Strong Medicine (47 page)

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6

On the British Airways Concorde, after luncheon had been served, Celia

closed her eyes and marshaled her thoughts.

Personal things first.

During the eighteen years of her marriage to Andrew, neveruntil last

night-had she had sexual relations with another man. It was not that

opportunities had not arisen; they often had. She had even been tempted

occasionally to avail herself of proffered sex, but always thrust the

notion away, either out of loyalty to Andrew or because, in business terms,

it seemed unwise. Sometimes her reasoning was a combination of the two.

Sam Hawthorne had indicated, more than once, that he would enjoy an affair

with Celia. But she had decided long ago that it would be the worst thing

for them both, and discouraged Sam's rare overtures with politeness, but

firmly.

Martin had been different. From the beginning, Celia admired him, and

also-she now admitted to herself-had wanted him physically. Well, that wish

had been fulfilled, and the result was as good as any lover could have

hoped for. There could also be, Celia knew-if their circumstances were

different-a good deal more between herself and Martin.

But Martin had wisely recognized that there was no future in their loving,

and Celia saw that too. That is, unless she was prepared to abandon Andrew

and risk estrangement with her children, which she wasn't, and never would

be. Besides, she loved Andrew

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dearly. They had been through so much together, and Andrew had rich

qualities of wisdom, tenderness and strength that no one else Celia knew-not

even Martin-could ever come close to.

Therefore Martin, sounding more like a poet than a scientist, had said it

all that morning. "K%at happened between us will be safely secret and a

lovely memory . . . I know that Paradise Found only happens once. "

She supposed there were people who would believe she ought to feel guilty

about what happened last night. Well, she didn't-quite the reverse!-and

that was that.

Her thoughts moved from herself to Andrew.

Had Andrew, she wondered, ever indulged in extramarital sex? Probably yes.

fie, too, would have had opportunities, and he was a man whom women found

attractive.

Then how, Celia asked herself, did she feel about that?

Not happy, of course, assuming it had happened, because it was difficult,

if not impossible, to be logical in such matters. On the other hand, she

would never let herself become concerned over something that she didn't

know about.

Celia had once heard someone say cynically at a Morristown cocktail party,

"Any normal man who has been married twenty years and claims not to have

had some sex on the side is either a liar or a nebbish." It wasn't true, of

course. For plenty of men such opportunities never arose, while others

stayed monogamous from choice.

Nonetheless, statements like the one she remembered held a core of truth.

Celia knew from gossip, and sometimes public indiscretions, that there was

plenty of sleeping around in the medical circles where she and Andrew

moved, and in the pharmaceutical business too.

Which led to a further question: Did occasional sexual side excursions

matter in a solid marriage? She didn't think so-providing they were neither

intensely serious nor became lasting affairs. In fact, Celia believed, many

marriages broke up needlessly because spouses were prudish or jealous, or

both, about what was often no more than some harmless sexual fun.

Finally, about Andrew, she thought that whatever he had or hadn't done

outside their marriage, he would always be considerate and discreet. Celia

intended to be equally discreet, which was why she accepted the fait

accompli of no more clandestine meetings between herself and Martin.

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End of personal lucubration.

Now about Harlow. What, Celia asked herself, should her recommendation

be, the recommendation she would make to Sam tomorrow?

Obviously there was only one line for her to take: Close the institute.

Admit that opening it had been a mistake. Cut losses quickly. Accept that

Martin's mental aging project had been a disappointing failure.

Or was it the only course? Or even the best one? Even now, despite all

that she had seen and heard at Harlow, Celia was unsure.

One thing in particular kept coming back to her: It was something Martin

had said in his distress last night, moments before they left the

Churchgate Hotel dining room. Since this morning, beginning while she was

being driven by limousine to London Airport, Celia had repeatedly played

Martin's words over in her mind as if they were recorded on tape. ""at

we've looked for will be found . . . it will happen, must happen . . .

but somewhere else. "

When the words were spoken, she had taken little heed of them. But

somehow, now, their significance seemed greater. Could Martin still be

right and everyone else wrong? And where was "somewhere else"? Another

country? Another pharmaceutical firm? Was it possible that if

Felding-Roth abandoned Martin's mental aging research, some other

company-a competitor-might pick it up and see it through to a successful

conclusion, "successful" implying production of an important, profitable

new drug?

There was also the question of research, on the same subject, being done

in other countries. Two years ago Martin had mentioned scientists working

on projects in Germany, France, New Zealand. Celia knew from her

inquiries that research in those other countries was continuing-though

apparently with no more success than at Harlow.

