One thing he hadn’t lost was Tracy, his first wife. Those painful details still burned hot and bright in his memory. Trust that bloody harpy to cling to him no matter what.
But he’d remembered the one thing that was truly important to him, though: his wonderful son. Tim had sat opposite him during the whole Eurostar train trip back to Peterborough. The two of them were nervous and awkward to begin with, as if they were on a first date; but his urgency to find out what his son had been doing for the last eighteen months pushed him past that initial hesitancy. Mutual delight at being in each other’s company soon had Tim emerging from his shell. Listening to his son babble on about school grades, and friends, and events, Jeff could scarcely believe that this young adult was the same gawky lad he’d said good-bye to a year and a half earlier. It was as if he’d expected the world to go into stasis and wait for him. Sue, of course, hadn’t changed in any respect, which helped spin out that particular illusion.
The other person he’d been delighted to see was his little sister. Alison had arrived at the manor for his party, and the two of them had looked at each other for a long emotional moment. Then she parted her lips in a soft indulgent smile as they finally embraced.
“It really is you,” she whispered, sniffing hard and blinking moisture away from her eyes. “Oh God, Jeff.”
“There, there.” He patted her gently as she cried. “I’m okay, everything worked.”
“You’re just how I remember. I was at school when you were like this before. You helped me with my homework.”
“I remember.”
She leaned back to study his youthful face. “We had to write it down in exercise books and sheets of A-four. There were no computers in those days, no dot matrix printers and laser jets. Just pens and calculators.”
“I must have got my Sinclair Spectrum around then. The hours I spent using it! But I don’t suppose it was much use for your homework.”
“We always used to do it on the kitchen table.”
“And Mum would be fussing round with the ironing, getting supper ready.”
“Waiting for Dad to get home.”
“While Ruffles got in the way.”
“Damn stupid dog.” She wiped a hand across her eyes, looking annoyed when she saw the streak of tears on her skin. “I haven’t thought about Ruffles in years.”
“Decades.”
“Yes, decades. And you’ve got those decades again, haven’t you.”
He held her chin in his hand, making her look at him. “Are you jealous?”
“God, yes! But I’m glad it was you they chose. I mean that, Jeff.”
“Thanks.” He kissed her brow.
“For God’s sake,” Alison grunted in mock anger. “You look so damn good, you’re making me self-conscious. I’m going to have to start using those ridiculous cosmetic treatments. I swore I never would.”
“You look great as you are.”
“Oh please! Do you think genoproteins can get me to match up to Sue?”
“No problem.”
“Ha! I’d need two of your treatments before I stood a chance to get equal to her. How is your dear wife taking all this, by the way?”
Jeff grinned at the lack of enthusiasm. Alison had never approved of Sue, though she adored Tim. He waved a hand at the line of waiters hovering with their laden trays. “In her element.”
Alison grunted, and handed her coat to one of the eager young men. She took a flute of Veuve Clicquot and sniffed at it suspiciously. “Huh. Gnat’s piss lite. Give me a decent gin and tonic every time.”
After that Alan and James arrived, and the three of them greeted one another with childish whoops in the hallway. Alan was seventy-two, a retired aerospace engineer who lived over in Stamford. Taller than Jeff, he didn’t spend much of his pension on cosmetic genoproteins, preferring to buy treatments that kept his joints and muscles in shape. By doing so, he was still able to play golf three times a week and keep a ten handicap. It was his only real remaining interest now that his old company had quietly dropped him from even token consultancy work. In contrast, James was only sixty-eight, and still working at the finance and asset management company he’d set up nearly forty years before in the first dotcom boom. Unlike most of the companies from that era, his had survived. Not that he put in many hours a week now that he was a nonexecutive director. But his salary allowed him to buy the full range of male cosmetic genoproteins. He’d kept his apparent age in his late forties, with a thick shock of ebony hair and skin that was suspiciously tanned. Unfortunately, not even his treatments could do much about his weight; forty years of expense-account meals had bloated him into a man who waddled rather than walked.
