Page 16 of My Summer of Magic Moments

Later, in her bedroom, she lay thinking by the light of the bedside lamp.

What would he have seen, Ed? If they’d gone that step further. Would it have been so bad? She hadn’t looked directly at her scar in months, hadn’t really wanted to after that initial shock in the hospital ward. She had lived with it, got on with it, got dressed and covered it up every day, but hadn’t really thought too much about it until today. Until someone else was going to have to see it too, and it scared her. His likely reaction. Maybe it was a blessing he’d run when he did, because he may well have wanted to seconds later. Would his face have dropped, along with her bra? Would he have tried to rally but bottled out and left, making polite excuses?

What would he have seen?

She took a long, slow breath. The low lighting of the bedside lamp in the room was just enough, the daylight still a soft grey through the window: long June shadows, late nights. She got up and stood before the full-length mirror.

She pulled her sweatshirt off over her head. Her comfy washed-out bra – that on its own might have been enough to put him off, she mused wryly. Her breast shape looked okay so far, with the bra on – she’d chosen a reconstruction soon after the initial op, back to her original 34C. The V of her cleavage looked fairly normal.

She reached her hand up to her left cup and felt through the material, the faint ridge of the scar under her touch. Closed her eyes a second, reached behind for the clasp of her bra. Held her breath. Released it. Dropped the off-white material down to the floor. Stared. Hadn’t expected the tears that startled her eyes and misted the image for a second. Wiped them away. Focused. She had to see what he would see.

Her throat tightened and she gulped back a small sob. The scar still had the power to hurt her, but not as much as before.

They hadn’t been able to save the nipple; it often caused more problems trying to keep it, they said. So there was a breast shape with a bold reddish-purple scar line horizontally across it and little stitch indentations at right angles to it. A bit like ruler markings. She ran her forefinger along it, felt each delicate ridge. It didn’t hurt to touch any more; if anything, it wasn’t as sensitive as before the op. It only felt uncomfortable when she forgot and lay down on it, flat on her stomach. The lack of nipple looked odd. Could anyone find her attractive now? She thought back to all those stupid teenage doubts: Were her breasts big enough? Had they got a slight droop? And, oh my God, panic – a rogue hair around the nipple, the tiniest blondest hair ever. What the hell had she been thinking back then? What on earth had there ever been to worry about? It was laughable now. She’d like to give her teenage self a good shake.

She felt crushed, confused, yes. But she was here. Others hadn’t made it. Was it selfish to be thinking this way? The faces of those friends on the chemotherapy ward who hadn’t got through appeared in her mind. A lump lodged in her throat. This was her battle scar. And she was alive to see it. She must hold on to that. She was a survivor. She couldn’t waste her life worrying about a missing nipple, a ridge of scarred flesh.

This was her now. This was Claire Maxwell. She had to accept it. And she could. Her fear was how someone else, a man, a lover, might feel about it. She felt such a deep yearning to be held, to be loved again. Not just by her mum, her sister, her friends, precious though that support was, but by a man. She longed to get lost in someone else’s touch, have wonderful, gasp-out-loud, satisfying sex. It had been such a long time. Having Ed so near today had shaken up her world.

They were so close, so close to having sex – just about naked, for fuck’s sake. And he had run away. Her shoulders starting shaking as she pictured the pair of them. She began giggling at the bizarreness of the situation, and her bare breasts began jiggling. Life was bloody bonkers, whichever way you looked at it. But then the tears flowed. For her scars, her fears, for her lost friends, for the patients she hadn’t known, the ones facing their nightmare journey right now, and the ones that cancer had stolen from their families.

She wrapped herself up in her cosy dressing gown, went to the bedroom window and stood looking out at the half moon. Dusk was closing in around it now. There were glints of silver on the sea.

A ping of light arced across her garden. An upstairs room lit up next door. She thought she could hear the echoes of music, something classical, lyrical. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was he looking out at the sea too?

The world was as big as a moonlit sky, as small as a grain of sand; it was crazy, it could hurt, it was beautiful. You could get lost in it.

Two lonely lights, side by side.

7

The smell of freshly baked bread

After the mortifying events of the previous day, Claire just wanted a quiet, normal kind of Tuesday. She pottered around the cottage as the weather was still unsettled, but managed a short stroll on the beach between showers, dipping her toes in the sea, sharing the shoreline with a couple of gulls, quite happy to watch the world go by.

On Wednesday, she spent time in the sea-view garden. The sun had decided to make a comeback and prove it was summer after all. She really must crack on with the editorial piece for next week’s Herald, she mused. She was features editor; she had a good following. The stories of her battle with cancer had inspired others, but she didn’t want to dwell on that any more. Her writing needed a new direction, something to cheer people up.

She sat thinking for a while, and then the thoughts flowed. She realized that what she wanted to write about was those simple things in life that make you happy; the conversation she’d had with her sister had stayed in her mind. She opened a Word document on her laptop and found herself planning her first ‘Magic Moments’ article.

She paused, considering what moments should be on her own list, then began typing:

1.A sea view and sunshine on your face.

2.Time spent with family. (She remembered how lovely the weekend had been with her sister.)

3.Tea and cake with friends. (Yes, she’d arrange that with Andrea and the girls when she got back.)

4.Hearing the sound of children’s laughter. (Visit to her nephews asap.)

5.A hot, deep, bubbly bath. (Another one tonight!)

6.Losing yourself in a great book. (This afternoon!)

7.A hug. (In her darkest moments during the cancer treatment when words were no longer enough, a hug had said it all, made her feel safe, comforted. And hugs could be happy too. Aw – she’d need to find someone … She’d definitely be getting one from her mum on her return home … did that count? What she’d really imagined was a strong man’s arms around her. Thought removed – that was veering way too near to Ed territory, and look where that had ended up.) Hmm … what next?

8.A chilled glass of wine on a summer’s day. (Ready to pour at your leisure, madam.)

9.The smell of freshly baked bread, closely followed by its taste, just out of the oven.