Misspent Youth by Peter F. Hamilton
“Me?” Jeff exclaimed. “What do you mean, me?”
“Well I don’t count you on my side.”
“Oh…” Jeff stood up, and gave his old friend a disgusted look. “Enough. I don’t have to put up with this shit.” He made to leave, then abruptly turned, his forefinger wagging accusingly at James. “And next time, have the courage to come out with what really bothers you.”
SOPHIE HAD CHANGED HER HAIRSTYLE. It had been cut short and dyed an even lighter blonde.
“I like it,” Annabelle told her when they went for their gym session together. It was something she tried to fit in most Sunday evenings, and if she couldn’t make it then she rescheduled for sometime during the week. Keeping herself in shape was an interest that had grown steadily over the last few years. She would never be the Amazon that Stephanie was; she wasn’t that tall, for a start. But the way her figure had developed was a marvelous compensation for a lack of wealth—she was determined to keep that advantage; the way her mother (only forty-eight, for heaven’s sake) had started to balloon was a constant worry. So every week she just kept going on the weights and presses and treadmill a little longer than Sophie, keeping her abs perfectly flat and her legs toned.
Sophie ran her hand through her hair. The front was slightly spiked. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” It was a kind of cross between butch and cute. “Suits you.”
“Thanks.”
Annabelle went straight to the bench press, and started lifting. Sophie climbed onto the treadmill.
“So what happened after I left?” Annabelle asked. Tim had sent eight avtxts through the afternoon, becoming progressively more frantic. She’d finally relented on the bus home and replied, agreeing to meet up as normal tomorrow. It would be awful, she knew, he’d be groveling for hours.
“We just got totally blasted and slept in the caravan,” Sophie said. “There were sleeping bags. I spent the night on one of the couches. God, was I so much hungover. Not as bad as Colin, though. He looked really ill, like he was dying.”
Annabelle pushed hard, forcing the weights up. “What about Tim?”
“Crashed same as the rest of us. His gestapo babysitting squad were really pissed off at having to hang around in their car all night.”
“Right.” Annabelle sat upright, and wrapped her arms around the hinged front bars, gritting her teeth as she pulled them around.
“What? It’s going well with Tim?” Sophie’s voice was thick with irony.
“No, but…I’m not sure if Tim doesn’t have a problem, you know. A real one. He gets like that every weekend.”
“We all do.”
“No. Not the way he does. He goes at it like it’s a challenge, either drink or synth8, doesn’t matter which. By the end of the night he’s always blasted.”
“You know what he’s like, always desperate to be one of the pack. Anything we do, he tried to do it that bit harder. Typical male behavior. Simon’s the same. I’d have thought you’d noticed that. They’ve got a real little contest going there. It’s all about who’s got the biggest willy.”
“It’s so stupid. What’s Tim got to struggle for? He’s rich, and he’s smart…well, clever, anyway. Have you seen his grades? He had Oxford and Cambridge offering him scholarships, for Christ’s sake. I work my ass off at school, and I can’t get those sort of grades. The best I got was an acknowledgment that they’ll consider me for a place. Then every Saturday he turns into a total zonehead.”
“That must be frustrating for you.”
“It pisses me off, yeah.”
“Is that what last night was all about?”
Annabelle strained harder against the bars. “I’d just had enough. It was boring, especially after the reservoir.”
“I suppose you’re right. But we needed to celebrate. You have to admit the Jet Ski was good fun.”
“I don’t have any problem with that. I just want him to behave normally afterward.”
“We spent most of this morning on the lake as well. You should have come back. I’m getting good at dodging those buoys.”
Annabelle thought back to what she’d been doing for fun that afternoon. Remembering Derek’s arrogance made her skin tingle. It put her in a wicked mood. “Keep a secret?”
Sophie’s face lit up with interest. “You bet.”
“I mean, really.”
“If it’s important, yeah. You know I can.”
“Jeff hit on me yesterday morning.”
