While Celia was at Harlow, Martin arranged dinner for her with himself and Yvonne. Showing his sensitivity, Celia thought, he did not take them to the Churchgate, but to the dining room of a newer hotel, the Saxon Inn.
At first the two women inspected each other curiously, but after a short while, and despite the difference in ages—Celia was forty-eight, Yvonne twenty-seven—they seemed to slip into an easy friendship, perhaps because of their affinity with Martin.
Celia was admiring of Yvonne’s decision to apply to veterinary college. When Yvonne pointed out that if accepted, she would be older than most students, Celia advised, “You’ll do better because of that.” And she told Martin, “We’ve a fund at Felding-Roth, set up to help employees who want to improve their education. I think we can bend the rules sufficiently to give Yvonne some financial aid.”
Martin raised his eyebrows. “Yvonne, it looks as if your cost of living just got paid.”
When she expressed gratitude, Celia waved it away and said, smiling, “From what I’ve been told, you contributed a lot to getting Peptide 7 where it is.”
Later, when Yvonne had left the table briefly, Celia said, “She’s special and delightful. It’s none of my business, Martin, and you can tell me so if you like—but are you going to marry her?”
The question startled him. “That’s highly unlikely. In fact, I’m sure neither of us has thought about it.”
“Yvonne has.”
He disagreed. “Why should she? She has a whole career ahead of her—a good one. It will take her to different places where she’ll meet other men, closer to her own age. I’m twelve years older.”
“Twelve years means nothing.”
Martin said obstinately, “Nowadays it does. It’s a whole generation gap. Besides, Yvonne needs to be free, and so do I. At the moment we’ve an arrangement which suits us, but that can change.”
“Men!” Celia said. “Some of you certainly get the best of your ‘arrangements.’ But you can be blind too.”
The discussion was ended by Yvonne’s return. It was not resumed before Celia and her group went back to New Jersey a few days later.
On the day that Celia left, Martin’s mother died. She slipped away from life quietly, without warning or fuss. As a doctor at the nursing home expressed it to Martin later, “She went like a small boat that drifts off into the night on a calm sea.”
The calmness, Martin thought, with feelings of mixed sadness and relief, had been present for his mother far too long. It was mental turbulence, not calm seas, that gave life its zest. Alzheimer’s had deprived his mother of that zest, and the thought revived, once more, his hopes for the future of Peptide 7.
Only Martin, his father and Yvonne attended the simple funeral, and afterward Peat-Smith, Senior, went back to chipping at the block of marble he had ordered and which had been delivered several days before. Martin and Yvonne drove back to Harlow in companionable silence.
In the several months that followed, important decisions were taken at Felding-Roth, New Jersey, punctuated by many transatlantic journeys by headquarters staff.
The active ingredient of Peptide 7, which would appear as a white crystalline powder, was to be manufactured in the Republic of Ireland at a new plant for which a site had been chosen and architects’ plans were being rushed to completion. The plant would be the first of Felding-Roth’s to specialize in molecular biology. Space would be allowed on the site for later manufacturing of the chemical base for Hexin W.
Final production of Peptide 7, in its liquid form and ready for insertion in containers, would be in an existing plant in Puerto Rico. The containers, manufactured as expected by another company, would be shipped there. The overseas arrangements had substantial tax advantages compared with manufacturing in the United States.
The overall plan involved an enormous investment which, after doubts and discussions, was approved by the board of directors. At dinner one night Celia explained the doubts to Andrew. “It’s money we don’t have. Everything’s going to be borrowed, and if it goes down the drain, so does Felding-Roth. But we’ve agreed we have to do it. We’ve bet the company, and we’re in a now-or-never mood.”
There were other decisions, of smaller dimension but important. One concerned a product name for Peptide 7.
Felding-Roth’s advertising agency—still Quadrille-Brown of New York—began a costly, exhaustive study during which existing brand names were examined and new, suggested ones brooded over, with many being rejected. Finally, after several months of work, a top-level review session took place at Felding-Roth headquarters. On the company side it was attended by Celia, Bill Ingram and a half-dozen others.
