Part Four
Chapter Thirty-One
Erica Pells ate my hamster
There’s a new dead American Erica Pells – in Ava, Missouri this time. She loved pickleball and spoon carving, and it takes me a minute or so to realise that she wasn’t in a retirement home, but a hospice and is – was – a couple of years younger than me. It’s really bloody sad actually. She had three kids, all quite young by the looks of it from the photo. ‘We are heartbroken but take comfort that she is at peace now.’ I imagine that getting old would have been the preferred choice for this Erica Pells. I’m definitely going to stop reading these obituaries.
The reason I am googling my name is not to find articlesbyme, because I haven’t written any recently, apart from a luxury lip balmTried and TestedforGlowgetter, but that was just to get some samples for Mother Pells. No, I was googling so I could find articlesaboutme. And there are quite a lot of them. They are a mix, from highbrow:The Ethics Of Eternal Youth: A Deep Dive Into The WULT® Woman Controversy; to medium brow:Age Fright: Who Exactly Are Yuvana Labs, The Nanotech Company Behind The WULT® Woman Scandal? (nice pun); to low brow:WULT® Woman Puts On A Leggy Display At Swindon Station – Exclusive Pics Inside!Oh – and no brow at all:Erica Pells Ate My Hamster.
But I don’t want to be in the news, or famous, I never did. I’ve seen – okay, read – what they write about the likes of Jennifer Aniston (or should I say ‘poor, sad Jen’). Probably more than I should have done, to be fair. The fame I thought I craved was simply to have more followers than Cassia, which now feels faintly absurd. Cassia, incidentally, has posted a reel about me–WULT® Woman: the truth about Erica Pells. It’s had about three thousand views, but I haven’t watched it yet, I can’t bring myself to. I did however watch her reel from Friday, which was her weekly vintage cocktail – an ‘Ivanhoe’ prepared in the ‘parlour’ (#mindfuldrinking). She’s really grey now by the looks of it. It actually quite suits her, especially with her new chunky-framed glasses.
I have also noticed that the WULT® Woman Instagram has been suspended. I wasn’t planning to post anything on it, considering all the news stories, and the fact they haven’t paid me – but still, it’s yet another worrying development. I called Merlyn last night and left her a voicemail explaining what’s happened with Mother Pells. She’s clearly seen the news otherwise she wouldn’t have messaged me about ‘reconvening’ yesterday. I really would like to talk to her – now Channing has gone I don’t have another contact at Yuvana, apart from the ‘enquiries@’ email for making appointments and more recently, chasing payments.
I am still in Wiltshire. I haven’t left the house, and have just been Deliverooing food on my ailing credit card, and drinking tea. Oh, and calling the hospital. And crying. JEEZ, there’s been a lot of that. It’s a lonely business too: Josie doesn’t come round with hugs and Ottolenghi offerings in Tupperware, Keith doesn’t FaceTime me, Nandy doesn’t appear with weed and spices. And I can’t call them, or message them because, well, I suppose I’m too scared of what they’ll say to me. I’m not Public Enemy Number One, but I’m definitely either three or four. All I’ve had is a message from Channing saying Michaela Mammary is DJing at ‘Big Girl’s Blouse’ in New Cross on Thursday, and do I want to come? At least I’m popular with someone. But no, Channing, I do not.
I managed to speak to Mother Pells this morning when I called the hospital. She sounded shaky and confused, and my heartached that nobody was there with her. She didn’t say much and doesn’t seem to remember what happened in the ambulance, thankfully. The nurse told me she is ‘still very poorly’ but also said that ‘her sister-in-law’ (Auntie Viv) has been in, which is a relief, and at least someone. I’m hoping Simon will be able to visit soon too as judging by his messages, he is returning to earth. Which just leaves me.
Me. Erica. WULT® Woman. Whoever I am. I’m not sure. I don’t feel like the person I was when I was last here. I was hopeful then – hopeful that this would be what I wanted, what I needed. But now it feels like all it’s done is push everyone away. Or maybe I’ve done that myself. I didn’t mean to. I just thought if I could look young again, that everything would change for the better. That I wouldn’t be so miserable about getting old, that I wouldn’t be wondering ‘what if’, because I could do it all again, and do it properly. Have a star that ascends this time, like Cassia’s did.