“Jeff…” Sophie took a moment to make the connection. Her hand slapped the treadmill’s off switch. “You are so much kidding me! Tim’s dad, Jeff?”
Annabelle grinned at her friend’s reaction; very little managed to shock Sophie. “Yes.”
“Oh my God. That’s…God. He’s just been all over the news streams with that girl from the awards ceremony. Isn’t she enough?”
“Apparently not.”
“Wow, what do they put in that rejuvenation treatment? Raw Viagra? I mean, he’s nearly, what, eighty?”
“You’ve seen how old he looks. Not five years older than Tim.”
Sophie folded her arms, giving Annabelle a very curious look. “Yeah, but, God. Hitting on you. His son’s girlfriend. That’s like incest or something. Got to be illegal.”
“Like son, like father.”
“Are you winding me up?”
“It’s not the first time someone’s hit on me.”
“No, but not their father.”
“Actually, yes, I think. Mike Haulsey’s dad was certainly sneaking looks when he thought I couldn’t see.”
“Men always hit on you. Me too, occasionally.”
“So there you are. What’s new?”
“The fact that Jeff’s eighty,” Sophie said emphatically.
“So far all the eighty-year-olds I’ve met have looked eighty, even with genoprotein. Jeff certainly doesn’t.”
“Does Tim know about this?”
“God, no. He’s insecure enough as it is.”
“You’re really supportive, aren’t you,” Sophie said sarcastically.
“Do you think I should tell him?”
“No.” Sophie curled her lips in a half-sneer. “He’s so insecure something like that would flip him right over the edge.”
They shared a sisterly grin.
“Well, then,” Annabelle said.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Don’t know, try and stay out of his way, I suppose.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Tim’s or Jeff’s?”
“Jeff’s!”
“I’d scream the house down.”
“What good would that do?”
“It would make sure he wouldn’t do it again. Not ever.”
“Yes, but it would hurt people, too.”
“You’re trying to protect him, are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“That’s it,” Sophie said with a devilish gleam. “That’s why you’re sounding me out, to see how I’d react. My God, Annabelle, you’re so much atrocious. I don’t believe it. You want to shag Jeff.”
“I do not!”
“You just said it. He doesn’t look eighty. I mean, he looks barely a couple of years older than Tim. It’s actually spooky how similar they are. You want to trade up, don’t you?”
“No.” She was trying to laugh, but it came out more like a guilty snort.
“Makes sense to me. I mean, think of the advantages. He’s rich and famous; it’s like he was his generation’s Sir Mitch. He’s experienced, which has got to count for something in bed. Hey, I bet he knows all sorts of tricks that’ll ring your bell. The age difference obviously doesn’t bother him. I mean, he must have been sixty-plus when he married Tim’s mum. How old was she back then? She only looks about a couple of years older than us now. And we all know he certainly doesn’t have a conscience, so he’s not going to plague you afterward.”
“Are you saying I should?” Annabelle had the uncomfortable recollection of the
“I’m not saying anything. You’re the one who has to decide.”
“There is nothing to decide.” Annabelle shoved herself back into the bench, and resumed her lifts. “Nothing.”
IT WAS HALF PAST FIVE in the afternoon when the computer informed Jeff he had an incoming call from James. Did he want to receive it?
Jeff sat back in the black leather chair, putting his hands behind his head. He could hear tiny cracking noises as his shoulders stretched. “Let it through.”
There was an intricate molecular structure playing on the desk’s main screen, coiled streamers burning green and tangerine like alien DNA. The arrangement was one of the latest nano filaments produced by Caltech, which he was studying to see how much progress they’d made on bonding alignments. It was replaced by James’s chubby features.
“My God, I actually got through,” James muttered; it wasn’t entirely good humored.
“Sorry. I’ve been getting myself back up to speed on the superconductor project. There’s a lot of techniques I need to learn about.”
“Well, I hope Martina Lewis appreciates the effort.”
