The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch
CHAPTER 19
I’m on the train out to my brother’s birthday lunch, my mother having begrudgingly moved the date to Sunday, this being his actual birthday, when my phone starts to ring. It’s Mika. I momentarily consider letting it go to voicemail, but quickly remember that I’m meant to be a professional.
So I pick it up. ‘Mika! Hi.’
‘Paige!’ I look around to make sure I’m not in a quiet carriage. I’m not, and also, luckily, there are few people near me. Talking on the train always seems so exposing. It’s a relief to think my exposure will be limited. ‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, I’ve been crazy busy, but I love the designs you sent over. I absolutely love them, and so do all of my couples.’
I freeze in my seat.
I know I need to say something, but the only word I can think of is, ‘Really?’ This wasn’t at all what I was expecting her to say.
‘Really!’ Mika’s voice sounds so loud in comparison to the quiet train. I wouldn’t be surprised if my fellow passengers can hear both sides of this conversation. ‘Honestly, babe, they blew all the other designs out of the water. And thanks for including me on the email to Frankie and Josh. You didn’t need to, but it was great to see that cake too, which is also gorgeous. I’m so proud of you.’
Mika and I are the same age, but somehow I feel a lot younger and a lot older than her, all at the same time. Eventually, a smile forms on my face, my heart starts beating again and I breathe.
‘There is one thing though.’
Oh god. My smile falls and I halt my breath. Why does there always have to be one thing?
‘One of the couples is looking to move their wedding up.’
I exhale in relief. This is fine. I had worried the ‘thing’ would be something disastrous like one of the couples wants the whole cake to be vegan. One vegan tier is fine, but a whole cake is too much. Still, this is a faff, not so much for me, but for Mika. All the extra organizing, all the rushing of details, all the potential date clashes with suppliers. I try and sympathize. ‘Oh god. What an arse. Which one? When to?’
‘The Smiths. The one that was meant to be in late August. They now want to move it to the fourth of June.’
I try to conjure up an image of the calendar on my kitchen wall. The fourth of June isn’t that long away. And from memory, the Smiths’ cake is the one with all the white. The one that Noah’s duvet inspired. The thought sends his smiling face to the front of my mind, but I’m brought back into the conversation by Mika’s voice.
‘Between you and me, as weddings go, it’s probably the biggest one I’ve done, and I’m pretty stressed out about it. There’s been so much to organize, and now so much to reorganize that I’m existing on max four hours sleep a night.’ The tone of slight panic in Mika’s voice immediately puts me back on edge.
‘Cripes, are they a tricky couple?’ Tricky couples are not unusual, but it’s just nice to know if you need to make doubly sure that the cake is perfect.
At this question, Mika hesitates. ‘Erm, how can I say this …’ There’s a pause down the end of the line. ‘Well … I’ve had to sign an NDA.’
‘A non-disclosure agreement?’
‘Yep.’
I nod. NDAs are not usual in the world of weddings. They only really exist for very wealthy couples, famous people or wankers. I try not to let this freak me out; all three types of people often have very exacting requirements. I momentarily contemplate telling Mika that I can no longer make the cake. I probably shouldn’t be making it. I imagine all the other suppliers will be very exclusive and extremely talented, and I don’t belong in that company. I will let the whole wedding down. People will wonder if a friend made her cake. Or worse – an aunt. But instead, I simply say, ‘Right.’
‘So do you think you can still make the cake for the new date?’
It takes me a whole two seconds to realize that it doesn’t make a difference how difficult the couple is or whether I am busy or not. I would never say no to a Mika cake, not least because I don’t want to disappoint her, but also because the image of my expensive-to-replace-broken-mixer is still plaguing me. ‘Of course. I can do the new date no problem.’
Mika squeals. ‘Yay! Great. I don’t know what I would have done if you had said no. They will be so happy when I tell them you can still do it.’
‘Of course.’
Down the end of the phone, I hear a door open and close and the background road noise disappears before Mika says, ‘I need to go but I’ll speak to you soon, OK? We can discuss logistics and timings and set-up.’
‘Sounds good. Thanks so much, Mika.’
I put my phone down and stare out the window, but I can’t sit still. I need to do something to get rid of the leftover energy that Mika’s news has brought. A thought enters my mind and once it’s there it won’t go away. I pick my phone back up off my lap. I’m heading for heartbreak, but I’m also still running on a high and confident that I could withstand some disappointment. I text Noah.
