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The photo on the Funeral Order of Service showed Henry as a young man at around the age he'd been when he used to babysit Irene. In recent years, she had seen him only at occasional family gatherings, but the old closeness had still been there. He would sidle up to her and slip his arm around her waist.
"Hullo, my lovely younger cousin," he would say, with a wink.
How could the handsome Henry in the photo have turned into the skeletal creature who'd stared at her with Alzheimer eyes when she'd visited him in the hospice? Irene cried as she went forward with the other mourners to place flowers on Henry's coffin.
*
After the funeral, she returned to work. Standing on a small step-ladder to reach a box of folders on a high shelf, she began to feel giddy just as Derek Wilkinson, the recently appointed Sales Manager, knocked on the open door of her office and entered.
"Careful!" he said, tossing the sheaf of papers under his arm onto the table and offering a hand.
"The way I am at the moment," retorted Irene, gathering her skirt so she could see her feet and stepping down gingerly, "I wouldn't feel a thing if I fell on my head."
"If you fell on your head," said Derek, "I would feel it."
*
Irene cried that night as she prepared her dinner, and as the meal went cold on her plate. Why does everything get old and deteriorate? Why is pain the price we pay for love?
When she went to bed, Derek Wilkinson was on her mind. The way he'd looked at her with his spaniel eyes, and touched her arm, as if he knew how she was feeling and really cared. She slept poorly and woke up in the morning feeling exhausted.
*
In the staffroom at work, Irene sat silently while the younger women chatted.
"I heard he lives with his grandmother, who's about ninety," said Maria the office junior, rosy lipped with wavy blond hair that flowed down to her shoulders.
"How old is Derek?" asked Paula the computer operator, a petite woman with shrewd dark eyes.
"Late forties, I'd say."
"What a bloody waste! A man with a body like that living with his grandmother!"
"Pretty peculiar, I reckon."
"He's lovely!"
"He must have pots of money to buy that red Porsche!"
"My father met Derek the other day in the supermarket car park. Dad wasn't impressed. Said he's got a face like a con artist."
"That's so judgmental, after meeting him once!"
"Don't forget my father's a criminal lawyer. He's good at reading people."
"Well, the sales staff all love Derek. He's only been with the firm for six months and their sales figures have rocketed."
"He's got the gift of the gab."
"Nah, he's more of a listener. Reckons any sales person who wants to be seen as trustworthy and believable has to find out what a customer really needs and then show them he understands and cares."
"Maybe, but my father often talks about how the greedy exploit the needy."
"Nuh, it's not like that. Derek's too nice. He makes everybody feel special."
"You mean he works on them."
"Well, anyway, I think he's hot. He can drop his Calvin Kleins by my bed any time."
*
Irene saw little of Derek Wilkinson during the day. He was busy with the sales team, often accompanying them on calls to customers.
However, at the end of each afternoon, after handing the day's contracts to Irene for filing, he would plonk himself down on a chair in her office and loosen his tie. Conversation came easily between the two them.
The longer these late afternoon chats continued, the more Irene was convinced the younger women's doubts were unjustified. Derek seemed genuinely caring and attentive as she began to open up to him, even confiding how she'd really been feeling the day he'd helped her down the stepladder.
"I'm good on ladders, usually, but I didn't seem to have any spine that day. I was so upset about my cousin Henry dying, and I know it was weeks ago, but now I can't stop thinking about how time passes and how everything gets old and deteriorates."
Derek gazed at her. "I wonder why this issue about time and aging is so important to you."
Irene cleared her throat. "I think it's got to do with how my husband died, twenty years ago. He was diagnosed with Werner Syndrome soon after we got married. I watched him age rapidly and die an old man at twenty-eight."
Five o'clock came and staff in the corridor called out goodbye. Seven o'clock was announced by the hooter of a nearby factory, signalling the start of night shift.
"It's been lovely talking to you, Derek," Irene said, covering her mouth to yawn. "But I'd better get home and organize a meal for myself. I've been really tired lately and I need my beauty sleep." She laughed. "I don't want to start taking nana naps at work."
Derek touched her hand. "Before you go...have you heard of HGH?"
Irene shook her head.
"Human Growth Hormone. It's an accepted medication for various medical conditions, and it's also used as an anti-aging treatment."
She laughed. "Just what I need! Tell me more."
"My brother, who's an endocrinologist, developed a new type of synthetic hormone. A single injection revives the hormonal environment a person enjoyed in their youth. And they not only feel younger, but their bodies actually become younger and stay young."
"Sounds like the idea of drinking the blood of children to stay young!"
"I'm not joking. My brother runs a clinic that specializes in anti-aging treatments. The medical establishment regards the use of HGH for anti-aging as unproven and risky. But I am living proof that it works."
Irene pushed her chair back and stood to leave. Her face was flushed.
Derek grasped her hand. "How old do you think I am?"
"Late forties?"
"I'm ninety-five, and that's the absolute truth. I can show you my birth certificate."
"Yeah, right," said Irene, pressing a hand against her forehead. "Why are you talking like this now?" Her voice rose an octave. "What is it with you? I've heard you're living with your grandmother in her nineties! Why don't you try the formula on her?"
"I was getting to that. The woman you're talking about is my sister. She's ninety-four. She refused to try the formula."
Irene stared at him open-mouthed.
Derek continued. "My brother is sure it's 100% safe and fully effective, a real medical breakthrough. He's trialed it on hundreds of rats, with no problems, hoping to gain permission to carry out legal human experimentation and ultimately have his treatment approved by the US Food and Drug Administration."
He fell silent for a few moments, frowning, and then smiled.
"Just quietly, three of us in the family have tried it, and it's worked perfectly. Of course, it's not cheap, but there's no better way to spend your money than investing in your own future." His eyes lit up. "If you're interested to try the formula yourself, let me know. I'll have a quiet word with my brother and we'll see what can be arranged. I'm sure I can trust you to keep it strictly confidential."
*
Irene stood naked in front of her full-length bedroom mirror.
Her eyes narrowed as they scanned her body. Her stomach was a little bloated, as usual, and folds of skin were starting to hang at the throat like a turkey's. Indelible lines around the mouth were starting to appear and her eyes were red and puffy.
Towards midnight, hunched over a wine glass at the kitchen table, she wept as her mind flashed back to cousin Henry on the hospice bed, his once sparkling eyes staring at her from sunken sockets, his wasted lips struggling to mouth her name. So different to Derek's fresh face and his earnest, reassuring voice as he'd gone on to explain in detail about the miracle formula.
But it's your decision, Derek had said, reaching out to touch her hand. Take your time.
"Maybe it's something I just need to do," she muttered, sitting up to pour another wine and shrugging off her last doubts. "Henry always used to say there're no pockets in shrouds. What've I got to lose except old age, and a heap of money I don't need?"
Tagged in Bruce Costello