Love is the Drug

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Emojis © Shutterstock.com

Philippa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008294885

Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008294878

Version: 2019-07-15

For my dear friend, Janice Hume, and in memory of her sister, Alison

For there is no friend like a sister

In calm or stormy weather;

To cheer one on the tedious way,

To fetch one if one goes astray,

To lift one if one totters down,

To strengthen whilst one stands.

Christina Rossetti

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Discover More by Phillipa Ashley

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

‘Sarah. I’m sure you’ll think this is a very stupid question, but have you any idea what your sister is doing crawling under the rhododendrons?’

Sarah Havers sighed and put down the earring she’d been trying to finish for the past hour. One was already complete and lay on the felt mat on the kitchen table. The earrings were delicate drops fitted with three tiny shells in summery blues and seaweedy greens. Sarah was making them for her sister Molly’s birthday, although Molly – currently stuck under a bush in the garden – didn’t know it.

Their mother, Naomi, was standing in the open doorway that led from the kitchen to the rear garden of their house. It was early April but her mum was wearing a silky shift dress and a thin cropped jacket and the chilly evening breeze – which blew straight from the Urals to Cambridge, according to an urban myth – was making Sarah’s fingers too cold to work.

Her mum peered into the lengthening shadows of the garden. ‘Oh no, she’s disappeared now. We’re going to be late.’ She stepped down onto the patio. ‘Molly Jane Havers! Come out of there this minute.’

Trying to block out the noise, Sarah picked up the earring and focused on teasing shut the wire loop with her pliers. Even though she’d made countless pairs, the job still required concentration and all the distractions were doing her head in. On the other hand, it was fun to hear her younger sister treated like a toddler.

Their mother groaned in frustration. ‘What on earth is she doing out there?’

‘Trying to catch a frog, probably,’ Sarah muttered, sticking out her tongue in concentration as she focused on the earring. The loop was almost closed. One. More. Tiny … tweak would do it.

‘A frog? God, no. What does she want a frog for?’

‘Dunno. I think she wants to cut it up at school.’

‘What? You’re joking?’

Sarah cursed as her pliers crushed the delicate wire into a pretzel. ‘Oh, shit!’

‘Sarah, stop swearing,’ her mother called but she was already on her way onto the lawn. Her voice rose higher. ‘Molly! Stop that. Leave that poor creature alone.’

With a sigh, Sarah laid down her pliers next to the wire and beads. She should really be revising for her upcoming A levels, but creating jewellery from shimmering shells and beads was far more fascinating than poring over Business Studies papers. She got up and stood in the doorway, peering out into the shadows.

Her mum’s new heels sank into the turf as she tottered over to the bush, which Molly was crawling out of backwards like a demented crab. Sarah rolled her eyes as her sister scrambled to her feet, brushing blossom and leaves from a sweatshirt with a graphic photo of a giant tarantula on the chest.

Sarah despaired. Her younger sister was a fully paid-up member of the Geek Club. Seeing that horrific sweatshirt and her dirty jeans, Sarah wondered if Molly would even wear the earrings that she’d been making for her upcoming fifteenth birthday. Judging by Molly’s taste for things that crawled and skittered, the earrings ought to have featured snails and tarantulas, but shells and starfish were as far as Sarah was prepared to go. She went inside as Molly trudged to the house, their mum tottering after her.

Molly leaned against the kitchen worktop and Naomi folded her arms. ‘Molly. Is it true you want a frog to dissect? Please tell me now,’ she said.

Molly laughed. ‘Shit, no. Not to dissect, anyway. To study.’

‘You can’t take a live frog to school and please stop swearing.’

Molly slid a sly glance at Sarah. ‘Maybe I could take Sarah’s hamster instead?’

Sarah shrieked. ‘You dare!’

Their mum groaned. ‘Girls. For God’s sake, will you please hurry up and get ready? Dad and I have to leave very soon or we’ll be late for our very special anniversary dinner.’

‘I was only joking about Roger,’ said Molly, as their mother locked the back door.

Sarah snorted. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past you.’

Molly gave a smug grin and pointed at Sarah. ‘Ah. Got you. Actually, I wasn’t after a frog, I was looking for my cuddly Ebola germ.’ She turned to her mother who was brushing pollen off her new dress. ‘Sarah’s been winding you up, Mum.’

‘Maybe but I’m not the one with fox poo on her jeans,’ Sarah shot back, angry for letting herself fall for Molly’s teasing.

Molly glanced down at her muddy jeans. ‘What? Shit!’

Their father stuck his head around the kitchen door. ‘Molly. Can you not use that word quite so often, and can everyone get a move on, please?’

‘I am trying, Will,’ said their mum, then caught sight of her feet. ‘Oh shit, look at my new heels. They’re covered in mud and grass. I’ll have to clean them before we set off for Carol’s.’

‘Can you not use that word quite so often, Mum?’ said Molly, picking a biscuit out of the barrel. Sarah tried not to giggle. She could strangle Molly sometimes but her one-liners were very funny.

‘Molly, don’t try to be too smart,’ said their dad and tapped his watch. ‘The traffic will be murder if we don’t get a move on. It is our anniversary, after all. The first time we get a weekend away from the girls in years and we might be late.’

‘Yes, it is our twentieth wedding anniversary,’ said their mother, emphasising the words in a dramatic way. ‘And we’re off to a very posh hotel for the weekend if we can ever get our daughters to leave the house.’

‘OK, OK. Enough with the guilt trip. I get the message,’ said Sarah, rolling the pliers and other tools up into their felt case.

‘Thank you,’ said her father. ‘Now, I’m going to pack the car and I expect everyone to be ready by the time I’m finished.’

