‘If cannibalism is what it takes to get a second lease of life, I’m down with it.’
‘You’ve already got a second lease of life,’ I remind him softly.
‘You could give meyourplasma.’ The expression on his face straddles that fraying line between humour and hope. ‘Kind of like donating a kidney. Only less invasive.’
‘Giles—’
‘I’d offer you mine in return, but I don’t think you’d want it.’
It’s funny, really. There was a time when I might have. But I no longer crave to be restored to the age I should be, and definitely not via being jabbed with an older man’s bodily fluids.
‘Tell you what,’ I say, ‘if you ever need my spare kidney, it’s yours.’
‘I tellyouwhat. It’s nice to have you back.’
‘What? I never went anywhere.’
Giles taps the side of his head. ‘In here. Thought we’d lost you for a while. It’s nice to see you living for you again. If you know what I mean.’
He’s only partly right, but I appreciate the sentiment. ‘I thought I’d lost me too, for a while, actually. Thanks for kicking me up the arse that time.’
He nods solemnly, then lifts his hand, and we bump fists.
‘You ever hear from Wilf?’ he asks.
How is it that the softest of syllables can still feel so sharp? It’s a long time since Giles has mentioned Wilf’s name. But perhaps coming close to death has reanimated all the loose ends of his life to date. So maybe I owe him the truth now, about how it all went down. The real reason Wilf left the country.
But I still feel a kind of animal loyalty towards Wilf, despite our standoff. He sacrificed his own life, really, for mine. And, as far as I know, he remains the only other person on the planetwho has been frozen in time. Which means that one day, I hope, he might be open to resurrecting the friendship we once had.
So eventually, I just shake my head and say, ‘Not for years.’
Without commenting further, Giles rubs a hand through his greying hair. ‘So, come on. When’sGraveyardHeart: The Movieout? I need something to look forward to.’
I tell him not any time soon, because we’ve run into problems with financing. But the serialisation of one of my older crime novels is just about to start shooting, and I’m finishing up a new standalone book, my eighth. My newfound readership has been clamouring for more love stories. But, having wrestled pretty hard with writing the sequel toGraveyard Heart, on that front right now I’m pretty much spent.
Melvin retired just before Christmas, so I have a new, hotshot-type agent representing me, who’s smart and responsive and brokers deals like a demon. I know how lucky I am, professionally speaking. I reflect on it every day. But, at the same time, I have come to realise that superficial success – the type that people often envy – comes nowhere close to family, love, the absolute hands-down privilege of getting old.
The gifts people take for granted – which to them might seem unremarkable – increasingly feel like the most magical things to me.
I catch Lola in the kitchen on my way out. The worktop is weighed down now by unpalatable-looking cookbooks, giant tubs of pulses, an industrial-sized juicer.
I pull her into a hug. She is tiny and slight in my arms, and her heart is beating fast. She’s always complaining about feeling old, but, every time, I tell her I envy her crow’s feet and smile lines, the speckles of grey in her hair. All signs, to me, of a life well-lived.
‘You didn’t drink that juice for him, did you?’ she mumbles into my chest.
‘The quagmire-in-a-glass? What do you think?’
‘Breathe,’ she orders, pulling back and putting her face close to mine.
I laugh and oblige.
She tries to laugh too. But then her eyes fill up suddenly, a sharp tide of overwhelm. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without him, Josh.’
I pull her back into my arms. ‘Hey. Hey. You don’t have to think like that. He’s doing really well. You’re going to be okay, I promise.’
We just stand there for a while as I hold her.
‘I heard what you were saying. About wishing you had a family.’
