Where There's Smoke

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 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.