A small agency contingent was headed by Howard Bladen, now president of Quadrille-Brown, who attended, as he expressed it, “a lot for old time’s sake.” Before the proceedings, Celia, Ingram and Bladen reminisced about the session sixteen years before, when they had all met, and which resulted in the “happy-momma plan” for New Healthotherm, still a steady O-T-C seller and revenue producer.
Storyboards and easels were set up in the boardroom to display eight suggested names, each presented in succession, in several type styles.
“Among possibilities we’ve narrowed down,” an agency account executive announced, “are names which relate to the brain or human understanding.” These followed and were: Appercep, Compre, Percip, and Braino. The first three, it was pointed out were derived from “apperception,” “comprehension,” and “percipience.”
The fourth name was speedily withdrawn when Bill Ingram commented on its similarity to a household product—Drano.
“I’m embarrassed,” Bladen said, “and how we all missed that, I’ll never know. But no excuses. I apologize.”
Then there were names which, the account exec said, “suggest something bright—shining with high intelligence.” Those were: Argent and Nitid.
Two others were: Genus and Compen. The second, it was said, implied that the drug would “compensate” for what might otherwise be missing.
An hour’s discussion ensued. Bill Ingram liked Appercep, disliked Nitid, was lukewarm about the others. Three people on the company side favored Argent. Bladen expressed himself a supporter of Compen. Celia held back, listening to the others, letting the arguments flow, reflecting at one point on the thousands of dollars all this was costing.
It was Bladen who eventually asked, “What’s your opinion, Mrs. Jordan? You’re one who’s had some splendid ideas in the past.”
“Well,” Celia said, “I’ve been wondering why we don’t call our new drug Peptide 7.”
Only Ingram had the seniority, and knew Celia well enough, to laugh aloud.
Bladen hesitated, then a slow grin crossed his face. “Mrs. Jordan, I think what you’ve suggested is nothing short of brilliant.”
Celia said tartly, “Just because I’m the client doesn’t make it brilliant. It’s simply sensible.”
After the briefest further discussion, it was agreed that the product name of Peptide 7 would be Peptide 7.
A year flew by.
Clinical trials of Peptide 7, moving much faster than anyone expected, had proved outstandingly successful in Britain and the United States. Older patients responded positively to the drug. No adverse side effects appeared. Now, all accumulated data had been sent to the Committee on the Safety of Medicines in London, and to the FDA in Washington.
After careful discussions both at Harlow and in Boonton, involving Martin Peat-Smith, Vincent Lord, Celia and others, it was decided not to seek an official “indication” of the antiobesity effect of Peptide 7. This meant that while the known weight-reducing effect of the drug would be disclosed in information given to physicians, Peptide 7 would not be recommended for that use.
Some doctors, it was realized, might prescribe it for that purpose. However, if they did it would be the doctors’ own responsibility, not Felding-Roth’s.
As to a sexual stimulant effect, while repeated tests on animals showed
that such an effect existed, it had not been sought during human testing, and was listed as inconspicuously as possible in all submitted data.
In both cases the thinking continued to be: Peptide 7 was a serious drug, intended to retard mental aging. Any “frivolous” uses would detract from this important role and diminish the drug’s reputation.
In view of the flawless results from clinical testing, and the fact that extra indications were not sought, it appeared unlikely that official approval of Peptide 7 would be long delayed.
Meanwhile, work on the Irish plant and changes at Puerto Rico were near completion.
At Harlow, Martin, while keenly interested in the outcome of clinical trials, had left the details to the medical staff. He was working on modifying Peptide 7, exploring the possibilities of making other brain peptides, a spectrum which the earlier success had opened.
