Mitch leaped in, a pugnacious man intent on a fight, and enjoying it. “So it’s us or a charity shop?”
“When do you get off from your macho posturing?”
Confrontation, which used to seem so alien to me, now felt familiar territory.
“We’ve got our own fucking baby clothes,” he said, going into a bedroom. Moments later he came out with a box and dumped it at my feet. I looked inside. It was filled with expensive baby clothes. Kasia seemed very embarrassed. “Tess and me, shopping. Together. We…”
“But how did you have the money?” I asked. Before Mitch could explode, I hurriedly continued, “Tess had no money either, and I just want to know who gave it to her.”
“The people doing the trial,” said Kasia. “Three hundred pounds.”
“What trial? The cystic fibrosis trial?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I wondered if it could be a bribe. I’d got into the mental habit of suspecting everyone and everything connected to you, and this trial, which I’d had misgivings about from the very start, was already a soil rich with anxiety for seeds of distrust to take root.
“Can you remember the person’s name?”
Kasia shook her head. “It was in envelope. Just with leaflets, no letter. A surprise.”
Mitch cut across her. “And you spent the whole fucking lot on baby clothes, which it’ll be out of in weeks and Christ knows there’s enough else we need.”
Kasia looked away from him. I sensed this argument was old and much worn and had broken any joy she had once felt in buying the clothes.
She accompanied me out of the flat. As we walked down the concrete steps in the graffiti-decorated stairwell, she guessed what I would say if we were fluent in each other’s languages and said, “He is father. Nothing change that now.”
“I’m staying in Tess’s flat. Will you come round?”
I was surprised by how much I hoped she would.
Mitch yelled from the top of the stairwell. “You forgot this.” He threw the suitcase of clothes down the stairwell. As the case hit the concrete landing, it opened; tiny cardigans, a hat and baby blanket lay strewn across the damp concrete. Kasia helped me to pick them up.
“Don’t come to the funeral, Kasia. Please.”
Yes, because of Xavier. It would have been too hard for her.
I walked home, the sharp wind cutting across my face. With my coat collar pulled up and a scarf around my head, trying to protect myself from the cold, I didn’t hear my mobile, so it went through to message. It was Mum saying Dad wanted to talk to me and giving me his number. But I knew I wouldn’t call him. Instead, I became the insecure adolescent who felt her growing body was the wrong shape to fit into his completely formed new life. I felt again the smothering rejection as he blanked me out. Oh, I knew he’d remembered our birthdays, sending us extravagant presents that were too old for us, as if trying to accelerate us into adulthood and away from his responsibility. And the two weeks with him in the summer holidays, when we tarnished the Provence sunshine with our reproachful English faces, bringing our microclimate of sadness. And when we left, it was as if we’d never been. I once saw the trunks where “our” bedroom things were kept—stowed away in the attic for the rest of the year. Even you, in your optimism for life and capacity to see the best in people, felt that too.
As I think about Dad, I suddenly understand why you didn’t ask Emilio to take any responsibility for Xavier. Your baby was too precious, too loved, for anyone to turn him into a blemish on their lives. He should never feel unvalued or unwanted. You weren’t protecting Emilio but your child.
I haven’t told Mr. Wright about my non–phone call with Dad, just the money that you and Kasia received for being on the trial.
“The payments weren’t large,” I continue. “But I thought they could have been an inducement to Tess and to Kasia to take part.”
“Tess hadn’t told you about the payment?”
“No. She always saw the best in people, but she knew I was more skeptical. She probably wanted to avoid the lecture.”
You’d have guessed my bumper-sticker warnings: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch”; “Corporate altruism is a contradiction in terms.”
“Did you think it was the money that persuaded her?” asks Mr. Wright.
“No. She believed the trial was her baby’s only chance for a cure. She’d have paid them to be on the trial. But I thought that maybe whoever had given her money didn’t know that. Like Kasia, Tess looked in need of cash.” I pause while Mr. Wright makes a note, then continue. “I’d researched the medical side of the trial thoroughly when Tess first told me about it, but I’d never looked at the finances. So I started doing that. On the Net, I discovered that people are legitimately paid in drug trials. There are even dedicated websites that advertise for volunteers, promising the money will ‘pay for your next holiday.’”
“And the volunteers on the Chrom-Med trial?”
“There was absolutely nothing about their being paid. Chrom-Med’s own website, which had a lot of detail about the trial, had nothing about any payments. I knew that the development of the genetic cure would have cost a fortune, and three hundred pounds was a tiny amount of money in comparison, but it still seemed strange. Chrom-Med’s website had e-mail addresses for every member of the company—presumably, to look open and approachable—so I e-mailed Professor Rosen. I was pretty sure it would go to a minion but thought it was worth a try.”
Mr. Wright has a copy of my e-mail in front of him.
From: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone
To: professor.rosen@chrom-med.com
Dear Professor Rosen:
Could you tell me why the mothers on your cystic fibrosis trial are being paid £300 to participate? Or perhaps you would prefer me to couch it in the correct language, “compensated for their time.”
As I’d predicted, I didn’t hear back from Professor Rosen. But I carried on searching on the Net, still wearing my coat from when I’d got in from visiting Kasia, my bag just dumped at my feet. I hadn’t switched the light on and now it was dark. I hardly noticed Todd coming in. I didn’t even wonder, let alone ask, where he’d been all day, barely glancing up from the screen.
“Tess was paid to take part in the CF trial, so was Kasia, but there’s no record of that anywhere.”
“Beatrice…”
He’d stopped using the word darling.
“But that’s not the important thing,” I continued. “I hadn’t thought to look at the financial aspect of the trial before, but several reputable sites—the Financial Times, the New York Times—are saying that Chrom-Med is going to float on the stock market in just a few weeks’ time.”
It would have been in the papers, but since your death I had stopped reading them. Chrom-Med’s flotation was a crucial bit of news to me, but Todd didn’t react at all.
“The directors of Chrom-Med stand to make a fortune,” I continued. “The sites have different estimates, but the amount of money is enormous. And the employees are all shareholders, so they’re going to get their share of the bonanza.”
“The company will have invested millions, if not billions, in their research,” Todd said, his voice impatient. “And now they’re having a massively successful trial, which is payback time for their investment. Of course they’re going to float on the stock market. It’s a completely logical business decision.”