The List That Changed My Life Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Olivia Beirne

  The right of Olivia Beirne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licenses issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2018

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover images © pangpleiades, Suiraton, appledd, Alex Mosilchuk and Tina Bits, all @ Shutterstock. Clouds © calvindexter/Getty Images.

  Cover design by Caroline Young

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 5955 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Olivia Beirne is a 26 year old writer, who previously worked in casting. She lives in Tulse Hill, London with her friends and their resident mouse and grew up in Buckinghamshire. This novel is a standalone debut and she is currently working on her second novel.

  You can keep in touch with Olivia through her website oliviabeirne.co.uk, or via Olivia_Beirne on Twitter, olivia.beirne on Instagram and /Olivia-Beirne on Facebook.

  For my sister, Elle

  CHAPTER ONE

  16TH MARCH

  Amy thrusts her hand towards me and I wince.

  No. Please no. Please just leave me here. I can’t possibly stand back up. And if I have to throw myself into the air in another attempt at a star jump then I will vomit.

  ‘Come on!’ she cries. ‘You can do it!’

  I blink at her as my chest squeezes out oxygen like I’m an empty tube of toothpaste.

  If my cause of death is Zumba then I will be furious.

  ‘No,’ I say flatly, ‘I can’t. This is too much. I’m going home.’

  Can’t she see I am about to die? I feel as if I’m about to have an asthma attack – and I’m not even asthmatic.

  Amy raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Get up. You’re embarrassing me.’

  I screw up my face as thick, purple spots wriggle in front of my eyes. I feel bloody terrible. I thought exercise was supposed to make you feel good! This is like when Amy tried telling me you couldn’t taste the difference between white and granary bread. She told me Zumba was ‘easy’.

  Amy crouches down to my level. ‘Come on, Georgia,’ she says, ‘it’s mind over matter. Get up.’

  ‘No,’ I say before I can stop myself, ‘it’s too hard. You’re better than me at this, Amy. You’re always better.’

  Amy lurches forward and yanks me to my feet. I stumble up ungracefully.

  Bloody hell, she’s strong.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she says firmly. ‘I just have a better mindset than you. You’ve got to go out there and grab life, Georgie. I’m sick of watching you let the world pass you by while you’re sat on your arse watching X Factor.’

  I puff in outrage.

  That is so unfair. I do not spend my entire life watching X Factor. I mean, for starters it’s only on once a year.

  I open my mouth to protest but Amy gets there first.

  ‘Now tuck your boobs back in—’ she turns to the front, and I begrudgingly copy. ‘We’re starting crunches.’

  Oh great.

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  ‘Hi,’ I say, ‘could you tell me which room my sister is in, please? Her name is Amy Miller.’

  My body jars as I hear the words fall out of my mouth. My sister is in hospital. I’m here to see my sister, in hospital.

  The receptionist glances up at me, and then back down at her computer screen. She taps away and I stare back at her, desperate to read her face for some kind of clue. I don’t have a lot of experience with hospitals. I’ve never really had to go to one. You only have to go to hospital if something is wrong. Luckily for me, nothing has ever really been that wrong in my life.

  Yet.

  I glance at my watch.

  Where is she? She’s here somewhere. I know she is. Mum said it was easy to find.

  The receptionist flicks her dull eyes up at me. ‘She’s in Outpatients, on the fourth floor.’

  A tight wisp of air shoots out of me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say quickly, and I race up the stairs.

  Amy hasn’t been well, and Amy is always well. It started a few weeks ago; she would lose feeling in her fingers and struggle to grip anything. Then, last week, she fell. The day after she was in for blood tests, and then she couldn’t stand. She said she was too tired. Amy is never too tired for anything.

  Today she is getting the results back. She had to go to hospital to get them. You only go to hospital if something is wrong.

  I turn a corner as my eyes prick.

  She’s fine. She will be fine. She has to be fine. She’s always—

  ‘Georgia!’

  I jump as I collide with Tamal, Amy’s boyfriend. My eyes lock on to him, momentarily blinded by the wave of relief crashing through me.

  They’re still here. I’m not too late.

  ‘Tamal,’ I pant. ‘Hi, sorry. Where is Amy? Is she okay?’

  Tamal’s eyes dart between my face and the room behind me. I try to read his expression, but it remains still.

  ‘She’s in there,’ he says, gesturing to the door behind me.

  I nod in thanks and crash through the door. As I enter, all the air inside my body vanishes.

  The room is a dull shade of light yellow and has several brown chairs dotted limply in the corners. The wall is littered with paintings and there is a stack of tired children’s toys, slumped in a pile. My eyes flit across the room desperately until I spot Amy, curled up on a sofa in the corner closest to the window. I rush over.