“Who?”
“The one down at Knightsbridge.”
“Oh, her.” Jeff flinched a smile. “Yeah, right.”
“Jesus, Jeff. You forgetting their names already?”
“Not with everybody reminding me, no.”
“Ah. How is Sue?”
Jeff pulled a face. “Unhappy. Is that what you called to ask?”
“No, actually. If she ever allows you out again, Alan and I were going to meet up on Thursday for a pint. Strictly boys only; you can tell her she has my word on that. You game for it?”
It was the third time Alan and James had asked him out over the last week. Each time he’d refused. This was going beyond impolite. “Ah crap, no, I’ve got a whole load of teleconferences with the Americans on Thursday. Can’t make it, sorry.”
James stared at the top of the screen, where his return camera was. “Okay, Jeff,” he said in a level voice. “When you want to come out with us, you give us a call.”
“Sure. Won’t be long. Just got a bit of a backlog on right now.”
James’s image vanished.
“Bugger it,” Jeff muttered. He’d invested decades in those friendships. It was painful for him to watch antagonism and hurt erode them away. But he simply couldn’t stand another miserable night in the pub listening to the same conversation they’d had for the last twenty years being replayed with tiny variants. Not again.
One thing was for certain, he needed to get laid, but good.
He told the Europol team to get ready for an evening in Peterborough. Tim had said there were plenty of clubs there. A girl for the night would be easy enough if Martina Lewis was anything to go by.
SUE FOUND HIM as he was getting dressed for a night clubbing. He’d already chosen loose cream trousers, a geometricist’s ideal of a Hawaiian shirt in black and chrome yellow, gray jacket with a contemporary cut so it didn’t meet across the front. Which just left him puzzling over which shoes to wear when she rapped lightly on the door frame and walked into his bedroom.
“Off out?” she asked.
“Yeah, I thought I would.” His voice came over as too defensive.
“I thought we should talk, but it can wait a while.”
“No, that’s all right.” He abandoned the shoes and sat on the edge of the bed.
Sue came over and sat beside him. She was very prim and composed, a light mauve cardigan drawn around her white blouse; long ocher skirt. “It’s not working, is it, me being here?”
“I was stupid,” he blurted. “She was young, and eager, and I was by myself, and it was easy. That sounds so old, I know. But that’s the truth of it.”
She gave him a sorrowful little look. “Maybe that’s the way it was that night. But if it hadn’t have been then, it would have been another night. I think that’s what upset me the most. Me of all people, I should have known better.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You and I. It was only ever sex. This time round. I mean, were you really expecting us to stay together for another fifty years till death do us part?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“I have…. Well, I have now. Let’s face it, we barely made it through the last nineteen years, and we only managed that because we didn’t spend any time together. All we did was live under the same roof occasionally, which meant we could be polite when we did bump into each other. That’s how we survived so long, no emotional entanglement.”
“You’re being too negative.”
Her hand rubbed his leg. It was as if she was stroking a pet. “Did you love me, Jeff, nineteen years ago? Were you smitten and besotted, and ready to lay down your life for me?”
“You know why we got together back then.”
“I do. And I’m not saying it was a bad thing. We both got Tim out of it, even though he’s more yours than mine. But it was never meant to last. We would have shaken hands and finished in a civilized fashion; then this treatment came along and buggered our arrangement to hell.”
“Men and women can never be friends. Good quote.”
“What?”
“It’s a line from When Harry Met Sally. Billy Crystal, he said men and women can never be just friends—the bloke always wants to sleep with the girl. I think he might be right.”
“You certainly did, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Like you said, everything changed.”
“I can’t believe I was so stupid. Sex always ruins everything.”
“Hey, it wasn’t that bad while it lasted.”
Sue glanced around at the big bed that they’d shared all too briefly. “All four nights of it.”
“I don’t regret it.”
“I do. I kidded myself that it meant something. That it might be the start, not the finish.”