Ignoring her father, Molly’s bottom lip jutted. ‘I do not have fox shit on my jeans,’ she said mutinously.

‘Ha. Got you,’ Sarah said with a triumphant grin that she knew would drive Molly mad.

‘Molly, wash your hands and change your jeans,’ her mum said.

‘It’s not fox poo. It’s only mud.’

‘I don’t care. You can’t go to Auntie Carol’s in filthy clothes. Go upstairs, get changed and hurry up.’

Sarah snorted.

‘And you, Sarah, can tidy all your junk away and make sure you have your overnight stuff. I don’t want to have to come back because you’ve forgotten your phone or your pyjamas or something.’

‘It is not junk!’ Sarah protested.

‘You know what I mean,’ said her mum, adding an indulgent smile that did nothing to soothe Sarah’s ruffled feathers.

‘My bag has been ready for hours, Mum,’ said Sarah. ‘Unlike Mol, who hasn’t even started packing. And I don’t see why I have to stay at Auntie Carol’s tonight. I’m eighteen. I could stay here on my own and I’d be fine. I could have mates over for the evening or I could have gone with Tilly to Ibiza. It’s Molly who needs the babysitter.’

Molly gasped. ‘No, I do not. You’re the one who’d end up in A&E or a police cell if you were left on her own. I’m the responsible one. Everyone knows I’d have my head in a book the whole time Mum and Dad were away.’

‘More like blow up the whole house and experiment on Roger,’ said Sarah.

‘I love Roger. He’s my hamster too.’

‘This is pointless because I’m not letting either of you stay here on your own,’ said their mother, rubbing at the heel of her shoe with a piece of kitchen paper.

‘I can manage without you and Dad, you know. I’m not a little girl,’ Sarah muttered, knowing she was pushing her luck.

Their mother stuck her hands on her hips. ‘No, but I’m turning into a very old lady waiting here. Get your stuff, both of you, and get into the car!’

Twenty minutes later, Will Havers drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the girls to finally climb into the car. The engine was running as Sarah shoved her overnight case into the boot and Molly climbed in behind their mother, clutching her rucksack to her chest. Sarah shut the car door, fastened her seat belt and stared pointedly out of the window. Maybe, she thought, watching raindrops gently spatter the window, she wouldn’t give Molly the earrings after all.

As they drove the short distance to Auntie Carol’s, their parents turned on Radio Five. Sarah risked a sideways glance at Molly who had her nose stuck in a thick paperback entitled Guns, Germs and Steel.

Sarah shook her head. Guns, Germs and Steel? What was that all about, for God’s sake? Molly was barely fifteen. Why wasn’t she into Sweet Valley High or Twilight like Sarah had been? Her sister really was weird, sometimes. Not the gifted genius everyone said, just a freak.

Unexpectedly, Molly glanced up and their gazes met. Molly’s light blue eyes were innocent and amused. Her light brown hair, which reminded Sarah of runny honey, was secured in a messy ponytail with a pink elastic band. She’d changed into ripped 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.’

CHAPTER ONE

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 bond. Theoretically, it could make two individuals fall in love with each other. Theoretically.

Ewan wasn’t amused – as always – about his complex work being reduced to a “sound bite”. Molly thought he was right about one thing: the Love Bug wasn’t accurate because the bonding agent was actually a synthetic hormone, not a “bug” or bacteria and definitely not a “love potion”.

Ewan would have hit the roof if anyone described their precious project in such romantic terms. Well, thought Molly as she looked down her microscope, it had certainly been proven scientifically that Ewan didn’t have a romantic gene in his body. She’d lost count of the times that Sarah had told her Ewan was a lost cause and that there “were plenty more fish in the sea”. Sarah had taken on the role of surrogate mother since their parents had been killed in the accident on the way to Auntie Carol’s, even after Molly had ceased to need parental guidance where men were concerned. However, Molly thought – glancing over at him, oblivious to anything except the semen – maybe she did have a point about Ewan.

She tried to focus on her own samples but then caught sight of the time on the laptop. It was half past six on the party night of the year and what was she doing? Smearing gorilla jizz onto a sliver of glass. That wasn’t normal behaviour by anyone’s standards, not even a dedicated research scientist such as herself.

‘Did you know the solitary confinement cells at Alcatraz were designed to face the mainland so the prisoners could actually hear the sounds of revelry in San Francisco?’ she muttered.

‘Sorry?’ said Ewan, hunched over his microscope.

‘I said I was thinking of ripping off all my clothes and running down the corridor shouting, “I’m a badass babe.”’

‘Mm. Of course.’

‘Ewan?’

He swivelled round again. ‘Yes, Molly?’

His eyes met hers through their safety glasses. Perhaps a ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth but it disappeared so fast, she must have imagined it and the Baxter lab, of course, was no place for imagination.

‘It’s getting late. Do you mind if I call it a day and get ready for the party?’ Molly said.

He frowned. ‘The party?’

She pulled off her glasses. ‘Yes, Ewan, the party. It’s New Year’s Eve if you hadn’t noticed.’

He took off his own glasses and blinked. Molly’s determination to hate him from now on, melted like butter in a pan. Despite his name, wherever Ewan’s genes had originated from, it wasn’t Scotland or anywhere within a thousand miles. He had dark brown hair, not red or blond, and his eyes were the colour of strong espresso, rather than the blue or green a geneticist would have expected. Somewhere along the way, Ewan’s ancestors had coupled up with a tribe from the Mediterranean – and a pretty hot one at that.

‘Surely, you hadn’t forgotten?’ she asked.

‘No. No, of course I hadn’t.’