Because of course we are both aware – though we rarely express it in so many words – that there’s a chance the pill might not have worked. That perhaps Wilf got it wrong. That even geniuses have off-days. That in twelve weeks’ time – or less – we could be facing the unthinkable.
Josh frowns, staring down at the knot of our hands on the bar. ‘When my dad died, nothing was organised, and Mum was left with a ton of shit to sort out.’
I take a breath, then slowly push the notebook back towards him. Because doubt is like a disease: once you allow it to take hold, it only multiplies, spreads, infects. ‘I promise you, Josh. You’re not going anywhere.’
20.
Josh
June 2001
It is our birthday. The day on which I will either turn thirty-one, or fall at the last. It’s like Y2K all over again. Only, this time, we’re not all in it together.
Until seven o’clock in the evening – the time I was born – I find myself able to do little more than stare at the clock and the seconds inching by, time unfolding in agonising increments.
Rachel keeps reminding me I’ve made it this far. But by now I can barely speak, let alone think rationally. Until that clock strikes seven, all I can seem to do is pace, fidget, repeat, knowing every breath I take will turn out to be either a blank, or a bullet.
I’ve been doing some very messed-up maths in my head for a few weeks now, trying to figure out precisely how many minutes it takes for someone to die from a heart attack, stroke, aneurysm. Attempting to pinpoint theexactmoment at which I might be home and dry. And until I get there, I cannot relax.
Eventually, finally, in the most serene way imaginable, the clock strikes seven. And then one minute past. And then two.
Inside my head, the blood is roaring like a waterfall.
I’ve made it.
What the actual fuck?
Did that pill save my life?
A heady mix of euphoria and adrenaline is pinballing its way around my nervous system, and I’m not quite sure how to contain it. So far, I’ve called my mother and my friends, and leftan overly sentimental message on Wilf’s machine which I know he will hate and instantly delete.
I go over to where Rachel is still sitting motionless at the kitchen table. The toast we made an hour or so ago, because neither of us could stomach proper food, is cold and untouched in front of her. Usually, on our birthdays, I cook. I make a big deal of it – planning a meal I think she’ll love, making my once-yearly trip to our brusque local butcher, buying scallops in shells from the van at the market. I dabble in lemongrass and samphire, burrata and spiced rice. I craft buttery Béarnaises and pillow-soft dumplings, seduce her with dangerous cocktails.
This year, though, I couldn’t face doing any of it.
I sit down. Across the table, Rachel takes my hand. Her eyes are shimmering with tears. ‘You made it.’
‘I made it,’ I echo.
I should add,It’s all going to be okay now. But that feels so far from the truth.
To get here, tonight, was all I ever wanted. Yet, now, it feels infuriatingly anticlimactic. As though I cheated my way to safety.
Which, of course, I did.
‘How do you feel?’ she asks.
The adrenaline begins to ebb. I let a long breath go with it. ‘Weird,’ I confess.
‘Me too.’ And then, ‘Why aren’t we celebrating?’
Tears begin to clot my throat. ‘Because today wasn’t just about today, was it?’
She shakes her head. But the expression on her face is odd, unreadable. It’s as though she’s looking through me. As if she doesn’t feel anything at all.
Soon after that, she makes her way to the bathroom. When she doesn’t re-emerge after ten minutes or so, I go to find her.
‘Rach?’ I tap nervously against the door.
