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But Charlotte could tell by the way he was looking, by the way he was pressing on her breast, that he was being far from silly.
She followed his fingers with her own. Eyes closed. Heart now completely stalled as her stomach rolled and rolled. She pressed the soft skin of her breast. At the edge of her fingertip she felt something. Maybe.
Something. She moved a half inch over.
There.
There, above her nipple. Towards the left. A hard, round lump.
He was staring at her as if she’d broken his heart… as if his heart was breaking. ‘Can you feel it?’
‘Yes.’ Yes. She crawled away from him, but fought the urge to fold herself into a fetal ball. ‘It’s probably nothing, right?’
‘Yeah.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s probably nothing. Just a…’ His shoulders heaved up and down and he curled his fingers and stroked them down her cheek. ‘Something and nothing. It’s probably just the way you’re made and we haven’t noticed it before.’
Because, it wasn’t there before. ‘Maybe it’s… I don’t know. I’m too young for it to be anything serious, right?’ Her fingers jabbed against the hard ridge on her breast again. Found the lump. It was something. Not nothing.
‘Sure thing. We’ll sort it. You’ll be fine.’ He pulled her towards him and wrapped her tight into his embrace. Hauled her against his chest and she let him stroke her back and rock her a little.
A lump. That could be… she couldn’t bring herself to think the word, never mind say it out loud. Scenarios ran through her head – images she’d seen on social media, shaved heads, pink ribbons.
Twenty-five is too young for all that. She wasn’t going to panic. She wasn’t going to be dramatic.
She felt the lump again.
No. She wasn’t going to be dramatic. She was going to suck it up and be brave and adult and sensible. ‘So, should we get on and do some painting?’
‘What? Now? After this?’ Ben’s eyes burned with compassion. And something else. Pity?
Please don’t look at me like that. Like I’m suddenly something less. ‘Yes, we were going to do some painting, right? So let’s do it. Life has to go on.’ She hauled herself from the bed, dragged her bra back on – taking one more moment to check. Yes. It was something. Something she didn’t want to think about or talk about or acknowledge, like her fear. Another hard lump, this time in her gut. She clenched her fists tight, squeezed her fingernails into her palms until the pain overrode her panic. Then she took three deep breaths, the way she did when she was just about to go onstage – harnessing the fear and the rapid beat of her heart. Breathing it out.
She was too young. It was nothing serious. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.
And then she went to put the kettle on, stepping over her paint-stained teaching top on the stairs, which had the handprint that seemed to mock her.
She could hear him on the phone, his voice starting out all authoritarian and police-procedure and then rapidly going downhill. ‘What do you mean, there’s nothing available until Tuesday? She’s going to have to wait over the weekend? Yes, she can see the trainee. Any bloody doctor – they’re all medically trained, right? Yes. She needs a check-up and a referral. Any bloody one will do just to write the damned form out.’
‘Ben!’ Charlotte ran through to the lounge and hissed at him, gestured at him to calm down.
He threw the phone onto the plastic-covered sofa, clearly harnessing his fear into anger and action. ‘I don’t believe this. They can’t see you until Tuesday. Three-forty.’
The panic gave over to numbness. She had a lump and she was going to have to wait to find out what it was. Her stomach contracted, twisted, and she had to be honest: she was scared. It might be serious. ‘But I can’t do three-forty. I have a class starting then and more all afternoon.’
‘Not now you don’t. Lissa can take them. Or phone Shelley. You’re going to see the doctor on Tuesday.’ He rifled through a pile of things on the floor and picked out his black work notebook, scribbled something onto it, then tore off a sheet and handed it to her. ‘Here, so we don’t forget. Dr Montford or something. Tuesday. We’ll get it sorted, love. It’ll be nothing. And if you don’t phone Shelley, I will.’
‘I will. I will.’ Her mind was racing, chasing words, images, feelings and grasping none of them.
‘Come and sit down, you look very pale.’ He took her by the shoulders and sat her down on the plastic-covered sofa. ‘Do you want to call your mum? Talk it through?’
Charlotte imagined her mum’s reaction; the fallen face, the probability of tears and pain, and her stomach recoiled in panic. The usual instinctive response of making sure she never did anything to upset her mother.
Anyway, there was no point bothering her when all they had was a possibility and a hunch. Nothing concrete. ‘No. No, let’s keep it between us two, shall we? No point in jumping the gun. It’ll be nothing, and then we’ll have upset her for no reason.’
