The Years of Loving You
So she had no right to be acting as though her world was about to come crashing down around her. Molly realised she was gripping the edges of the chair she was sitting in so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. She let go. Her hands felt fine today, ironically. They had for the past few days, in fact. Molly wasn’t sure what to make of that. Was it a brief respite? Or had whatever was wrong with her retreated for no apparent reason?
She glanced at her watch. She had missed Ed’s engagement party last week. She had sent an apologetic text to Ed to explain of course, but she hadn’t heard back from him. Which might mean that he was furious with her. Molly knew she needed to speak to Ed sooner rather than later, but she just couldn’t face it right now. Not until she knew for sure.
Molly shifted in her chair. She had received an immediate appointment with a consultant which was panicking the hell out of her. That didn’t bode well, did it? That meant they were fairly certain she had something serious. It was usually weeks and weeks until such appointments came up.
‘Mrs Bohle?’ Pronouncing Molly’s surname as ‘Bowl-lay’, a nurse appeared in the waiting room. Molly winced. Sam would go bonkers if he was here. He hated anyone who couldn’t pronounce their surname properly. ‘Mr Ward will see you now.’
Molly stood up, not bothering to correct the nurse. Her legs were like jelly. Was that a symptom? Or was it to be expected in the situation she was in? Frankly, Molly was fed up with all the uncertainty. It was better that she found out what was going on with her once and for all. Wasn’t it?
Anxiously, she walked into the consultant’s room and sat down.
‘Mrs Bohle. Good of you to come in so quickly.’
‘Good of you to see me.’
Mr Ward smiled politely. ‘Now. Obviously you initially went to see your GP about the tremors and stiffness in your hand and it was explained that there were various things this could be attributed to. A neurological movement disorder, perhaps. A few other conditions, but you haven’t presented the predominant symptoms.’
Molly found that her mouth had gone completely dry, as though someone had stuffed it full of cotton wool.
‘Are you feeling depressed at all?’
Molly flexed her hand. ‘Only about not being able to paint properly.’
‘But not in a general sense?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘But you are having trouble sleeping?’
Molly nodded. ‘Not every night. But quite often, I suppose.’
‘Memory loss? Confusion? Balance difficulties?’
‘No.’
Molly felt panicked. She had forgotten what she had gone to the corner shop for the other day. And had suffered momentary confusion until she remembered that they had run out of milk, hence her jaunt to the shop. And she had lost her keys a few times of late. Did those incidents indicate memory loss? Was she confused? Or did most people have moments like this? Sam often went upstairs, laughed and came back down again, claiming not to have a clue what he had gone up there for. No one was saying he was ill – no one was suggesting that Sam might have something scary.
Mr Ward nodded calmly. ‘But you have noticed some painful muscle contractions in your ankles and shoulders?’
‘Y-yes.’
Molly was loath to admit to these symptoms but she knew she had to be brave about this. There was no point in hiding things. She had forgotten about a few things but her GP had jolted her memory the other day. It had been horrible, like pieces of a jigsaw slotting into place.
Mr Ward cleared his throat. ‘A degree of numbness and tingling?’
‘Very slight. But – yes. I have felt those sensations.’
‘I see. And on one side of your body predominantly? The right?’ Mr Ward tidied the papers on his desk. ‘Well. I am going to give you my opinion, Mrs Bohle. And it’s up to you if you get a second opinion, of course. I would, in fact, recommend it in this instance.’
‘You – you would?’
Mr Ward sat back and regarded her. ‘There is no objective test for this condition. I can’t run a blood test, do a brain scan or carry out an ECG. Unfortunately. The great thing about those tests is that they give us definitive answers. What we’re dealing with here is something rather more vague.’
Molly’s heart sank. It was bad enough that she was waiting to hear news that could cause major shock; she didn’t need to hear that she might not get a definitive answer.
‘However. I have carried out a thorough neurological examination. And what I can say is that you are presenting what we call “cardinal” symptoms. Typical symptoms associated with a disease that is fairly uncommon in people of your age, but increasingly on the rise. There is a scan we might be able to run – it’s not a diagnosis in itself but it could confirm that we have a movement disorder which could give us a clearer picture of what we are dealing with.’
Molly’s stomach lurched. She wondered if it would be grossly inappropriate to throw up in Mr Ward’s wastepaper bin.
