"Where are we going?"
Dad takes one hand off the steering wheel to pat me on the knee. "All in good time."
"Is it going to be embarrassing?"
"I hope not."
"Are we going to meet someone famous?"
He looks alarmed for a moment. "Is that what you meant?"
"Not really."
We drive through town and he won't tell me. We drive past the housing estates and onto the ring road, and my guesses get completely random. I like making him laugh. He doesn't do it much.
"Moon landing?"
"No."
"Talent competition?"
"With your singing voice?"
I phone Christina and see if she wants to have a guess, but she's still freaking out about the operation. "I have to take a responsible adult with me. Who the hell am I going to ask?"
"I'll come."
"They mean a proper adult. You know, like a parent."
"They can't make you tell your parents."
"I hate this," she says. "I thought they'd give me a pill and it would just fall out. Why do I need an operation? It's only the size of a dot."
She's wrong about that. Last night I got out the Reader's Digest Book of Family Medicine and looked up pregnancy. I wanted to know how big babies are in week sixteen. I discovered they're the length of a dandelion. I couldn't stop reading. I looked up beestings and hives. Lovely mundane, family illnesses – eczema, tonsillitis, croup.
"You still there?" she says.
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm going now. Acid liquid is coming up my throat and into my mouth."
It's indigestion. She needs to massage her colon and drink some milk. It will pass. Whatever she decides to do about the baby, all of Christina's symptoms will pass. I don't tell her this though. Instead, I press the red button on my phone and concentrate on the road ahead.
"She's a very silly girl," Dad says. "The longer she leaves it, the worse it will be. Terminating a pregnancy isn't like taking out the rubbish."
"She knows that, Dad. Anyway, it's nothing to do with you – she's not your daughter."
"No," he agrees. "She's not."
I write Tobias a text. I write, WHERE THE HELL ARE U? Then I delete it.
Six nights ago his mum stood on the doorstep and cried. She said the fireworks were terrifying. She asked why he'd left her when the world was ending.
"Give me your mobile number," he told me. "I'll call you." We swapped numbers. It was erotic. I thought it was a promise.
"Fame," Dad says. "Now, what do we mean by fame, eh?"
I mean Shakespeare. That silhouette of him with his perky beard, quill in hand, was on the front of all the copies of his plays at school. He invented tons of new words and everyone knows who he is after hundreds of years. He lived before cars and planes, guns and bombs and pollution. Before pens. Queen Elizabeth, I was on the throne when he was writing. She was famous too, not just for being Henry VIII's daughter, but for potatoes and the Armada and tobacco and for being so clever.
Then there's Marilyn. Elvis. Even modern icons like Madonna will be remembered. Old bands are touring again and sell out in milliseconds. Their eyes are etched with age and certain members don't even sing, but still people want a piece of them. Fame like that is what I mean. I'd like the whole world to stop what it's doing and personally come and say goodbye to me when I die. What else is there?
"What do you mean by fame, Dad?"
After a minute's thought he says, "Leaving something of yourself behind, I guess."
I think of Christina and her baby. Growing. Growing.
"OK," Dad says. "Here we are."
I'm not sure where 'here' is. It looks like a library, one of those square, functional buildings with lots of windows and its own car park with allocated spaces for the director. We pull into a disabled bay.
The woman who answers the intercom wants to know who we've come to see. Dad tries to whisper, but she can't hear, so he has to say it again, louder. "Robert Black," he says, and he gives me a sideways glance.
"Robert Black?"
He nods, pleased with himself. "One of the accountants I used to work with knows him."
"And that's relevant because...?'"
"He wants to interview you."
I stall on the step. "An interview? On the radio? But everyone will hear me!"
"Isn't that the idea?"
"What am I supposed to be interviewed about?"
And that's when he blushes. That's when maybe he realises that this is the worst idea he's ever had because the only thing that makes me extraordinary is my sickness. If it wasn't for that, I'd be in school or bunking. Maybe I'd be at Christina, fetching her Rennies from the bathroom cabinet. Maybe I'd be lying in Tobias' arms.
The receptionist pretends everything's all right. She asks for our names and gives us both a sticker. We obediently attach these to our coats as she tells us that the producer will be with us soon.
"Have a seat," she says, gesturing to a row of armchairs on the other side of the foyer.
"You don't have to speak," Dad says as we sit down. "I'll go in by myself if you want, and you can stay out here."
"And what would you talk about?"
He shrugs. "Paucity of teen cancer units, lack of funding for alternative medicine, your dietary needs not being subsidized by the government or insurance companies, I could talk for hours. It's my specialist subject."
"Fundraising? I don't want to be famous for raising a bit of money! I want to be famous for being amazing. I want the kind of fame that doesn't need a surname. Iconic fame. Ever heard of that?"
He turns to me, his eyes glistening. "And how precisely were we going to manage that?"
The water machine bubbles and drips beside us. I feel sick. I think of Christina. I think of her baby with all its nails already in place – tiny, tiny dandelion nails.
"Shall I tell the receptionist to cancel?" Dad asks. "I don't want you to say I forced you."
I feel ever so slightly sorry for him as he scuffs his shoes on the floor under his chair like a schoolboy. How many miles we miss each other by.
"No, Dad, you don't have to cancel."
"So you'll go too?"
"I'll go in."
He squeezes my hand. "That's great, Bea."
A woman comes up the stairs and into the lobby. She strides up to us and shakes Dad's hand warmly.
"We spoke on the phone," she says.
"Yes"
"And this must be Beatrice"
"That's me!"
She puts her hand out for me to shake, but I ignore it, pretend I can't move my arms. Maybe she'll think it's part of my illness. Her eyes travel in sorrow to my coat, scarf and hat. Perhaps she knows it isn't that cold outside today.