Keeping secrets from her mum had never been easy – although she’d perfected it eventually. But now, two days later, Eileen was watching her with a concerned expression and a question in her eyes. Charlotte looked across her mother’s lovely, familiar, comfortable lounge and met her gaze, gave her a, hopefully, reassuring smile and tried to focus over the noisy chatter and giggling.
Planning a hen weekend away had sounded like a lot of fun – a welcome distraction from Charlotte’s black thoughts too, she’d hoped – but getting seven women from different generations to decide on one single destination was like trying to get the United Nations to agree on a Middle East peace deal. In other words, never going to happen.
And, to be honest, planning something a couple of months ahead wasn’t on her radar right now. Because even though she’d decided to ram the whole lump thing to the back of her mind, she simply couldn’t stop it from jumping out every now and then, taking her unawares. Even though her head told her it would be fine, her body had started to fizz in panic at the mere thought of her breasts.
Stop being so bloody dramatic.
‘Charlie? You okay?’ It was Lissa, who was wearing the same expression as Eileen. There was definitely no hiding her emotions from her best friend.
Charlotte shook herself. ‘Sorry? What? Yes, I’m fine.’ She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Lissa, because saying it out loud would make it real, and she wasn’t willing to do that.
Lissa topped up Charlotte’s now-empty glass. ‘Have you had too much champers already, you lush? I asked you if there was anywhere particular you fancied going.’
‘Oh. Anywhere. I’m easy. Whatever works.’
‘Ibiza sounds perfect. Honestly, Tasha went there for hers and they had a ball. Partying all night and sunbathing during the day – what’s not to love about that?’ Lissa was scrolling through package deals and images so quickly it made Charlotte dizzy. Sea. Sand. Bottles of wine. Waving hands in a nightclub. Foam.
She felt distanced from it all. From making decisions. From even joining in the conversation. Would she even be going on a hen weekend, or would she be recovering from an operation? Treatment?
‘What about Tenerife?’ Shelley, another of the dance teachers at the studio, and bridesmaid number three, took a sip of champagne then pointed her glass to the screen. ‘Look, it says the average temperature’s twenty-one and there’s less chance of rain, only two per cent compared to seventeen in Ibiza.’
‘Anything’s better than London, that’s for sure,’ added Mia, Lissa’s younger sister, who felt like a kid sister of Charlotte too, they’d spent so much time together over the years. Bridesmaid number two. ‘What about Benidorm? Disneyland? Dublin?’
‘Can’t go to Dublin, that’s where Ben’s going. Definitely off limits.’ Europe had so many exciting, vibrant cities… who knew it’d be so hard to choose just one to visit?
Eileen shook her head. ‘I’ve always fancied going to Prague. It looks so lovely and there’s a lot of history and culture there.’
‘History? Culture? On a hen weekend? Are you serious?’ Lissa’s eyes widened, as if that was the most ridiculous idea anyone had ever had. She nudged Charlotte’s mum and winked. ‘Hey, you never know what could happen – you might find a man, Eileen.’
‘I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be looking for one, thank you.’ Her mum busied herself with clearing up the bits of foil and metal from the top of the fizz bottles and putting them into a little pile on the table, which she then pushed absentmindedly around on white tablecloth. Charlotte’s heart pinged; her mum was trying, really hard, to be part of this, but she had very different ideas about a weekend away. As an old-fashioned grammar-school English teacher she’d been exacting as regards standards of manners and behaviour and had set the bar high for her daughter and pupils alike. Foam nightclubs weren’t going to appeal.
But Lissa wasn’t giving up. She’d spent a lot of time at Charlotte’s in her youth. Lissa’s mum hadn’t been too impressed with the hours Lissa kept or, often, the male company she entertained, so Charlotte’s house had been a safe haven, a buffer from the inevitable mother-daughter arguments. She was well versed in ways of winding Charlotte’s mum up – in the nicest possible sense. Just fun. ‘It’s been a long time, Eileen. Don’t you miss it?’
‘Miss what?’ Eileen’s cheeks went a deep red as she realised that, as was generally required, the hen talk was about men and sex. ‘Oh. Well. No. Well, yes. I miss him.’
‘Ignore them, Mum, they’re just trying to embarrass you.’ And it’s working, poor thing. Charlotte dove to the rescue, squeezing her into a hug, inhaling her familiar scent of Estée Lauder foundation, flowers and cupcakes. ‘Maybe we could compromise on somewhere like Amsterdam where there’s history and a good nightlife. We could hire bikes, maybe stay on houseboats or something?’