‘You are exhibiting what is known as “resting tremors” – tremors which occur when your limb isn’t moving. And rigidness when it is. Typically, these symptoms – which appear gradually and increase in severity over time – begin on one side of the body and migrate to the other side later on.’
Molly suddenly wished she hadn’t been silly about this. She wished she’d spoken to Ed. She hadn’t even been honest with Sam about it, in case his reaction had been scathing. No, that wasn’t fair. It was just Sam’s way to be dismissive about illness until a firm diagnosis had been given; he had been like it with his father when he had been diagnosed with dementia some years back. Hadn’t accepted the signs and symptoms until a formal diagnosis had been received.
But Molly knew she would have spoken to Ed truthfully, for some reason. Perhaps because he wasn’t married to her, because he was only a friend, he was able to be more objective than Sam.
‘Mrs Bohle, my diagnosis, like that of your GP, is that you have early-onset Parkinson’s disease.’ Mr Ward gave her a sympathetic glance. ‘Now I know that can sound like a very scary thing, but it is not – I repeat – not a death sentence. There are various drugs we can start you on. There are also clinical drug trials you might be interested in. Once you’ve had a second opinion, of course.’
Early-onset Parkinson’s. Early-onset Parkinson’s. She had it, she actually had it. Oh my God. Molly’s head was reeling. She had furtively perused the internet over the weekend and she had found that early-onset Parkinson’s fitted as a possible diagnosis. She wanted to be in denial about possibly having it but nothing else fit. There had been many less-frightening conditions she could have latched on to, but Molly hadn’t fully believed that they matched her symptoms.
‘I have some literature here for you,’ Mr Ward was saying. ‘About drug trials, about support, about different symptoms and long-term prognosis. Different for everyone, of course, but it can be helpful to know what is ahead.’
‘Oh God.’ Molly leant over and started crying. ‘This can’t be happening. I’m – I’m in my thirties, for fuck’s sakes. Sorry. Sorry for swearing.’
‘No need. And I understand that this is very hard for you to hear. People as young as twenty-one have been diagnosed with this and it can be incredibly distressing, whatever age you are.’
‘But I’ve read such awful things about this – about bladder and bowel problems, slow speech, the freezing thing where you seize up and can’t move. Not being able to do bloody buttons up.’ Molly was openly sobbing now. ‘Are all of those things going to happen to me?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Mr Ward said soothingly. ‘It affects everyone differently. Many people of your age tend to focus their energy on managing the non-motor symptoms of this disease because quality of life is the most important thing.’
Quality of life. What was her ‘quality of life’ going to be like now? Molly felt shock wrapping itself coldly around her body. Would she be able to drive? Dress herself? Remember her own name? Was this illness going to render her incapable of conducting a normal conversation? Was she going to turn into a manic depressive? She had read that people suffering from this disease often experienced depression – either prior to some of the motor symptoms, or later on once the diagnosis had been received.
‘Get a second opinion, Mrs Bohle,’ Mr Ward reiterated firmly. ‘I could be wrong about this. It’s one of the diseases I dislike diagnosing because of the lack of definitive testing. So as strongly inclined as I am to lean in this direction, I would genuinely like you to run this past another professional.’
Molly stood up, nodded numbly and thanked Mr Ward. Clutching the literature he had given her, she left his office and walked out of the hospital. Once outside, she gave in to the nausea and threw up down a once-pristine side wall.
Molly and Ed
September 1995
‘Who’s that girl, Middleford?’ Ed Sutherland nudged his best friend.
‘Keep your hair on. You nearly made me upend my glass of Tatt,’ Middleford, otherwise known as Boyd, huffed.
Ed eyed him fondly. Boyd was such a nobber. ‘It’s Taittinger, as you well know. And you don’t have to drink it. I’ve managed to get through the entire evening without touching a drop.’ He held up his glass of beer with some pride.
‘That’s because it’s not your mother hosting this event, is it?’ Boyd went cross-eyed for no apparent reason. ‘She likes me to drink champagne. Says it shows breeding.’
Ed gave Boyd an indulgent punch on the arm. ‘Your family own this massive house on the coast,’ Ed gestured outside, ‘and you have a coat of arms, for feck’s sakes. No one could possibly doubt that you’re a toff.’
‘Oh, piss off. You’re lucky you’re even here, you know. My mother thinks you’re a bad influence. And she says there’s something dodgy about you.’
