Chapter Ten
A glitch in the Matrix
I got through it – Christmas that is. For something with three months’ build-up it is always quite the anti-climax, since Father Pells died anyway, and I embraced that this year. Josie and Laure took Héloïse to France, Gabe was with his dad in Uttoxeter (he didn’t invite me – we’re not really ‘there’ yet but will be once I no longer look like Jeremy Clarkson). I spent a dull afternoon at my mother’s over-eating and watching the King’s Speech. Not the film about the stuttering, the actual King’s Speech. The film would have been more interesting.
Simon wore a Nordic jumper again but was talking more about his plans to go ‘net zero’ than anything particularly Scandinavian, so that was a relief – or at least a different kind of annoying. But Alannah is always fun, and it was good to see the boys, although they look like men now, which is disconcerting. Nobody asked me much, or indeed expected me to offer up much, so as soon as I could, I got Oli, who’s just passed his driving test, to give me a lift home. We talked about the Middle East in the car, and I felt like I should read the news more. When we pulled up outside my house, he kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘look after yourself, Auntie Erica’.
Back home, I just felt really sad that Father Pells wasn’t here anymore, and kept thinking about how much he was missing out on, seeing Sam and Oli grow up. I ploughed into a bottle of Shiraz and started watching his favourite Christmas film, which wasA Wonderful Life, but it was kind of depressing and not really very Christmassy so after about half an hour, I put onThe Good Placeinstead.
I remember it so clearly, standing in WH Smith two days after he died, buying the local paper to see if the death announcement was in it yet, and watching everyone around me going about their business. The woman at the till with a badger stripe of grey in her hair, chatting to a teenager – she knew his mum, it seemed. A man in a felt hat with a tiny, speckled feather in it, browsing the classic car magazines. A stressed-out dad with two young children buying advent calendars, far too early. None of them know, I thought. Why don’t they know? Why doesn’t everyone know? How can such mundane things continue to happen? We should all stop. We should all just hold onto one another, and ask, how, how could this have happened, and why will nothing be the same again?
That’s the thing about death. It’s happening everywhere, all the time, but when it happens near you, the idea that the world can just carry on as normal seems bizarre. It’s after the funeral that it really hits you though, Auntie Viv said. You’ve had all the arrangements to focus on. But then you have to ‘press on’. That was the hardest part. Because it didn’t feel normal at all without the one person in the family who I felt, occasionally, understood me. Mother Pells ‘just got on with it’ (Auntie Viv’s words again), which I resented even more, especially as Simon did the same and everyone said how ‘stoical’ he was. How typical of my family, how respectable, how moderate. Why not make it real, make it passionate, all-consuming – like the ‘heart-sickness’ of a literary heroine (yes, I did English A-level). Show me proper grief, one of you. Then we can all follow. But nobody did.
So, life just slowly resumed. Father Pells was barely mentioned, although I desperately wanted to shout his nameout at family gatherings, just to dispel the awkward silence that settled in the absence of his random facts, cheesy jokes and quiet snigger. It drove me insane.Don’t you all feel it too – that he’s not here? Don’t you think that if we talked about him, it might seem, in a very small way, like he was here? And wouldn’t that be a good thing?
But it was easier to keep quiet, and just carry on, having the same conversations about what a cold wind there was for this time of year, or when would they sort out those potholes on Forest Lane, or did you want jam on your scone, it’s homemade, from Dinah next door? And all with the slow, slow ticking of the John Lewis mantelpiece clock in the background. Everything is from John Lewis. If John Lewis did death, that’s the one my mum would choose. ‘How would you like your demise?’ ‘Oh, never knowingly undersold, thanks.’
It’s 5 January. In the morning, shaky with nerves and excitement, I walk through the freezing streets to the station, past the naked Christmas trees that line the pavements awaiting the bin men. January feels so brittle, bare, lifeless. A bit like middle age. Hopefully I won’t have to worry about that anymore, or not for a while, anyway.