The two of them were among Jeff’s closest friends. Out of those who were still alive, Jeff thought sourly. But it was good to see them.
“Definitely some features I recognize on this appalling teenage youth,” James boomed as his meaty hand enveloped Jeff’s. “Jesus Christ, is it really you?”
“So they tell me,” Jeff said with a shrug.
“How the hell can you know?” Alan asked. He was giving Jeff a strangely contemplative look. “I mean, damn, man, where’s the evidence?”
“I remember being me.”
“Yeah, but, like, prove it.”
“Give the guy a break,” James protested.
“You can run a DNA fingerprint if you’re that worried,” Jeff said.
“I have to concede, it gives the lawyers something to argue about,” James said. “It’s like Tim’s found a long-lost older brother. And dear old Jeff would never wear anything like this.” Thick fingers stroked the lapel of Jeff’s gray-green jacket. “New, aren’t they?”
“My clothes?” Jeff queried. “Yes, well, even geniuses can’t think of everything.” It was only after he got home that they realized none of his old clothes would fit. Until then he’d been wearing loose shirts and trousers supplied by the medical facility. Sue had spent an urgent fifty minutes accessing the Gucci and Versace sites; then they’d all waited anxiously for the Community Supply Service van to make its afternoon delivery with the start of his new wardrobe.
“Your wife chose them, then?”
“Yes.”
“Not bad,” Alan said. “Kind of retro eighties. If you pushed the sleeves up you could be like Tubbs from Miami Vice.”
“Crocket,” James corrected immediately. “Tubbs was the black guy. And you’d need a thinner tie.”
“He’s right,” Jeff said, glancing down quizzically at his maroon tie. “Don Johnson was Crocket.”
James lifted a flute from a passing waiter. “Ah, Don Johnson. Never better than in Hot Spot, his finest hour.”
“Of course it was,” Jeff said. “Dennis Hopper directed it. And it was The Hot Spot.”
“He was much better in Tin Cup, playing that golf pro,” Alan said. “The one up against Kevin Costner in the U.S. Masters.”
“Trust you to think a film about golf was better than one of Dennis Hopper’s thrillers. You’ve obviously forgotten Hot Spot had Jennifer Connelly in it. That makes it tops, with or without Dennis Hopper.”
“Virginia Madsen was in The Hot Spot, too,” Jeff offered. He was starting to relax. Now this was a genuine welcome home. They’d barely been in the manor two minutes, and already they’d fallen back into their usual routine. Sue never had understood the way they talked utter trivia for hours on end. At their age, it was a wonderful substitute for male machismo—who knew the most useless fact of all. “A major babe in her day, our Virginia, and an Oscar winner.”
“Ah.” James brightened suddenly. “Let’s give your memory another little test, shall we?” He started to beckon urgently across the living room.
Jeff watched with mild interest as an attractive young woman in a little black cocktail dress smiled at James and came over to them. She had the kind of slow walk that drew attention her way. When she reached them, Jeff noticed the dress wasn’t actually that small after all, it was just the cut that mad
e it appear that way to his mind.
“This is Nicole,” James said. “Nicole, I’m sure you remember Dr. Baker.”
“Hi,” she said with a playful smile. “Nice to see you again, especially with you looking like this. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I have to admit my memory hasn’t come through this in a perfect state. Did we know each other before?”
James patted Nicole’s bare shoulder. “My granddaughter. She used to come and swim in your pool in the holidays.”
“Oh right!” Jeff suddenly had the image of a ten-year-old kid in a Day-Glo pink swimsuit running around on the lawn, shrieking and giggling as she chased after a huge inflatable beach ball. That must have been twenty years ago, which put her in her early thirties. Looking at her closely, he suspected some genoprotein treatments. Her hair was a honey blonde and stylishly cut, while her skin was smooth and healthy, lightly tanned as opposed to her grandfather’s oven-roasted shade. “So what are you doing these days?”
