Christmas morning was bright with a crisp winter sun that struggled to melt the white frost garnishing the pavements. The big house smelled of cooking and mulled wine. Nat King Cole vied for precedence with the TV as Jack took their coats and gave them both a steaming glass. Alex had taken a carrier bag full of presents, and Emily and Angus delightedly shredded the garish paper from theirs, carried away more by the orgy of opening rather than the gifts themselves, which were an expensive but unimaginative doll and a toy car that Angus was too young to appreciate.
There was a bottle of whisky for Jack, Chanel perfume for Lucy. Her eyes widened when she saw it.
“Oh, my God, now that’s what I call a present!”
She kissed Alex on the mouth. Kate felt a quick jab of something that could almost have been jealousy, and then
Alex came over to her. “Happy Christmas.”
Almost shyly, he handed her a small parcel, and she suddenly wished she had bought him more than the bottle of Irish whiskey.
She took the parcel from him and unwrapped it, aware of the others watching her. Inside was a long box. Kate opened it and took out the plain gold chain and locket.
“I didn’t know what size socks you took,” Alex said. The quip sounded rehearsed.
“It’s beautiful,” Kate said. “Thank you.”
She stepped forward and kissed him. The kiss was no longer than the one Lucy had given him moments before, but it was their first, and Kate felt acutely aware that Lucy and Jack were watching. When they moved apart she made a show of fastening the chain around her neck to hide her confusion.
They drank a dry Spanish sparkling wine with the enormous turkey Lucy had cooked, and then various bottles of whatever Jack produced during the afternoon. By early evening Kate was pleasantly light-headed, and the pressure of anticipation that had been building in her all day finally found a focus.
She and Alex were in the kitchen, washing the stack of congealed dishes. She handed him a wet glass to dry, and as their hands touched, the thought came without warning.
Tonight.
Flustered, Kate turned away, briskly scrubbing at a greasy plate to conceal her sudden tumult.
She pushed all thought of the decision to one side, but the awareness remained on a subliminal level for the rest of the evening; a faint breathlessness, a tensing in her lower stomach. And then she and Alex were saying goodnight to Lucy and Jack and climbing into the taxi, and all at once it confronted her with the suddenness of a slamming door.
Alex seemed to sense her tension. The atmosphere in the cab became strained. Familiar landmarks went past the windows like a countdown, and then the taxi was pulling into Kate’s road. It stopped outside her flat.
Her heart thudded. The words felt clumsy in her mouth. “Would you like to come in?”
She saw understanding dawn on his face. He looked away quickly.
“I’d, er … I’d better not. It’s late.”
The rejection was so unexpected she felt nothing. “Oh. Okay,” she heard herself say, and then she was climbing out of the cab. The cold night air didn’t penetrate any deeper than her skin. “Goodnight, then.”
Alex didn’t look at her. “Goodnight.”
The taxi pulled away, leaving behind a fading blueness of exhaust. The street was deserted. Kate walked up her path.
Her keys were in her hand, although she had no memory of taking them out. She reached up to unlock the front door, and then it hit her.
She squeezed her eyes tight against the pain of it, hand still outstretched towards the lock. For a long moment she stood, rigid, unable to make herself move. There was a miaow at her feet. She looked down as Dougal twined himself around her ankles. The cat stared up at her, wide-eyed and indifferent. “Happy Christmas, Dougal,” she said, and let them both into the empty flat.
CHAPTER 12
The letter from the clinic arrived on a February morning when the rain lashed against the windows and daylight was a grudging, sepia non-event. Kate knew what it would be, but that didn’t make her any less nervous as she slit open the envelope, crested with the hospital’s logo, and took out the letter.
Alex’s final blood test, taken six months after his last donation, was clear. The clinic asked her to contact them so that they could make arrangements for her first treatment.
Kate set down the letter on the breakfast bar. She didn’t realise she was staring into space until the toast popped up, making her jump. Ignoring it, she went to her bag in the hallway and took out her diary. She had been keeping a temperature chart and testing her urine every day to time her menstrual cycle. It was so regular that she didn’t really need to check when she was next due to ovulate, but she did all the same. It was just over two weeks.
Kate went back into the kitchen and absently spread sunflower margarine on the toast. It had gone cold, and the first bite clogged in her mouth. She washed it down with tea and dropped the rest of her breakfast into the bin.
Although she wasn’t supposed to make her appointment for the first treatment until her period had actually started, she couldn’t wait. She called the clinic as soon as she arrived at work. The receptionist, polite, with only the barest trace of Birmingham in her voice, booked her in for a little over a fortnight’s time and told Kate to telephone the day before to confirm. It was curiously undramatic, almost like making a dental appointment. The excitement was there, a taut anticipation, like sitting in a plane as it gathered speed to take off. But the knowledge of what she had to do first overlay any pleasure she felt.
She had continued to see Alex after Christmas, accepting the apology he had made on Boxing Day, a stammered account of over-indulgence and indigestion. She had even managed to convince herself that she had narrowly avoided a stupid mistake. But she had deliberately begun to tail off the number of times they met, preparing herself for the moment she now faced. It didn’t make it any easier.
Kate didn’t phone him until that evening, feeling a sneaking relief that he had asked her not to ring him at work. His phone rang on, monotonously, and she was about to hang up when he answered.
“Yes?” He sounded breathless, as though he had run to get to it.
“It’s Kate, Alex.”
“Oh, hi! I wasn’t expecting you to call tonight.”
She steeled herself against the pleasure in his voice. “I’ve heard from the clinic. Your final blood tests are okay.”
“That’s great! I knew they would be, but … well, you know.” He laughed, happy. “So you can go ahead now?”
“Yes. The thing is …” She shut her eyes. “I don’t think we should see each other any more.”
There was a pause. “Oh.”
“It isn’t anything personal. But we always knew this was going to happen some time, and — and I think now’s the time to do it. It’s only going to complicate things if we don’t, and I don’t think that’ll do either of us any good. Or the baby.”
The words sounded false. “It’s for the best … You can see that, can’t you?”
It was almost a plea. “Uh … yeah, yes, I …” She heard him clear his throat. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done,” she said, knowing she was only making things worse, but unable to stop. “I’ll send you a cheque for the rest of the money I owe you, and — “
“No!”
The word was spat out. Kate recoiled from the heat in it.
“No,” he repeated, more calmly. “I told you I didn’t want paying.”
The conversation was over, but Kate couldn’t bring herself to end it. She said the one thing she had determined not to say. “I’m sorry.”