“Mr. Winter, a powerful man of thirty-two…” Dr. Bamford begins on Dan’s medical form, and I stifle a snort. Powerful. Dan will love that.
I mean, he works out; we both do. But you wouldn’t call him massive. He’s just…he’s right. For Dan. Just right.
“…and there we are. Well done!” Dr. Bamford finishes writing and looks up with a toothy grin. He wears a toupee, which I noticed as soon as we walked in but have been very careful not to look at. My job involves raising funds for Willoughby House, a very tiny niche museum in central London. I often deal with wealthy older patrons, and I come across a lot of toupees: some good, some bad.
No, I take it back. They’re all bad.
“What a delightful, healthy couple.” Dr. Bamford sounds approving, as though he’s giving us a good school report. “How long have you been married?”
“Seven years,” I tell him. “And we dated for three before that. Actually, it’s ten years exactly since we met!” I clutch Dan’s hand with a sudden swell of love. “Ten years today!”
“Ten years together,” affirms Dan.
“Congratulations! And that’s quite a family tree the pair of you have.” Dr. Bamford is looking at our paperwork. “All grandparents still alive or else died at a very good age.”
“That’s right.” Dan nods. “Mine are all still alive and kicking, and Sylvie’s still got one pair going strong, in the south of France.”
“They’re pickled in Pernod,” I say, smiling at Dan.
“But only three remaining parents?”
“My father died in a car crash,” I explain.
“Ah.” Dr. Bamford’s eyes dim in sympathy. “But otherwise he was healthy?”
“Oh yes. Very. Extremely. He was super-healthy. He was amazing. He was…”
I can’t help it; I’m already reaching for my phone. My father was so handsome. Dr. Bamford needs to see, to realize. When I meet people who never knew my father, I feel a weird kind of rage almost that they never saw him, never felt that firm, inspiring handshake, that they don’t understand what has been lost.
He looked like Robert Redford, people used to say. He had that glow. That charisma. He was a golden man, even as he aged, and now he’s been taken from us. And even though it’s been two years, I still wake up some days and just for a few seconds I’ve forgotten, until it hits me in the guts again.
Dr. Bamford studies the photo of my father and me. It’s from my childhood—I found the print after he died, and I scanned it into my phone. My mother must have taken it. Daddy and I are sitting outside on the terrace of my old family home, underneath the magnolia. We’re laughing at some joke I don’t remember, and the dappled summer sun is burnishing both our fair heads.
I watch Dr. Bamford carefully for his reaction, wanting him to exclaim, “What a terrible loss to the world. How did you bear it?”
But of course he doesn’t. The longer you’ve been bereaved, I’ve noticed, the more muted the reaction you’ll get from the average stranger. Dr. Bamford just nods. Then he hands the phone back and says, “Very nice. Well, you clearly take after your healthy relatives. Barring accidents, I predict nice long lives for both of you.”
“Excellent!” says Dan. “That’s what we want to hear!”
“Oh, we’re all living far longer these days.” Dr. Bamford beams kindly at us. “That’s my field of interest, you know, longevity. Life expectancy is going up every year. But the world really hasn’t cottoned on to the fact. The government…industry…pension companies…none of them has properly caught up.” He laughs gently. “How long, for example, do you expect to live, the pair of you?”
“Oh.” Dan hesitates. “Well…I don’t know. Eighty? Eighty-five?”
“I’d say ninety,” I chime in boldly. My granny died when she was ninety, so surely I’ll live as long as her?
“Oh, you’ll live beyond a hundred,” says Dr. Bamford, sounding assured. “A hundred and two, maybe. You…” He eyes Dan. “Maybe shorter. Maybe a hundred.”
“Life expectancy hasn’t gone up that much,” says Dan skeptically.
“Average life expectancy, no,” agrees Dr. Bamford. “But you two are way above average in health terms. You look after yourselves, you have good genes…I fully believe that you will both hit one hundred. At least.”
He smiles benevolently, as though he’s Father Christmas giving us a present.
“Wow!”
I try to imagine myself, aged 102. I never thought I’d live that long. I never thought about life expectancy, full stop. I’ve just been going with the flow.