I opened the Formula Twelve file and tried reading the information. Lots of it was scientific data about the biological qualities of the plants and the properties they contained and why they worked the way they did. It was highly technical, and much as I would have loved to just skim over it, I couldn’t, because if we got the account, it would be my job to reduce all this information to understandable, bite-size pieces for beauty editors’ consumption.

One of the sad things about my job was that I no longer believed any antiaging promises or miracle claims. Why would I? I wrote them.

The file contained a photo of Professor Redfern, who looked nice and explorery. Suntanned and wrinkled around the eyes and wearing a hat and one of those sleeveless khaki gilets that seem to be mandatory for explorer blokes. Beardy? But of course. Not unattractive, if you like that sort. Promotable? Possibly. Maybe we could present him as an Indiana Jones du jour.

Finally, there was a little jar of the magic cream itself. It was a nastyish mustard yellow with dark-colored flecks—a bit like “real” vanilla ice cream. Most face creams were either white or palest pink, but the mustard yellow wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; it might make it seem more “authentic.”

I rubbed a thin layer over my face and a few minutes later my scar started to tingle. I rushed to the mirror and almost expected to see the puckered skin bubbling and expanding, like something in a scientific experiment gone very very wrong. But, no, nothing unusual was happening, my face looked the same as it always did.

Before I went to bed, I tried Jacqui one more time. I’d got used to her not answering, so I was very surprised when she did.

“Hay-lllloooo.” She sounded all breathy and gaspy.

“It’s me. What’s up with you and Narky Joey?”

“We’ve been in bed since Friday night. He’s just left.”

“So do you fancy him?”

“Anna, I’m mad about him.”

68

She insisted on regaling me with stories about how great the sex was. Sex, I thought, saying the word in my head. Having sex. Impossible to imagine. I was so dead, so numb.

The funny thing was that even though my libido was entirely kaput, one of my regrets was that Aidan and I hadn’t had more sex. I mean, we’d had plenty—well, a normal amount. Whatever that is. It’s hard to know exactly because most people are so paranoid that everyone else is at it morning, noon, and night that they lie about how often they do it, inflating the numbers, and obviously the people they lie to also feel the need to lie, so it’s very hard to get at the truth.

Anyway, Aidan and I used to have sex about twice or three times a week. In the beginning, though, it was more like twice or three times a day. I know that you can’t carry on like that indefinitely, ripping each other’s clothes off and having showers together and doing it in public places and generally going for it round the clock. You’d be knackered and you’d have no buttons left on your clothes and you might get arrested.

To my sorrow, we’d never done anything terribly adventurous; it had all been pretty vanilla. But maybe the kinky stuff doesn’t happen straightaway. Maybe you have to work your way through all the straightforward sex first and perhaps in ten years’ time we’d have moved out to the suburbs and been in the thick of a riotous, swinging, husband-swapping scene.

What was killing me were all the opportunities I had wasted—almost every morning of my life with him. Getting ready for work, he’d be parading around naked, his skin still damp from the shower, his mickey jiggling, and I’d be scooting past, looking for a deodorant or a hairbrush or something, and I’d half notice his tiny bottom and the hollow down the side of his thighs, and I’d think, God, he’s magnificent. But straightaway I’d think something like I still haven’t had my boots heeled, I’ll have to wear different shoes and that throws all my calculations out.

Mornings were a race against the clock; it didn’t stop Aidan grabbing at me as I zipped past, half dressed, but I nearly always batted him off and said, “Away, away, we haven’t time.”

Mostly he was a good sport about it, but one morning, shortly before he died, he said, quite sadly, “We never do it in the mornings anymore.”

“No one does,” I said. “Only weirdos, like company CEOs with trophy wives or mistresses. And the women only submit because the CEO gives them expensive jewelry. And the CEO only does it because he was born with too much testosterone, and if he doesn’t have sex, he’ll have to invade a country or something.”

“Yes, but…”

“Come on now,” I chivvied him. “We’re not living in a Joy of Sex video.”

“What happens in a Joy of Sex video?”

“You know. Spontaneity.” I whizzed up the zip on my skirt. “You’d be ready for work, like you are now, and I’d be having a bubble bath.”

“We don’t even have a bath.”

“Never mind. I’d be pointing my toes in the air and soaping my shins all luxuriously and you’d lean over the side to kiss me good-bye…”

“…oh, I get it. You’d pull me by the tie…”

“…exactly! Into the bath…”

“…wow. Wild…”

“Not wild. You’d go apeshit. You’d shout, ‘For God’s sake, this is my Hugo Boss suit. What in the name of fuck am I going to wear to work now?’” As I spoke, I was rummaging furiously through a drawer looking for a bra. I found it.

“Look.” Aidan pointed down at his crotch. He seemed to be indicating activity in that region. I ignored it and continued. “You’d say, ‘We’d better get all this water mopped up before Mr. Downstairs comes up to humble us for destroying his bathroom ceiling.’”

Aidan was still looking at his crotch. I followed his eyes to the tent-pole shape in his trousers. He made a “shucks, honey,” gesture and I said, “We’ve got to go to work.”

“No.” He unsnapped the bra I’d just put on.

“No!” I tried to put the bra back on.

“But you’re beautiful.” Gently he bit the back of my neck, “And I want you so baaaad. Feel.” He took my hand, and through the cloth I felt his erection, bent and springy and striving to be upright. Under my touch it noticeably thickened and straightened.