How are you feeling today? Xx
I hit send before I can stop myself, and then go back to staring out of the window, feeling even less able to sit still.
I keep looking at my phone, but he doesn’t reply. I start to worry that someone else is making his pancakes and my confidence shakes. Maybe I won’t be able to handle the inevitable disappointment. He looked too good at the wedding to go home by himself. My only hope is that the presence of his sister would mute his wayward ways; but if he got bored of Mika, he will definitely get bored with me. Why did I message him? I should have left it alone.
I look at my phone once more before putting it back down. The screen is still blank. Nothing changes. No new notifications. No new messages. I double check to see if I have signal. I do. I turn my phone off and on again just in case that does something. I check to see if my message has been delivered. It has. He just hasn’t read it.
Ten minutes later, just as I have written off Noah for ever, I have a reply. I grin despite the fact I haven’t read it yet. Even if he is with someone else, he is still messaging me. He isn’t bored.
I have felt worse (see man flu episode), but I have also felt better. What are you up to? X
I pretend for all of three seconds that I won’t reply straight away.
I’m on a train out to the sticks for a birthday lunch for my brother. Sorry I can’t come round to make you feel better this time. Xx
I try not to wait for his reply, which doesn’t come straight away. Obviously, he has more self-control, or more things to do than I do. I try counting the number of sheep I see in a field. I try to read an article about the impact of different milks on the environment. I pick the nail polish off my nails. None of these activities are enough to distract me.
Finally, his reply comes through.
There is something you can do for me that would make me feel better. X
??? Xx
You could promise to wear those leggings next weekend. I wasn’t lying when I said your bum looked amazing in them. I totally zoned out during the speeches thinking about it. All I wanted to do was spend time with you (and your bum). It was a good job that I was sitting down. X
I blush. I feel a bit self-conscious, as though everyone around me can read his message. I also feel a bit pathetic that his message has affected me so much. But my bum is something that I have had to work to love. It’s always been on the larger side, and not in a fashionable way. It’s large in the ‘I eat too much cake’ way. I look around, but everyone seems to be sufficiently distracted by their own lives.
My bum thanks you for the compliment. Xx
So what have you got your brother for his birthday? X
His revert back to no flirting makes me regret my choice of reply. I should have been more flirty. I type and retype my reply.
A book on walking trails around the UK. Xx
Try as I might, I can’t sexy that up.
Really? X
Yes. Don’t judge me. It’s what he asked for. Xx
I stopped choosing his presents years ago. He never liked the ones I picked out for him, even if I spent a lot of time, and a comparatively large amount of money, on what I thought were very thoughtful gifts.
I look out the window once more as the train slows down. With a leap of a heartbeat I realize that it’s my station we are about to pull into. The station, or indeed town, doesn’t have many defining features, which in itself is how you can recognize it. I fumble around for my bags, unnecessarily worried that I will miss the chance to disembark, although part of me is tempted to stay on the train. Speaking to Noah is much more appealing than my brother’s birthday lunch, but in the long run it probably isn’t worth the drama. Going against common convention, I message again before he’s had time to reply.
I am almost at the station. Wish me luck. Xx
His message pings in just as the train doors open.
Good luck. I believe in you. I’m off to go do some more daydreaming. X
He sends one more message: a peach emoji. Who would’ve thought that emojis would become such a vital part of communication?
I exit the station and head towards the pick-up spot. My mum is waiting in the car. I see her and wave. She takes a while to realize it’s her I am waving to, but eventually waves back. She turns on the car before I reach her.
‘Hi love.’ We have the briefest of hugs. She’s dolled herself up for Alex’s birthday; she looks lovely. ‘Right, we’ve got to get going.’ She pulls the car away before I have a chance to do up my seat belt and the car pings angrily at me. ‘Your train was late, and we need to pick up Alex on the way. This place is very en vogue. They’ll give away our table if we aren’t there on time. I’ve sent your father there to hold the table for us.’
I’m instantly confused.
‘Was the train late?’ I look at my watch. ‘I don’t think it was.’
‘Well, either way, we are now late.’
‘Sorry.’ This is my go-to response to my mum in this kind of situation. Something about being with my family turns me back into the apologizing underling, even though I’m not in the wrong.
