sounds good.’ Abi tried to ignore the nerves whispering inside her. It still seemed too soon to celebrate. Too much.

Lesley took two glasses of champagne from the rows lined up on a trestle table and gave one to Abi. ‘Here’s to you, my amazing friend. I’m so bloody glad you’re OK. And I can’t wait to see what you get up to now that it’s all over.’

‘Me neither.’ Abi thought of the research she had done yesterday – the blossoming idea that was filling her with an excitement she hadn’t felt in years. A new future. A fresh start.

She took a tiny sip of champagne, but it only made her feel sick. Bang went another one of her favourite things. Thanks, cancer. Lesley downed half her drink in one go while Abi put her glass down and thought again of the shadows on John’s face last night. The grey strands starting to creep through his bright blond hair. The jiggle of his leg as he scanned the screen of his phone.

The window table in their favourite restaurant had never felt so wide.

‘Keep up.’ Lesley picked up her second glass as Abi jolted back into the present. ‘Now …’ she looked round eagerly, ‘time to mingle.’ Her phone bleeped. ‘Shit.’ She delved into her bag and checked the screen. ‘It’s work. Sorry. I’ve got to take this.’

‘Well, if you will go and get promoted.’ Abi patted her on the back. ‘Go. Be busy and important. Do that deal. Sell that stock!’

‘You do know I’m not starring in an episode of Suits, don’t you?’ Lesley rolled her eyes as she strode off. Abi stared at her back, thinking how much her friend had moved on in the year that Abi had been ill. Newly single. New job. New house. She was carpe diem personified. Now Abi had to catch up.

Lesley turned, putting her hand over her phone. ‘Are you going to go and talk to that amazing husband of yours?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Lesley’s voice went up a gear. ‘No, I wasn’t talking to you, Simon.’ She turned away again, her voice assuming the confident clip of the manager she had become.

The pub garden was filling up now. Sunglasses and white tops were out in force, as people showed off the last of their summer-holiday tans. They were all here. Abi’s colleagues from the vascular admin team at the hospital, falling upon the breadsticks and booze like seagulls discovering a picnic basket. John’s clients and colleagues talking top barbecue tips and which CEOs were still going to be in post at Christmas.

And most importantly of all, Seb was here, his normal football kit set aside for a smart black shirt and jeans, which were already on the short side after yet another bout of committed growing. His dark-blond hair was falling into his eyes as he and his girlfriend Jess hung around by the vat of Pimm’s in the far corner, trying to sneak a glass whenever Rob, Abi’s brother, wasn’t looking. If he carried on gazing intently at the sky like that, their plan was very likely to succeed.

As Abi surveyed the familiar faces, she could almost see her former self laughing at the centre of the crowd, downing her favourite rosé and singing along to ‘Viva la Vida’ as it played from the speakers. How she had loved a party. The heat, the music and the sense of possibility as she stepped into a crowded room complete with maximum eyeliner and the brightest clothing she could find. But now that feeling was long gone. She felt like she belonged on the sidelines. Watching. Waiting for her old self to come back.

She felt a rush of affection as she saw the tall figure of her husband hard at work in front of the enormous barbecue, skilfully flipping sausages and burgers while holding a bottle of pale ale in his other hand. The pub had offered to cater, but John wasn’t ever going to agree to that. He was born to barbecue. The flames, the meat, the oversized tongs – he even had a towering chef’s hat keeping his hair at bay.

He jumped as a lick of flame shot alarmingly close to his arm. She knew that frown only too well, and last night it had bitten so deep that she had barely recognised him. His phone had buzzed constantly as they were eating their celebratory dinner at the Japanese just down the road from his office. He had tried so hard for her – saying how happy he was about her test results, his blue eyes bright as he told her how much he loved her and talked about everything they had to look forward to. She knew he meant it, but she also saw that there was something else preoccupying him. For the past few weeks she had noticed him resetting his expression whenever she came into a room, or closing his laptop if she happened to glance at the screen. She had assumed her cancer had been the cause of this new secrecy, but last night she had realised she was wrong.

Against the quiet chatter of the clientele sharing sushi and edamame around them, she had tried to ask him about it, but got only reassurances and chinks against her glass as he raised yet another pint of Asahi to toast her recovery. She wanted to believe his denials, but she could see his long fingers worrying away at his napkin and the way he jumped every time his phone made the slightest sound. The last time she had seen him like this was when he was first setting up JCN Recruitment eighteen years ago. Two years living on credit and waiting to turn a profit. Chasing every client; interviewing reliable staff; finding the restaurants and hotels who needed back-of-house teams to clean kitchens or bedrooms overnight.

Back then, though, John had been excited. Hopeful. Last night he had just looked beaten.

Then this morning she had woken to see a different John by her side. He had smiled, joked and announced they were going to have a proper party to celebrate her news. All day he had been racing around texting and calling and doing supermarket runs, moving like a man possessed. All her offers of help had been kindly rebuffed. She must rest and get her strength back. She must look after herself and save her energy for tonight. Once she would have been in the thick of the action, but today, with every pacifying sentence, she felt further and further from the woman she had been before.

Still. He was only looking out for her. He had certainly had enough practice. During her treatment, if Lesley had been her right hand, John had been her left. He had been so kind and caring for so long – he deserved his moment of popping corks on a sunny September evening. Those tanned hands adjusting the burners had fed her ice chips. Changed sheets. Wiped puke off carpets and washed her thinning hair. They had stroked her hand during those endless nights on the ward, dispensed painkillers and dried tears. So many many tears.

