He levels his green gaze to mine. Flecks of rainwater still cling to his lashes. Or are they tears? ‘Do I reckon we can have a baby? Yeah, Rach, I reckon we can have a baby.’
37.
Josh
October 2003
Somebody’s on to me.
The first time, I brush it off as a misdialled number. But the following night it happens again. And then again, the night after that: a phone call that makes me lurch out of bed at two a.m. At the other end of the line, a sinister silence, then the click of the handset being replaced, followed by a dial tone.
And when I’m driving, too, I’ve begun to get the feeling I’m being followed. A cold-breeze sensation skating over my skin. I keep scanning the rear-view mirror, but it’s impossible to tell, of course, if someone is actively tailing you, or if they just happen to be committing the unremarkable offence of driving on the same side of the road.
One night, though, after hanging up on yet another silent phone call, some embedded instinct prompts me to look out of the living-room window. I see a car idling directly opposite my flat, headlights dipped low. Whoever it is drives away as soon as I crank the blinds, the angle and darkness such that I can’t see a number plate, or even the make of the car.
I consider going to the police. But what will I say, when they ask who I think it might be? A rogue chemist? A stalker contracted by Big Pharma? I’ve no doubt the police would be pretty underwhelmed to hear that I think someone might be trying to scare me, no crime’s been committed, and no one’s been hurt.
I am worried about Wilf, though. If someone out there is prepared to try to intimidate me, I’m pretty sure they’ll stop atnothing to get to the man with the million-pound IP. I suspect this is why Wilf has been lying low: he’s stopped answering my calls, and, every time I drop by his flat, all the lights are off. It’s the longest he and I have gone without speaking in twenty-six years, and I’m struggling to feel okay about it. I even end up calling his mum, who is both surprised to hear from me and slightly confused to have to confirm her only son is still living and breathing.
Talking to her, though, has reminded me of something else. That there is another person I need to speak to, with whom a frank conversation is more than overdue.
Rachel’s dad lets me into his house with a guarded smile, as if he’s trying to resist saying something slightly sardonic. It would be fair if he did, as he and I haven’t spoken in more than two years, since Rachel and I broke up. And, for the entirety of that time, the least I have owed him has been the courtesy of an explanation.
Romantic relationships are so uniquely baffling, in that sense. One day you’re as close as it’s possible to be, not only with the person you love but the people they love, too. Then, the next, you mess up, and they simply vanish without trace from your life. Not so different from a death. A loss so easily overlooked, but which is a kind of grief, I think.
Rachel’s dad makes us tea, then we sit together in the brown cocoon of his seventies-style living room, just as we always did. He even hands me a Tunnock’s Teacake, Rachel’s number one snack of choice since the day we met. I stare down at it in my hand, the red and silver foil wrapping so familiar, and the sensation of going back in time – and not only aesthetically – hits me harder than I’d been expecting. Because Rachel should be here too, making jokes as she stokes the fire, or telling her dad off about all the out-of-date condiments in his fridge. Thethree of us should be flipping through old photo albums, or re-watching our wedding video. Rachel should be turning to me in the porch before we let ourselves out, her warm palm to my face as she leans in to kiss me.
Rachel’s dad seems to be waiting for me to speak. But my voice is backing up in my throat, the words I’d prepared held back by a dam of unexpressed emotion.
Eventually, I manage to say, ‘I owe you an apology. And I have for a long time. I’m sorry for what I did. For how much it must have hurt you, as well as Rachel.’
He nods slowly, sips his tea. ‘Thank you, Josh. That means a lot.’
‘I should have come to see you sooner. I know that. But I felt... too ashamed.’
He seems to consider this. ‘Well, you know what they say about shame. It’s the only truly useless emotion. Futile. Just holds you back.’
‘Maybe,’ I say doubtfully, unsure if this lets me off the hook somewhat.
‘It stopped you coming to see me, didn’t it?’ From across the room, his expression is that of tender reproach. ‘Anyway. What’s done is done. You’ll just have to move on with your life now.’
I’d love to, I think.But without your daughter, I honestly don’t know how.
‘So, you believe the pill has worked?’
‘It’s too early to tell, probably.’
‘Well, you look just the same as the last time I saw you. No wrinkles yet.’ He winks at me, because his own face, of course, is full of them.
I clear my throat, because there is more I need to say. ‘You should know... I didn’t want to betray her. That was never my intention. I panicked, that night. I just... didn’t think it waspossible I’d be the first one in my family to make it past thirty. The chances seemedsolow.’
‘And how do you feel now that a little time has passed?’
It’s a chasm of a question, against which all potential responses seem as meagre as specks of dust.
‘I wish things could have been different.’
He smiles at me for a long moment, as if he still thinks fondly of me, even now. ‘I think we all wish that.’