“Helping the family business stay afloat.”
“Taking it over,” James muttered.
“Grandpa!” she chided with a mock anger. “Only the southern Europe sector. It’s still your company.”
“Not really.” He sighed. “I’m going in less and less. Dempsey doesn’t like the way I do things, says I’m too old fashioned. I depress office morale, and they’re frightened of getting sued. Bugger it, when I see something that needs doing, then I bloody well say so. It’s called management. But oh no, I’ve got to be more sensitive to their needs and working environment. Load of bollocks, that’s the attitude that got us into the shit-awful mess we’re in today. I say what I think, not what others want me to say.”
“That’s not why you’re going in less.” Nicole looked straight at Jeff. “Honestly, we just run a smaller office these days. Everyone works from home on a distributed network. Another five years and we won’t even have an office.”
“You’ve got to have an office,” James complained. “No matter how networked we get, the human contact is essential at the top level. Money is about trust; our clients have a right to meet us so they can see for themselves what kind of people we are.”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
“Oh, bloody hell. This dinosaur needs another drink.”
Jeff shook his head as James wandered off. “Can’t you just give him his golden watch and a pension?”
“James won’t retire,” she said. “The boredom would drive him crazy, then kill him. Besides, you’re a fine one to talk about pensions. If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly did your pension fund management company say about paying you? Are they suspending the payments until you look seventy again?”
“I’m not sure. They haven’t been in touch.”
“If they ever do make this rejuvenation lark cheap enough for the masses, pension stocks are going to take a mighty dive. We can’t afford to pay out for a hundred years. Funds are designed to last for twenty at the most.”
“Bankers in pain,” Alan said. “Now there’s a happy thought.”
“Uncle Alan, don’t be so cruel. We make the world go round.”
“That is one argument against rejuvenation,” Jeff said thoughtfully.
“What?” Nicole asked. “We can’t afford it?”
“No. If you double your life span, you double the number of years you have to work. Is it really worth it?”
“Let us know when you find out.” She took a sip from her flute. “Did you really forget me?”
“Be fair, I haven’t seen you for ages.”
“We could remedy that. I don’t normally tout for business among family friends; but maybe you should get a professional review of your finances now that your circumstances have changed so much.”
“Tell me more,” he said.
SUE AND HER FRIENDS Jane, Pamela, and Lynda had taken to calling themselves the Rutland nonworking mothers club. It started off as a laugh one evening round at Lynda’s house, when they were all drinking vodka and both of Lynda’s young kids had started crying upstairs.
“Oh, leave them to it,” Lynda had grumped. “They’ll cry themselves out eventually.” The nanny was out for the evening, and she was too sloshed to move from her huge reclining chair.
The name had stuck. And they introduced entry requirements.
Have you left your sick child in bed so you can go and have sex with your lover? If so, how high was the child’s temperature?
How much of your Eurosocial child allowance do you spend on sleazy silk underwear that you wear only for your lovers, not your husband?
Have you refused to let the nanny/au pair go out for the night, then left them alone in the house while you seduced their boyfriend?
Have you notched up a speeding fine in your husband’s car when you were on your way to see your lover in a hotel?
Sue had an impressively high score on most of them. She enjoyed the company of her fellow club members while she was staying at the manor. They all shared the same circumstances: young, attractive, married, wealthy, living out in the countryside, bored out of their skulls. Of course, most of her London friends, the set she mixed with while she was staying at the Knightsbridge flat, would have an even higher percentage. But that was metropolitan life for you.
After the welcome home party had begun, the four of them wound up lurking in the kitchen together. To their exotic tastes, the party was pretty dull, and the kitchen was where they could talk freely. It was also where they could eye up the waiters, all lads in their early twenties from the university in Peterborough. They didn’t care what they said in front of the hired staff; shocking them was part of the game.
