“Well, it’s nice you remembered those of us who knew you before you were famous,” Kate jokes.

“Hardly famous,” Amanda snorts. “A pub tour of New Zealand is about as glamorous as it sounds.”

“Well, I’m just happy you could make it,” I say, feeling emotional at the sight of her.

She stops eating long enough to give me an affectionate look. “As if I’d miss your birthday party.”

“You missed my twenty-first.” I pretend to sulk.

“Oh my God, I was out of the country.”

“Yeah, yeah, excuses.”

“Get over it already. Anyway, so? What were you guys talking about when I came over?”

“That night we drank all the Malibu,” Kate answers her. “Seriously, Amanda, you need to take some breaths between mouthfuls. You’ll give yourself indigestion.”

“Can’t. Too delicious. I remember that night,” Amanda says with her mouth full. “I haven’t been able to stand the smell of that stuff since.”

I shudder. “Me neither.”

I watch them talking and feel a wave of love and affection for them. These women feature in most of the memories I have, spanning over half my lifetime. They’ve been there beside me through so much. Boyfriends, heartache, jobs, holidays, and, of course, my cancer. The first time I was sick they were amazing. Sat with me through treatments. Bought me flowers and little gifts when I was at my lowest, to take my mind off things. They helped me bathe when I physically wasn’t up to it, and rubbed my shoulders while I threw up in a toilet from the side effects. How could I tell them I was about to inflict that on them again? Only worse this time, because this time there was no hope.

Chapter Three

Someone clangs on the side of a glass with a fork.

“Excuse me? Can I have your attention, please?” Mum calls out. “Hi,” she says when she has all eyes on her. “I think most of you know who I am, but for those who don’t I’m Gabby, Ava’s mum.” She puts a hand on her chest and pauses, as if waiting for a collective greeting like the drawn-out one kids give teachers every morning—“Good mooooorrrrninnnnnng, Mrs. Greeeeeeen”—and seems disappointed when she is met with a wall of silence and shuffling feet instead.

“Anyway, we—that is, Ava’s dad, Ben, and I—would like to thank you all for coming to help us celebrate our beautiful daughter’s birthday.”

I feel all eyes swivel in my direction and give a nervous wave.

“I think you all know what I mean when I say this day is more special, to us, than just a normal birthday. Ava, why don’t you come and stand beside me.”

“No, it’s OK,” I say, but Kate pushes me forward.

“Go on, humor her,” she says.

I couldn’t feel more like a fraud as I make my way to stand beside my mother. These people are here for me, to celebrate the anniversary of the day I was given life. On the very same day I’ve just been told my life is all but over. Which is a hell of a sick kind of irony, now that I think about it.