A Song for Tomorrow

Alice Peterson

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
• Year: 2017
• eBook ISBN: 9781471153037
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

'An inspiring, uplifting novel about an extraordinary young woman who refuses to let anything stand in the way of her love and her dream' JULIE COHEN ' A wonderful book about the beautiful Alice Martineau that both inspired me and made me cry uncontrollably when I finished it' SUNDAY TIMES Tom fell in love with Alice the moment he saw her. He realises that being with her will not be easy, but she is a force of nature, a burst of sunlight in his otherwise ordinary world. Some people might look at Alice and think she has everything, but Alice knows she is not like other women. Her life is complicated, unpredictable, difficult. Alice does not like pity. All she wants to do – all she's ever wanted to do – is sing. Alice has been told not to follow her dreams. So has Tom. But when fate has already dealt a tough hand, it's time to stop listening to everyone else and followtheir hearts... ' A heart-wrenching read... A moving story of an extraordinary young woman and the triumph of her spirit against huge odds ' SUNDAY EXPRESS 'It's impossible to get to theend of this powerful and poignant story without a lump in the throat ' SUNDAY MIRROR ' Anextraordinary story that goes straight to the heart. Alice Peterson celebrates her namesake with great understanding and skill, acknowledging the frailties and strengths, the ambitions and the talent of an amazing young woman ' JANET ELLIS, author of THE BUTCHER'S HOOK 'What a beautiful, passionate story. I couldn't physically put the book down… I had to keep on reading' ALICE BEER 'Touching and vivid… A book that will live on in the hearts of many' CASILDA GRIGG 'Brought Alice's soul to life. This book had me in tears, my favourite book of the year' LIZZY WARD THOMAS 'An emotional, uplifting page-turne r, inspired by the true story of the singer, Alice Martineau, that celebrates making every moment in life count, and never giving up' JO CHARRINGTON, CAPITOL RECORDS ' If you read nothing else this year, please read this book! You won't regret it' Reading between the pages... (blog)

1

Tom

December 1998

Tom is on his way to the pub, running late as usual, when he sees her through the window of the art gallery. She is wearing a red dress and has the most arresting almond-shaped blue eyes. He watches as she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind one ear. He has never believed in love at first sight, laughing at how naïve it is to imagine someone is ‘the one’ after just one glance. After his recent string of average dates Tom is convinced it only happens in films, not real life. When she smiles back at him there is a hint of mischief behind her eyes. Already he is imagining what it might feel like to kiss her. But then she turns away.

His mobile rings. ‘Tom!’ a frustrated George says. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m coming. Be with you soon.’ He hangs up and reluctantly walks away.

Did she feel anything too in that split second or was it all in his imagination? He stops. Looks at his watch, hesitates. In a film his character would surely head back to the gallery and search for this woman. He wouldn’t stroll down to the pub to see George, his old school friend, and talk about sport, cars and roadworks in between rounds of beer. He walks back to the gallery. She looks like a model. She’s out of your league, a voice says inside his head. What are you going to do? Introduce yourself and then what? How do you know she’s even single? I bet you she isn’t . . . you’ll look like a fool. And George will be cross that you’re late yet again . . .

Tom enters the crowded gallery, immediately feeling out of place in his jeans and old leather boots. certain this is an invite-only exhibition, cheekily he accepts a glass of champagne from one of the waitresses; anything to give him courage. He pushes through the throng: she isn’t anywhere to be seen so he heads upstairs, praying she hasn’t left already. His heart stops when he sees her standing next to two men, one much younger than the other, tall and slim with light brown hair and black-rimmed glasses. She has a boyfriend. of course she does. They seem very much together, affectionate and familiar with one another. She’s talking to both men, laughing as she touches her nose. She has an aura about her that is entrancing. He follows their gaze, looking at the painting. At once he can see she is the woman in the picture. She’s wearing a black wide-brimmed sunhat and a dark dress that shows off her slim graceful arms. He longs for the two men to walk away and as if they have heard his prayer they sweep past Tom and back down the stairs, clearly talking business. She doesn’t notice him approaching. She seems lost in thought. He must not lose his nerve now.

‘I’m Tom.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Alice,’ she says, returning his smile.

She is elfin-like in looks with a cute button nose. He believes she’s about his age, twenty-six. She is stunningly beautiful. She has a face that is impossible to forget.

As he stands close to her, Tom is certain that his world is about to change irrevocably, so why is that voice inside his head telling him to walk away, this will lead to trouble.

