There was no letter. Her first impression was that the envelope was empty, but then she saw something crumpled in the bottom. She realised what it was just in time to stop herself from pulling it out.
The condom had been unrolled, and before she snapped the envelope shut Kate saw that whoever had sent it had first cut off the teat. Bile rose high in her throat, from humiliation as much as disgust. Her eyes stung as she walked to a nearby waste bin and dropped in the envelope. She wiped her hands thoroughly on a tissue and dropped that in after it.
Feeling pervasively soiled, she walked back towards the tube station.
The summer passed its mid-way point. Lucy and Jack took the children camping to Brighton. They were worried about leaving the house untenanted, so Kate offered to stay there while they were away. She'd never been wholly comfortable in her own flat after Paul had barged his way in, and since Miss Willoughby's solicitors had put the old lady's up for sale she had felt even less so. Miss Willoughby had left everything to a botanical society, her solicitor had told Kate at the funeral, a sad little affair with only Kate, the vicar and the solicitor in attendance. A lorry had arrived to clear the flat the next day, and Kate still wasn't easy with the thought of living above the empty rooms, with their uncurtained windows and bare floors. Two weeks in Lucy and Jack's rambling house appealed like a holiday.
"You should go on a proper one yourself," Lucy had commented, when Kate had said as much to her.
"Perhaps later," Kate had replied, and both of them knew she had no intention of going away.
The house seemed odd, much bigger and less friendly now that she was alone in it. Lying in bed in the spare room on the first night, she had listened uneasily to the unfamiliar creaks and noises until at some point she had fallen asleep. After that, though, she had grown accustomed to the solitude, until it no longer bothered her. Echoes of the family still filled the house, scattered toys and books and clothes, so that it didn't seem empty so much as paused, a Mary Celeste waiting for voices and life to resume. Sometimes Kate felt like a ghost moving through it, living there but leaving no trace of herself. It was a gentle, lulling feeling.
Going there at night became a pleasure, so that she resented having to call at home to feed Dougal and check the post. The evenings were hot and muggy, and she would prepare a salad and eat it outside in the garden. Afterwards she would either just sit, or read until it became too dark to see, and then she would go inside and listen to Jack's jazz and blues collection, head back on the overstuffed sofa as Billie Holiday bared her heart, and the moths bumped and whirred against the lampshade.
It was so long since Kate had felt relaxed that it was an unfamiliar sensation. Only the question of finding a donor still chivvied away at her, but as the weeks had passed with no further response to her advert, she had begun to accept that there was unlikely to be one. She was already considering her next step when the letter arrived.
She had not checked the box in over a week, and it was with a sense of obligation rather than hope that she called in to the depot one lunch-time. When the woman returned with an envelope, Kate felt her day lurch into confusion. She signed for it and took it outside. The memory of the condom made her handle it cautiously, and she superstitiously moved to another spot to open it.
This time there was a letter inside, neatly handwritten in blue ink on a cream vellum. There was an Ealing address and telephone number. Kate saw by the date that it had been posted over a week ago. It had been waiting for her to collect it all the time she had been lotus eating at Lucy's.
The letter began without preamble. "I am writing in response to your advertisement for a donor for artificial insemination," Kate read. "I am a thirty-four-year-old clinical psychologist, based in London. I am single, with no children." Kate smiled at that, "average height, slim, with dark hair and blue eyes. If you would like to meet up, please call me at the above number after 6.00 p.m."
It was signed "Alex Turner".
Kate had begun walking without having any idea of where she was going. She stopped, looking around. The sunlit street suddenly seemed unfamiliar. Its brightness dazzled her, and for an instant she felt unsure of where she was. Then the sensation had passed. Folding the letter back into the envelope, she set off for the tube station.
She sat in the garden again that evening, but now its peace had been shattered. Her meal had consisted of a mug of tea, which sat cooling and untouched on the table in front of her. Next to it was the letter. She picked it up and reread it from time to time, as though she might be able to glean something else from the small, careful handwriting. The thought of meeting the man who had written it terrified her. This was what she had wanted, but now it had actually happened even the thought of telephoning him seemed monumental. She found herself remembering Lucy's warning: he could be anyone. A piece of bark from the laburnum tree lay on the white plastic of the table. Kate nudged it absently with her finger, and the shape resolved itself into the dry husk of a dead moth. She brushed it off the table, grimacing. Abruptly, she snatched up the letter and went inside. The telephone waited on a bureau in the lounge. Kate strode over and picked it up. She stabbed out the first three digits of the number from the top of the letter before banging down the receiver.
"Come on, get a grip," she murmured. She wished Lucy wasn't away so she could talk it out, and immediately felt a surge of anger at herself.
She picked up the phone again and quickly dialled the number. There was a tightness in her chest as she waited for the connection to be made. The receiver was clammy in her hand as she heard it begin to ring.
"Hello?"
It was a man's voice that answered. Kate found she had no idea what to say. She quickly checked the letter for his name. "Can I speak to…to Alex Turner, please?"
There was a pause. "This is Alex Turner."
Kate swallowed. "My name's Kate Powell."