But now I’m wondering if I have spent my whole life thinking that it will be the next thing that will definitely make me happy. If I could just get my hands on that light-reflecting concealer, or that keratin blow dry, or that new plasma thing that targets multiple concerns simultaneously… Maybe WULT® isn’t any different from all the things that came before, all the lotions and potions and treatments packaged up as hopes and dreams. And maybe what would really make me happy isn’t actually dermatologist approved and tested on over thirty-four women, but right in front of me.
In the afternoon, I do some laundry and cleaning, which I didn’t seem to manage before I left six months ago. I suppose I was in a blur of adrenalin and moderately priced Italian wine. I also clear some weeds from in between the paving slabs on the patio (with a fork, let’s not get carried away), and scrub them (with an exfoliating body brush,#gifted). I don’t know why. Ifeel like I need distractions. Like I’m waiting for something. For news from the hospital. For Josie to come round (she won’t). For all these things – and yet none of them. Because what I am really waiting for is my brain to tell me what my heart already knows.
The next morning, Simon calls me early, thanking me for ‘holding the fort’ and apologising for what happened with his micro – or not so micro as it turned out – dosing. As both thrilling and unusual it is for Simon to be apologising to me, I can’t pretend to him that I did anything. I was on my way to see Mother Pells anyway, and when I did try to help, it went horribly wrong. So it’s really Auntie Viv who is holding the fort, and if she has a low opinion of me (which I’m pretty sure she does), it will be even lower after this. Simon will probably be okay – he’ll make up some highly plausible excuse for his absence that doesn’t involve hallucinogens and everyone will believe him because he’s never been crap before, like I have. Many, many times.
‘At least you were there,’ says Simon. ‘More than I was.’
‘I might as well have not been.’
‘Erry, don’t beat yourself up.’ He hasn’t called me Erry in a long time. ‘She’s going to be in hospital for a little while, from what Auntie Viv said. I’m going in this morning. You can visit her when she’s a bit more lucid, and explain it all then. I’ll tell the nurses to keep the newspapers away from her in the meantime.’
Explain it all… Where to even start? It’s quite a different story now. I’m not sure I know how to tell it. Not even sure if I want to. And maybe I don’t have to, either…
By ten a.m., I’ve made my decision, and I’m on the train back to London, after two nights of sleeping in my old bed – during which my insomnia was caused by my brain whirring, and not the baby next door, who seems to have grown out of the yelling phase. I am wearing a huge pair of sunglasses that I found in amongst the boxes of products in the spare room, and a bucket hat that makes me look like I’m on my way to a rave in a Gloucestershire field in 1989, but was the only one I could find. What ‘Core’ is this? I don’t care.
At Paddington, I take the Circle line. I’m not going to Devon’s. Not for now. On the escalator, despite my excellent disguise, I notice a few people looking at me, and someone takes a photo with their phone. A man wearing a sleeveless t-shirt says something to me which includes the words ‘slutty’ and what sounds like ‘show us your fringe’ although I am guessing it is not my fringe he wishes to see. I’m not sure if his request is related to my newfound fame/infamy, or just because that’s what some men do.
I was deluded enough to think, before WULT®, that the reason strange men had stopped catcalling and/or generally saying gross things to me was because of the#metoomovement. Turns out it was my age that silenced them, and the whole practice of objectifying women in public is still very much alive and well. Suffice to say the novelty of becoming visible again wore off within about a week of my transformation. ‘Oh, do fuck off,’ I say to the man. The woman on the escalator next to me, who looks like she’s about fifty, whispers, ‘Well done you’, and I smile proudly. Although I don’t look like a ‘Wise Woman’, as Cassia calls it, I momentarily let myself enjoy the fearlessness that middle age gives us.
It’s just three stops to High Street Kensington, and soon, I’m back on the square. The storms of the last few days have passed, and the cherry blossom has given way to deep green leaves thatrustle in the breeze. Walking towards the Yuvana building, I think for a second that I must have got lost – entirely possible with my sense of direction. The white pillars are familiar, but I can’t see the glass entrance, just a closed black outer door. What the hell? Maybe they aren’t open yet? But it’s nearly midday…
Climbing the steps, a horrible tight feeling is now growing in my chest. I step back down, looking around to double-check that I’m at the correct door. Number 11… that’s definitely right. I go up again, this time trying the big brass door handle, gently, then yanking it hard. Harder. JEEZ. It won’t open.
I knock.
‘Portia!’ I yell.
Silence.
‘Dr Marcus!’
Silence.
‘It’s Erica, Erica Pells! I’ve changed my mind. I want the treatment reversed!’
But nobody is coming. Because nobody is there.