  ‘Hey, Amy,’ I gasp. ‘Are you okay? Sorry, I came as fast as I could.’

  I grab a chair and drop into it. Amy raises her eyes to look at me, her mouth twitching into a smile at the sight of me.

  ‘You found it okay then?’ she asks lightly.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘just about.’

  I won’t tell
her that I almost charged into the maternity ward.

  Amy smiles, linking her hands under her bent legs and pulling them close to her chest.

  ‘I have no idea where I parked, though,’ I add, my head swivelling around the room as if the car could have followed me in. ‘I just left it. I think it was car park J?’

  ‘There is no car park J, Georgia.’ Amy grins. ‘The car park is labelled in numbers.’

  I look back at her, stumped. ‘Oh great,’ I mutter.

  Where the hell did I park my car then?

  ‘I’ve got the ticket in here somewhere, anyway.’ I gesture to my notebook, rammed full with thick pages.

  Amy glances down. ‘Gosh,’ she says, ‘you still have that thing?’

  I run my fingers over the dented cover fondly. ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll do when I run out of space. It’s got everything in it. I think it’s more important than my kidney.’

  Amy catches my expression and grins into her sleeve. I smile too. There is a silence as she readjusts herself on the sofa and her smile fades.

  I shuffle uncomfortably. I look up at Amy and notice her raw eyes, avoiding mine.

  I force the words out of my mouth. ‘What did they say?’

  My eyes search Amy’s face as I feel my stomach lurch. My body tenses in the silence.

  Amy has always been the prettier version of the two of us. As the older sister, it’s as if she got all of the best genes and I was made with the leftovers. She has a heart-shaped face, small pinched lips and deep, oval eyes. Her chestnut hair sweeps over her forehead and swirls down her spine, and she has a smattering of identical freckles all over her nose. I watch as she nibbles her fingernails. Then suddenly she takes a great intake of breath and sits up straight.

  I tense.

  ‘I’ve got MS.’

  I hover.

  What?

  I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what that is. What does that mean?

  Amy catches my eye and smiles, as if she can read my thoughts. ‘Multiple Sclerosis,’ she adds.

  I feel my body sink down into the chair, my bones feeling as limp as strings of spaghetti.

  ‘What is that?’ I say.

  Amy runs her fingers through her hair, her hands shaking. ‘It’s a condition which means my nerves aren’t working properly. Or the coating, or something. The signals my brain is sending can’t get through. That’s why I’ve been feeling so tired, and keep falling over.’

  ‘Is it fatal?’

  The panicked words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, and the shock of them causes my eyes to sting. My chest aches under the strain and I blink rapidly before meeting Amy’s grey, watchful eyes.

  There is something wrong. I was so sure there wouldn’t be anything wrong.

  Amy smiles. ‘No,’ she says, ‘but it is permanent. It’s something I have to live with.’

  ‘Can they treat it?’

  Amy tilts her head. ‘To an extent.’ She takes my hand and links her fingers into mine. ‘I’m not dying, so stop looking like you’re composing my eulogy. It’s just a different way of life. These are just the cards I have been dealt. I have to look on the bright side.’

  I hold Amy’s gaze, and as I do my eyes burn.

  ‘How can you be so positive?’ I manage.

  Amy squeezes my hand, her eyes shining back at me. ‘What else can I do?’

  *

  ‘Tea?’

  My head jerks up at the sound of Dad’s voice. I feel like we have been sat in silence for hours, mindlessly watching MasterChef.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Mum jumps to her feet, her head snapping around the room as we all nod in her direction. Mum counts us, her arm lingering above Amy, and then exits the living room.

  I try and slouch back into the sofa as my skin fizzes with anxiety. Amy is folded into the armchair, next to Tamal. Her hair is tucked behind her ears and her hands are swallowed by her large, bobbly jumper that sags over her stiff frame.

  It’s her university jumper. She only wears it when she’s sick – which is never. She’s never sick.

  ‘Oh look,’ Dad laughs, pointing at the TV. ‘That’s like what Mum makes.’

  I move my eyes back to the TV as Tamal tilts his head in agreement.

  ‘Amy,’ Mum calls from the kitchen, ‘what milk do you want? Is it this oat one?’

  Amy pushes herself forward and gets to her feet. ‘I’ll help her,’ she says.

  All of our eyes follow Amy out of the room and I fight the urge to chase after her. Tamal links his arms across his chest, his face strained.

  I take my chance and quickly move into Amy’s empty seat. Tamal clocks me and smiles. Tamal has been a nurse for as long as we have known him.

  ‘What do you know about MS?’ I say quietly, my eyes flitting nervously to the door. ‘I didn’t get a chance to speak to anyone in the hospital.’

  Dad glances in our direction and then back at the TV, pretending not to listen. I notice Tamal’s body tense at my question; his eyes flicker briefly towards me and then back at the pounding TV.