But I shouldn’t have bothered because despite my apology we spend the rest of the journey in near silence. Every time I come home, it gets harder and harder, takes longer and longer, to fall back into the role of daughter, sister, family cog. When I was younger it was a role I played well, but I think this is because I didn’t know any better. I also didn’t have a choice.
When we reach my brother’s house, my mum beeps the horn and then looks at me. ‘Let your brother sit in the front.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s older than you and it’s his birthday.’
‘He’s also thirty-seven years old. I don’t think sitting in the front is a thing any more.’
She doesn’t say anything else, not because she doesn’t have anything left to say, but because Alex has just walked out of his house. She waves and smiles at him as he comes towards the car and opens my door.
I get out to give him a proper hug; it’s been a long time since we last saw each other. He hugs me back and takes his present all in one smooth motion. ‘Happy birthday, bro.’
‘It’s good to see you, sis.’
He lets go and my mum gestures for him to go to her. ‘Mum! Thanks for picking me up. Meg is about to follow with little Gary.’ Gary is an unfortunate family name and is another reason why I would like to avoid having children. He jumps in the front of the car to give her a hug, and then sits down properly in the front seat and puts the seat belt on, physically claiming his rightful place.
Resigned, I take my seat in the back. Nothing about this situation makes sense, but Mum has always been one to make a mountain out of a molehill, and there is always someone on top of the hill – and that person is Alex, her favourite child. Everything she does, she does to make things easier for him, no matter the impact on other people, or logic, and I’m forced to revert back to the subordinate little sister. Once we’re off, Alex passes my bag back to me. I note that it has a muddy shoe print on the one side from where he’s stepped on it. I open it up. My sunglasses are crunched. There’s little point in saying anything as it will be my fault for putting my bag on the floor or not taking it with me.
As the car speeds down the country roads, Mum and Alex now happily chatting in the front, I worry about how much I am looking forward to a glass of wine and what this means for my personality and my general health. But I can’t not drink. A glass of wine is the only thing that will help the afternoon go faster. Or at least help to take some of the sting out of it.
Initially, I worried that it was too much to have haloumi for both my starter and my main course. But having now eaten both, I feel very happy with my choice and happier still that I have avoided, or have been left out of, most of the conversation. At least until Alex disturbs my peace and the relative safety of quietly being ignored.
‘So, Paige, how are things at work?’
‘Yeah, good actually.’ I nod, to emphasize just how good things are, relieved that the cakes from Mika finally mean my future cash flow is looking a little healthier. ‘I have some really exciting cakes coming up – a big one this coming Saturday. I’ll be glad when it’s over though. It’s quite delicate; there’s a big risk of breakage.’ This might not seem like a big deal for many folk, in particular the folk sitting around the table, but sugar work is very delicate, quite volatile and very time-consuming; a description that could actually fit my family too.
‘You know I have never made a dessert? Not even once.’
My brother says this as sign of his superiority. He has never made a dessert because dessert is bad for you. His body is a temple. Except for the fact I know he smokes. He just doesn’t tell Mum.
Mum’s face beams with pride. ‘But you don’t need to, you’re a fabulous savoury chef.’ Mum would say this even if the only thing he could make is burnt toast. She can be fiercely proud of her children, at least she can in Alex’s case.
Personally, I have never known Alex to be a good cook. The only thing he’s ever made me is scrambled eggs despite me telling him many, many times that I don’t like eggs unless they are disguised by flour and butter and a healthy amount of sugar. And from memory they were a bit overcooked.
‘If you ever change your mind, I could teach you.’
He laughs. ‘Why would I do that when it’s easier for you to make a cake for me?’ He looks around, and then under the table. ‘Talking of cake, where’s mine? I had been hoping for a carrot cake.’
He looks back at me, but my own face is frozen.
Eventually, I force my lips to move. ‘Mum told me not to bring one.’
At this point Mum steps in. ‘You told me you were too busy. I thought we’d order dessert here instead.’ She says this nicely enough, but the tone is forced. It immediately puts me on edge.
‘I wasn’t too busy. I just couldn’t make lunch yesterday.’
She has taken what I said and warped it, turning me into a worse person than I actually am. I’m definitely not an angel, but I’m not a devil either.
‘Paige. Please don’t make this into a big deal. We are having a nice lunch.’
‘I’m not making anything into a big deal, I’m just saying that I could’ve made a cake and I would’ve loved to have made Alex a cake. You were the one who told me not to make one.’ I try to make my voice light, but at the same time I don’t want to roll over. I am not a dog.
