As might be expected for a designer, her wardrobe was extensive and over the years, she had collected well over one hundred pairs of shoes including, her major indulgence, four pairs of Manolo Blahniks.
Zoe dated regularly, had several longer-term relationships, until she met Ritchie Porter when he came to Hawkins International for assistance in furnishing and decorating his home. When Zoe discovered that Ritchie’s home was on the water, a houseboat in Sausalito Bay, she lobbied hard and got the job.
Ritchie was a high flyer, a vice-president of sales for a Silicon Valley software firm. He was handsome in a young Robert Redford way, meticulously dressed, and about Zoe’s age. They hit it off from the first day when they drove over the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito in his Porsche Carrera convertible. They walked down the floating dock past houseboats ranging from dilapidated and neglected, some floating at odd angles, to the truly luxurious, with two levels and even a few with penthouses. Ritchie’s was a beautiful two-storied redwood home with a steel spiral staircase ascending to an upper level.
They moved from business meetings to dates, to a committed relationship, and three months later, she moved into the home she’d help design. She loved it. She was falling for Ritchie.
Her friends tried to warn Zoe. “He’s had more than a dozen relationships in the last few years. You need to know why.”
“I don’t like the way he looks at me. It creeps me out.”
“He’s always checking on you. Where is she? When will she be back?”
Zoe wouldn’t listen. “I really love him and he’s just crazy for me.”
As time passed and he became more possessive and more controlling, the crazy for me phrase had taken on a new, more ominous meaning.
Repeatedly, she’d laid it out for him. “Ritchie, you’re destroying what you appear to cherish the most, our relationship. I won’t live this way. Stop it, or I’m out of here.”
She knew it was coming and one day, he’d succeeded in embarrassing her for the last time. Ritchie had tracked her every movement as she went from client to client. She was sitting with Dana Carleton, the CEO of Carleton Industries, reviewing Zoe’s proposal for redesigning their executive suite, when Dana’s phone rang.
“Sorry to bother you, Dana, but there’s an urgent call for Ms. Sims from a Ritchie Porter,” said the secretary.
“Ritchie Porter?” Dana repeated.
Zoe stood and rapidly gestured “no” she didn’t want to talk with him.
Dana stared at Zoe, seeing her concern, then punched the blinking button on her phone. “Dana Carleton here. Can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with Zoe Sims, please.”
“Ms. Sims is in a meeting. Can I take a message?”
“Tell her it’s Ritchie. She’ll take the call.”
Dana paused for twenty seconds. “Ms. Sims is not to be interrupted. Do you want to leave a message?”
“This is an emergency. I need to talk with her now.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“It’s none of your Goddamn business. Now let me speak with Zoe or else I’m coming there right now.”
“Don’t threaten me, Mr. Porter.” She paused. “Sure, why don’t you come down to Carleton Industries right now. My security staff is anxious to meet you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy their company.”
Listening to the exchange, Zoe turned red and sobbed. She turned to Dana and mouthed, “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not finished with you...” Ritchie continued as Dana slammed the phone down.
“What are you into, Zoe?”
“A mistake that I’m about to correct.”
When she returned to the houseboat, Ritchie was waiting on the upper level, sipping wine, and looking over the bay. He smiled as if nothing had happened today. “Hi, babe.”
“That was the last time you’ll do this to me. I’m packing. I’m out of here.”
“I’ll never do it again,” he begged. “I love you so much. I can’t help myself.”
“Be that as it may, I won’t live this way. You’ve destroyed everything that I felt for you. It’s over.”
“Please, Zoe. It’s my problem and I’ll deal with it.”
“Deal with it...Don’t deal with it...I don’t give a shit!”
An hour later, she moved out. Having given up her apartment, she moved in temporarily with a friend.
Afterward, he continued his pursuit. He called her constantly. He’d arrive unannounced at work, frequently making a scene, and finally she had some relief when she threatened him with a restraining order. Now she only heard from him twice a week.
Zoe suffered the ‘innocent’ queries of her parents and married friends about finding Mr. Right, but she didn’t need anyone’s motivation as she listened to her biological clock ticking.
Within three weeks of Harmony starting her on treatment, the rash had faded to the point where she could replace heavy foundation with a translucent reflective face powder. In addition, the joint aching had subsided completely and she felt endlessly energetic.
Harmony’s office had several calls from Ritchie. “When’s Zoe’s next appointment? How’s Zoe doing?”
Shelly stared at the phone and shook her head. “How often do we have to tell you that we’re not disclosing anything about one of our patients without their expressed permission?”
He called repeatedly. They answered his queries politely, but firmly; they couldn’t reveal this information without Zoe’s permission. Ritchie was becoming furious.
“I don’t know what the big deal’s all about. I’m trying to get information on my fiancé.”
“Ms. Sims said that she has no fiancé. If you don’t stop calling here, Mr. Porter, we’re calling the police that you’re harassing Ms. Sims.”
“You bitch...” was all Shelley heard as she hung up.
At first, Angela Brightman’s discussions with Andre Keller about PAT0075 had been offhand, joking references to her own wrinkles, but soon she became deadly serious about getting access to the drug for herself.