But Mum didn’t look enamoured with that idea either. ‘Aren’t there a lot of drugs in Amsterdam? Could we go to Paris? Rome?’ Throwing up her hands in despair she shook her head. ‘Oh… you all decide. I’m not sure I can make that weekend anyway. You don’t want me cramping your style.’
‘Of course I want you there. Don’t be silly. We’ll make something work for all of us.’ Charlotte threw Lissa a look she hoped would quell any more men talk. Ever since Dad’s death there’d never been a hint of her mum wanting to find someone new.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m only joking. We can’t go without you. You’re the mother of the bride.’ Lissa filled up all the glasses and gave one to Charlotte’s mum. ‘Let’s keep looking. Come on, Eileen.’
‘Eileen tooloo rye aye!’ sang Sonja and Niamh, Ben’s older sisters, chinking glasses. ‘Come on! Eileen!’
Uh-oh. The Prosecco was kicking in – and they hadn’t even left the house. God help them when they left the country. And even though it was all about celebrating her, Charlotte just didn’t feel the celebratory vibe. She had too many other things on her mind. ‘Hey, Mum, should we go grab those dips I brought?’
She bustled her into the kitchen, which smelt, as ever, of baking and home. Eileen had always made sure her daughter was well cared for in every way. For a few moments they worked in silence, putting dirty plates into the dishwasher and tidying up a little, taking advantage of the quiet time to clear their heads. At least, Charlotte did.
Eileen put down the tea towel she’d been using to wipe some plates dry and peered at her daughter, the previous fluster turning into concern. ‘Are you okay, Charlotte? You don’t seem yourself today.’
‘Just tired, thanks. I’m fine.’ Charlotte pulled out the taramasalata and spiced hummus from the fridge, along with the baby vegetables she’d brought for dipping, and started to arrange them on a large white platter. ‘We’ve finished the first coat of paint in the lounge, though, and it’s looking heaps better.’
‘You’re working too hard, love. Running the studio and then trying to do all that painting and decorating. Then there’s the wedding and all that entails. It’s making you thin. And tired. I’m starting to worry about you.’
‘I’m a dancer, mum. Thin’s my job.’ Bless her. She’d always showered her daughter with affection, been open about her emotions. Sometimes it felt a little too much – as if the entire weight of responsibility for her mother’s emotional wellbeing fell to Charlotte.
Which made her feel vindicated for not sharing her lump discovery, because why needlessly upset her now?
In her jeans back pocket she could feel the ridge of the folded paper with the appointment details on. Having shucked loose from her phone wallet where she’d slipped it after Ben gave it to her, it was sticking into her buttock. But she couldn’t talk about it here, with all their friends in the next room. And she certainly didn’t want to put a downer on the mood.
Tuesday, after the appointment, she’d pop round at dinnertime and tell her. Sit her down and have a good chat once she knew what the plan was.
Eileen snapped open a packet of crackers and tipped them onto a plate, her movements slow and measured. She looked tired. Drawn. Old, actually, in a huggable, grandmother kind of way. ‘Thanks for hosting this today, Mum. You’re a star.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m your mother. I wouldn’t dream of letting you have it anywhere else.’ She balled her hands into fists and there was the glimmer of tears in her eyes. ‘I do wish your dad was here to give you away. He’d be so proud.’
‘I know. I miss him, too. Lissa was only teasing, you know. She doesn’t really think you need another man in your life.’
Eileen sat across the well-worn pine table that Charlotte had spent hours doing her homework on while her mother had kneaded, rolled and sieved, making dinners and packed lunches and snacks. They’d blown out countless birthday candles here.
When she was eight, her parents had sat her down at this very table and told her about the reality of her birth and reassured her that she was loved more than enough, more than any child could be loved, even though she was adopted. Emphasising, unconvincingly, that she’d been chosen, rather than given away.
The next evening they’d all sat here again and Charlotte had watched them recoil in horror as she recounted that, at school, Michael Maloney had said, if she’d been adopted, then her parents could also give her back any time too. That they should have, because she looked stupid with her crazy frizzy hair and too-pale freckly skin, and no wonder her real mother hadn’t wanted her. That if she was chosen, she could be un-chosen too.
