You don’t have to believe, Maggie. I just need you to come along, said my friend Betts.
So we both got on a bus from Leeds to Lourdes.
650 euros; not including the paninis, the fruit juice, the nightclub entry and the plastic vial of holy water that was probably souped from the drains.
I banned myself from saying mean words in the presence of Betts—like rip-off and bollocks—because Betts believed her tumour could be magicked away.
But when it was my turn to be in front of Our Lady of Lourdes in the Massabielle cave where the miracle happened, once the queue of wailing pensioners had shuffled on and Betts had done her bit, I grabbed onto the rock and looked up at the Virgin, perched on her rose bush, and pleaded with her to save Betts’ sorry little soul. I said keep her a while longer, let her have fun. Please let her have some fun.
When I came out, Betts wasn’t there anymore.
I thought what’s the use of me actually being here, accompanying her, organising things, when all I am is weighed down by the idea of a world without her in it.
She’d already had a go at me for refusing to dance to Disco 2000 the night before. At the bar, she’d said who’s hijacked your love of life, Maggie?
Even if I’d managed to salvage something at breakfast when I told her the joke about the rabbit at the butcher’s, the lightness was fleeting.
I found her half an hour later, smoking with a young, satin-trousered man by a flower bed. This wasn’t just a cigarette.
You’re not my sodding chaperone you know, she replied, after I’d told her I’d been looking for her everywhere.
She said lighten up, darling, have some of this.
I sighed and sat down on the stone ledge, nodded at the satin trousers and took a few tokes.
Jeez, look at that man’s tie, Betts said, pointing to an old boy outside the grotto.
Excuse me sir? she shouted. Why is your tie so very, very, long?
The old boy didn’t speak English and was confused. He was helping his wife lean her crutch against the hollow of the rock face as an offering, next to a multitude of shepherd’s sticks.
Leave them be, I said.
But it goes all the way down to his crotch! And beyond! She started her giggling. The one that’s born in bursts like popcorn in a microwave.
Don’t you think it’s weird? she said. Like it’s there to hide a sporadic bulge?
Anti-erection tie, satin-trousers said, smiling, flicking ash on the manhole cover.
What an invention. Do you have one?
The man laughed, which set Betts off again.
Your friend is funny, he said to me.
I wanted to get back to our hotel and pack because we had to be at the bus station very early, and the pickup point was out of the way.
Betts was now looking at her new friend’s crotch and her outstretched finger was moving in its direction.
Betts, I said, we need to head.
I took her hand and pulled her up.
A coach-load of American tourists were now triangling into the grotto. They had such booming voices for a holy place, such hope in their eyes.
Well ladies, said the man standing up from the flower bed, it was a pleasure meeting you.
I could see why Betts had sat next to him. He had the same dark eyes and as one of her exes she’d met in the Lakes. The only man she’d been that close to marrying.
Tut tut tut, she said, and turned to give him back his spliff.
Now look, Jean from Avignon, she continued. What I propose is that you come back to ours and we pour ourselves a small glass of sherry, because we have a bottle of sherry, don’t we Maggie, and then we’ll compare tumours.
Betts, can you just come on?
Jean from Avignon was smiling now. He was a young thing and I felt sorry for him. Betts must have been a good twenty years older.
Sure, he said and he got up, turned to slot his tobacco into his rucksack pocket.
Don’t you think he looks like…?
Yes, I said.
So what do you intend to do?
I have no plans, darling, Betts said. Absolutely no plans. But once we get back to the room, if you want to fuck off for a few hours, that’d be perf.
I went to a local café and couldn’t make my mind up about what to order. There was too much choice, too many pastries and possibilities. I settled for a glass of tap water and a herbal tea, as coffee would keep me up all night.
I sat back in my chair and thought of Betts and the fun she was probably having. My little life.
Sod this, I said aloud, and the waiter came back over. I’ll have the tropézienne, s’il vous plaît, and I didn’t take the fork he offered.
I took it to my mouth with both hands and sunk my teeth into the soft brioche, letting the pastry cream and butter cream plop onto the saucer from all angles.
The big finale, the pearl sugar moustache, well I vowed to keep it right up until I brushed my teeth that evening, after Betts had told me about her antics, after I’d said na-night, lovely, sleep tight you dirty beast.
