USA Today was a huge newspaper. A good article would enhance his chances of tenure, and it could catch the eye of a possible sponsor for their department. But he knew from past unhappy experiences that as a scientist you always had to be wary of the press and media.
Sally Kimberly set her small tape recorder on the table, but didn’t switch it on. Instead she asked, ‘Is your wife called Naomi?’
‘Naomi? Yes.’
‘Of course! I’ve made the connection now! She works in television PR? Naomi Klaesson?’
‘Film and television, yes.’
‘You’re not going to believe this! We worked together about six years ago on the PR for a biology series for the Discovery Channel!’
‘How about that!’ John said, wracking his brains, trying to recall if Naomi had ever mentioned her. It was quite possible; he had a lousy memory for names.
‘She’s great, I really liked her. She was pregnant-’ Her voice braked. ‘I – I’m sorry. That was not very tactful. I heard about your son. I’m really sorry for you both. I’m sorry I brought it up.’
‘It’s OK.’
After a brief silence she said, ‘So, how is Naomi?’
‘Oh – she’s doing great now, thanks. She’s got through it.’ He wanted to add, And she’s expecting again! But he held back.
‘Still in PR?’
‘Uh-huh. Right now she’s at a documentary company called Bright Spark.’
‘Sure, I know them. Wow! I must give Naomi a call, have lunch with her! She has the most wicked sense of humour!’
John smiled.
Their drinks arrived. For some time they chatted easily, graduating from the good and the bad about life in LA, to the merits of different eBook readers. Sally Kimberly sipped her white wine, John drained his beer in minutes, and ordered a second, warming to just being here with her, enjoying talking to her, feeling – if for just a short while – he was escaping from his pressures. There was something so sincere and vulnerable about her that made John wonder how on earth she survived in the rough and tumble world of newsprint.
She was single and found it hard to meet men in this city who weren’t either totally vain or totally screwed-up, she told him. And her body language hinted, very subtly, but very definitely, that she found him attractive.
He found her increasingly attractive himself, and immediately saw warning flags. In eight years with Naomi he had never strayed; although he had found himself flirting with other women at the occasional party, he had never been tempted. He needed to play this young lady very carefully; flirt, yes, but in no way lead her on.
Suddenly his glass was empty again. ‘Get you another white wine?’ he offered, turning his head for the waitress.
The reporter looked at her almost-full glass. ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’
The beer was giving him a pleasant buzz, making the problems with Naomi’s pregnancy seem easier to understand, easier to cope with. Mistakes happened all the time in medicine. Rosengarten was in a rush, he hadn’t been concentrating, and he was being arrogant saying he could determine the sex at such an early age. He wished he’d quizzed the obstetrician harder about why he was so sure, but he’d been so shocked, as had Naomi, that he had barely said anything.
‘OK – I’ll just have another-’ He tapped the side of his head with a grin. ‘Need some rocket fuel to get my brain going for you.’ He detected what might have been a slight frown of disapproval. Or had he just imagined that?
‘You have an accent,’ she said. ‘Kind of slight.’
‘Swedish.’
‘Of course.’
‘Ever been there?’
‘Actually, there’s a possibility I may get sent to Stockholm to do a piece on the Nobel Prize awards-’
‘You’re getting one for journalism?’
She laughed. ‘I wish.’
‘It’s the most beautiful city, all built around water. I’ll give you some names of restaurants you should visit – do you like fish?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘They have great fish. Best seafood in the world.’
‘Better than here in LA?’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘There’s great fish here,’ she said, a little defensively.
‘You call me and tell me that again after you’ve eaten fish in Stockholm.’
She gave him an unambiguous take me there look.
Smiling at her, then hastily turning away, he finally caught the waitress’s eye and ordered another large draught beer.
Sally Kimberly reached forward and switched the recorder on. ‘I guess we should start. OK?’
‘Sure, fire away,’ he assented. ‘I’ll do my best not to incriminate myself!’ He was aware the beers had gone to his head; he’d drunk them too fast. Need to slow down, just take a few sips from the next one, and no more.
She switched the machine off, wound the tape back and played a few moments. ‘Just checking it’s recording,’ she said. John heard himself say,… my best not to incriminate myself!
She set the machine down again. ‘OK, my first question, Dr Klaesson, is what were the influences that made you decide to become a research scientist?’
‘I thought you wanted to talk about my department and the work we’re doing, rather than individuals?’
‘I’d just like a little background.’
‘Sure.’
Giving him an encouraging smile, she said, ‘Are either of your parents scientists?’
‘No, we don’t have any other scientists in our family. My father was a salesman.’
‘Did he have any interest in science?’
John shook his head. ‘Not remotely. Fishing and gambling were his things – he was a walking encyclopedia of rods, lines, weights, lures, floats, bait, poker odds and race-horse form. He could tell you where the fish hung out at what time of day in every stretch of water within thirty miles of our home, and what horse was running in any race just about anywhere in the world.’ He smiled. ‘I guess he was into the science of fishing and betting.’
‘Do you think there’s some analogy between fishing and the methodology of scientific research?’ she asked.
John was torn between trying to keep the reporter happy and trying to steer her on to what he really wanted to talk about. ‘I think my mother was a much bigger influence,’ he said. ‘She used to be a mathematics teacher – and she’s always taken a great interest in everything. And she’s a hugely practical woman. She could take an electric motor to pieces to show me how it worked one day, and another day sit me down and discuss the religious writings of Emanuel Swedenborg. I think she gave me my curiosity.’
‘Sounds like you have more of her genes than your father’s.’
The remark brought his thoughts abruptly back to Dettore. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, distractedly.
How the hell could Dettore have got it wrong? How? How?
‘OK, Dr Klaesson, I wonder now if you could describe in – like – a couple of sentences, the broad beats of your research team’s work?’
‘Sure, absolutely.’ He thought for some moments. ‘How much do you know about the construction of the human brain?’
Her expression hardened, just a fraction, just enough for him to receive the message loud and clear. Don’t patronize me.
‘I did my PhD on “The Nature Of Consciousness”,’ she said.
That whacked him. ‘You did? Where?’
‘At Tulane.’
‘I’m impressed.’ He was surprised, too. He had not been expecting her to have anything beyond a working knowledge of science.
‘I just didn’t want you thinking you were talking to a no-brainer.’
‘Not for one moment did I-’
She leaned back with a big smile, her face all warmth again. ‘You did! I could see it!’
He raised his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, give me a break! I’ve had a hard day – I don’t need you beating up on me at the end of it!’