Andre was an attractive man and she knew he was interested in her, but in what way she was unsure. Thus far, he’d remained immune to her considerable seductive powers. He made frequent references to his friend, Elizabeth Brown, but their relationship seemed platonic rather than passionate.
Could he be gay? Angela thought.
They’d been meeting at least once a week so she could monitor the activities at PAT and keep her finger on the pulse of Andre’s research. As a major stockholder, Angela Brightman was free to visit the lab, as she was this morning.
They stood before the animal cages. Angela wrinkled her nose at the strong odor of mouse urine and excrement.
Andre reached into a cage. The tiny, silver-grey Ames Dwarf mouse twisted in the air as Andre held it by the tail.
“This little fellow and his friends have short life spans. They are my favorites for research on genetic engineering and aging. This strain is particularly susceptible to oxidative damage to mitochondrial DNA, a major factor in aging.”
Angela recoiled as Andre swung the wriggling creature before her face.
“Get that thing away from me!”
Andre laughed. “Look at his size...”
She scowled and then smiled. “Size doesn’t always matter, Andre.”
When he ignored or didn’t get her seductive comment, she shook her head. “I have great things in mind for you, Andre. We just need to get control of PAT. Once we do that, I’ll make you director of research and we can put all our resources toward longevity and rejuvenation. Thinking of the marketing potential makes me,” she paused, “orgasmic.”
Andre stared at her in curiosity.
“One more thing...I want you to administer PAT0075 to me.”
Shocked, Andre replied, “No way, Angela.”
“Why not? You said it was safe and there’s no better way of getting on my good side,” she winked, “than making me younger.”
“Ange
la, you’re a beautiful woman. You don’t need PAT0075, and although we’ve seen no adverse effects, with you, I choose caution.”
“Thank you, Andre, but you don’t know a damn thing about women. If this is the best reason you can come up with, then just give me the drug.”
“We carefully control each numbered dose. Someone will find out.”
“Things happen to specimens, like an accident where a dose might be lost. You’ll figure it out.”
Angela always got her way, as usual. She was the second person to receive PAT0075.
Sandy Greer pestered Harmony to complete the pretrial forms and tests and finally, three weeks after starting Zoe Sims, Harmony began Sandy on PAT0075.
Sandy Greer slept like a log for the first time in years.
She stretched in the bright rays of morning sun that passed through the sheer bedroom window coverings. Years of insomnia and the efforts of physicians, sleep specialists, and psychiatrists, at best resulted in short periods of tormented sleep. She’d been through the pharmacopeia of sedatives, antidepressants, Melatonin, Tryptophan, and just about every “natural” and quack remedy suggested by friends and relatives. Each night, she’d lie wide-awake, desperate for sleep, her mind obsessing over some neurotic preoccupation or more likely over the insomnia itself.
Her mind repeated, I have to get some sleep!
Now, just three weeks after beginning PAT0075, she slept all night, every night. The Aspirins, Band-Aids, Afrin, Nyquil, and a few lone antihistamines in her medicine cabinet, so used to the company of prescription sleeping pills and antidepressants, looked lonely on the shelf.
Pure joy was the best way to characterize the restoration of energy that greeted her every morning. At the age of forty-four, Sandy felt eighteen. Three sets of tennis, two singles, and one doubles, the fantasy of life in a new younger body, was now her reality. The achy swollen joints were gone. She rarely felt fatigued after tennis, and the predictable aches and pains were distant memories.
In spite of all the exercise, her weight remained stable at 134 lbs., her average weight over the last ten years. Her clothes, however, revealed not only a replacement of body fat with muscle, but also a charming, youthful redistribution. Her waist, twenty-nine inches for years, was now twenty-six inches, incredible for a mother of two. Her southbound breasts, still 34C, had made a U-turn, with nipples impertinently saluting when Sandy stood at attention. She could shop, although selectively, in the junior’s department. She hadn’t set a foot in there since Karen, her older daughter, refused to shop with her.
Even more remarkable was that decisive moment, the anxiety of confronting the mirror each morning, was gone—no, more than that—she loved looking at her reflection. Sandy touched her face. The skin was smooth and moist and the coarse wrinkling at the corner of her eyes, the crows’ feet, had disappeared. The red bumps and scaliness on her cheeks and across her nose, the Butterfly rash was gone. She stroked her short curly chestnut hair and rejected the idea of a trim, recalling her delight in the long hair of her youth.
She’d run into Frannie Josephsohn last week, an old acquaintance who had not seen Sandy for several years. Frannie looked at her curiously, almost rudely, and then greeted her with, “Who did this for you? Tell me his name. He’s a magician.”
“You know me, Frannie; I have nothing against plastic surgery. I did the Botox parties, and would have undergone the knife in an instant, but I haven’t.”
After repeated denials, Frannie finally challenged no further, maintaining her skepticism.
“Whatever you’re doing, I want in.”
There was nothing Sandy could say or wanted to say about the clinical trial. “It’s just clean living and exercise. Try it sometime.”
Marty Greer was suddenly not so preoccupied with his active law practice. For the first time in his professional life, Marty rebelled against the long hours, the night, weekend, and holiday meetings. Lately, he’d palmed off much of his work to younger associates for the opportunity to return home to be with Sandy.