Martin and Yvonne were still living together. In January 1980, Yvonne had taken her A level examinations and, to her own and Martin’s great joy, passed with A’s in all subjects. She had also taken, and passed, the Cambridge Colleges’ Examination, this because she had applied to Lucy Cavendish College in that university, and been accepted, subject to exam results. The admissions prospectus had pleased Yvonne with its reference to a “society for women, with a particular concern for those whose studies have been postponed or interrupted.”
In September, having resigned from Felding-Roth, she began attending Lucy Cavendish where she would read Veterinary Medicine.
It was now October and she had become accustomed to driving daily to and from her Cambridge classes, an hour’s journey.
Apart from her studies, a source of pleasure to Yvonne was the blossoming royal romance between the Prince of Wales and “Lady Di,” as all of Britain now called her. Yvonne tirelessly discussed the subject with Martin. “I said all along that if he waited, he’d find an English rose,” she declared. “And so he has.”
Martin continued to listen to Yvonne’s gossipy news, which now included the Cambridge University scene, with affectionate amusement.
During January of the following year, as President Reagan was inaugurated four thousand miles away, a license to market Peptide 7 in Britain was granted by the Minister of Health. Two months later, approval for United States use of the drug was announced by FDA. Canada, as it often did, followed the FDA lead.
In Britain, the drug was scheduled to go on sale in April, in the United States and Canada in June.
But in March—before its marketing anywhere—an event occurred that confirmed earlier fears and placed in jeopardy, it seemed, the entire future of Peptide 7.
It began with a telephone call to Felding-Roth’s Harlow institute from a London newspaper, the Daily Mail. A reporter making the call sought to speak with Dr. Peat-Smith or Dr. Sastri. When informed that neither was available that morning, he left a message which a secretary typed out and placed on Martin’s desk. It read:
The Mail has learned you are about to unveil a miracle drug which will rejuvenate people sexually, cause them to lose weight, and make the middle-aged and old feel young again. We will have a story in tomorrow’s paper and would like a statement from your company as soon as possible today.
When Martin read the message it was a half hour before noon, and he reacted with shock and fear. Was some damn newspaper, concerned only with printing a sensational one-day story, about to lay in ruins all his work and dreams?
His immediate impulse was to telephone Celia, and he did—at home. In Morristown it was 6:30 A.M., and she was in the shower. Martin waited impatiently while she dried and put on a robe.
At the sound of Celia’s voice, he relayed what had happened and read out the reporter’s message. His tone conveyed his anguish. Celia was concerned and sympathetic, but also practical.
“So the Peptide 7 sex thing is out in the open. I always thought it would happen.”
“Can we do anything to stop it?”
“Obviously not. The report has a basis of truth, so we can’t deny it totally. Besides, no newspaper will give up that kind of story, once they have it.”
Martin, sounding unusually helpless, asked, “So what shall I do here?”
She told him, “Call the reporter back and answer questions honestly, though be as brief as possible. Be sure to emphasize that the sexual results have been observed in animals only, which is a reason we are not recommending the drug for sexual use by humans. The same applies to use for weight loss.” Celia added, “Maybe, that way, they’ll run a short item which won’t get much notice anywhere else.”
Martin said gloomily, “I doubt it.”
“So do I. But try.”
Three days after Martin’s call, Julian Hammond reported to Celia with a summary of media attention to Peptide 7. The public affairs vice president began, “It’s as if that first British news story opened a floodgate.”
The Daily Mail had headed its report:
SCIENTIFIC BREAKTHROUGH
Soon!—A New Miracle Medicine
To Make You Sexy, Younger and Slim
What followed played up the acknowledged sexual effect of Peptide 7, but glossed over the fact that, so far, it had been officially recorded in animals only. The word “aphrodisiac,” which Martin and others at Felding-Roth had dreaded, was used several times. Even worse, from the company’s point of view, the newspaper had somehow learned about Mickey Yates and interviewed him. A photograph headed, “Thank you, Peptide 7!” showed the elderly Yates beaming after boasting of his revived sexual powers. Beside him, his wife, smiling demurely, had confirmed her husband’s claim.
