Chapter Seven
White boots, like Bond girls
I expected Yuvana Labs to look like a… lab.
A large white building, possibly flat roofed, maybe in the desert.
Armed guards, that sort of thing. And in my head, everyone who works there looks amazing and wears white clothes and maybe also white boots, like Bond girls.
Disappointingly, although it is white, Yuvana Labs is a Georgian house in Kensington, which is rather lovely but just not what I had in mind.
It’s a few days later and I’m sitting in the reception area on a blue velvet sofa wearing a puff-sleeved dress that I thought would make me look smart, but is making me feel cold as it’s quite thin and summery.
Thank god I wore tights. On the walls around me are several big screens showing films of women with white hair and glowing skin hugging Labradors on beaches, set to stirring classical music.
I’ve been waiting for about ten minutes now and am getting bored, so google How to get green eyeshadow off sheets. Not very easily it seems. A message from Mother Pells interrupts my research.
Erica, Carol’s funeral is next Tuesday. Love Mum. x
I reply with ‘OK,’ a sad face emoji and a couple of kisses and I’m just about to check if my body scrub article has gone live when the receptionist, who could be anywhere between fifteen and eighty and has the appearance of a glazed doughnut, stands up.
‘Erica – this way,’ she says.
Hoping the treatment won’t make me look as peculiar as she does, I follow her into another room, also furnished with velvet sofas – as well as light fixtures that can only be described as ‘oligarch’ in style.
On one of the sofas is a suited man who looks like Jude Law, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and another shiny, immobile-faced woman wearing a peach jumpsuit and very high white mules.
‘Welcome, Erica.’ The Jude Law man stands up. He’s very charming and makes the kind of eye contact – with pale blue eyes – that leaves me with the feeling that he might be trying to hypnotise me and/or read my mind. But also, the feeling that somehow, I don’t mind and/or care.
I say hello but it comes out in my weird banana voice, which I then correct by clearing my throat. This in turn sounds like someone using a waste disposal unit, prompting the peach jumpsuit woman to hand me a glass of water, as if she knew this was going to happen.
I swig gratefully and sit down opposite them.
‘There’s no need to be nervous, Erica,’ says Jude Law, whose actual name is Dr Marcus.
So, he must be the ‘Dr M’ I found on Google.
Is Marcus his first name or his surname?
I would rather it was his surname as that seems more like the name of a real doctor.
Dr Marcus does more of the eye contact/hypnosis thing and suddenly it doesn’t matter.
He could be called Dr Who and I would still be sitting here nodding away like one of those Funko Pop toys Hélo?se collects.
‘I know Merlyn has told you all about WULT?, and that you’re in the process of completing the necessary legal paperwork,’ he continues.
‘Yes…’
‘Which is all just a formality, of course. So, as a recap, our patented treatment, which is currently in “stealth mode” pending the launch, requires a short, mildly invasive procedure involving an implant into the hypothalamus area of the brain. The implant works by sending tiny nanobots to “restore the factory settings” of the stem cells that control the ageing process.’
He pauses and Peach Jumpsuit passes him a clipboard with some papers attached to it.
‘How old are you, Erica, remind me? You must only be around forty…’ He scans the clipboard.
I am secretly delighted I remembered to pluck my chin hairs this morning.
‘Forty-seven actually…’ It was probably just a compliment to put me at ease, but I’ll take it.
‘Indeed. Well, Erica, as you know, this isn’t the “reduction of fine lines” or “improvement in skin texture” you might get from a high-end serum. WULT? will make you literally look twenty years younger. How do you feel about that?’
I go to say ‘pleased’ but feel this isn’t quite enough, so switch to ‘great’ halfway through, resulting in ‘plate’.
Peach Jumpsuit hands me more water. I shake my head.
‘I mean great. Great.’
‘Indeed,’ says Dr Marcus again, exchanging glances with Peach Jumpsuit.
‘Naturally, the effect isn’t immediate – although the process starts as soon as you have the implant, the full rejuvenation takes around ten days.
You’ll be sending us photo updates during this time, and we’d like you to keep a “Transformation Diary” of your progress.
Then, you’ll come back here after two weeks for a Youth Review.
Merlyn will be in touch with you about the social media promotion we’re expecting in return.
As you know this is a very expensive, cutting-edge treatment. ’
‘Of course, yes…’
‘It’s also worth mentioning that the effect is reversible – in other words, the implant could be removed. But we don’t anticipate many requests for this, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
‘No…’ Or was I meant to say yes? Should I be worried about how weird these people are? Or do they think the same about me, with my unseasonal puff sleeves and not entirely convincing ‘condor’?
‘Indeed. Well, I think that covers everything. As soon as we’re ready, one of the team will be in touch to schedule your treatment.’ He stands up, and Peach Jumpsuit does the same, weirdly in sync as though they’ve been practising. I take this as a sign that my appointment is over.
Shit. Got. Real.
I wish Nandy was here with me to laugh at Peach Jumpsuit.
But then she might persuade me this isn’t a good idea.
And it is a good idea. It has to be. Because the thought of just carrying on as before, with bad contour make-up, watching Cassia’s #cocktailsofinstagram reels until my life slips through my fingers, is so sad it makes me feel sick.
I want young me back. I want another chance. And maybe this is it.
On the train home, I’m in such a good mood I allow myself to fantasise about Gabe, who will no doubt rapidly go off me once he sees my face in repose when we’re watching The West Wing and eating food from an excellent local Thai takeaway, which is what I picture people in committed relationships doing.
Although we did have a great conversation in The Perch the other night, once I’d made sure he was looking at me face on and there were no angles involved.
It also felt like we embarrassed ourselves equally, with me talking about macabre cheeseboards and him showing me his hair-loss-related Google searches.
He kissed me goodbye on the cheek and, at the risk of sounding like Hélo?se, I noticed that he smelt of beer and Head it doesn’t feel like he has any agenda.
There’s an openness that I want to breathe in, like when you stand on top of a big hill.
Which, to be fair, I don’t do that often.
I didn’t know how to reply. My past boyfriends don’t make much of a relationship CV. So I said, trying to be funny, ‘To misquote Groucho Marx, I don’t want to date anyone who would want to date someone like me.’
He laughed, thankfully, and held the deli door open for me. As I walked out, he touched the small of my back, as though to guide me, or, it almost felt like, reassurance, a wordless acknowledgement that he got what I meant.
On the way back into town, I followed Gabe’s car (a really old Volvo, which he says is ‘nearly a classic’) and we went to see the Spinning Jenny, which was annoyingly really interesting and although I’ve now forgotten them, for a while I was in possession of some facts about the Industrial Revolution.
Gabe bumped into someone he knew at the museum shop and introduced me as ‘my good friend Erica’.
I must have been successful at my contouring/careful angles because when we parted in the museum car park, he kissed me, on the lips this time, and I could hear him sigh.
I rather hoped this was a positive sort of sigh and not one of disappointment at spotting one of my neck worm segments, which I am really hoping will be a thing of the past soon.