The train is on time, unusually, and by eleven a.m. I’m in the Yuvana Labs reception area with the blue velvet sofa.
I have to wait about ten minutes, which only serves to make me feel more nervous. It’s a good kind of nervous though, not like the stressful feeling of going to the garage without my Bobbi Brown Five-Minute Face on and worrying that I’ll bump into someone I know. Which is precisely the kind of thing Iwon’thave to think about anymore – if this works. I can’t bloody wait.That feeling of freedom that I haven’t felt for so long, being able to just get up and go out, without having to wait for my face to uncrumple, to go on Zooms with my camera on, or actually go to meetings in person. Holy crap, imagine that, not worrying that everyone is looking at my jowls and judging me. I really think this is going to help my career too. I’ll be able to go up to London more and stop hiding away. And my social life. Keith won’t be accusing me of being a hermit when I’m out at parties in London four times a week. Or did I say that about myself? Either way, this is the life I gave up when I moved to Wiltshire and accidentally got old without noticing, and it feels like at last, I have a chance to get it back.
Finally, the receptionist calls me over. It’s the same one as last time, Glazed Doughnut, but she looks at me with absolutely no recognition whatsoever. I have a feeling she does this to everyone.
‘I’m here to see Dr Marcus,’ I say.
‘And your name is…?’ She flashes a vague smile with overly white teeth.
‘Pells. Erica Pells.’ I’m so over-excited I snigger at how much I phrased it like ‘Bond. James Bond’.
Glazed Doughnut doesn’t find this as funny as I do, or indeed funny at all. She turns to her laptop, types and then stops. ‘Erica?’ Her voice changes and she stares at me intently. ‘You must be here for your WULT® treatment.’
I nod, self-conscious at the scrutiny. I have that feeling you get when you’re wearing a new lipstick that’s not your usual shade – as though you’re unsure what to do with your mouth, and have an urge to pout like Keira Knightley. So pout I do, and I don’t think it’s a very good pout because Glazed Doughnut looks at me with some concern.
‘Dr Marcus is ready for you now,’ she says, and walks me over to the door of the room with the oligarch lighting.
Inside, Dr Marcus is on the same sofa, in what appears to be the same clothes and is looking even more like Jude Law than before. If it wasn’t for Peach Jumpsuit now wearing a yellow jumpsuit, I would have a serious case of déjà vu, and suspect a glitch in the Matrix. I wonder if it’s a choice between a red and blue pill with my water today – although I feel like I’ve already gone down the rabbit hole.
‘Welcome back.’ Dr Marcus doesn’t stand up this time but does do the weird hypnosis eye contact thing again. Peach Jumpsuit is also staring at me, at least I think she is. Well, she’s staring at something.
‘How are you feeling?’ asks Dr Marcus as I sit down. ‘As excited as we are?’
I nod, grinning, and he turns to Peach Jumpsuit, who doesn’t look remotely excited but whispers ‘Yessssssss’ and writes something down on her clipboard. I hear him call her ‘Portia’, but to me, she will always be Peach Jumpsuit.
Dr Marcus stands up and moves towards me, bending down into the kind of curtsey lunge only someone with a personal trainer could manage. ‘May I?’ He reaches out to touch my face.
‘Um… sure,’ I say as he lifts my hair out of the way and scrutinises my skin.
‘There is a marked decrease in hydration and elasticity since you were here last,’ he says with that ‘we’re not angry we’re disappointed’ tone teachers use. It reminds me of a recent trip to the dentist when I was asked what I ‘use to brush my teeth’. Why, what does it look like I use? An old twig and some soot?
‘Yeah… sorry about that.’ I put this down to sinking most of a bottle of Primitivo last night, but I don’t feel the need to elaborate.
‘No need to apologise! It will all be bouncing back once we give those nanobots their marching orders.’
I have a mental image of lots of little Ant Men running round my brain. It’s not like the Ant Man fantasies I’ve had in the past, by any means.
‘And your family and friends,’ Dr Marcus continues. ‘Are they aware of your impending transformation?’
