‘Yeah, with your head, maybe. But what about your heart?’
I am struggling to know what to say. ‘Where is all this coming from?’
‘I was in the kitchen getting water last night and a message flashed up on your phone, and I read the preview, because it was three in the morning and I thought it might be important. And it said,Fuck that. A lifetime of loving you.’
I feel my neck begin to glow red. ‘I’m not having an affair. I promise.’
‘I never said you were. I know you wouldn’t do that.’
‘Josh and I just got a bit emotional, after his mum’s funeral.’
We nearly kissed, on that bridge. We could have done. But, right at the last moment, something jolted inside me.You live with Oliver. YouloveOliver.
Then:Josh is nearly twenty-five years your junior.
And finally, after too many years of wondering, I felt certainty flow through me, clear and frictionless as water.I did the right thing. We could never have worked.
I have been thinking a lot lately about getting older. Maybe because Oliver has five years on me, or perhaps because I can feel my body changing. I have got into the habit of constantly examining my hands, because one of my clients is always telling me – apropos of nothing – that your hands give away your age. Still. Though I’m aware of ageing, I have no interest in fighting it. Yes, my skin is a touch dryer these days, which is probably hormonal, and I pause in front of the mirror most mornings, trying to work out if my hair is growing naturally coarser, or if it’s something to do with B vitamins. Whether my crow’s feet are down to my time of life, or failing to drink enough water. Everything’s a guessing game. I thought I knew my own body after all these years – but now, it seems, each day brings with it another unanswered question. It is unnerving, the not-knowing.
But, as Polly and I like to remind each other, the way we look is only one part of who we are.
‘Is this why you never changed your surname when you got divorced?’ Emma asks, tearing two more slices from the pizza we’re sharing and putting one on my plate.
‘Has Oliver said something?’
‘No. But I’d imagine it frustrates the hell out of him.’
I smile faintly, take a bite. ‘Honestly, it would just feel pointless to change it back now, after all this time.’
‘I know you sleep in separate bedrooms. I’ve known for ages.’
‘That was Oliver’s idea,’ I tell her sadly.
She nods, then hesitates. ‘Is this how you want to live the rest of your life? Isn’t this just existing?’
I say nothing.
‘Oliver isn’t your Josh, Mum.’
‘Emma,’ I say, my emotions threatening to unravel, ‘Josh and I can’t be together, and I’ve made my peace with that.’
‘Plasma,’ she says, out of nowhere.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve been reading up... These old dudes in America keep getting injected with blood plasma from younger people. They did a load of experiments on mice. As in, infusions of young mouse blood in older mice restored their mental capacity.’
I frown. ‘That sounds—’
‘Horrific. Yeah, I know. But the point is, there are all these old men now, taking part in plasma exchange with teenagers, hoping it might magically restore their youth.’
‘And has it?’
‘Not yet, but there are clinical trials taking place—’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, surely there’s a chance the plasma thing could work both ways. It could restore Josh to the age he’ssupposedto be. Maybe if Josh found someone your age, biologically... I mean, God – Oxford’s literally the home of cutting-edge research. I could put feelers out, ask around.’
