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Cath down. Moreover, he’s had to
adjust his vision of the future completely. Before her illness, he thought he knew where his life was going. He didn’t have a very precise map, but the route forward was there, in pencil to
allow for the odd bit of rubbing out and redrawing, in his mind’s eye. Maybe they’d move further from the city centre of Leeds, to Ilkley or Guiseley – somewhere closer to the
Dales. He’d like more time for exercise, and a new car. Ideally his job in the music industry would evolve: he’d prefer more security, money and responsibility, though compared to some
of his friends, he wasn’t doing badly. But one thing he was clear about, because Cath was already ‘getting on a bit’, as she put it, when they met: children were in the picture.
Soon.
    Then came the cancer.
    Initially they’d been existing day to day, getting over each hurdle as it arose: the operation, the chemotherapy, the susceptibility to infection, the hair loss. Then, post-treatment, they
faced the new reality; he’s permitted himself to look further ahead, but the vista has changed. No longer does he assume with naive certainty he’ll grow old with Cath, nor does he think
– as he did when they first discovered she was ill – that she might die at any minute: he simply does not know. His job has got more precarious; he’s seen colleagues laid off,
he’s had to travel more, work longer hours. So he’s reined in his expectations; the view is not as panoramic as it once was. It’s mistier, more lightly pencilled. And children, if
he is to stay with Cath (and there have been moments, fleetingly, when he has wondered if he’s got it in him to do so), are no longer a part of it. Are they?
    Rich isn’t as fast at processing information as his wife. He might be a swifter skier, but mentally, she’s a hare to his tortoise and lately he’s been so focused on putting her
needs first, it’s underlined this difference between them. Occasionally he gets frustrated with himself, but she says it’s what balances them out: she needs him to ground her, and he
believes her – if they were both as stubborn and impulsive as Cath, their relationship would probably explode. Nonetheless, sometimes he needs to take time out, to work out where he
stands.
    Lying awake isn’t helping, and he wants to be alert tomorrow; he has been relishing discovering his skills on the snow again. Maybe getting up will stop his mind churning. Carefully, he
eases himself out of bed, pads to the bathroom, closes the door, pulls the string of the light.
    It takes a few seconds for his pupils to adjust. He scrunches his eyelids together, slowly opens them, looks at himself in the mirror.
    His hair is standing up in crazy tufts. He is bleary, needs a shave. Otherwise, he appears just the same as always.

5
    ‘I feel like a freak,’ says Lou.
    ‘Why?’ asks Anna.
    Lou drops her voice; there’s a man sitting across the aisle. ‘This horrible lump: I went and had my scan yesterday, and apparently it’s a cyst.’
    ‘What sort of cyst?’
    ‘A tumour – a fibroid. I’d never even heard of them before.’
    ‘I have,’ says Anna. ‘They’re quite common when you get into your forties. I’ve got a couple myself.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Mm. They’re tiny, so the doctor said it’s best to leave them alone, unless they’re causing me a problem. And they’re not. They’re harmless.’
    ‘Oh.’ That makes Lou feel slightly better. ‘But mine’s enormous.’
    Just then Sofia arrives with coffees wedged into a cardboard tray.
    ‘Hello, Anna,’ she says, sliding into the seat they’ve been saving opposite.
    They’re on the 07:44 to London, heading to work. This is their morning ritual. Anna is the best timekeeper and lives nearest the station, so she boards first and reserves a table, third
carriage from the front. Lou and Sofia cycle from Kemptown: they lock up their bikes, Lou hurries to join Anna so other commuters don’t get