But supposing, after Harlow was discontinued, one of those other

scientists had a sudden breakthrough, a breathtaking discovery which

might bave happened at Harlow had they carried on. If it turned out that

way, how would Felding-Roth feel? And how would Celia feel-and appear to

others in the company-if she recommended closing Harlow now?

Therefore, for an array of reasons, there was a temptation for her to do

nothing--"nothing," in this case, meaning: recommend carrying on at

Harlow in the hope that something might develop.

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Yet, Celia reasoned, didn't that kind of decision-or, rather, in-

decision-represent merely the safest way to go? Yes! It was a take-

no-action-now, but wait-and-see philosophy which she had heard both Sam

Hawthorne and Vincent Lord describe caustically as prevailing at FDA in

Washington. All of which brought her full circle to Sam's pre-departure

instruction: "If you need to be tough and ruthless . . . do it! "

Celia sighed. It was no good wishing she did not have this difficult

choice to make. The fact was, she did. Equally to the point: tough

decisions were part of top-management responsibility, which she had once

coveted, and now had.

But when the Concorde landed at New York, she was still not positive

about which way her advocacy should go.

As it turned out, Celia's meeting with Sam Hawthorne was delayed by a day

because of Sam's own heavy schedule of appointments. By then, her

conclusion about Harlow was strong and unequivocal.

"Well," Sam said, wasting no time with preliminaries after she was seated

facing him in the presidential office suite, "do you have a

recommendation for me?"

The direct question, and Celia's own instincts, made it clear that Sam

was in no mood for details or a background briefing.

"Yes," she said crisply. "Weighing everything, I believe it would be a

shortsighted, serious mistake to close the Harlow institute. Also, we

should carry on with Martin's mental aging research, certainly for

another year, and possibly for longer."

Sam nodded and said matter-of-factly, "All right."

The lack of any strong reaction, and an absence of questions, made it

clear that Celia's recommendation was accepted in toto. She also had a

feeling that Sam was relieved, as if the answer she had given was what

he had hoped for.

"I've written a report." She put a four-page memo on his desk.

Sam tossed it in a tray. "I'll read it sometime. If only to help me

handle questions from the board."

"Will the board give you a hard time?"

"Probably." Sam gave a tired half smile and Celia sensed his current

strain from pressures he was working under. He added, "Don't worry,

though; I'll make it stick. Did you inform Martin we'll be carrying on?"

She shook her head. "He thinks we're going to close."

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"In that case," Sam said, "one of the pleasant things I shall do today is

write to tell him otherwise. Thanks, Celia."

His curt nod made it clear the interview was ended.

One week later a large bouquet of roses appeared in Celia's office. When

she inquired about them, her secretary said, "There was no card, Mrs.

Jordan, and when I asked the florists, they said all they had were

telegraphed instructions to deliver the roses to you. Would you like me to

try again to find out who sent them?"

"Don't bother," Celia said. "I think I know."

7

To Celia's relief, her travels diminished during the remainder of 1975.

While she worked hard, it was mostly at Morristown, which meant that she

could spend more time with Andrew, and also visit Lisa and Bruce at their

schools.

Lisa, in her final year at Emma Willard, had been elected seniorclass

president and as well as maintaining a high grade average was involved in

a wide range of school activities. One, of her own devising, was an intern

program under which senior class members worked a half day each week in

offices of the state government at Albany.

The program got started after Lisa, demonstrating a belief that if you

wanted something you went to the top to ask, wrote a letter to the governor

of New York. An aide showed it to the governor, who was amused and-to the

surprise of everyone at the school except Lisa-answered personally and

positively. When word filtered back to Andrew, he observed to Celia, "No

doubt about it; that girl is your daughter."

Organization, it seemed, came to Lisa as naturally as breathing. Recently

she had applied for admission to several universities, though her ambitions

centered on Stanford.

Bruce, now in his sophomore year at the Hill, had become more than ever a

history buff, an interest which occupied him so exclu-

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sively that sometimes he barely managed a passing grade in other subjects.

As Bruce's house master explained to Celia and Andrew during one of their

visits to the school, "It isn't that Bruce is a poor scholar; he could be

an excellent all-around one. It's simply that sometimes we have to pry him

loose from the history books and insist that he study other things. What

I think you have on your hands, Dr. and Mrs. Jordan, is a future

historian. I expect to see your son's name on published works before many

years have passed."

While cautioning herself not to become smug, Celia reflected with relief

that it was possible to be a working mother and still have successful,