Belatedly, she remembered she hadn't intended to give her name. "You answered my advertisement. For a…a donor." She closed her eyes, squirming.
"Oh…Yes."
"I was wondering—that is, I suppose we ought to meet up."
Another pause. "Okay."
Kate tried not to be discouraged by his lack of enthusiasm. "So, when's convenient?"
"Whenever."
Kate wished she had never phoned. "Well…er, how about…" She blanked. "Tomorrow lunch-time?" she gabbled, and immediately regretted it. Too soon, too soon. She willed him to say no.
"Yes, tomorrow's fine."
"Oh, okay. Er…" Her memory failed to come up with an obvious place to meet. "Do you know Chando's Brasserie?" It was the first name that occurred to her, and Kate winced. The restaurant was French, pretentious and expensive. She had never liked it, but she was too embarrassed now to change her mind.
She heard him hesitate. "No. Sorry."
"It's just off Soho Square," she told him, and gave directions. "Will one o'clock be okay?"
"Fine."
She waited, but there was no more. "Okay then. I'll see you tomorrow."
Kate waited until he had hung up before replacing the receiver herself. She looked around the empty room. The need to talk, to tell someone, was like a suppressed shout. But she was on her own. She phoned the restaurant to make the reservation.
CHAPTER 9
The restaurant was full. Conversation bubbled along, snatches of laughter occasionally surfacing through it. Waiters swirled around the tables like eddies in a stream, trays balanced, pads held at the ready.
Kate flinched as a loud hiss and billow of flame showed through the open hatch into the kitchen. She looked again at her watch. It was five to one. She had been there since a quarter to, long enough to feel as though she'd been waiting a lifetime.
She stiffened as the door from the street opened. A man walked in, dark hair swept back, wearing a bow tie and camel-coloured waistcoat despite the hot day. He spoke to the girl behind the reception desk, who scanned the book in front of her before answering. The man l
ooked imperiously around the room, and his gaze stopped on Kate. Just as she was about to give a tentative smile, he turned away. The girl escorted him to another table, where two men greeted him. Kate felt a small wash of relief.
She had spent the night before trying to reassure herself. It was no different from a business lunch, really. If they reached an agreement, fine. If not, then what had she lost? It wasn't as though she was committing herself. He didn't know where she lived, and if she didn't like the look of him she didn't have to take it any further. After two of Jack's brandies, she was almost convinced.
But when she had woken that morning, the doubts had descended again. By the time she reached the agency, they had developed almost to full-blown panic. She had gone to her office and drawn on an unlit cigarette, the flame from her lighter dangerously close to the tip, until her nerves had steadied.
The panic had retreated, but not gone entirely away. She could feel it pushing against her will as she waited at the table. It surged up as the restaurant door opened again, but this time it was a man and woman who entered. Kate turned away and stared out of the window. The street outside was bright and sunny beyond the low awning. The sound of it was lost against the restaurant's busy hubbub, so that it was like looking at a silent film.
She looked up as a waitress approached. Behind her was the man who had just arrived. Kate looked beyond him and saw that the woman he had come in with was kissing someone at the far side of the room. Then the waitress was moving off with a smile, and the man was standing by her table, looking uncertainly at her.
"Kate Powell?" he said, hesitantly. "I'm Alex Turner."
Kate half rose to her feet, feeling the blood rush to her face. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought…I saw you come in with someone, so I assumed…"
He looked confused for a moment. "Oh! No, we just arrived at the same time."
They were both standing, facing each other across the table. "Please," Kate said. "Sit down."
She tried to gather her wits as they arranged themselves. He didn't look at all how she had imagined. From his voice, she'd pictured someone altogether more like the man she'd seen earlier, all bow tie and arrogance. But he didn't give that impression at all. He looked reassuringly normal; a little younger than she'd expected, slim, with an earnest, unobtrusively attractive face. His hair was thick and wavy, almost as dark as her own, and a blue shading of beard was already colouring the line of his jaw. He was dressed casually, in fawn chinos and a navy blue short-sleeved shirt. It was open at his throat, revealing a glint of thin silver chain around his neck. Kate felt overdressed in her business suit. He held himself very still, looking around the room before letting his eyes settle on her. With sudden intuition, Kate guessed that he was as nervous as she was. The knowledge gave her confidence.
She smiled. "You managed to find it all right, then?"
"Yes, no problem." He returned her smile, but his tension was almost palpable.
Kate's own anxiety diminished even more. She set about trying to put him at ease. "It's a bit of a funny situation, isn't it?" she said, voicing her thoughts. "Meeting for something like this?"
"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Yes, I suppose it is."
He looked around the restaurant again, as though he was unable to keep eye contact with her for more than a few seconds. She thought about how he'd sounded on the phone the previous evening. He hadn't been arrogant after all. Just nervous.
"So you're a psychologist?" she said. "Did you see the advert in the Psychological Journal?"
"Yes." He gave an apologetic smile. "I'd have contacted you before, but it was a few weeks old by the time I got around to reading it."
There was a faint stumble in his speech, not so much a stammer as a syncopation on certain words. C-contacted. Kate took it as further evidence of nerves.
