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hospital for the details of my diagnosis, and the callers were a mixture of those curious to know the extent of my illness and those who’d just heard the grade-two-or-three reality. I ignored them all, choosing instead to tidy up the kitchen, throwing plates loudly and carelessly back into their drawers and kicking cupboard doors shut. Meanwhile P played secretary, cutting short every ring of my phone but eventually accepting a conference call from my bosses.
    Hanging up the phone, P timidly explained what had been said: that work had signed me off immediately and that if ever there was anything they could do to help – taxis to the hospital, rescue packages, magazine subscriptions – to make sure they were the first people we called. Few companies would be so supportive, but not even their show of generous assistance could penetrate my blind rage. I was growing more livid with every second; more enraged with every breath. Hurling open my wardrobe doors and tearing bin liners off a fast-unravelling roll, I set to the task of pulling my newly bought summer clothes from their hangers, violently stuffing them into bags in protest at the summertime fun I would now be absent from.
    Once my tantrum was done, P held me in his comforting arms, calming me with cuddles as the doorbell rang. My friend Ali had driven over, armed with cake, to do what she could to console us. She usually bursts in like the Tasmanian Devil, but this time she was quieter than usual as she edged around the front door and took herself into the kitchen to make a round of tea. P and I silently acknowledged what a huge deal it must have been for her to make this visit, having lost her mum to the same disease. ‘Right then,’ she said, positioning herself between us on the sofa. ‘I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.’ She produced from her pocket her mobile phone, pressing play on a series of hen-night-karaoke-session videos that I’d hoped P would never see. ‘Whatever state this thing gets you into, Mac,’ said Ali – one of the few people who still calls me by my maiden-name-influenced nickname – ‘It can’t be worse than this.’ She pulled me closer for a one-armed hug as the three of us cried with laughter at footage of me rapping as well as a gin-fuelled Midlander is able.
    ‘You bastard,’ I said, nudging her with my shoulder. ‘Don’t you know I’ve got cancer?’

CHAPTER 4
    The longest day
    It’s summer solstice, the longest day of the year. I’ve been up for little over an hour and already I know that this is the bleakest, lowest, blackest, most miserable day of my life.
    Last night I sent my parents back up the motorway, thinking that P & I needed time alone. And it turns out we do need it, but actually with the safety of knowing that they’re around too, fussing in the background. We’re heading up to theirs as soon as I’ve published this blog post.
    Today I’m struggling to locate my fighting force. I literally cannot cope. I’ve probably said that sentence some time before – perhaps after the deaths of my dear Nan and Grandad … revising for my A levels … just before the play-off final … or when I discovered my boyfriend in bed with his ex. Whenever I’ve said it before, it wasn’t true. I
did
cope then. Right now I’m just not.
    I find myself actually looking forward to surgery next week. I WANT THIS THING OUT OF ME. Cut me open, take my nipple, take the lot, scar me right up. Just get. it. out.
    As terrifying as it seemed yesterday, right now I want to be in chemo, feeling like shit and losing my lovely long hair. ANYTHING must be better than being in the midst of this dark, pathetic, can’t-do-anything-about-it bullshit. But my hair and my tit can go now, and the sooner the better, because that’ll mean that something’s getting fixed.
    *
    HAVING GONE TO bed giggling the night before, it’s probably no surprise that the reality came back to bite us on the ass the following morning. And boy, did