‘Taking that pill,’ I say, flicking a shard of batter on to the shingle for the gulls.
Dad has told me Mum was always trying to jump-start her feelings, endorphin her ennui away. She liked to drink, and gamble. She once bought a stake in a bar – an inordinate amount of money for two people on average incomes trying to raise a child – without consulting my father.An investment,she insisted with a jutting chin, which was when the shouting started. Neither Dad nor I were surprised when the whole venture purportedly got mothballed not long after she left us.
Josh and I have come to the south coast for the early bank holiday, to a cosy little B&B right on the beach. We have spent the past two days meandering through cobbled streets, skimming stones across the gunmetal sea, feeling the sting of salt spray on our faces, tasting it on our tongues. We stopped by the town’s only bookshop, a crooked Tudor-beamed haven where I was delighted to discover they had copies of Josh’s first three novels. I arranged them facing out in a row, covering up the memoir of a politician we both despised. Josh bought an armful of books before we left, in case they’d been watching us on CCTV.
We are sitting on the beach with trays of fish and chips, watching the sun drop through a tangerine sky.
‘I had one of those full-body MOTs,’ Josh says.
It comes out of nowhere. For a moment, I think he is talking about our car.
‘They check everything. Heart disease risk, kidneys, cholesterol... everything. Anyway, the results came in the post yesterday.’
‘And?’
‘I’m in perfect health. Nothing underlying.’
In my heart, a chink of light. Nothing underlying means he’s not going to die early. He doesn’t need to take that pill. He’s in the clear.
Maybe this is why he suggested coming away. For a fresh start, a hopeful new beginning.
But I only need to look at him to realise I have gravely misunderstood. I know every nuance of his body language so intimately. What every grade of smile means, each increment of a frown. All the pauses between his words, filled with meaning to no one but me.
‘So, now I know my body’s healthy... it’s the optimum time to preserve it.’
I feel a jolt of alarm, like waking up to breaking glass at night. ‘Doesn’t it prove the opposite? That you don’t need to take it? This shows they were panic attacks, Josh. You’ve survived every one of them. It’s fear – not your body failing.’
He turns to face me. His skin is burnished copper by the sunset. ‘You still haven’t told me how you really feel, you know. About taking the second pill. So we both... you know.’
Stay the same age forever.
I nudge the chips with my fork, decide maybe I’ve had enough. ‘Do I need to?’
‘You won’t consider it?’
‘No, I would. I mean, Iamconsidering it. How could I not, if you’re saying this is what you want to do?’ I frown. ‘But still, I can’t quite... picture how it would look.’
‘Never having to worry about getting ill, or dying from disease,’ he suggests softly. ‘Not leaving the people we love. Always having our health.’
I shut my eyes and try to imagine it: being forever in our twenties. Free from fear. A future of infinite possibilities.
But I can’t. The vision just won’t come. Because my world as it is feels more than good enough.
And yet. What I keep returning to is this: how it could possibly be right, to ask Josh not to take a pill that could save his life?
Overcome by emotion, I lean over to kiss him. His lips are tangy with vinegar.If you took it and I didn’t,I want to plead,whenwould you think we should stop doing this? When I’m fifty? Sixty? Seventy?
We move apart and he takes my hand, this man I have never not loved, who I trust so deeply, whose judgement I so rarely question.
‘I’m not trying to talk you into it, Rach, I promise. I still don’t know what I want to do myself. I just... think we shouldn’t dismiss it yet. I want this to be a decision we make together.’
Later, back at the B&B, Josh is sitting on the window seat, the sash raised. I can see stars shimmering, the bright marble of the moon. Sea is sighing against shingle.
‘If we took that pill,’ I say, ‘it would really complicate everything. Starting a family. We’d have to wait, wouldn’t we? Until we knew for sure if it had worked, and hadn’t harmed us. I mean, that would be the responsible thing to do, wouldn’t it?’
He looks back towards me, over his shoulder, dark and brooding. It reminds me of a million pictures I have taken of him. So photogenic, but eternally camera-shy.
But even as he nods, my subconscious is saying,No, the risk is too great; how do we know if pregnancy would even be an option? And, if it was, how safe would the baby be?
