Chapter 8
Josh
We are together in the kitchen when I tell her.
Over the years, cooking has become something of a creative outlet for me, I guess.
Especially when I have writer’s block. A way of tricking my brain into believing I haven’t entirely lost the ability to create things.
And it helps that Rachel’s a foodie. She spent much of her childhood eating things out of cans, because her dad was working all the time, and they kept shifting between houses.
So when we moved in together I resolved to make up for that.
My mum taught me young, grounding me in the basics like how to make a really good béchamel, a failsafe Victoria sponge, a crisped-to-perfection roast chicken.
I’ve been working through the recipes from The Naked Chef. I’m trimming artichokes for roasting, rubbing them with lemon. We’ll eat them with blackened cod and crusty bread, a chopped green salad, cold white wine.
Rachel is at the table, sketching me. This used to make me slightly self-conscious, the first few times she did it. These days, though, I’m so accustomed to it, I barely notice.
In another life, my wife is an artist. She works at a bank right now, but has sketched in her spare time ever since I’ve known her. I used to nudge her to take it further. But she has always said she wouldn’t want to turn her hobby into work.
As I start to oil the artichokes, Rachel sets down her pen and asks after Wilf.
I let out a tangled breath. I know I need to tell her. In fact, I should have filled her in on the pill the moment I returned from Wilf’s flat a week ago.
I abandon the food, wipe my hands, then try to figure out how to put into words the thing that could change our lives forever.
‘But they can’t be real,’ Rachel says, for the fourth time. ‘Maybe they’re a placebo.’
We are sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, where I have set down the small plastic bag containing the two white pills. We seem unable to stop gazing at it, as if it’s an unexploded bomb.
‘Wilf wouldn’t lie,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t know how.’
‘So, what, he’s been mixing them up in his lab after hours like a mad professor?’
‘Essentially, yeah.’
‘Using human stem cells? I mean, aside from anything else, ethically, that’s absolutely—’
‘I know. Ethically appalling. Probably illegal. So he hasn’t told his work yet. And he might not, either. Which means we have to keep this between us.’
She nods, slowly. ‘But if they’ve not been tested on animals, or humans, they’re essentially unsafe.’
I just have to come out with it. ‘This could be my one shot, Rach. It’s like looking at . . . a winning lottery ticket. Or a reprieve from death row.’
‘Maybe. If you needed one.’ She speaks softly, then picks up the bag, turns it between her fingers. ‘But you can’t risk taking an untested pill.’
‘A pill that means you never get old is the Holy Grail. It’s what every scientist dreams of inventing.
If Wilf can somehow get around being sued, or sent to prison, or struck off the chemists’ charter or whatever it is they swear allegiance to, these pills could realistically hit the market in five to ten years. Everyone will want to take one.’
She shoots me a faint smile. ‘Everyone?’
‘Wouldn’t they?’
A tiny headshake to confirm – though of course I should have already known – that she wouldn’t be among them.
I try again. ‘This pill could save my life.’
She swallows, hard. ‘But it could also kill you. Medication goes through rounds and rounds of testing for the very reason that one person . . . I mean, yes, Wilf is scarily clever. But he can’t know everything.’
‘Can we at least talk about what we do next?’
Her face softens, and she reaches out, grips my hand. ‘Of course. Of course we can. God, I can’t imagine how impossible this decision must seem.’
I feel my shoulders sink in relief.
She looks down at the bag again. ‘How many do you have to take?’
‘Just one. That’s all you need.’
‘Then why do you have two?’
I clear my throat. ‘Wilf thought it might be best if we both—’
She drops the bag as if it’s stung her, eyes abruptly wide. ‘I’ve never done drugs, Josh. I don’t even like taking painkillers.’
‘I know. But maybe we shouldn’t think of them as a drug.’
In the low light, her brown eyes look almost as if they are burning. ‘Okay. Then how should we think of them?’
‘A chance to save my life.’