Page 75 of Duplicity

She turns the book over and looks at the price.

‘It’s 'spensive, Mummy.’

I inhale sharply through my nose and get to my knees so I’m at eye level with her. It kills me that my eight-year-old girl worries about money, that she doesn’t run into a bookshop and demand things like other kids her age might but instead frets about how we’ll afford those things.

She’s seen me scrimp all these years.

She knows that the material kind of treats don’t come along much outside of Christmas and birthdays.

She’s accustomed to there being precious little money to go around in the Winters household.

I recall something Athena said when she insisted on funding Tabby’s opulent bedroom tent as her Father Christmas present last year and I tried to put my foot down. She told me, in her inimitably forceful and candid way, thatthis is about ramming home a very important message to a sick little girl—that sometimes, in a world full of shitty disappointments, sometimes, just sometimes, life not only delivers but blows your fucking mind. It’s always worth believing.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Tabs worry her way to this momentous and gruelling operation. If ever there was a time to channel her godmother and ram home the importance of an abundance mindset, it’s now.

‘It’s more expensive than the others, yes, because it’s a beautiful special edition,’ I tell her now, putting the book into her hands. ‘More love and care has gone into making this book, so it has a higher value. It’s special, just like you’re special, and this trip we’re going on is very, very special. So how about we treat ourselves, because a special trip deserves a special book. Hmm? What do you think?’

She nods slowly, her face still solemn. ‘Do you have enough money?’

‘Oh, sweetheart, of course I do. I have this great new job, remember? And it means that we can afford to get some nicetreats for our trip.Specialtreats. And you can put this pretty book by your bed in the hospital, and hopefully it’ll help to comfort you. We’ll bring Bartholomew, too.’

Bartholomew is Tabby’s new Jellycat bear. Athena bought him for her as soon as we got our date for the operation. He’s soft and solemn and sports a very smart pair of red-and-white pyjamas. He’ll be our wingman for the trip.

‘Mummy,’ she says, and then pauses in that way that tells me she has something on her mind.

‘What is it, my love?’ I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, still on my knees.

She looks at the carpet. ‘Will you be with me the whole time in the hospital? I don’t want to be alone, even with Bartholomew. I want you.’

So this is what’s bothering her.

‘I will be with you the whole time, except when they’re doing the actual operation,’ I promise her. ‘I’ll be stroking your hair when they make you go to sleep, and when you wake up afterwards, I’ll be there. I’m not allowed in the operating theatre in case of germs. They have to keep it really clean.’

Her chin wobbles. ‘But I don’t want to be without you. It’s scary.’

I blink my eyes rapidly to stem the tears threatening to well up. ‘I know it’s scary, sweetie. Iknow. But you won’t be awake during the operation. So you’ll have me with you all the times you’re awake. And do you know what? It’ll just feel like a few minutes that you’re asleep, but when you wake up you’ll have a whole new valve. Isn’t that amazing?’

‘What if I can’t go to sleep?’ she mutters, reaching for a strand of my hair and rubbing it between her fingers. She’s done this since she was a tiny girl.

‘You don’t need to worry about that, because they have this magic sleepy gas. It’s so funny! You breathe it in, and then thedoctor will ask you to count backwards from ten or some other number, but you’ll start snoring before you finish. What do you think of that?’

Her smile is slow and wondrous. ‘No I won’t. I can count backwards.’

‘Yes you will. I promise you. It’ll feel lovely, like you’re floating through the clouds.’

What I don’t tell her, of course, is that watching your child go under is one of the most distressing things a parent can witness. Stroking your little girl’s hair as she drifts off under anaesthetic on a cold, clinical gurney is so strikingly similar to how I imagine it would be if she passed away that I can’t bear it. I really can’t.

I’m not sure how I’ll survive those hours after they wheel my unconscious child into theatre, sitting in the waiting room all alone as strangers operate on the most important organ in her body, rocking and waiting and praying for good news until my tears run dry and my knuckles turn white.

I honestly don’t.

CHAPTER 36

Marlowe

‘Mum? What’s up? Is Tabs okay?’

I hurry into the ladies’ loos at work, praying they’re empty. They are. As soon as my mother’s name flashed up on my phone, I bolted from my desk like a greyhound after a mechanical rabbit.

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