He ignores the warning, instead asking her what she does. ‘Music,’ she says, taking him by surprise. ‘I write music. I love singing.’

As they continue to talk, Tom feels as if their paths were meant to cross. Everything that he has been through has led him to this moment.

To meeting Alice.

Perhaps love at first sight does happen after all.

2

Alice

December 1998, ten hours earlier

Breathless, I approach the main desk. ‘Sorry, the lift isn’t working,’ the receptionist says to the model in front of me. ‘Casting’s on the fifth floor, love.’

I stare at the spiralling metal staircase before discreetly slipping past the reception area and heading into the ladies’ bathroom.

Inside the cubicle I unzip my heavy shoulder bag, desperate to find my inhaler. Of course I can find everything but: portfolio, makeup bag, cartons of high calorie milkshakes, a pair of heels . . . where is it?

Find it, Alice.

I feel as if something is buried deep inside my chest. It’s solid, like a brick. It’s so heavy I can think of little else. All I can do is cough . . . and cough . . . and find my inhaler . . . At last, I take a puff, trying to imagine soothing warm water thinning out the mucus stuck in my lungs, the mess inside of me. I take another puff.

Breathe.

Need to breathe.

I have lived with CF for twenty-six years. When I wake up, all I can feel are my lungs. My chest. Before I can leave the house I have to swallow a handful of pills and inhale substances from machines to help me breathe. My cough never leaves me. It’s by my side night and day. I place my inhaler back in my bag before finding my bandage.

I know no different, I wouldn’t know what it is like to be healthy, but am I mad for trying to continue being a model?

‘London isn’t like New York, everything in a grid,’ Naomi, the New Faces Director at A Star Models, had said to me eighteen months ago during my first interview. ‘Castings are often miles away from tube stations and you have to trek cross-country to get there. Modelling is physically demanding. You need to be as fit as an athlete and if you turn up late you can forget it.’

When I was at university (I lasted three weeks before being admitted into hospital for lung surgery) I used to give myself so much time to get to lectures, arriving long before anyone else, that the other students must have either thought I was a serious swot or had a crush on our English tutor.

I wrap the bandage around my right foot and ankle.

‘Is there anything else we should know about, anything that could get in the way?’ I can still see the confusion on Naomi’s face as to why I was taking so much time to answer.

If I had told Naomi that I had CF I wonder if she would have given me the job? When she commented on my slim figure I could have gone on to tell her that I’d had an operation to remove part of my intestine; in fact probably three quarters of my gut has gone. I’m slim because I can’t digest my food properly plus the constant coughing and the effort it takes to breathe, every second of my life burns thousands of calories. It’s not because I smoke and munch celery sticks.

I secure a safety pin through the bandage. That will have to do.

‘I never want to hear you can’t do a job because of your boyfriend, a tickly cough or going to Granny’s funeral, OK, Alice?’

With renewed energy I heave my bag back on to my shoulder and head out of the bathroom.

‘If I take you on, everything else comes second to your career. So if you have any doubts, tell me now.’

The glamour side of the job had certainly appealed, Naomi promising the chance to travel and meet new people. The idea of five-star hotels in hot countries sent my doubts packing. I’d picked up the pen and signed on the dotted line. Since when did I let anything stop me, especially my CF?

I return to the main desk, pointing to my bandaged foot. ‘I might be slow,’ I say to the receptionist, gesturing to my bandage. ‘Skiing accident.’ Skiing? I smile inside. I can’t even get into a pair of ski boots without a lot of swear words.

‘Oh, you poor thing, love. Take your time. I’ll let them know you’re here.’

Slowly I tackle the stairs. I still need to cough. There is never an end. It’s like running a marathon with no finishing line. I hear my chest rattling and vibrating, the mucus moving inside of me like thick treacle.

A model pushes past me. She turns. Stares as I continue to cough.

She must think I’m a chain smoker.

---

I enter a large open-plan room and join a line of people queuing up to see two women sitting behind a desk. One of the organisers approaches me with a clipboard. She ticks my name off on her list before handing me a piece of paper with a big black number on it. Number 13.

Don’t read anything into that.

This casting is for a major clothes company. I am five foot seven, which isn’t tall enough for the fashion side, but thankfully that’s good news since there is much more work in high-end commercial. I watch as one of the models hands over her portfolio to the two women, who proceed to flick through her photographs. Next she’s being whisked behind a screen to change before she emerges in a black cocktail dress to have her picture taken. I’m wearing straight-cut jeans with a spaghetti-strap top. I need this job. The effort to get here has to be worth it.

