Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thank god for potato soup
I am not a member of many group chats. I always find the names of them disappointingly pun-free, and to be fair, I don’t get invited to join them very often anyway. I was a member of our street group chat in Wiltshire, which was imaginatively called ‘Street Group Chat’, but an admin (Mrs Belcher, it is my firm belief) removed me after I accidently posted a sticker of Paul Hollywood, with the caption ‘Show me your baps’, which was meant for Nandy. And I was also a member of one for a Wiltshire book group that I joined as one of my efforts to be more sociable but then left it when I realised I don’t read much other thanGracemagazine, and lately, not even that. I may address this if and when I get home – Josie is always lending me books saying things like, ‘You’ll love this, it’s about a plucky Irish girl during the war who…’ and then I switch off. That said, I have started reading some blogs about comedy writing since I emailed Maxine, although she hasn’t replied so I’m not really sure what the point is. They are interesting though.
The ‘Make Erica Old Again’ group chat has my full attention, and I am constantly checking to see if there is any news from Laure on Professor Brandt’s impending visit to London. I have to keep reminding myself that just because she has agreed to help, it doesn’t guarantee she will be able to, especially given that her laboratory staff will be a fashion magazine non-executive editor, a beauty influencer, a seventy-six-year-old former housekeeper and… actually I’m not sure what Laure’s job title is but I’m pretty confident it’s not to do with nasal probes. Oh and also Josie, who has joined the group chat and said shewill come along and help, even if it’s just to stand guard. Because according to Peach Jumpsuit, Yuvana has been asked to vacate the premises, which means technically we shouldn’t be going in at all, and the landlords occupy the same building, so we have to be careful they don’t spot us.
At Devon’s, I distract myself by cleaning and packing up. Whatever happens, I will have to move out, as it’s nearly the end of August. I’ve lived here for six months and never even used the oven, so there is no tray of roast potatoes to discover, just some fairly average cheese in the fridge and, weirdly, a pizza takeaway menu in the freezer, which makes me smile as the restaurant is called Another One Bites The Crust. And then I think about Gabe. I wonder, if the reversal works, if he will want to see me again. It’s probably too late. The day Josie drove me to the hospital, she said that he was ‘keeping busy’, which was a weird way of putting it, but possibly means he’s now seeing someone else.
Finally, after a week during which Portia and Merlyn give me some Yuvana Labs money ‘by way of compensation’ to tide me over (thank god, as I am seriously down to my last pennies), Laure posts on the group chat. Her messages are always perfunctory, and I can’t help but cringe at what she must think of us all. I wonder what it must be like to be a ‘no messing’ sort of person who always has a banana in their bag and donates to charity without even telling anyone about it.
‘Rosamund can be in London on Tuesday next week, for twenty-four hours only.’
‘Eccellente!All hands on deck,’ writes Merlyn in reply.
And so, after everyone has left various comments, a plan is made to let ourselves into Yuvana Labs and between us, carry out the procedure. Holy crap. This better work. Otherwise that croft in Scotland with the tartan headscarf and basketweave might be the best option. I’m certainly not staying here to spendmy days kissing adolescents and playing video games about silage. And besides, I need to see Mother Pells, and sharpish.
At nine p.m., we all arrive separately at the square in Kensington. We have to wait until it’s dark, in the hope that the rest of the building is empty, but also because it’s more difficult for anyone to spot us coming in. I stand under a cherry tree in the warm breeze, waiting for my signal on the group chat. There are six of us, seven including Professor Brandt. Peach Jumpsuit goes in first, as she has the keys, then the rest of us go in one by one, from different parts of the square, so as not to attract attention.
Merlyn is next – I think she wanted her outfit to look like a cat burglar but from where I am standing, she looks more like a mime artist. Then I see Cassia, who also got the memo about wearing dark colours but being an influencer and/or decadent couldn’t resist making that a giant black shawl and a hat that makes her look like one of the Pilgrim Fathers. I roll my eyes watching Peach Jumpsuit let her in, and wonder, as I can’t see from where I am, if Peach Jumpsuit is wearing a black jumpsuit. Next is Professor Brandt, looking business-like as ever, then Laure and Josie, who appear to have Héloïse with them for some unknown reason. Then it’s my turn and, hopefully for the last time, I cross the square and head up the steps.
Inside, we all stand whispering in the reception area, which is in darkness. The screens have been removed from the walls, the blue velvet sofas are gone, and there are document boxes strewn everywhere. It feels cold and echoey, so different from the first time I came here in my puff-sleeved dress, full of excitement. How naïve I was.
Josie hugs me, then Héloïse sees me too and throws her arms around my waist. ‘I’m happy that you will be my Erica again,’ she says, before saying that the room smells ‘of post offices’. For a change, I get what she means.
‘Sorry about bringing this one,’ Josie says, stroking Héloïse’s cheek. ‘We couldn’t get a babysitter.’
Everyone shakes their heads to show it doesn’t matter, and Josie stays in reception with her as we all go through to the treatment room. Peach Jumpsuit puts some of the lights on, and although it’s dim I can see the treatment table and all the equipment around it. I feel a slow, prickling fear creep over me that reminds me of when I had to wear itchy woollen polo necks under my Brownie uniform when I was a child. Nobody has any experience, apart from Peach Jumpsuit I suppose, but Professor Brandt created the technology in the first place, so she must know what she’s doing. Hope so anyway.
Peach Jumpsuit makes Laure, Cassia and Merlyn wash their hands and put on masks and gowns, then gives them various jobs to do, holding things, cleaning things, screwing things into other things. Then she leads me behind the screen to put on a surgical gown. I’ll have to be sedated again, so Cassia has volunteered to take me home afterwards, which is both kind of her and the least she can do. Once I’m ready, I get up on the treatment table, and Professor Brandt puts a cannula in my hand. She’s not making any Spice Girls jokes today, in fact she’s not saying much at all, and is clearly unimpressed by the lot of us. Thank god for potato soup, is all I can say.
She explains that just like the treatment itself, the effect of the reversal isn’t immediate – although the process will start as soon as I have the implant removed, the full reversal will take around ten days.
Just as she is about to administer the sedation, we hear a sound from outside the room. Laure rushes over to the door andpokes her head out into the corridor. We can hear her talking, then she returns, saying that Josie has heard people upstairs, and lights have gone on, so we need to hurry. Great – I do so love my neurological procedures to be in darkness, and rushed.
Merlyn the mime artist holds my hand as the sedation kicks in. Her words are muffled by her mask, but I can hear her say, ‘Brava, Erica.’ As I go to reply, I realise my speech is slurring but I manage to say that if this works, she has changed my life for the better. Hearing myself say that out loud makes the tears come. Then, as the sedation takes over, the random thoughts fill my head… Paul Hollywood is shaking my hand… Carol’s rabbit is back home after all these years… and I am making yarn with a Spinning Jenny, and it’s coming out bloody perfectly, as if I’ve been spinning all my life.