Ed fingered the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. Boyd had no idea how astute his mother was. In the first instance, Ed had learnt that mothers fell into one of two camps as far as he was concerned. Camp one (of which Boyd’s mother was the archetypal, fully paid-up member) took the view that he was dangerous, a bad boy. Someone liable to lead their son – or more likely, daughter – astray.
Camp two saw him as a plaything and as such, flirted with him. Outrageously. On occasion members of camp two had been known to proposition him, despite his tender age of seventeen (just). Ed had succumbed once to such a proposition, mainly because the mother had been astonishingly beautiful and because Ed was sure she would teach him a thing or two. He hadn’t been wrong about that, but he hadn’t expected the stalker-ish behaviour that had followed the liaison. He had been forced to sever all ties with the friend simply to avoid the mother. Lessons learnt.
Ed edged a cigarette out of the packet and put it in his mouth. He couldn’t exactly blame camp one for being wary of him. He was a bad boy, in the mildest of forms. And frankly it was an image he cultivated. Like many of the macho heroes he admired, Ed loved drinking, smoking and women. Especially women. Or in his case, they tended to come under the banner of ‘girls’. He loved the way they looked, the way they smelt, the swell of their chests, their long, smooth legs. Their full mouths, their beautiful eyes looking at him with appreciation, or sometimes trepidation. Ed easily dealt with either response; the former fed his ego, the latter presented a challenge.
But Mrs Middleford had also worked out that there was something ‘dodgy’ about him – a very upper-class way of stating that he didn’t fit in somehow, that her social antennae had detected a mismatch. Ed made a mental note to keep an eye on that. He could do without his secrets being revealed just as he was about to leave the school he had worked so hard to get into. He had promoted an enigmatic image for himself, one that hid his real background and, as such, he deliberately kept his friends and his home life firmly separate. Ed never took friends home. He had done it once, with disastrous results. Again, lessons learnt.
Ed cleared his throat and took the cigarette out of his mouth. ‘Anyway, Middleford, pay attention. I’ve seen a girl I like. She’s gorgeous and I want to talk to her. I need her name and some background details, please.’
Boyd let out a sigh of resignation but narrowed his eyes nonetheless. ‘Which one is it? Not Gaby, surely? She’s a friend of my sister’s. Her nickname is “Vacuum”, which probably makes you even more excited, but I wouldn’t touch her with yours, quite frankly …’
‘Not Gaby. As if, Boyd.’ Ed knew exactly how Gaby had earned her nickname. ‘No, that one over by the window. The one with eyes I could drown in and a body like the Venus de Milo.’
Boyd frowned. ‘God, you are a massive tit. I know you want to be a writer, but honestly. Do you mean that one with the terrible hair?’
Ed rolled his eyes. The long, wild tangle of mousy curls conjured up thoughts of bare backs and exquisite shoulders, surely? Boyd, a sturdy, unimaginative fellow at the best of times, truly lacked vision.
‘I think she’s called Molly,’ Boyd offered finally. ‘Molly … Wilkes. Yes. Her mother is an old school friend of my mother’s. Father’s an Oxford Don. Older brother. Tom, perhaps. Successful architect. Ummm …’
‘That’ll do. Good work, Boyd. You are a veritable goldmine.’
Ed headed straight for the window as the girl called Molly slipped outside. He followed her, knowing he had the perfect excuse in his hand should he need it; a sneaky fag was useful in so many ways. As a result, he was taken aback when Molly turned and eyed him suspiciously.
‘Are you following me?’
Ed lit his cigarette suavely but spoilt it by almost burning his fingers when he snapped his Zippo shut. ‘Shit. Er, might be. Molly, isn’t it?’
‘You know my name.’ She raised her eyebrows in a ladylike fashion. He was handsome. And he knew it. She wasn’t sure if she liked that. Obviously Molly understood that everyone had a mirror – it was more that she preferred confidence that came from achievement, not looks. ‘You’re following me and you know my name. There are laws against that, you know.’
‘I’m having an innocent cigarette and a friend told me your name just now. Hardly grounds for arrest, surely? I’m Ed, by the way.’
‘Hi. I’d tell you my name but clearly you already know me.’
