Rachel
March 2005
In Emma’s room, once I’ve settled her, I pause inside her door and draw a few juddering breaths.
I allow myself – just for a moment – to picture it. The first kiss. Leading him to my bed, the place where I have so often thought of him. Peeling the clothes from his body, the things we might whisper to each other. Running my hands across the perfect ridges of his torso. The flex of his muscles, the heat of him inside me.
In a strange way, imagining him like this reminds me of the unreal weeks just before we broke up, when I think we both – even Josh – knew we could not last. I remember how desperately we would reach for each other after dark. The messy heat of craving him, everything sharp and heightened and adrenaline-fed. Like the moments before a parachute jump, pleasure that felt reckless. What strange human impulse makes us do that?
But then would come the confusion, swamping me every morning as I showered the night from my skin.
No. There was a reason you left. This won’t solve anything.
Watching him with Emma earlier was more painful than I’d expected. It was so hard not to picture – even for a second – a life in which she was his.
Sometimes, late at night, I have looked down at her sleeping, her fair hair bright against the mattress, and allowed myself to imagine it. That Josh is not only my husband, but my daughter’s father, too. That, right now, he is brushing his teeth in thebathroom, or putting dishes away in the kitchen, and will soon slide into bed beside me, his body warm and tight and loyal.
He sent a card when she was born. A teddy bear in a hot-air balloon, surrounded by peachy clouds. He addressed it to both Lawrence and me. And it made me ache a little inside, to think what it must have taken for him to do that.
When I return to the living room, Josh hasn’t moved. But I notice his wine glass is empty.
‘Maybe... we should call it a night,’ I say, perching on the edge of the armchair. For the sake of my own resolve, I can’t quite look him in the eye.
He doesn’t reply for a couple of moments. Then: ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe the effects of the pill can be reversed.’
Just like that.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, if it was that easy for Wilf to invent it, maybe it wouldn’t be too difficult to create an antidote.’
Now, I do look at him. He is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, just the way he used to when he thought the pill was his silver bullet and he was trying to talk me round.
‘I didn’t get the impression it was easy for Wilf to invent it. And he said it alters your body on a cellular level. He said there’s no changing your mind, once you take it.’
‘But that was five years ago. Science moves fast. I can make enquiries—’
‘Why, though?’
‘Because I still love you.’ In the low light of the living room, he holds me in his gaze. ‘And I know you still have feelings for me.’
My eyes begin to burn. ‘Don’t tell me what I feel.’
‘All right. You tell me, then. Do you still love me?’
He waits for what must be thirty seconds, but I can’t reply. My voice is pinned to the wall of my throat.
‘If I could find someone who could—’
‘Are you saying you regret taking it? I mean, do you evenwantto reverse the effects?’
Because if you do, I think,you threw our future away for nothing.
He doesn’t move, or hesitate, or answer my question. ‘Please just be honest with me, Rach. If I can find an antidote, could we try again?’
47.
Rachel
