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checked himself, knowing Emma wouldn’t accept anything but a straight answer. ‘A small percentage. A very small percentage.’

      ‘I’m dying, then,’ Emma said matter-of-factly. ‘This time, I’m dying.’

      ‘No,’ gasped Meg, ‘no, you’re not. We’ll go somewhere else if we have to. We’ll find a clinical trial somewhere.’

      Mr Spelling raised an eyebrow as he looked at Meg but then turned his attention back to Emma. ‘There are a number of overseas clinics that have had some success treating cases similar to yours and we’ll do our best to investigate all the options, but I don’t want to raise your hopes. The clinics may not accept you and even if they do, there are no guarantees. Right now we have to be realistic and plan the treatment that we can offer you here but you have to understand that this is palliative treatment, not curative, not in the long term.’

      ‘So I am dying,’ repeated Emma.

      Mr Spelling’s silence told her more than her mother’s knee-jerk reassurances had. Fear tore through her body as she felt her future being wrenched from her grasp, taking with it all her hopes, dreams and foolish whims. Everything was gone.

      Emma had heard enough and tried to close her ears to the conversation that continued around her, which was now just noise. Her hand went limp in Mr Spelling’s grip and he placed it gently on the bed. She shouldn’t have wasted so much time, she told herself as cold terror was replaced by a slow-burning fury. She had been waiting for that magical five-year marker before resuming her life and what a life it was going to be, one where all her dreams were there for the taking. She had faced death head on and she deserved a better future. Perhaps in another lifetime, she thought as she turned her gaze towards her laptop, which looked back at her, its half-open lid smiling benevolently, letting her know her escape route was still open.

      ‘How long?’ she asked, her voice barely audible as she forced herself to rejoin the conversation.

      ‘Did you say something, Emma?’ Peter asked, interrupting Meg in mid-sentence.

      Emma silently thanked her nurse as she returned her attention to Mr Spelling. ‘If I haven’t got five years, exactly how long do I have? I started writing a book this morning. Will I have time to finish it?’ she asked, not taking her eyes off the doctor for even a moment. Her question smacked of desperation but she needed to know that at least this ambition could be realized. She wasn’t about to accept defeat, not yet.

      ‘Emma, you can’t be thinking of writing now,’ interjected Meg.

      Emma ignored her. ‘I need maybe a year. Can you give me that?’ she asked with a tone that dared the doctor to deny her dying wish.

      ‘You know I can’t give you a firm answer but twelve to eighteen months would be a reasonable expectation. It really depends on how the tumour develops and how you respond to treatment, but if it was down to sheer determination on your part then my guess is you’ll finish your book, and I’ll do my damnedest to help.’

      ‘Thank you,’ replied Emma, reaching up to squeeze Mr Spelling’s arm gently in gratitude. Her mother slowly released her fierce grip on Emma’s other hand and Emma surreptitiously flexed her fingers. She didn’t want Meg to know that she had caused her hand to ache, she would be feeling bad enough already. ‘So when do I start treatment?’

      ‘I’m working on the schedule now but I’d say within the month.’

      ‘But it’s Christmas in a month’s time,’ Emma told him. ‘How about we relook at those schedules and make it the first week in January?’

      Mr Spelling glanced towards Meg for support but she remained uncharacteristically silent on the subject and simply shrugged her shoulders. ‘It gives us more time to consider other options,’ she offered.

      Mr Spelling sighed. ‘OK, January it is,’ he conceded.

      ‘Which gives me six more weeks of freedom, so my next question is, when can I get out of here?’

      ‘We’ll play that one by ear but if you’re going to be your usual determined self,’ he said, emphasizing the word determined, ‘then I’d say you could go home early next week.’

      ‘Monday,’ Emma said, nodding her head as if Mr Spelling had already agreed the date.

      Mr Spelling suppressed a gentle laugh. ‘Yes, Monday should be fine,’ he said.

      The white-gowned bodies disappeared as quickly and silently as they had arrived, ghostly spectres that had completed their dark deed for the day. The screen curtain was pushed back against the wall, officially releasing Emma from her visitation, but she felt more trapped than ever.

      Meg cleared her throat, swallowing a torrent of unshed tears that she wouldn’t allow Emma to see. ‘Want to talk about it?’

      Emma shook her head slightly. ‘Not yet.’

      ‘You should get some rest then.’

      Emma knew she was right but the steroids she was taking made her edgy and restless and the temptation to pick up her laptop was becoming hard to resist. It felt safer filling her mind with words than allowing time to reflect on what else might be lurking in there. ‘I will when I’m ready.’

      Meg remained frozen to the spot where she had been sitting throughout Mr Spelling’s visit. ‘You’re not on your own, Emma,’ she said, taking a deep breath that lifted her head and pulled back her shoulders. Emma was reminded of a lioness raising her eyes to the horizon, sniffing out the dangers that threatened one of her cubs.

      ‘I know,’ she said although right now she would have been quite happy to have some time on her own. As that thought registered, Emma realized that she hadn’t thought about Alex once.

      She had been dating him for almost a year, her longest relationship to date and her only relationship in the last five years. Whilst her friends from university had been busy settling down and starting families, Emma’s future had followed a different path, one that felt like walking a tightrope where each step was a leap of faith. There had seemed little point in searching for someone to share her life with when she didn’t know how long, or how brief that life might be. It had been a complete surprise when her close working relationship with Alex at Bannister’s Kitchens and Bathrooms turned into something far more intimate, although, she noted, not so intimate that he was there by her side today.

      At first, his claim to have a phobia of hospitals had seemed a tad convenient but when she had seen the look of abject terror on his face on the one occasion he had visited her, she had been tempted to believe him and hadn’t pushed him since. ‘I should ring Alex,’ she said.

      ‘And I need to let Louise know what’s happening,’ Meg said, standing up and taking a tentative step away from the bed.

      ‘I’ll be fine, Mum,’ Emma replied. Louise was four years younger than Emma and was still considered the baby of the family but she hoped her sister would provide a better shoulder for her mum to cry on than she could. ‘But tell her she doesn’t have to come in. Friday nights at the bistro are too busy and she can’t afford to pay for extra cover.’

      ‘Now isn’t the time to worry about the bistro,’ Meg told her forcefully as she picked up her purse. ‘Louise is going to have to learn to stand on her own two feet.’

      ‘Yes, and she will,’ agreed Emma, as if prophesying her own doom. ‘But I’m still here and she’s still my little sister. I want to help her while I can.’ Meg nodded and her forced smile squeezed out the first tear, which they both dutifully ignored. ‘I meant what I said, Emma. You’re not on your own and I’m going to do my damnedest to get you through this. If Mr Spelling can’t help you beat this thing then I’ll find someone who can.’

      ‘You can’t fight this for me, Mum,’ Emma told her.

      Meg looked down, playing with a seam on her purse rather than meeting Emma’s gaze. She looked more vulnerable than Emma had ever seen her. ‘I know I can’t. I wish I

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