She’d discovered that day that she had to be very careful what she told her parents. Because she didn’t want to make her father so angry, and her mother cry so hard, ever again. She didn’t want them threatening to phone the school to bring that boy down a peg or two. She didn’t want to upset them or rock the boat.
Because, what if Michael Maloney had been right? What if they did decide to un-choose her? What would happen to her then? Would the woman who’d given birth to her still not want her? Who would?
She ran her hands over the old knotted pine, feeling the indentations in the wood, like tiny chinks in her heart, of memories, moments this table had borne witness to over two decades of family life.
Eileen sighed. ‘You know, the older I get, the more I find it hard to deal with change. I didn’t think I’d be like that. I always thought I’d be more bring it on. But I like my life, Charlotte. I love having you round the corner. I love my routine, my yoga classes and my embroidery. I have enough, you know? I don’t feel like I’m missing out, not much. I do get a bit lonely at times, but that passes when I think about washing a man’s socks and having to compromise. It’s not what Melissa would call exciting, but I’ve had enough of that, thank you very much.’
Finding her husband stone-cold dead on the kitchen floor and suddenly being a single parent with an eleven-year-old child had been hard on her. ‘I think she just wants you to have fun, that’s all, Mum.’
‘I know. And I do. Watching you grow up has been all the fun I need. And… you never know, there may be grandchildren soon to help me fill my time. I mean… you and Ben are thinking of it, aren’t you?’ The tired eyes looked lovingly at her. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask. All the magazines are full of women complaining that family ask them when they’re going to have babies and say it puts more pressure on. So I’m sorry if it’s rude, but you don’t want to be getting to your forties and having a newborn to look after like I did. That’s… well, you weren’t difficult, not at all. But it was a challenge.’
A challenge. Charlotte’s heart pinged. Would it have been a challenge if she’d been Eileen’s natural-born daughter? Or did unconditional, blood-ties love mean the difficulties of child rearing were laughed off as just little bumps in the parenting road? Charlotte had no doubt her mother loved her, but sometimes she wondered how it could be possible to love an adopted child as much as one you shared DNA with.
And having babies? Charlotte couldn’t have this conversation. After Tuesday, perhaps, but right now she was having a hard time imagining fitting into her wedding dress without boobs, never mind babies. ‘We’re building the business and all our money is going on the wedding. Besides, I’m way too young to be thinking about babies, Mum.’
‘I know. I just don’t want you to miss out on one of the most rewarding things in life. We left it too late and when we tried it just didn’t happen. We were lucky to get you. A lot of people said forty-two was too old for us to get a baby, and they wanted us to have a four-year-old or something. Which would have been fine, of course, but then you came along and it was… well, it was a miracle.’ There was an uncharacteristic sniffle and then a smile. ‘The challenge was me being so set in my ways by the time you arrived, if I’m honest. Look, grab that plate and let’s go through and find out what they’re doing. If we’re not careful we’ll be on some naked cruise to Mykonos.’
‘I don’t think there are naked cruises to Mykonos. At least, I hope not.’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t find a man with a body like this bared to all and sundry.’ Eileen straightened her cream blouse and ran her hands over her straight navy trousers. With her neat silver bob and thin frame she put a lot of other women her age to shame. She had long legs and a slim build she didn’t have to work hard for, unlike Charlotte, who had always found maintaining a dancer’s build hard work.
When she was younger she used to wish that, just by living with this tall, slender woman, she’d somehow absorb some of those genes. She didn’t want her own genetic pale-blue eyes and that stupid frizzy, mousy hair; she wanted her adoptive mother’s deep-chocolate eyes and the rich, dark, straight mane. But no amount of wishing got her her dream. Just straighteners, a lot of hair dye and a heck of a lot of exercise.
‘Don’t be daft – you’re gorgeous, Mum. And maybe a romance is just what you need. Oh…’ There was a vibration in Charlotte’s back pocket. She pulled out her phone. ‘Hang on, it’s Ben. Probably wondering what’s for dinner or which room to attack with the paintbrush next. Now, there’s romance for you.’
‘Oh… something’s fallen out of your pocket. Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’ Eileen waved at her to carry on the phone conversation, and bent to pick up the paper, completely missing the sudden panic Charlotte knew was in her eyes. Not hearing the rush of breath or the thump in her daughter’s tight chest. ‘What’s this? Dr Montford? What’s… oh? A doctor? Charlotte, are you okay?’
