SECTION V
75.
Josh
December 2026
‘It’s good to see you, mate,’ I say to Giles, gripping his hand.
Wide-eyed, Giles looks at Lola, then back at me. ‘Bloody hell. What’s with the funeral face? You know I’m not dead yet?’
I smile. ‘Sorry.’
He shakes his head. ‘EvenBlakeleft his flat for long enough to grace me with his presence yesterday. Things really must be serious.’
‘You have just had surgery for cancer, darling,’ Lola reminds him.
‘Yeah, and they got it all, and the consultant says I have every reason to feel positive.’ Giles examines the glass he’s holding, the contents of which resemble pond water. ‘Not that she was accounting for this, I shouldn’t think.’
‘Complain all you like, but you’re drinking it,’ Lola says, before squeezing my shoulder and leaving us alone.
Giles leans towards me, hands me the glass. ‘Right. Here’s where you get to prove what a good friend you are.’
I smile. ‘Very funny.’
He does look healthy today, I think. Freshly shaved and plump-cheeked, a splash of wintry sunlight brightening his skin.
I’ve always thought getting older kind of suited Giles. He wears the extra years well, invariably seems pretty content and fulfilled – not like those shells of humans who weigh out their granola and steam-clean their erogenous zones. Giles just enjoys himself. He gets what life is for. Which is why this has all seemed so unfair.
I notice a hand-drawn card on his side table. It’s of a bandaged heart, Rachel’s signature a flourish in the bottom corner. It makes me smile and want to well up, all at the same time.
I lift the glass of gunk. ‘Am I allowed to ask what’s in it?’
‘Probably better you don’t know. Although, I’d recommend pinching your nose while you swallow. It tastes like it’s been siphoned off a swamp.’
‘Well, if you think I’m risking Lola’s wrath to drink bog, you must be on thereallygood drugs.’
Giles stares at the glass as if he’s hoping it might drain of its own accord. ‘Maybe you had it right all along, mate.’
‘Had what right?’
He shrugs, almost helplessly. ‘You’ll never have any of this stuff hanging over you.’
I’d swap my life with yours in a second, I think but don’t say. ‘You have kids, a loving family,’ I remind him. ‘People who give a shit if you get ill. Who make you smoothies out of kale. Who fall asleep at your bedside in hospital. Who’ll do literally anything to make you laugh.’
Giles brightens momentarily. His twin daughters – my tiny Tolstoy enthusiasts, now twenty-eight – are forever sending him funny videos and stupid GIFs to lift his spirits. Some days, he confided, when he was in the thick of it a few months back, they were all that kept him going.
‘You wouldn’t rather have cancer.’
‘No,’ I concede, instantly chastened. Because how can you possibly tell a man in his position that a finite existence is something you envy?
‘Anyway. Rachel would do all that stuff for you.’
‘She might have done, once.’
Giles leans forward, taps his index finger against the table. ‘Don’t tell Lo, but I’ve been looking into all that plasma stuff.’
I have a feeling I know what’s coming. ‘Don’t you think that all feels a bit... you know. Cannibalistic?’