She tuts at me. ‘Paige, don’t make this about you. Today is Alex’s birthday.’ Mum smiles at her golden boy and he smiles back.
‘Yes. Precisely. Today is Alex’s birthday, not yesterday. I was busy yesterday, not today.’ I look around the table. Dad is silent as per usual – quite frankly I had forgotten he was even here – Alex looks like he could be about to jump in to say something even though I know he won’t, and his wife and child are actively ignoring us, choosing instead to hit their hands on the table, making as much noise as possible and increasing my level of anxiety and discomfort. I wonder if we look as uncomfortable from the outside as I feel from the inside. ‘I would’ve loved to make him a cake.’ And I would have. They might be a weird family, but they are also the only family I’ve got. I don’t want to be excluded.
Mum puts down her fork. ‘Please, Paige. You’re being selfish. And petulant. We’re in public. This is hardly the time or place to have this kind of conversation.’
I hate myself because what I say next does make me sound like a petulant child. ‘All I said was that I would have loved to have made Alex a birthday cake.’
She has the decency to look down as she says this next bit. ‘Here we go again. You always act like everything is worse for you. But let me tell you’ – at this point she looks up again, straight into my eyes – ‘your cancer was so hard for him to witness and you act like it was only you that went through it. But the emotional toll it took, especially on Alex, was huge. For so long the spotlight has been on you. But it shouldn’t be on you any more.’
I sit, stunned at how out of the blue this attack is. All we had been talking about was cake. Although, knowing my mother, I probably shouldn’t be so surprised.
Don’t get me wrong. I understand that me having cancer affected more people than just myself, but it can’t be blamed for everything. Especially when they were very absent for it. Sure, after I moved in with Nan they would occasionally come round for lunch, but it always felt like this was more to assuage their guilt rather than to make sure I was OK. Eventually, Nan stopped asking them to come over, and they never offered. They always created more problems than they solved. They always made a big deal about how it was such an effort to travel that far. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t go out to restaurants, or why I wasn’t over the moon when they bought me a new set of bathroom scales. My mother was proud of the weight I had lost and wanted to make sure I had everything I needed to keep it off. But for me, it was a great day when I realized my pre-cancer clothes weren’t hanging off me any more.
I look at Dad. He is determined to not look anywhere but his empty plate. I’m disappointed but not surprised. I know not to hope for him to stand up for me. Part of me admires him for always being on Mum’s side, but right now it would feel nice to have a bit of support. From somewhere. Anywhere.
In the middle of my contemplating what the point of family is, our waiter arrives. I’m extremely grateful for the interruption, but I can tell from the look on his face that he wishes he had arrived later. Or never. I know how he feels. I would also rather be anywhere else.
‘Can I get you anything for dessert?’ He looks around at the whole table, but I answer for all of us.
‘No, thank you. I think we’ve all had enough.’
The train on the way back is almost empty, but I take the seat that is placed right at the back of the carriage, the one that is by itself. I can’t risk anyone sitting next to me. Luckily Meg and Alex, accompanied by a sleeping baby Gary, drove me to the station. This wasn’t the original plan, but plans change.
Once on the train, I put my earphones in and listen to the same song on repeat. I’m not really interested in listening to the music, but I do want to drown out the world. My mood on the journey back is vastly different to my mood on the outgoing journey. Gone is any semblance of confidence and positivity. Instead I am seething with anger and hurt. When my nan was still alive, I would have been able to talk to her about this. But now I am alone with my thoughts.
And what do I think?
Everyone’s experience of life is different.
And I think everyone’s experience of cancer is different.
For me, the trickiest bit about my cancer was not the diagnosis or even the treatment. It was the timing. It happened at a time, at an age, when everyone was moving ahead. Everyone was deciding what to do with their lives. Everyone was competing for the best, the most interesting, the highest-paid jobs. We weren’t long out of university, and we had all, up until that point, been on the same path, broadly speaking. Cogs in a wheel. But as soon as the biopsy came back positive, negatively positive, I was put on a different path. I was a derailed train.
I knew that I was not the only person to have ever had cancer, but I had lived a very sheltered, small life. Cancer, serious illness, dying, were all hypotheticals. They were things that happened to other people. They didn’t happen to people that I knew. They certainly didn’t happen to me.
