Where There's Smoke

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 looked 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.

“To get back to your background,” she said, businesslike again. “Do you have any family history of illness? You know, diabetes, anything like that?”

“Uh, no, not that I know of. My grandmother had arthritis, but not until she was in her seventies.”

Kate nodded, trying to remember what else she needed to ask. The questions she had prepared eluded her. She clutched at one. “Why do you want to be a donor?”

He appeared taken aback. “Well, I don’t know. It seemed like a good thing to do. It doesn’t hurt me, and if I can help somebody, then … you know, why not?”

“Have you donated sperm before?” Kate refused to let herself be fazed by saying “sperm” to a complete stranger. “Or given blood?”

“N-no, no, I haven’t.”

The syncopation was back.

“Then what made you decide to now?”

“Uh, well …” A flush had crept into his face. “It, er, it wasn’t something I’d even thought about before I saw your advert, really. But I suppose I like the idea of, well, fatherhood without the ties.”

“You could have the same thing by going straight to a sperm bank.”

He seemed flustered. “I know, but … Well, it might sound stupid but that’s all a bit too anonymous.” His face was very red now. “I wouldn’t like the thought of letting just anyone have my … my child, if you know what I mean.”

It had never occurred to Kate that a man might feel the same way she did. “You do know that you wouldn’t have any of a father’s rights, don’t you? You’d still only be the donor. The child wouldn’t legally be yours, and there wouldn’t be any contact between us afterwards. Assuming we go ahead, obviously.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

“And it’ll mean a lot of inconvenience. The clinic’s in Birmingham, and you’ll have to make a lot of trips. They need quite a few … quite a few samples.”

He nodded acceptance.

“I’ll pay expenses,” Kate went on, briskly, shutting out the thought of what she was discussing. “For your time as well as travel. I’ll pay you either a flat fee or a daily one each time you go.”

Alex shook his head, emphatically. “I don’t want paying.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to do it for nothing.”

“I’d be doing it because I want to.”

Kate decided not to argue. She still hadn’t decided anything yet, so there was no point. “You’ll have to be tested for things like HIV and hepatitis,” she continued. “And you’ll have to go back for a second HIV test after six months. They won’t actually go ahead with the — er — the treatment until you’ve had that.”

He looked startled.

“Is that a problem?” Kate asked.

“Oh, no, it’s just … I didn’t expect it to take so long, that’s all.”

“They do the same tests on every donor. It isn’t any reflection on you personally.”

“No, no, it’s okay, really. I just didn’t realise. But it’s no problem.”

Kate tried to think of what else she had to say. Nothing came to mind. “Is there anything you’d like to ask?”

Alex minutely repositioned his knife and fork on his plate. Except for the piece he had dropped into the glass, his omelette was still untouched. “Are you married?”

Kate stared at him, levelly. “Why?”

He was disconcerted by her reaction. “Sorry, I–I know it’s none of my business. I just wondered if you were doing this because you were single and wanted to, or whether you were married and your husband was … was …” he gestured with his knife, stepping around the reference to sterility “… wasn’t able to have children,” he finished. “Your advert didn’t say one way or the other.”

Her face had become hot. “Does it matter?”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

He was so obviously reluctant to offend that Kate relented. “No, I’m not married. I’m doing this because I want to.”

“Good. I mean, you know, good for you.”

Kate studied him for a few seconds. He picked up his knife and fork and half-heartedly began to cut up the omelette.

“Why are you so nervous?” She had asked the question without intending to.

He shot her a quick look. “I’m not nervous. Not really,” he amended, as though realising there was no point denying it. “I’ve just, you know, never done anything like this before.”

He looked so chagrined that Kate couldn’t keep from smiling. “It isn’t something I’ve made a habit of, either.”

He glanced up at her, then smiled himself. “No, I suppose it isn’t,” he acknowledged. His smile faded. “I expect you’ll have interviewed quite a few other people, though. I mean, I know I won’t be the only one and … Well, it’s a bit nerve-racking, that’s all.”