‘Thirteen,’ calls one of the women behind the desk.

As I limp towards them, she asks me, ‘What have you done?’

‘I fell off my bike. Sprained my ankle.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ the other woman says, as if they take it in turns to talk.

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ I smile reassuringly as I hand them my portfolio. ‘It’s almost healed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats in a different tone, ‘but you’re not the right look for us.’

‘Fourteen,’ the first one calls, looking over my shoulder as if I’m old news already.

---

It’s bitterly cold, pouring with rain, I don’t have an umbrella and the bus stop is a good thirty-minute walk from here. I take out my mobile.

But it’s Mum’s art lesson. I promised her I could manage.

Jake?

He’ll be rushing around organising everything for his exhibition tonight.

Cat? Cat is my best friend. She’s a sales trader.

I picture her in the office, spreadsheets with thousands of numbers of closing prices of stock littering her desk. She’ll be talking to people on the telephone about buying shares and options. She can hardly tell her clients or her boss that she has to nip out for a minute . . .

Slowly I walk away from the building, trying to work out the best spot to find a cab, since this place is so deserted. My feet feel as if they are stuck in cement, the wet and cold my enemy, I can’t come down with yet another infection. . .

I stop when I see something moving, something that makes me want to burst into tears. It’s old, navy and plays classical music.

The driver looks surprisingly like my mother.

---

‘How long have you been waiting?’ I take off my heels and sink into the passenger seat, the relief overwhelming.

‘Not long.’

‘I thought you had your art class?’

‘It was cancelled.’

She knows I don’t believe her.

‘I can always sign up to do the course again and repeat this morning’s lesson.’

I feel guilty that she has sacrificed her class to pick me up, especially when this morning was such a waste of time . . .

‘Maybe you ought to do something else,’ Mum says, something I sense she’s wanted to suggest for quite a while.

I think of the past eighteen months, turning up to warehouses in the middle of nowhere with about forty other models only to find out they wanted someone taller, darker, someone with brown eyes, not blue; they wanted someone who wasn’t me. It hasn’t all been bad; I’ve had some great jobs along the way. Modelling may have chipped away at my confidence, but at the same time featuring in Tatler gave me a large dose of self-belief. I’ll never forget how excited Frieda, my booking agent, was when she told me I’d been selected out of hundreds of models, and it certainly gave me a platform for other work. I am glad I signed up eighteen months ago. I don’t believe in regret. But recently I have had sleepless nights thinking there must be something else out there for me. ‘Maybe,’ I say to Mum. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘How about a fashion course?’ she asks. When Mum was in her late teens she went to a dress design school in London, where a flamboyant Russian had taught her pattern cutting and sewing. She used to make all her bohemian clothes, even her own wedding dress. I sometimes wonder if Mum regrets not becoming a dressmaker after she’d married and had Jake and me. Perhaps she’d always planned to; but then again plans don’t always work out the way we’d intended.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘A course in hat making?’

Hat making? ‘I can’t even thread a needle, Mum.’

We laugh.

‘Or you could do that TEFL thing, teaching English as a...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Chapter 32
• Chapter 33
• Chapter 34
• Chapter 35
• Chapter 36
• Chapter 37
• Chapter 38
• Chapter 39
• Chapter 40
• Chapter 41
• Chapter 42
• Chapter 43
• Chapter 44
• Chapter 45
• Chapter 46
• Chapter 47
• Chapter 48
• Chapter 49
• Chapter 50
• Chapter 51
• Chapter 52
• Chapter 53
• Chapter 54
• Chapter 55
• Chapter 56
• Chapter 57
• Chapter 58
• Chapter 59
• Chapter 60
• Chapter 61
• Chapter 62
• Chapter 63
• Chapter 64
• Chapter 65
• Chapter 66
• Chapter 67
• Chapter 68
• Chapter 69
• Chapter 70
• Chapter 71
• Chapter 72
• Chapter 73
• Chapter 74
• Chapter 75
• Alice’s Story by Alice Peterson
• Alice Martineau by Luke Martineau, Alice’s brother
• Alice Martineau, A Song for Tomorrow and the Cystic Fibrosis Trust by Oli Lewington
• Alice Martineau’s Music
• Acknowledgements
• About the Author
• Copyright