So when it did happen to me, I didn’t know what to do or how to act. I didn’t have a reference to draw from. I didn’t have anyone to talk to who was also going through it. I had to do the best I could with the sheltered, dull tools I had.
There was no point applying for jobs or going for interviews. Apart from the fact I didn’t know if I would still be around to take a job, any job, the idea of researching PR campaigns, or providing programme support, or being a customer success manager (whatever this means) for five days a week seemed a little pointless in the grand scheme of life.
The surgery was hard, but I was lucky, they didn’t have to take the whole boob.
My boobs were always my best assets. I had a glorious pair of breasts. One, the left one, was slightly larger than the right, but they were still glorious. They made up for my bum.
But now they aren’t glorious. Now, the left is slightly smaller than the right and misshapen, with a scar that looks a bit like a crescent moon at a slightly jilted angle. Or an upside-down smiley face. I used to love people seeing my boobs, but now I never get them out. Even in the dark. It’s why I wear complicated bras. It’s why I don’t have sex in daylight. I don’t want the questions. I forgot once, and once was bad enough.
‘You’ve got something, right there.’ He pointed to my left breast. To my scar. I looked down, even though I knew exactly what he was looking at.
‘Oh, no I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do – let me get it for you.’ He licks his thumb and starts rubbing my scar.
‘Is it red pen?’ He looks so confused and so determined to rid me of the mark. But if litres of bio oil won’t fix it completely, I don’t think a spit and a rub will either. ‘How did you get red pen on your boob?’ He laughs like I am the silliest person in the world.
But I am not laughing. I am frozen in place. In this really, really awkward place.
‘Oh no. It’s not pen. It’s a scar.’
I can still see his face, which blanched almost immediately from a mix of realization and shame and embarrassment and … aversion? Or fear?
The most ironic thing is that cancer kills you silently for a while. I went into hospital feeling OK. It’s the treatment that made me feel ill. I became too ill to drive. Too ill to take public transport. Too ill for too long, too much of a logistical issue for my mum, dad and brother to deal with.
But reinforcements were on the way. My nan rang, intuiting that something was wrong. Knowing that she was needed. She was a good growth in my life. She lived closer to the hospital, so she moved me in with her. I went through patches when I felt too nauseous to eat, so she made my food in advance, leaving it time to cool down so it was easier for me to stomach. She made me homemade popsicles that didn’t contain any additives. She learnt how to tie headscarves in pretty ways. She played card games with me for hours on end. Card games that were distracting enough to keep me entertained, but mindless enough that I could play them on very little energy, when my mind went elsewhere. Card games that I would introduce Sara to, my new breast friend, my only friend. Because as time went on, and it took me longer to get better than anyone thought it would, even the most steadfast of my friends started to lose interest. They lasted longer than Chris, but they still got frustrated at my lack of life progress. I did too. But having them disappoint you because you disappointed them is harder than not having them at all. So they fell away, along with my hair. It fell away blonde and grew back brunette.
But, again, I was lucky.
I didn’t die.
But with not dying also comes guilt. Yes, I had cancer, but it wasn’t bad enough, or aggressive enough that I died from it, so does it count? Is my experience still valid?
I survived.
And with surviving, came living. But by the time living was an option, I no longer knew what I was good at. The only thing I knew how to be was a patient.
But Nan gave me one final gift. She gave reason to my life beyond just being a patient. She gave me a job. She taught me a skill. She gave me a purpose. She showed me how to carry on her legacy. And to me, this seemed like the only job really worth doing. Occasionally I still wonder what it would be like to be in PR, but I think it would make me wish back to the good old days of being ill. And that is quite a confession.
Of course, I still remember what it is like to be that ill, but I try not to think about it. I only remember when I catch the sight (or smell) of things that remind me of that time. Like surprise souvenirs. Some are quite usual things like scars and ridiculously expensive private health coverage (thank goodness for the NHS), but others are less usual, like an aversion to the smell of paper towels – not the kitchen ones, the weird blue ones that appear in public places and don’t do anything except change colour when wet. But these are just gentle reminders, right?
They have to be, otherwise my mum is right. Because otherwise, six years later, and after all this time, I still wouldn’t be over having cancer. It would still be tainting my life. It would still be affecting my relationships. It would still be jeopardizing my future. It would still be crippling my self-worth.
It would mean that I didn’t beat it. It would mean that I haven’t won.