Sarah Curtis, an associate noted the change. “What’s with Marty? A mid-life crisis? Are you sure he’s heading home?”
Harris Burton, a partner shook his head, “Marty Greer is a boy scout. I’m sure that’s exactly where he’s going.”
Sandy and Marty reveled in the resurgence of their romantic and sexual lives and made love every day, twice daily on weekends.
Sandy could not help thinking, It’s still me. Inside–I’m the same person.
She knew the answer; they “got off” on her new youthful appearance, but it was more than that. Sandy recognized, they were responding to her new spirit, her confidence, her joyful commitment to life, and her new sense of self-worth. Unlike the nips and tucks, the peels, the Botox, the facade of youth, Sandy was, in all ways, younger.
When Sandy thought about it, she believed that her attitude, more than any physical change, was responsible for this improved quality of life. She believed in a future where character and intelligence would triumph over the sweet bloom of youth, but savored every moment. Nobody could be young forever, or could they?
Chapter Thirty
Greg and Amanda Wincott could see it coming. Success brought with it its own set of problems. PAT had done better than they could have ever anticipated. It became necessary for Greg and his chief financial officer, Harland Hicks, to begin to search for the means of raising additional monies for a major research facility expansion. They’d met with attorneys and investment bankers. The consensus was that the best way to achieve their goals would be through an additional stock offering. When they presented this recommendation to the board, they approved it immediately.
The Wincotts, while not naive to business practices, were clearly out of their league when it came to decisions made on this scale. As they sipped coffee after dinner, Amanda was most concerned. “We want the company to grow, but I don’t know if we can do that and still search for orphan drugs.”
“I’m committed to PAT as much as you,” Greg said, “but look at the potential in Andre’s work and how much good it can do. We’ll be more able to support research into orphan drugs once the company becomes bigger and stronger.”
“I don’t think we can expand that much and maintain control. Right now, we have shareholders trying to influence the company. Angela Brightman and her group are a prime example. How much worse will it get when so many more shares hit the market?”
“We picked the board,” Greg said. “They reflect our philosophy. We can count on them and our continued strong ownership position to protect PAT.”
“We worked for large companies, Greg. In business, personal loyalty and fidelity to philosophical goals are as predictable as the winds in a tropical storm.”
The third day after they had transferred Rachel Palmer to the ward, Jack had lunch with Ben. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’ve seen patients with severe infections get better once the infection was under control. But in days, Rachel’s gone from death’s door to almost healthy. By all parameters, her body has not only controlled her infection, but it has achieved an unprecedented level of tissue rebuilding. There’s no way to explain it.”
Ben Davidson scanned the room to be sure nobody was listening. “There’s only one possible explanation. Harmony Lane gave Rachel Palmer something, and considering that she’s working in clinical trials with a DNA vector virus, that must be the explanation.”
Jack tried to approach Tom. “We’re not interested in creating problems for anyone. You must know how pleased I am that Rachel’s doing well, but what about the future? What if something happens to her and we don’t understand what she’d been through? To care for her, we need to know.”
Tom looked rested and relaxed for the first time in months. “Jack, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. You’ve been here through every step.”
Jack didn’t expect otherwise. “Play it your way, Tom. I don’t think you really understand what I’m s
aying or what it might mean for Rachel.”
“When can she go home?”
“It’s Wednesday. If she continues as she has been, I plan to let her go Saturday or Sunday.”
Ritchie Porter called Harmony’s office again. “Have you seen Zoe? She won’t return my messages. When is she due to come in?”
“Mr. Porter,” said an aggravated Shelley Stillwell, “Don’t call us again. We will never give you information about any of our patients. Get it?”
At six a.m., Harmony’s phone rang, “It’s your service, Dr. Lane. We have a Mrs. Barbara Sims on the line, and she says it’s urgent.”
“Put her through.”
“Harmony, it’s Barbara. I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with Zoe for three days. Ted and I have been calling over and over again.”
“Did you try her at work?”
“They said she hasn’t been in for a week. She called in sick and said she had a cold. That was about a week ago, but nobody’s been able to reach her since. Have you heard from her?”
“No, but I wouldn’t worry. You know Zoe. She always comes up with a simple explanation.”
Something’s not right here, Harmony thought.
“When did you hear from her last?”
“I saw her in the office three weeks ago and talked with her about eight days ago. She babbled on about work, her crummy dates, but she said she’d been feeling great.”
“We’re at the cottage on the Georgian Bay in Ontario. Do you have the number?”
“No, but give it to me, and I’ll call you the moment I hear anything. Please call me if you hear from her first.”
“I’m so sorry to bother you, Harm. We’re concerned. You can’t listen to the news or read the paper without getting frightened.”
“I understand, Barbara. We’re probably worrying for nothing.”
“We pray so.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Beth, as the ICU charge nurse, had been closer to Rachel Palmer than Jack. She’d shared his frustration as her illness looked hopeless, and she’d inadvertently added to Jack’s burden by raising questions about what they had been doing in her care. With Rachel’s improvement, the questions had become academic.
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