Chapter Thirty-Three
The Hidden Locket
After I told Merlyn that I couldn’t get into Yuvana, she made a very brief phone call, the only part of which I managed to catch was what sounded like ‘that man’. Then she whisked me out of theLusciousoffices in a flurry of green silk, waving theatrically to Liz as we passed the reception desk.
Now, in the car, she hands me, not a glass of Crémant, but a first aid kit from one of the side pockets in the doors, so at least I can patch up my knees. We head west towards Mayfair, passing Hyde Park. After feeling faintly disappointed we aren’t going to Brasserie Zédel as I haven’t had any decent cheese for ages, I wonder for a moment if we are going to Merlyn’s house, the whereabouts of which I am not exactly sure, but once we reach Hammersmith I know we have definitely gone too far.
‘Merlyn,’ I say, just as the car is inexplicably going round a roundabout what appears to be twice, or possibly three times, so I am leaning at a ridiculous angle. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To Portia Crump’s, my dear,’ she says, smiling beatifically.
Portia Crump. That’s Peach Jumpsuit’s name, it turns out. I knew she was called Portia but always imagined her surname would be something like Vanderbilt-Silk. I wonder what her house is like. I don’t wonder for long though, as soon we are in Richmond and I can tell this is our destination as the driver is going slowly down the side streets as though looking at house numbers.
‘She’ll be able to sort this out, won’t she?’ I say to Merlyn.
She turns to me for the first time and reaches for my hand, but then sees it’s covered in plasters and changes her mind. ‘Why of course, Erica.’
We pull up outside a red-brick terraced house with a very pointy gable and bay windows. As usual, the driver comes round to open the door. Merlyn puts on a pair of huge sunglasses and gets out, looking totally out of place on this suburban street.
Peach Jumpsuit’s house has a path covered in mosaic tiles and a small front garden with raised flower beds, a bench and terracotta pots full of begonias. I know they are begonias because Josie gave me some for my patio tubs. This garden looks like something out of a magazine though, while mine looks like the back entrance to a village pub.
Merlyn doesn’t ring the bell but instead uses the giant silver ring on her index finger to tap very loudly on the stained-glass section of the green front door. I stand behind her like I used to when Mother Pells went round to speak to Martin’s mum about him pulling my hair.
After about a minute, Peach Jumpsuit opens the door. She looks both the same and entirely different, expressionless as ever, but wearing, rather than a peach jumpsuit, or any jumpsuit for that matter, what can only be described as ‘slacks’, the sort one might order from a catalogue, which would come in a choice of ‘Rust’ and ‘Arctic’ and have a ‘pull-on stretch waist for ease and comfort’. Hers are definitely ‘Arctic’, while on her feet she is wearing peach-coloured fluffy slippers with a velcro fastening. Two cats, one grey, one whose markings give the impression of wearing a fur tuxedo, weave around her ankles. This isn’t how I envisaged her off-duty look, but at least she is sticking to her usual colour palette.
She doesn’t look as surprised to see us as I thought she would.
‘Erica,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen you since you became… famoussssssss.’
I say hello and look past her into the hall where I can see a patterned carpet and a barometer on the wall. It’s not exactly the minimalist white interior I was expecting.
‘Hello, Portia,’ says Merlyn.
‘Hello, Merlyn,’ says Peach Jumpsuit. ‘You’d better come inside.’
Ten minutes later, Merlyn and I are sitting on the sofa in Peach Jumpsuit’s living room, which has, like the hall, a patterned carpet, and a three-piece suite in a completely different purple floral pattern. At the window are net curtains, with voluminous velvet curtains over the top, tied back with cords. In the corner, on a high-backed armchair, is a copy of a magazine, lying open on a page with a short story calledThe Hidden Locket.
I am staring at her thimble collection (not a euphemism – there is one on the mantelpiece in a specially designed mahogany display unit) when Peach Jumpsuit brings through a Battenberg cake, a teapot and some cups and saucers on a tray and puts it on the coffee table in front of us.
‘So, where’s Marcus?’ Merlyn says, confirming my long-standing suspicion that Marcus is not his surname, and therefore he does not sound like a real doctor. ‘He’s not answering my emails. And I was somewhat fobbed off when I came in with Erica for her Youth Review.’
Peach Jumpsuit cuts a slice of the disconcertingly bright yellow Battenberg and places it delicately on a small china plate with a cake fork, handing it to Merlyn, who waves it away. Peach Jumpsuit is undeterred, and offers it to me instead. But I’m having serious doubts about the true reason for our visit – what if it’s not just about simply opening Yuvana Labs to reverse mytreatment, but something more ominous? – and my appetite has disappeared. I shake my head.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ says Peach Jumpsuit. ‘He’s been missing for a few weeks now. A couple of months even. We’ve been trying to keep things ticking over, but we had to let Channing and Alexia go, as well as some of the tech staff. That’s why we closed up the lab and office.’
Alexia – that must be Glazed Doughnut, or maybe The Human Reel.
‘We think it’s because of his former partner,’ she continues. ‘The one he co-created WULT® with, who doesn’t agree with Yuvana using the technology, and is suing Marcus, by all accounts.’
Peach Jumpsuit goes on. ‘WULT®’s nanotechnology wasn’t originally created for cosmetic reasonsssssssss. It was a lifesaving treatment for people with a rare genetic disorder. The age-reversal was a surprising side-effect, but Dr Marcus saw the potential to make some money from it – and that’s when he split from his partner, who wanted to develop it for medical purposes only.’
I think about Josie’s and Nandy’s reactions. And Gabe’s. Looking back now, I don’t blame them. It’s pretty gross, the whole thing, really. And it just got a whole lot grosser knowing that it was originally designed to help people. JEEZ. The sooner I can get my jowls back the better, and yes, I am aware of the ridiculous irony of this statement.
But what if I can’t? I’ve never even considered this. ‘Is Dr Marcus the only one who can do the WULT® treatment?’ My voice is all croaky again.
‘Yes, Erica, I’m afraid so,’ says Peach Jumpsuit.
‘I guess you’re saying “afraid so” because he’s also the only one who can reverse it?’