For a brief second Charlotte saw fear in her mum’s eyes. She took a breath, the habitual alarm rising in her chest as her mind scrambled to find ways to appease her. Usually, playing down the severity of a situation tended to work. ‘I’ve got to go, Ben. Sorry. Later. Mum… it’s…’
Laughter floated to them from the open door. Something about a male stripper and matching T-shirts, and Charlotte suddenly wished they’d all go home. Which felt unbearably selfish considering they were all here to make her transition from single to married a memorable one. And she loved each of them dearly. Just… the timing really wasn’t working.
Charlotte sat back down at the table and motioned for her mum to sit again too. She took the paper from her trembling, liver-spotted hands and folded it. ‘I was going to tell you… honestly, Mum. Just not today. Not with all this going on. I wanted us to have some time to talk it all through. I’ve… well, I’ve found a lump in my breast and I need to get it checked out.’
More raucous laughter, and now music. Charlotte imagined the girls dancing and singing with no idea about the fallout in the kitchen.
‘A lump. I see.’ Again, Eileen ran her palms down her thighs, choosing her words. Measuring her emotions. Always, she was the invested, interested parent using difficult situations as learning opportunities, protecting her child from heartache – it worked both ways, it seemed. Tiptoeing around each other, taking care not to offend or upset or hurt. But this time, Charlotte knew, her mum was out of her depth. Eileen slid her hand over Charlotte’s, unease turning to fierce protection. ‘I’ll come with you to the doctor’s. If… that’s what you want? Or is Ben going to go with you?’
‘He has to work.’
‘Or Lissa? I’m sure you’d prefer her…?’ There was a break in her mum’s voice and Charlotte felt it resonate deep in her heart. Because yes, given a choice, she would usually have chosen her best friend over her mother. It was easier that way.
Ben had said he’d phone in sick and they’d argued and she’d told him she was a grown-up and could manage by herself. She hadn’t told Lissa yet and there was the issue of the classes to cover and, while she could go on her own, Charlotte suddenly felt the need for her mum’s support. ‘I’d like you to come, if that’s okay? Please.’
Eileen breathed out heavily and swiped the back of her hand over her forehead. ‘Of course. You know that. Anything.’
‘Thank you.’ Charlotte felt a rush of relief, wishing she’d shared this news with her before. They’d never particularly clashed, but there hadn’t been those moments of intense intimacy Charlotte had heard about between mothers and daughters; sharing clothes and confidences.
There’d been a line somewhere, spinning off, she now thought, from Michael Maloney’s childish comments and her own immature reaction; cemented by an episode in her awkward teens when someone asked her why her real mother had given her away. Which had made her question all over again whether Eileen was her real mother at all, even though she did real-mother things every day.
It was a line that made Charlotte feel a little distanced from her parents. Distanced a little from everyone if she was honest. As if tiptoeing was always the way to go… always keeping real feelings locked in to save hurting someone else, to save rejection.
Being given away did that to people sometimes, she’d read. Gave them a feeling they didn’t quite belong anywhere. But she knew she belonged here, didn’t she?
Knowing and feeling were two different things.
Charlotte squeezed her mum’s hand. ‘Thank you. Safety in numbers and all that.’
Eileen smiled. Another one of those brave smiles Charlotte kept on seeing. ‘These things are always scary, love. But I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Just a cyst or something. Lots of women have lumpy breasts.’
Just hearing this gave her hope. ‘That’s what I keep telling myself. And Ben. That’s what we keep saying.’
‘Hey, you two, what happened to the dips?’ Lissa burst into the kitchen. ‘I’m starving. Oh. Are you both okay? You look upset, Eileen. Was it me? Was it what I said? Because I was only joking. I know John was your one and only for ever. I was just pulling your leg about finding a man.’
Finding a smile, Eileen stood and picked up the plate of vegetables. She had her don’t mess with me teacher voice on. ‘Don’t be silly, Melissa. I know you were just playing. Charlotte and I were just going through a few things, that’s all. We got distracted…’ To everyone else Eileen probably looked her usual self, but Charlotte could see the way her mum bit down on her lip, the hitch in her shoulders as she gave herself a silent talking to, and then the shaking off of emotion, bringing herself into party mode again. Or, as much as she could muster under the circumstances. There was a moment when she caught Charlotte’s eye and there was a flicker of anxiety there, then it was gone, replaced by a determination that everything was going to be okay. That she would make it so. ‘Right, where are we going for this hen party? Have you girls got any further with our plans? Please don’t tell me it’s a naked cruise to Mykonos?’