Love is the Drug. Ashley Croft
but clean jeans and was still wearing the disgusting spider sweatshirt. Somehow, she still managed to look terrifyingly pretty. In fact, Molly could have worn a sack and still been stunning. Sarah knew that most of the boys in the sixth form, let alone those in Molly’s year, would have given their right arms to date her.
Sarah returned her gaze to the scenery outside the window but the reflection showed Molly’s slim wrists as she turned the page of the book. A bracelet would look beautiful on her, especially if Molly wore the new blue dress she’d chosen for her birthday from Oasis. Maybe Sarah would make her a bracelet to match the earrings … because no matter how annoying and weird Molly could be, Sarah couldn’t help but love her. And no matter how much she longed to leave school and start her jewellery design course, she was secretly dreading the idea of leaving home and being so far away from her family.
Her parents had promised to support her in doing an arty course in Falmouth, so far away from Cambridge. She knew that they were keen to be even-handed with both daughters and they’d let her know that they took her hopes and ambitions as seriously as Molly’s, who was a shoo-in for Oxbridge with her precocious talent for science. She’d make new friends, obviously, but the thought of not having Molly to tease and to guide – Molly needed a lot of guidance – and to share a joke, was scary.
Ever since she could remember, Molly had been a part of her life, like a limb or a vital organ. Her mother had told her that when she first saw Molly in the incubator at the hospital, Sarah had stroked her tiny finger and asked if she would die after a couple of years like their latest hamster. Sarah had apparently cried real tears when her mum had said that Molly was here to stay, as long as Sarah herself – and almost as long as them.
At the traffic lights, Mr Havers twisted round, a grin on his face. ‘Everyone OK? No one feeling sick?’
‘Molly, is it a great idea to read in the back of the car? You know what these roads on the way to Carol’s do to you,’ their mother added.
‘If we weren’t going to Carol’s, Molly wouldn’t feel sick,’ Sarah muttered, her mind still on the impending change in her life.
Molly calmly turned a page. ‘I don’t feel sick.’
‘And are you OK?’ her mother asked Sarah.
Sarah let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Of course I am, Mum.’
Their mother exchanged a knowing glance with their father. ‘Good. I’m glad everybody’s happy so your father and I can leave you with Auntie Carol and not worry. You will have a lovely time, you know, and Dad and I can enjoy ourselves knowing you’re safe and happy. OK, girls?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ they chorused from the back seat.
‘Great. Now all’s right in the world, we can all relax.’
The girls exchanged their own knowing smiles. There was a roll of the eyes from Sarah and an answering tut from Molly that said far more than words. Their gestures were acknowledgement of a bond that no sisterly spat could break. If she could find one at the bead shop, she might even put a little silver frog on the necklace.
Mol wasn’t all bad and her sharp tongue was very funny. Plus, Auntie Carol was a laugh when she was in a good mood and let the girls have a glass or two of Chardonnay and watch Skins as long as they didn’t tell their parents. And her course in Falmouth would be cool, once she got used to it, and she might meet a surfer and have sex on the beach and start her own boutique jewellery business after uni … and they’d soon be at Auntie Carol’s. She pulled out her new phone and scrolled through her texts. There was a lot to look forward to. An awful lot.
*
Later, much much later, Sarah couldn’t remember if Molly had screamed before Sarah had looked up from her phone or the other way around. Snatches of their journey came back to her, like jumbled-up pieces of a jigsaw that had tumbled onto the carpet. In the days and weeks that followed, Sarah kept finding new pieces at random, trying to put them together in a picture but never having all the bits at one time.
She remembered something about a surfer and a frog and the shops blurring into one another outside the car window. She recalled hearing the traffic report about chaos on the A14, then a roar and a shout from Molly. And then lights: blinding bright lights. Purply white and violet pulses that made her skull ache and her brain throb. In the snatches of consciousness after the accident, she remembered Auntie Carol sitting next to her bed, holding her hand, with mascara running down her face. And she remembered asking where Molly and her parents were but all Auntie Carol would say was: ‘I’m sorry, love. Oh God, I’m sorry.’
Almost thirteen years later
New Year’s Eve
Department of Behavioural Ecology, Fenland University
Dr Molly Havers slid off her stool and sashayed over to the fridge. She’d gone to town this evening and made a special effort with her outfit. White plastic onesie, safety glasses and sky-blue accessories. Well, it was a special occasion. How could he possibly resist?
She pulled out a small plastic pot and minced across the lab to her boss’s workstation. ‘Here you are, Professor Baxter. One pot of gorilla semen, as you requested.’
Ewan Baxter didn’t so much as lift his eyes from his keyboard. ‘Is it fresh?’ he growled, sounding not unlike a gorilla himself.
‘Of course it’s fresh, I made it myself,’ said Molly, aiming for an ironically sexy purr.
Ewan swivelled round on his stool and peered at her through his safety glasses as if Molly was one of his samples. ‘I hope you’re not developing a throat infection, Dr Havers, because if so, you know the rules. You shouldn’t be in the lab putting your co-workers at risk, not to mention jeopardising this project.’
Molly resisted the urge to throw the semen over Ewan. ‘I don’t have a throat infection.’
Ewan frowned. ‘Are you sure? You look a bit flushed and you sound pretty rough too.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Actually, I was only trying to be sarcastic.’
‘That’s a relief, but I’d appreciate it if you tried not to be so sarcastic in future. You had me worried for a moment.’ His expression was deadpan.
‘In case I was ill?’ asked Molly.
‘No. In case you ruined our work. You know we can’t afford to let any rogue bacteria in here. Can I have the semen, now, please?’
Molly slapped the pot onto his nitrile glove, knowing the gleam of desire in his eyes wasn’t for her, but the pot of gorilla jizz that had been flown in a week ago at vast expense from an animal conservation project in Rwanda. ‘And I promise to try not to be so sarcastic in future,’ she said, even more sarcastically.
Ewan’s eyebrows lifted, the way they did when he’d read a scientific paper he’d been asked to peer-review and was about to rip to shreds. ‘That would be helpful,’ he said. ‘Or I might have to think about getting a research assistant who’s more respectful. Thank you for passing the semen.’
Molly detected a nano-smile before he returned his attention to his work. He was joking about getting a new assistant, of course, because Molly knew he had a sense of humour. Unfortunately, it was often so well hidden you needed an electron microscope to find it. Then again, maybe it was a good thing that Ewan was so dour he made a high court judge look frivolous. It would be excruciating to be working on the “Love Bug” project with a boss who pumped out innuendos to rival a Carry On film.
Molly went back to her own desk and her work on the Love Bug, a name that had stuck after one of the lab technicians had seen an old film on the TV and joked about it to Ewan and Molly. The top-secret project was a revolutionary hormone designed to help humans