Something else in the news report, not known previously by Felding-Roth officials, was that several others among the Harlow Peptide 7 volunteers had experienced unusual sexual stimulus. They, too, were named and quoted.
Celia’s dim hope that the story might be confined to one newspaper proved merely a hope, and nothing more. Not only was the Mail’s story picked up by the remainder of the British press and television, all wire news services flashed it overseas. In the United States, instant interest was aroused, with Peptide 7’s sexual and anti-obesity effects being mentioned in most newspapers and discussed on TV.
From the moment the story broke in the United States, Felding-Roth’s switchboard was swamped with calls from press, radio and TV seeking details about Peptide 7’s release. Though reluctant to respond to what was felt to be a wave of harmful sensationalism, the information was given. There was no alternative.
Few callers inquired about the true, anti-mental-aging purpose of the drug.
Following the tide of media calls came a second one: questions from the public. Most concerned only the drug’s sexual or weight-loss properties, and callers were read a short statement to the effect that Peptide 7 was not recommended for such uses. Phone operators reported that the answer did not appear to satisfy.
Some calls were obviously from cranks. Other callers were sexually explicit or obscene. As Bill Ingram commented, “Suddenly, everything we so carefully planned has been turned into a sideshow.”
It was this circus effect that most worried Celia. Would doctors, she wondered, not wanting to be associated with something which already appeared disreputable, decide not to prescribe Peptide 7 at all?
She consulted Andrew, who confirmed her fears. “I’m sorry to have to say this, but quite a few physicians will feel that way. Unfortunately, all the publicity suggests that Peptide 7 is in the same league with laetrile, ouzo and Spanish fly.”
Celia said unhappily, “You make me wish I hadn’t asked.”
Thus, less than a month before what had been foreseen as a strong but dignified introduction of Peptide 7, Celia was weary, dismayed and apprehensive.
In Britain, Martin was in deep despair.
17
“As it turned out,” Celia was apt to reminisce much later, “we really did have problems—extremely serious ones—during the early months after Peptide 7’s introduction. Among all of us in charge at Fe
lding-Roth there were plenty of tense, anxious hours, biting of fingernails, and sleepless nights. Yet the strange thing was, the problems that happened were not the ones we expected.” Then she would laugh and add, “What it all showed is that you can never be certain how people will react to anything.”
The problems Celia referred to concerned supply.
From the moment Peptide 7 was available—obtainable, with a doctor’s prescription, from druggists—for months there was never enough to meet the amazing, unprecedented demand. Long lines formed in front of pharmacy counters, and when customers were turned away because supplies ran out, they would go to other drugstores and stand in lines there.
A reason that was revealed later—this time quoting Bill Ingram—was that “the damn doctors and druggists were using the stuff themselves and cornering some of the rest for friends.”
The shortage, which for a while was desperate, occurred in Britain as well as the United States. Long-timers in the company had never known anything like it. It resulted in frantic phone calls between New Jersey, Ireland, Harlow, Puerto Rico, Chicago and Manchester—the last two where plastic containers were being made and finger pumps assembled. Puerto Rico in particular, said a Felding-Roth purchasing agent, was “always screaming for containers, which they filled and shipped as fast as they came in.”
Both the Irish and Puerto Rican plants were working around the clock, with extra shifts. At the same time, chartered jet aircraft flew on several occasions from Ireland to Puerto Rico, carrying the precious active Peptide 7 ingredient.
It was Ingram who bore the brunt of that difficult time, overseeing all arrangements while, in his words, “We lived from hand to mouth, juggling what supplies we had, trying to keep the multitudes who demanded Peptide 7 as happy as we could.”
Then, looking back on those frantic days, he too would laugh, the anxiety long behind him, and say, “Bless everybody, though! All of our people pitched in, doing everything they could. Even those doctors and druggists, playing favorites, helped Peptide 7 become the golden success it is.”