“I could be named in the divorce papers,” Pamela told the others breathlessly as soon as they’d gathered.
“My God,” Lynda drawled. “Does Ken know?”
“No. It’s only a threat, so far. The bitch’s lawyer is just trying it on. Besides, if I don’t admit to it, and Johan doesn’t, there’s bugger all they can do about it.”
Annabelle followed one of the waiters in, hunting her fresh drink. Her eyes flicked over the four expensively dressed women, and she hesitated.
“Annabelle,” Sue called. “Don’t be frightened, darling, we don’t bite. Girls, this is Annabelle, my son’s girlfriend.”
A couple of halfhearted smiles were thrown Annabelle’s way.
“But Ken will know, even if they can’t stand up in court and say you’re the irreconcilable difference,” Jane said.
“So?” Pamela said. “It’s not like he behaves himself. Besides, we’ve got a prenup.”
“Ah, God’s little gift to decent women everywhere,” Lynda said; she raised her voice. “Annabelle, if you ever get hitched, darling, make sure you’ve got a prenup. Take the advice of those who know a thing or two about it.”
Annabelle gave them a forced smile. One of the waitresses took mercy on her and asked what she wanted.
“I saw you’d brought Patrick along this evening,” Jane said to Sue. She kept one eye on Annabelle. “Have you introduced him to Jeff yet?”
“No.” Sue knew she should stop her friend from being this much of a bitch in front of the girl, but she’d had vodka shots in her Veuve Clicquot. “I didn’t think it would be appropriate. Why rock the boat now?”
“Are you going to have sex with him?” Lynda asked.
“That’s what he’s here for.”
“I meant Jeff.”
“Hadn’t really thought about it,” Sue said, which wasn’t entirely true. In fact it had been bothering her ever since he emerged from that suspension womb machine. Who would have thought he’d turn out to be so damn good looking when he was in his twenties? But when she looked at him she just kept seeing an image of the old Jeff. As a contraceptive, it was one hundred percent effective.
“Lying tart,” Pamela squawked. “He’s fucking gorgeous. I’d shag him.”
“Hands off,” Sue said, a little too curtly.
Pamela chortled. “So
you have been thinking about it. I suppose there’s got to be a first time for everything.”
“You could have a honeymoon,” Jane said. “See if it works out.”
Sue really wanted to tell the woman to shut the hell up now, there were some things that genuinely shouldn’t be mentioned in front of her son’s girlfriend. She should never have told the nonworking mothers club about the marriage “arrangement” between her and Jeff, which was so unbelievably eighteenth century—although it had been her salvation at the time. A legal contract for her to have his child (no sex, thank God, just a trip to a very special clinic) in return for which he’d support her financially. The whole cohabiting “wife” part was to provide Tim with a normal, comforting family environment. As if this has turned out to be normal! “It’s worked for eighteen years the way it is,” she said with an icy smile. “If it ain’t broke, don’t try to fix it.”
“He’s been fixed, and fixed very well indeed. The best body money can buy. I wonder if they can give men a bigger cock in the suspension womb? They always say there’s no real genoprotein treatment for that.”
“Oh, come on, Sue,” Lynda implored. “You’ve got to try it. This is like the first foot on the moon, or climbing Everest. The first person to have sex with the first rejuvenated man. This is history.”
Sue grinned, shaking her head. “It’s not going to happen.”
The waitress finished filling Annabelle’s glass. Annabelle left quickly. The nonworking mothers club regarded the kitchen door as it swung shut behind her.
“How old is she?” Jane asked after a moment.
“Seventeen, I think.”
“Shit. Seventeen years old. Melons growing out of her chest, and no ass whatsoever; I mean, forget visible panty lines, she simply doesn’t have a bum.”
Lynda licked her lips. “But no style, either. Did you see that cheapo reproduction dress? God, do girls that age really think Stephanie Romane has class?”