Close up, Ed found himself drawn to Molly’s eyes. They were cat-like, shrewd. Brown. No, dark blue – an unusual shade that no doubt earned her compliments aplenty. From lesser mortals. Ed would need to come up with something more original. This was a smart, eloquent girl who looked as though she might, with impeccable manners, coolly dismiss boys who bored her.
Ed sucked on his cigarette, feeling something spark inside him. He was tired of easy girls; Molly was already challenging him.
Out of the blue, Molly smiled. Was she mocking him? Ed felt unnerved, wrong-footed. He really needed to get a grip.
‘I’m not planning to get you arrested, no.’ God, but he was sexy. Molly checked out his mouth. Kissable, definitely. Hmm. How annoying. She hadn’t felt this attracted to someone at first glance before. Was this what everyone called ‘chemistry’?
Molly pulled herself together and gestured to his singed fingers. ‘But I do think you need to learn how to use a lighter properly. Otherwise everyone will think you’re a right nobber.’
Ed let out a shout of laughter. He’d never met anyone else who used his favourite insult before. He stared at Molly. She was on the short side but perfectly proportioned. She had that irresistible blend of slender, with tantalising curves in all the right places. Ed was willing to bet Molly worried about the size of her bum constantly. Molly might be a challenge, but he was confident he knew how her mind worked. To a degree. Because Ed could modestly acknowledge that he knew a fair amount about girls. He caught sight of her bum as she began to walk away from him and almost dropped his cigarette. Delectable. Rounded. Ripe. Bloody hell. Better than he’d imagined. Hang on; where was she going?
‘I’m off to do some stargazing,’ Molly said, as though she had heard his thoughts. She sincerely hoped he wasn’t looking at her bum. She always worried about it, stressed that it was a little on the large side. ‘I think if you carry on walking in that direction, you get to the beach, right?’ She began strolling but threw a glance over her shoulder. ‘Aren’t you coming, shadow?’
Ed watched her. It wasn’t his style to chase after a girl like some sort of lap dog, but Molly was intriguing. He had a feeling about her. Whatever that meant. Ed threw his cigarette down and hurried after her, slowing his steps when he realised what a dick he must look.
Act casual, dude, he told himself sternly. She’s just a girl.
Molly kicked her shoes off at the edge of the beach and carried on walking. She was glad Ed had followed her. She would have looked like a right idiot strolling off on her own. She would have followed it through for an indeterminate period of time, of course, so as not to look even more absurd – and being on a beach wasn’t exactly a hardship – but she would have felt downright silly. She gestured to an area of sand edged by long grass. ‘This looks good. What do you reckon?’
‘Well, wherever we sit will mean sand up our—’ Ed stopped. He wasn’t sure Molly would be impressed with talk of ‘cracks’. That was the sort of conversation he and Boyd might have. Ed squinted up at the sky, his mind rapidly flicking through some pages from … what, Geography? He flipped through his memory banks until he fell upon ‘Constellations’. Ah, yes. A number of them popped into his head, complete with names, historical references and relative chance of visibility. The Late Latin meaning of ‘constellation’ was ‘set with stars’; Ed had always found that kind of romantic. He’d been blessed with a photographic memory of sorts. A valuable tool when it came to passing exams (Ed hoped to sail through his GCSEs). And when it came to impressing girls, a memory like his was invaluable.
‘It’s perfect,’ Ed said, meeting Molly’s eyes. ‘The perfect spot for this. You. Me. Us.’
‘Oh, you’re good. Really good.’ She laughed but gave him a look he couldn’t fathom. Was she impressed? Did she find him amusing? Did she like him?
Molly flopped down on the sand and threw her arms above her head. ‘Seriously. I’ll probably fall in love with you if you carry on like that. Won’t be able to help myself.’ She was a bit concerned at the way her heart was racing. He had only looked at her and made a corny comment!
Don’t be silly, Molly, she told herself sternly. He’s just a boy.
Ed was transfixed. The way she had thrown herself down like that suggested confidence but there was a softness to her that took the edge off both her mannerisms and her comments. There was no malice present in her tone, just delight and enjoyment at the banter. He found himself staring at her bare legs, at the way they twisted together. It hit him in the groin somewhat, the sensual way her limbs moved and flowed.
God. Ed frowned. Boyd was right. He was a great big tit.