"There isn't a lift," she says. "Will you manage the stairs?"
"We'll be fine," Dad says.
She looks relieved. "Roberts really looking forward to meeting you."
She flirts with Dad as we go down to the studio. It crosses my mind that his shambling protectiveness towards me might be attractive to women. It makes them want to save him. From me. From all this suffering.
"The interview will be live," she tells us. She lowers her voice as we get to the studio door. "See that red light? It means Roberts on air and we can't go in. In a minute he'll play a trail and the light will turn green." She says this as if we're bound to be impressed.
"What's Robert's angle?" I ask. "Is it the whole dying girl thing, or does he have something original planned?"
"Sorry?" Her smile slips; there's a flicker of concern as she looks at Dad for reassurance. Is she only just able to smell something hostile in the air?
"Teen cancer units are rare in hospitals," Dad says quickly. "If we could even think about raising awareness, that'd be great."
The red light outside the studio flips to green. "That's you!" the producer says, and she opens the door for us. "Beatrice Prior and her father," she announces.
We sound like dinner party guests like we came to a ball. But Robert Black is no prince. He half squats above his chair and puts out a hand for us to shake in turn. His hand is sweaty like it needs squeezing out. His lungs wheeze as he sits back down. He stinks of fags. He shuffles papers. "Take a seat," he tells us. "I'll introduce you, then we'll just launch straight in."
I used to watch Robert Black present the local news at lunchtime. One of the nurses in the hospital used to fancy him. Now I know why he's been relegated to the radio.
"OK," he says. "Here we go. Be as natural as you can. It'll be very informal." He turns to the microphone. "And now I'm honoured to have as my guest in the studio today a very brave young lady called Beatrice Prior."
My heart beats fast as he says my name. Will Tobias be listening? Or Christina? She might be lying on her bed with the radio on. Feeling nauseous. Half asleep.
"Beatrice been living with leukaemia for the last four years and she's come here today with her dad to talk to us about the whole experience."
Dad leans forward and Robert, perhaps recognizing his willingness, asks him the first question.
"Tell us about when you first realized Beatrice was ill," Robert says.
Dad loves that. He talks about the flu-like illness which lasted for weeks and didn't ever seem to go away. He tells of how our doctor didn't routinely pick up the cause because leukaemia is so rare.
"We noticed bruises," he says. "Small bleeds on her back, caused by a reduction of platelets."
Dad's a hero. He talks about having to give up his full job as a financial adviser, of the way our lives disappeared into hospitals and treatment but now works at home.
"Cancer's not a local illness," he says, "but a disease of the whole body. Once Beatrice made the decision to stop the more aggressive treatments, we decided to manage in a holistic way at home. She's on a special diet. It's expensive to maintain, but I firmly believe it's not the food in your life that brings health, but the life in your food that really counts."
I'm stunned by this. Does he want people to phone up and pledge money for organic vegetables?
Robert turns to me, his face serious. "You decided to give up treatment, Beatrice? That sounds like a very difficult decision to make at sixteen."
My throat feels dry. "Not really."
He nods as if he's expecting more. I glance at Dad, who winks at me. "Chemo prolongs your life," I say, "but it makes you feel bad. I was having some pretty heavy therapy and I knew if I stopped, I'd be able to do more things."
"Your dad says you want to be famous," Robert says. "That's why you wanted to come on the radio today, isn't it? To grab your fifteen minutes of fame?"
He makes me sound like one of those sad little girls who put an advert in the local paper because they want to be a bridesmaid at someone's wedding but don't know any brides. He makes me sound like a right twat.
I take a deep breath. "I've got a list of things I want to do before I die. Being famous is in it."
Roberts's eyes light up. He's a journalist and knows a good story. "Your dad didn't mention a list."
"That's because most of the things on it are illegal."
He was practically asleep talking to Dad, but now he's at the edge of his chair.
"Really? Like what?"
"Well, I took my dad's car and drove off for the day without a licence or having taken my test."
"Ho, ho!" Robert chuckles. Dad simply looks bewildered. I feel a surge of guilt and have to look away.
"One day I said yes to everything that was suggested."
"What happened?"
"I ended up in a river."
"There's an advert like that on TV," Robert says. "Is that where you got the idea?"
"No."
"She nearly broke her neck on the back of a motorbike," Dad interrupts. He wants to get us back onto safe territory. But this was his idea and he can't get out of it now.
"I was almost arrested for shoplifting. I wanted to break as many laws as I could in a day."
Roberts looking a little edgy now.
"Then there is sex."
"Ah."
"And drugs..."
"And rock 'n' roll!" Robert says breezily into his microphone. "I've heard it said that being told you have a terminal illness can be seen as an opportunity to put your house in order, to complete any unfinished business. I think you'll agree, ladies and gents, that here is a young lady who is taking life by the horns."
We're bundled out pretty sharpish. I think Dad's going to have a go at me, but he doesn't. We walk slowly up the stairs. I feel exhausted.
Dad says, "People might give money. It's happened before. People will want to help you."
My favourite Shakespeare play is Macbeth. When he kills the king, there are strange happenings across the land. Owls scream. Crickets cry. There's not enough water in the ocean to wash away all the blood.
"If we raise enough money, we could get you to one of those research institutes"
"Money doesn't do it, Dad."
"It does! We couldn't possibly afford it without help, and they've had some success with their immunity build-up programme."
I hold onto the bannister. It's made of plastic and is shiny and smooth.
"I want you to stop, Dad."
"Stop what?"
"Stop pretending I'm going to be all right."
Thank you for reading!