“It still could be. We’re grown-ups, we can work round Martina Lewis.”
“And Nicole? And Patrick?”
“We were good together. You know it.”
“In bed, yes. But be honest, Jeff, what else is there? Don’t you want someone you can talk to about your work? Someone who’ll be sparky and intellectual, and challenge your ideas, and appreciate them. I can’t even spell quantum mechanics, Jeff.”
“Don’t do that, not ever, don’t sell yourself short.”
“I’m not. That’s what makes this the hardest part of all. I was just a shadow of a person when you met me; I had no self-esteem, I couldn’t look after myself, I was a complete and utter mess. Well, I’ve grown up from that silly little girl, Jeff. I’ve learned how to be a fully fledged modern bitch, which is the only survival trait that counts in this world. I can swim with the sharks now, and they’ll be the ones who get scared when I’m in the water. What I cannot be is your trophy wife, not anymore. It didn’t matter before, when there was no sex. But now there is, and I’m not going to wait loyally at home while you shag everything in a skirt so you can try out your new body. And I know enough about men to know how strong that temptation is for you. So the way we are today just can’t exist. That was my mistake, I fooled myself into believing it could out of pure sentiment. Sex stopped me thinking straight; but then I never claimed to be that smart.”
“All right,” he said, though it was a bitter defeat. “So where do we go from here?”
“The way we always said we would. I kiss you and Tim good-bye, and that contract we signed takes care of me financially.”
“Just like that?”
“Don’t go all sullen on me. Let’s see if we can prove Billy Crystal wrong. I’d like us to stay in touch; Tim, too, if he’ll ever speak to me again.”
“You’re his mother.”
“I know.”
He found it hard to believe they were being so casual about an event so enormous. “So, whe
“My bags are packed.”
“All of them?”
She smiled at the involuntary high note of surprise in his voice. “No. Enough clothes for a week or so. I’ll collect the rest later, when I’ve found somewhere to live.”
“Aren’t you going to use the flat?”
“I will to start with. But I want somewhere of my own eventually.”
“Ah. Right. Have you got somewhere in mind?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of friends down in London. Or maybe I’ll make a clean break. Cornwall is lovely these days, almost the same climate as the Mediterranean used to have.”
“What about your mother?”
Sue’s brittle cheerfulness faltered. “I don’t know. It depends where I end up. I’ll have to have her close by, and I don’t suppose the location matters to her.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to give it one last try?”
“Don’t be so gallant. You know this is the only option.”
“So who gets to tell Tim?”
“I suppose we’d better do it together.”
THE BIOTECHNOLOGY COMPANIES promised such a thing was impossible for the whole of the noughties. Slick, smartly dressed public relations officers ridiculed the crusty Greenpeace protestors on television news and discussion shows, while smooth corporate vice presidents stood up in front of Westminster’s Parliamentary select committees and explained in big technical buzzwords exactly why gene seepage was not going to happen.
It did, though. Foreign genes carefully spliced into crops to produce higher yields, or fungal resistance, or immunity to disease, or to harden them against insects, somehow managed to migrate across the species barrier. Most of the new mutations were subtle, not even visible outside of a DNA test. But the ones that the eye, and more important the camera, could see, were often spectacular. Cowslips with hand-size scarlet flowers. Rye grass two meters tall. Nettles with buddleia cone flowers. Honeysuckle with peapods.
Individual specimens would turn up one year, to be surrounded by camera crews and protestors, and eventually a police cordon. Freaks and one-offs, the company spokesperson would announce, sterile and worthless; only to find next year that a hundred more specimens had germinated. Between 2015 and 2020, if you believed the burgeoning datasphere news streams, the triffids had finally arrived in force. By the time Tim was born, it was old news. Increasingly sophisticated GM sequencing techniques had finally inhibited ninety-nine percent of gene “jumps.” Nature had culled the truly invalid mutant varieties, leaving hardy strains that were here to stay.