The waitress returned and handed them each a tall menu. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked.
"Mineral water for me, please." Kate said. "What about you, Mr Turner?"
"Oh…I'll have the same, thanks." He waited until the waitress had left before adding, "And, er, please call me Alex."
Kate was carefully non-committal. "Whereabouts do you work?" she asked, as they opened the menus.
"In Ealing. Part of an NHS unit." He blinked at the French script and glanced up at Kate. "How about you?"
"I've got a small PR agency," she said, checking herself as she was about to add where it was.
"Your own?" He seemed impressed.
Kate felt irrationally pleased. "It's only small."
"Is it doing well?"
"At the moment."
She smiled, drawing unexpected satisfaction from the simple statement. He smiled back, and for a moment their reserve was gone. The waitress returned with the drinks, and the moment of contact was broken. Kate ordered a salad. Alex, after a pause, chose a plain omelette.
"So," Kate said into the silence left by the waitress's departure, "I suppose I'd better ask you to tell me a little bit about yourself."
He nodded. "Okay. I went to university in Edinburgh, came away with a degree in psychology and a PhD in clinical psychology. Then I worked in a psychology unit in Brixton before I moved to the one at Ealing. Er…I'm single, I don't smoke or do drugs…" He shrugged. "That's about it."
"What about your family?"
Alex had picked up his fork, holding one end with the fingers of each hand, slowly turning it. His fingers were slender, Kate noticed.
"My mother and father are both retired. They live in Cornwall now."
"Have you any brothers or sisters?"
"Two brothers, both older than me. One's in Australia, and one's in Canada. We're pretty scattered, I suppose. How about you?"
Kate smoothed her napkin on her lap. "No. I've no family. My parents are dead."
Alex looked unsettled again. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
She turned the conversation back to him. "So what made you want to be a psychologist?"
"Oh…I'm not sure, really." He put down his fork, considering. "It was just something that's always interested me, I suppose. I'm a better listener than a talker, which helps." He gave a shy grin. "And I read the Foundation trilogy when I was a kid, so perhaps that had something to do with it. You know, Isaac Asimov?"
"No, I've heard of him, but…" She shook her head.
Alex made a throwaway gesture. "Well, it doesn't matter. I used to read loads of science fiction, and then I came across that, and…wow. It was brilliant. There are these 'super psychologists' in it, who've developed psychology into such an art that they don't even have to speak to communicate. God, I thought that was great! You know, the thought of being able to know people so well. Understand why they do things. And understand themselves, as well. It just seemed -" He broke off, self-consciously, as the waitress returned with their food.
"What were you saying?" Kate asked, when the girl had gone. She noticed that he waited for her to begin eating before he started himself, which struck her as quaint.
"Oh, nothing. That was all, really."
His reserve was back. Kate smiled, wanting him to relax again. "And are you a 'super psychologist'?"
He gave an embarrassed smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, I don't -"
There was another loud hiss and burst of flame from the kitchen hatch. Alex jerked, and the piece of omelette he had just picked up on his fork flipped off and landed neatly in his water glass."Oh, God! Sorry!" His expression was so mortified that the laugh escaped Kate before she could stop it. He glanced at her, then grinned. He had a nice smile, she thought. "It was too hot, anyway."
Blushing, he fished the omelette out of the glass and set it on the edge of his plate. "So how did you get into PR?"
The blush was fading from his face, now. It made him look very young, Kate thought.
"Oh, I just drifted into it, I suppose," she said. "I'd done a couple of years of an English degree, but then my parents died quite close to each other, and I dropped
out. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do after that, so I worked at a few places and then got a job at a PR company."
"How long have you had your own agency?"
"Two years, now."
"What sort of work do you actually do?"
He was looking at her with genuine interest. His manner had changed, becoming more confident now that he was asking her questions. There was no trace of the earlier hesitancy in his speech.
"Do you mean, who do I work for? Or what does it involve?"
"Both, really. It isn't something I know much about," he admitted.
"Well, we handle all sorts of accounts, anything from small record companies and publishers, who want to get somebody reviewed in newspapers or interviewed on TV and radio. Or it can be somebody who's got a particular product that they want to publicise. The biggest account we've got is a charitable trust who want us to raise their profile as subtly as possible, but most of our clients want as much publicity as they can get."
"So how do you go about it?"
"It varies from client to client but generally it revolves around catching people's attention. It doesn't matter if it's a press release you're sending to newspapers and magazines or a poster campaign, it's got to be something that grabs their interest straight away. You've got to make sure you're hitting the right targets, too, and be prepared to keep plugging away at them until they sit up and take notice." She smiled. "Or until your budget runs out."
He had his chin propped on his hand, watching her as he listened. "Do you enjoy it?"
Kate thought. "Yes, I suppose so. It has its ups and downs. You tend to find you don't have much time for anything else, though. Sometimes I wish I didn't have all the pressure."
She stopped, surprised at the admission. Alex was still looking at her, waiting for her to continue. She turned her attention to her salad to cover her embarrassment at being drawn out.