Molly lay back and closed her eyes, giving him the chance to continue his study of her. He noted that she wore several silver rings on her fingers – an assortment of slim, decorated bands. Her ears were studded with little sparkly earrings all the way from the lobe to the top, which lent her an air of bohemia. He wondered if she had a tattoo hidden away somewhere, and felt a strong urge to find out. Maybe she didn’t; like him, she was only sixteen, maybe seventeen. Ed lay down next to her, wondering about his next move. She was different. So he needed to be different.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me about constellations and stuff?’ Molly asked, turning her head towards his. He was doing an awful lot of staring. She was flattered, but she did worry that he was dissecting her looks too much. She wasn’t a girl who cared overly about her appearance, not like some of her friends. She liked to look good but as soon as she was dressed, she was off and she didn’t spare it another thought. ‘Go on. Tell me about constellations.’
‘As if. How naff would that be?’
Molly laughed. ‘So naff.’
Ed inhaled. He could smell her perfume and her hair. He felt an irrational urge to bury his face in her neck but he yanked himself back into line. He reminded himself that Molly was simply a girl. And that he knew tons of girls. If this one didn’t like him, he could quite simply – and easily – find another who did. Yes. Except that, even at his young age, he had figured out that some girls were special and that some just weren’t. Damn Molly for being beyond special.
‘They are awesome though, aren’t they?’ Molly pointed. One of them might as well get some constellations named. ‘I mean, look at that. That’s Cassiopeia, that is. From the Perseus family.’
‘Is it?’ Ed squinted up at the sky, captivated. ‘You’re very knowledgeable about this stuff. Ha. You just told me about constellations.’
‘Aah, but I swot up deliberately to impress boys.’
He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Are you laughing at me again?’
‘Yes.’ She matched his stance, the pose bringing her face close to his. What a beautiful face he had. She found him both fascinating and hellishly attractive. How very dangerous. Molly wasn’t used to being knocked sideways by a boy. So far – and her experience was reasonably limited – she had always been in charge, had always been the one calling the shots. She was a virgin but she wouldn’t dream of telling Ed that. She could tell just by looking at him that he had slept with tons of girls. Which made her feel slightly queasy, but she knew she could hardly judge him for whatever he had done up until now. And boys always did stuff like that.
Molly wondered why she had gone quiet. She rarely went quiet. She forced herself to say something. ‘I love stargazing. Pretentious though, isn’t it?’
Ed wasn’t interested in the stars. He was interested in Molly. He studied her. What a heavenly face. Those eyes … slanted, penetrating. A full mouth. Lips he wanted to kiss. Sublime cheekbones, a scar on her chin – a childhood injury? – that prevented her from being conventionally good-looking. Attractive, certainly, but not in an obvious way. Which fascinated him. Molly had a face Ed was suddenly sure he would never tire of looking at.
‘So, Ed. What are you going to do with your life?’ Molly bestowed a lovely smile upon him that sent him all over the show. ‘Aspirations, dreams, all that stuff?’
‘You’ll laugh at me again.’
‘I really won’t. I want to know. Genuinely.’ She moved her bare arm next to his, her hair trailing across his shoulder. He had nice skin. He smelt nice. Basic things, but they were doing less than basic things to various, critical parts of her body.
Ed wasn’t sure how on earth he was supposed to concentrate with her bare arm leaning against him that way, but he steeled himself. ‘I want to be a writer.’
‘Really?’ She was interested now and it showed. ‘What kind?’
‘The best kind. Well, in my view. I want to write novels that people talk about. Novels that move people in some way.’
‘That’s ace. I love reading. I’m always reading. Well, apart from in the middle of the night, obviously. Although sometimes I am. And my father is … well, he’s an Oxford Don.’
‘Is he now?’ Ed played dumb. ‘Now that really is ace.’
Molly flipped over on to her front, brushing sand from her hands. ‘I imagined you might want to be an actor or something. Looking like that.’
‘Like what?’ He turned over as well but moved his head closer to hers. ‘Do you fancy me? Am I handsome?’
‘Good grief. You’re so arrogant!’ She shook her head and her curls whipped his face. ‘You’re just really confident. I thought acting might be your bag. Playing on your ego and all that.’
‘I’m a man of words,’ Ed stated pompously. God, but he sounded like a wanker. He carried on, regardless. In for a penny and all that. ‘I love words. They’re my life, my passion. I plan to be very successful at it. You’d call it arrogance, I’m sure.’ He grinned. ‘What about you? What’s your passion?’