Kate didn’t correct him. He had gone back to playing with his omelette. His face was serious again.

“Is this so important to you?” she asked.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Kate got the impression he was wrestling with the answer. Then he looked across at her. His eyes were a darker blue than Lucy’s. “Yes,” he said, simply.

“Why?”

He looked down at his plate. “I want children. I’m just not … I’m not the marrying kind. I’m not gay, it’s nothing like that. I just can’t see myself settling down and having a normal family or …” His voice tailed off, as though he had changed his mind about what he was going to say. “This seems like the next best thing.”

“Even though you’ll never see the baby? Not even know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Kate felt brutal, but she had to be sure he understood.

All at once his face looked immeasurably sad. He stared at the unlit candle in the centre of the table, but Kate doubted he saw it. “I’ll know it’s there, though.”

He came to himself with a little start. “If you decide to choose me as the donor, that is. I don’t want you to think I’m taking anything for granted.”

Now Kate looked away. “I’ve been keeping you from your lunch,” she said, going back to her salad.

She asked him for his card as they left the restaurant. “I’ll phone you next week and let you know what I’ve decided,” she told him, feeling both cowardly and pompous.

He accepted that without complaint. “It’s better if you call me at night,” he said, taking a business card from his wallet. “I’m generally with a patient when I’m at work, so I wouldn’t be able to speak to you. And I don’t really want anyone there to know about this,” he admitted, apologetically. He scribbled a telephone number on the back of the card before he gave it to her. “I know you’ve already got my number, but I’ll give it you again. I’ve just moved, and I’m ex-directory now, so if you lose it you won’t be able to get in touch.”

They shook hands, both a little awkward. Kate felt the heat and pressure from his even after she was no longer holding it. She watched him walk down the street, a slim figure, already lost in thought, hands shoved casually in his pockets. Catching sight of herself in the restaurant window as she turned away, she saw she had a smile on her face.

“It looks complicated but there’s really nothing to it,” the librarian assured her. He was an earnest-looking young man, red-haired with a complexion that looked permanently windburned. His fingers produced soft clacks from the computer keys, like a stringless piano. “It’s really much easier than dredging your way through piles of books.”

Looking at the messages and text appearing on the screen, Kate doubted that. But the librarian, almost irritatingly helpful, had insisted she use CD-ROM instead of the heavy indexes. Even though it was him doing most of the using. “Okay, what name did you say it was again?” he asked, without looking up from the screen.

“Turner. Alex — or perhaps Alexander — Turner.”

Kate watched as phrases and letters appeared and disappeared from the screen with bewildering speed. She hoped that this would be the last check she would have to run. Although she knew it was only common sense to make sure that the psychologist was who and what he claimed to be, she still felt underhand for not taking him at face value. The first thing she had done when she had returned from the restaurant was to look in the phone Book. The Ealing Mental Health Centre was listed, with the same address and telephone number as on Alex Turner’s business card, although it didn’t give the names of any psychologists working there. Kate had considered for a moment, drumming her fingers on her desk. Then she reached for the phone and dialled. A woman’s voice answered. “Ealing Centre.”

“Hello, could you tell me if you have a Dr Alex Turner working there, please?”

“Yes, we do, but he’s out at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, it’s okay, thank you.”

Kate had put down the phone before the woman could ask anything else, feeling a little thrilled and scandalised by her detective work. She tapped Alex Turner’s card on the desk, thoughtfully, then picked up the phone again and dialled Directory Enquiries. “Can you tell me if there’s an Institute of British Psychologists listed, please?” she asked, when the operator answered. There wasn’t. Kate put on her most persuasive voice and asked if there was anything similar. She waited while the operator looked. Would the British Psychological Society do? he asked. Kate said it would. She dialled the number he had given her before she had time to reconsider. A woman answered. Kate plunged straight in. “I’m trying to find out details about a psychologist. His name’s Alex Turner.”

To Kate’s relief, the woman seemed to find nothing odd in the request. “Is he chartered?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Kate. She wasn’t even sure what chartered meant. “Does that matter?”