He had turned away from the barbecue now, helping Abi’s mum to lay out the cakes that various friends had made in celebration of this moment. Naturally her mum had beaten them all with a monster creation in the shape of a bottle of champagne. She was never one to be outdone. It was twice the size of the nearest contender, complete with frosted buttermilk icing with little bubbles arranged on a silver tray to simulate the popping of the cork.

Abi felt her stomach heave.

‘Come on, Abi.’ John held out a glass. ‘Get this down you. It’s time to get you dancing on tables at five a.m. again.’

Abi would rather put her feet up and watch EastEnders.

She gripped the glass. ‘OK.’ She took a deep breath and tried to force the doubts away. She would learn to trust her body again. And she was so lucky to be here – to be able to see these faces and hear these voices and be part of the big wide world again. She stepped closer to John and put her arms around him. Behind him, she saw her old boss undulating past, laughing with Simeon, one of John’s biggest clients. It was the kind of laugh that belonged on a date that you both know isn’t going to end when the bill comes. Abi knew that she and John had been on dates like that once. She wished she could imagine it happening again. A time when he could stop being her carer and start simply loving her again.

John pulled away. ‘Are you feeling OK, Abi?’ She hated the anxiety in his eyes. Once she had made him laugh. Had made him proud. Now she was another worry on his list. Well, she would change that. She would get things back on track. Tonight she would tell him what she was planning to do, and she knew how happy it would make him. He had been asking her to do it for years and now she was finally going to listen.

‘I’m fine.’ She tried to kiss him but he turned at the last moment and she lost her balance and nearly ended up joining the burgers on the barbecue.

‘Good.’ He turned back and kissed her forehead. He had never kissed her there in the old days. Always her lips or neck or the far more interesting places lower down. Now his kisses were dry. Careful. Cancer kisses. ‘I’m sorry to nag.’

‘It’s not nagging.’ She took his hand. ‘But let’s have a night off the Casualty routine. I’m fine now.’ She ignored the tiredness that seemed to be weighing her down. ‘OK?’

‘Sounds good.’ He let go of her fingers and turned back to the business in hand.

‘Great.’ She patted him on the bum, as she had a thousand times in the old days, wishing it didn’t feel so forced. They would get used to this. To the days and nights stretching out before them. To having a future.

She picked up her glass and tried to drink. Once again the bubbles tasted bitter on her tongue. She was so busy wondering how to swallow that it took her a while to notice that John was tapping on his glass.

Oh God. She choked the mouthful down.

‘No, John.’ She didn’t want him to voice their luck out loud. She wanted to keep it close. To guard it like a hand over a flickering flame.

She felt everyone’s eyes on her, and wanted to melt into the floor. Now she understood why Rob had always preferred to live in the shadows. It was calm there. Peaceful. She stared intently at her flip-flops, counting the tiny pink beads scattered across the straps.

John’s voice trembled with emotion. ‘You all know why we’re here.’ He took a deep breath. ‘She made it. She gave us a few scares along the way, but our gorgeous girl bloody well made it.’

The crowd whooped and cheered. Abi tried to throw a ‘save me’ glance at Lesley, but her friend was too busy giggling with a man in red chinos to notice.

John waited until the noise had died down. He was always confident in front of a crowd – it came from a lifetime of pitching his business to people who generally didn’t know they wanted it.

‘I wanted to say a huge thank you to all of you. Thank you for helping. Thanks for all the casseroles and the soup and the Game of Thrones boxed sets.’ His phone started to ring and a tremor crossed his face. He pulled it out and glanced at it as fearfully as if it was a hand grenade with its pin pulled out. Everything in Abi itched to see what was on the screen. He shoved it back into his pocket. ‘Sorry, everyone. Yes, that’s mine, and yes – you can all take the piss out of me later.’

He painted on a smile. ‘Now please drink. Eat. Celebrate. Because our Abi’s here to stay. And I couldn’t be happier. And I couldn’t be luckier. I am so very …’ his eyes met hers and she felt tears start to sting, ‘very happy that I get to spend more of my life with this beautiful, crazy whirlwind of a woman.’

Abi glanced at the sky again. It didn’t seem to have fallen in. She realised her nails were digging into her palms and gently flexed her fingers.

John raised his glass. ‘To Abi!’

‘To Abi!’ Everyone else followed suit.

Abi smiled, feeling a quiet glow of something she remembered as happiness.

Happy. Yes. She was. Deep down, she could feel that lightness that she remembered from her life before. Soon, she would learn to trust it.

Her husband held up his hand to quieten the crowd.

‘So let’s make merry, shall we? And nobody leaves until somebody’s been sick and there’s been at least one attempt to steal a picnic table.’

More whoops and applause. The crowd broke up into small groups. Abi breathed in the musk of the charcoal smoke as if it was the first time she had ever smelt it.

‘You’re not drinking fast enough.’ Lesley was at her side again.

‘I’m just warming up.’ Abi took another sip and could already feel it giving her a headache. ‘How was that?’

‘Half-hearted.’ Lesley narrowed her eyes. ‘But it’s a start. We’ll get you back to normal soon.’

‘I know you will.’ It was only as Lesley turned away in hot pursuit of some cheese straws that Abi realised that she had no idea what normal meant any more. All these days she hadn’t expected. A whole life to live. She could make plans now. She could make things happen. Dreams happen.

Then the music changed . . .