We both look at her.
‘Um, what?’ I say gently.
‘Well,’ she says carefully, clearly mindful that Wilf likely feels towards his invention as most people do their firstborn child, ‘you could argue it’s no different. From cloning a sheep, I mean. It might be seen as trying to play God, messing with the natural order of things.’
‘I don’t believe in God,’ Wilf says. ‘And anyway, the creation of Dolly has transformed the landscape of scientific thinking. Her birth indicates that therapeutic cloning is a genuine possibility. Cloning technology could create healthy tissues which could then be transplanted to heal—’
‘Sorry – why are we talking about cloning?’ I ask.
‘People have said the same about every world-changing invention,’ Wilf points out. ‘The light bulb. The telephone. Bicycles. Penicillin.’
Rachel and I both know we have about as much chance of winning a scientific debate with Wilf as we do of standing on the podium at the next Olympic Games.
But not everything comes down to how big your brain cells are.
The next morning, I wake feeling brighter. Deep down, I know this is because what Wilf has done has given me hope. He’s thrown me a lifeline I never thought could or would exist. Now, I might actually have a way out of the early death I have felt so sure for so long is coming for me.
And Rachel is at least willing to talk about it. She hasn’t shut it down. I am optimistic, perhaps for the first time, that we can come to some kind of agreement about what to do next.
I wake her with a kiss. I am already showered and dressed, off to work early to prep for class with a coffee on campus.
‘I love you,’ I whisper.
‘Josh?’ Her skin is warm from the bed, her eyes still part-drugged with sleep.
‘Yeah.’
‘Promise me you won’t take it without telling me.’
‘What?’
Her pupils chase mine. ‘The pill. Just... promise me you won’t take it. Not without telling me.’
‘Of course I won’t. I wouldn’t. I promise.’
‘You don’t owe Wilf anything. I know he’s done all of this for you... but you didn’t ask him to.’
‘I know.’
‘Hey, come here.’
I hesitate, stomach twitching. ‘What?’
‘You have time,’ she whispers, with a smile.
‘I really don’t.’
But even as I’m saying it I’m kneeling over her on the mattress, pressing my lips to hers. We kiss, softly at first and then more hungrily. I keep insisting I have to go, I really need to prep, I’ll be late. But the whole while, I am easing away the satin straps of her top, and she is reaching down to feel me, smilingly unzipping my fly, and I am breathing, ‘Fuck,’ then, ‘Wait, wait, socks, socks,’ laughing as I kick them off. She flicks my belt undone and tugs down my jeans, the underwear I put on less than ten minutes ago. She sits up, pushes me gently on to my back. Works her way down my body, then closes her mouth around me. I sling my head back and bite my lip, one hand lost in her hair. I tug the duvet into my other fist, shudders of pleasure passing from me to her as I feel myself depart earth.
12.
Rachel
May 2000
‘It’s the sort of thing my mother would have done, you know.’
Josh prongs a chip with a wooden fork. ‘What is?’