  ‘Erm,’ he says, ‘well, it’s a neurological condition—’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I interrupt, every part of me twisting with fear.

  ‘It’s to do with the nerves,’ he says. ‘It’s to do with your immune system not working properly. It’s different for everyone; for some people, it doesn’t affect them that badly. The coating that protects your nerves is damaged, so when your brain sends messages to your nerves it can affect your body’s ability to respond. It—’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I jump at the sound of Amy’s harsh voice, as she reappears in the doorway. Her eyes are narrowed down at me, and I notice that her hand is curled around the door handle.

  I blink wordlessly at her. ‘I was just asking about MS,’ I mumble, moving back into my chair.

  ‘Why are you asking Tamal?’ Amy says coldly. ‘Why aren’t you asking me?’

  My heart jolts.

  Amy sat in silence the whole way back from the hospital. We all did.

  I can’t ask her because I don’t want to. I don’t want to ask her about her being sick because I don’t want her to be sick.

  As the silence stretches across the room I hope that Amy has moved on, but her eyes are still fixed on me.

  ‘You can ask me,’ she says tightly, ‘it’s not a big deal. You don’t have to go sneaking around behind my back.’

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘Don’t go talking about me.’

  Her voice strikes me and I feel my eyes well up with tears.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ I manage.

  ‘Georgia!’ Mum calls from the kitchen. ‘Can you come help me carry this in?’

  I get to my feet when Amy whips her head around at Mum, who has reappeared in the doorway, carrying two mugs.

  ‘I can help you,’ Amy snaps accusingly. ‘I’m right here.’

  Mum’s eyes flit towards me nervously. ‘That’s okay, love. Georgie can help. Some of the mugs are quite full.’

  ‘So?’

  I feel my chest spasm as Amy glares at me. She reaches forward and snatches a mug off Mum with such force that the boiling water splatters down her arm. I watch Amy’s face quiver under the pain, but she wills it to remain still and strides towards me, her arm shaking. Her mouth is clenched as she puts the dripping mug on to the table and glowers back at Mum.

  ‘See?’ she spits. ‘I’m fine. I can carry a cup of bloody tea –’ She shoots another venomous look towards me and walks back out of the room. ‘I’m fine.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Can I wear pink? An investigation:

  PROS

  Pink is secretly my favourite colour

  That great jumper from the charity shop is pink and I want to wear it

  So is that skirt I got for Christmas

  And top

  Having a v. pink face is actually a good thing and isn’t something I should feel self-c
onscious about

  I am a strong independent woman and I should be able to wear any colour I like regardless of Amy telling me I looked ‘sweet’ (the worst compliment EVER. She might as well have told me I look like an eight-year-old)

  Reese Witherspoon wears pink all the time (not that I look anything like her)

  Pink is the colour of spring – and everybody loves spring

  CONS

  I look like Miss Piggy

  *

  Okay, as an assistant, there are many things that I would argue are not my job.

  For example, organising the sugar lumps. Or reloading the paper in the photocopier, or signing for all the packages (I don’t mind this one so much, as I see it as an excuse to show off my fancy signature).

  But this is too far. Nobody should have to do this.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the bright-eyed salesgirl bats her eyes at me, ‘could you repeat that, please?’

  Urgh. Please don’t make me repeat it. Saying it once is humiliating enough.

  I sigh.

  ‘I need to order seven baby doves for the seventeenth of November, please. And they need to be as white as—’ I consult my notebook, the tired pages curling under my fingers. ‘Rylan’s teeth.’

  She scrunches up her eyebrows. ‘Who?’

  I drop my battered notebook on to the counter and meet her baffled eyes. ‘He’s a celebrity. The doves just need to be white,’ I say, cringing as the words fall out of my mouth, ‘incredibly, blindingly white.’ My eyes flick down again at Bianca’s swirly handwriting. ‘She doesn’t want any ugly little chicks.’

  She didn’t actually use the word ‘chick’, but I am a lady and it’s not even 11 a.m. yet.

  ‘Baby doves?’ the salesgirl repeats. ‘We only have fully grown doves.’

  I glare at her. Why is this girl being so unhelpful?

  ‘Well,’ I flounder, ‘are any of them pregnant? Could we get them pregnant? The wedding is in, like, five months. Is that enough time for a baby to be . . . er . . . made? Conceived?’

  A frisson of embarrassment shoots up my spine at hearing myself say the word ‘conceived’ to a complete stranger.

  The girl raises her eyebrows at me and pulls open a large catalogue. I inch my swollen foot out of my pointed shoe, trying to ignore the irritation prickling my skin. I am not a PA, I’m not a runner on an elaborate film, and I’m not even a cool spy who needs the doves to catch a homicidal magician.