We Are All Made of Stars Read Online Free Page A

though those spread adverts on the telly seem to say that Italians lives for ever, so I hope so.
    It was 1954. I was twenty years old, and me and Margaret Harris from the bank where I worked had a day trip to Brighton. Down on the train, best dresses and hats. Mine was primrose yellow and had flowers embroidered on the pockets.
    We were walking along the front when we saw you, although you didn’t notice us. We thought you had to be a movie star or something: the way you stood there, with your sunglasses on – hair all slicked back, black T-shirt, white trousers. We went round the corner to peep at you, and then we put on some lipstick and walked past you again, swinging our skirts and giggling like we were ever so fascinating. You said hello in Italian. We ran away, screaming with laughter; what a pair we were.
    I didn’t see you for the rest of the day, not until the dance at the end of the pier. And there you were, in a pale blue suit. When you came over to talk to me I thought I might die, maybe from the excitement. Your English wasn’t very good; my Italian was non-existent. But, oh, your accent.
    We kissed all night, never stopped for a breather, or a drink. You whispered strange words in my ear, might have been a shopping list, for all I knew. I didn’t care, because it sounded like music.
    That’s when I found out that Margaret had got the last train home without me – in a pique, I expect, because it was me you had eyes for. You walked me back to your bedsit and snuck me up the stairs without the landlady noticing. I’d never been with a boy before – I thought something dreadful would happen, that I’d get pregnant or catch some disease, but I was stupid and young and it didn’t seem to matter more than that moment.
    The next morning, you wrote your address in pencil in my address book and kissed me goodbye. I never heard from you again. I didn’t catch anything or get pregnant. I wasn’t brave enough to write. I married a good man a few years later, and I’ve been happy. It’s been a good life. But every time I’ve changed address books, I’ve copied your address into the new one, once again. Monte Bernardi; a reminder of one night when I risked it all for a little excitement. So it would seem an awful shame not to use it just once.
    Thank you for the dance,
    Susan Wilks

CHAPTER THREE
HOPE
    â€˜You still awake?’ Stella checks her watch, as if I might not know that it is nearly 3 a.m. Why she’s concerned, I don’t know, as her sole purpose for being here is to wake me up.
    â€˜Looks like it,’ I say.
    â€˜I just need to know …’
    â€˜Yes, I know, I know the drill.’ I tuck a knotted strand of hair behind my ear and let Stella take my temperature, my guitar cradled in my lap, as it often is. There’s half a song in my head, and it won’t go away, so I’m trying to write it – exorcise it, that would be a better term. It’s a bloody stupid song, about as edgy as a kitten, about love and rainbows and all sorts of bollocks – not at all the kind of song I want to write, which is about … Oh, I don’t know, something profound. ‘You need to know my temp, my oxygen saturation, my pulse rate, my blood pressure, blah, blah, blah. And then in another couple of hours you are going to watch as I take my hypertonic saline and then cough up the contents of my lungs in my ritual humiliation. You own me, basically. I’m your bitch.’
    She raises an eyebrow and almost smiles.
    â€˜You might find it boring, but these are the ticks and measures that are going to get you out of here quicker,’ she assures me, in this careful, quiet way that she has, gentle and soft, as if someone has found her volume control and turned it right down.
    â€˜I think I’m ready to get out now,’ I say. ‘I’m not dying any more, or at least, I’m not dying very quickly. It feels