“We only have chartered psychologists registered here. So if he isn’t, I won’t be able to help you.”

Telling herself she should have known it couldn’t be so easy, Kate asked her to try anyway. She spelt out his name and waited as the woman entered it into a computer. “Here we are. Alexander Turner,” the woman announced, taking Kate by surprise. She scrabbled for a pen as the woman reeled off a list of qualifications. Kate recognised some of them from his card. “And this is definitely the same Alex Turner?” she asked. The woman was apologetic. “I can only verify his qualifications. I’m not allowed to give out any addresses or phone numbers unless you’re a member yourself.” “I’ve got his work address as the Ealing Mental Health Centre, London. Can you at least tell me if that’s the same one you have?”

Kate could feel the woman’s indecision. “Let’s say if it wasn’t I’d tell you,” she said. Kate was about to ring off when the woman asked, “Have you tried Psychological Abstracts?”

“Er … no. What’s that?”

“It’s an index that gives details of any articles a member’s had published. Or there’s the same thing on CDROM called PsychLIT.”

She spelt it out. “Any university library should have it.”

Kate thanked her and hung up. She had no intention of digging around in any library. She was satisfied that Alex Turner was legitimate. There was no need to waste her time on pointless exercises.

But the knowledge that an avenue remained unexplored niggled like a stone in her shoe. After spending most of the previous evening telling herself it was a waste of time, that morning she had phoned Clive to tell him she would be late. Then she set off for the university.

The librarian’s windburned face frowned in concentration as his fingers lightly patted the keyboard. “Ah. Here we go,” he said, in a pleased tone. He leaned back so she could see the screen. “He’s got eleven entries. Was it any particular title you were wanting?”

“No, not really.”

The librarian looked momentarily curious, but made no comment. He showed her how to call up a record of each article. “The articles themselves aren’t on CD-ROM, but we should have most of the actual journals on file, if you want photocopies.”

He gave up the chair, reluctantly. “If you want any more help, just ask. I’ll be at the desk.”

Kate assured him she would. She looked at the first record. Some of the information was unintelligible to her, but the title of the article was clear enough: “The role of upbringing and environment in the forming of obsessional behaviour.”

Further down the page was something called an abstract, which she gathered amounted to a brief synopsis:

Obsessional behaviour is frequently attributable to a specific event or events in an individual’s background. Frequently, memory of these has been suppressed, so that the root of the obsession is obscured. This paper suggests that the success of therapy for such obsessions may be substantially increased when these seminal events are recognised. Six patients were helped to recall these using hypnosis, with positive results.

There was nothing of interest there, so Kate moved on to the next record. This article had been published by an American journal, she saw, impressed. The title was “Blood Ties: Impulse-control disorders as an inherited trait?”

It meant little to her, and the abstract wasn’t much more help, either:

Identical twins, separated at birth and given contrasting upbringings, were convicted of theft within twelve months of each other. This study considers the possibility of an inherited tendency towards impulse-control disorders, and suggests this as a subject of further research.

Her attention wandered before she had finished reading. She called up the next record, this one detailing an article on pyromania but sat back without bothering to read it. Enough was enough. Leaving the monitor switched on, she went over to the librarian. His windburned cheeks grew darker when he saw her.

“Sorry, I’m not sure how to turn it off,” she told him.

“That’s okay, I’ll see to it. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Do you want any of the articles photocopied?”

“No, it’s okay, thanks.”

He looked disappointed. “Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“Really, it’s okay. I’ve seen what I needed.”

Then, because her excitement demanded an outlet, she gave him an extra broad smile as she went out.

Lucy and Jack returned that weekend. Kate waited through tales of collapsing guy-ropes, sunburn and ice-cream indigestion, before Lucy wound down.

“Are you going to be free one night next week?” Kate asked.

Lucy was slumped in an armchair. “I think you’d have to drag me out of the house after the last fortnight. Why?”

Kate couldn’t keep it in any longer. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”