Where There's Smoke

She was never sure why she didn’t tell him exactly when the result of the test would be through. The doctor had told her which day to phone in, but something made her hold that back from Alex. She told herself that she wanted to surprise him, to let him believe they wouldn’t know until later in the week. But she knew there was a more selfish reason. She wanted to keep that much for herself.

On the morning she was to phone for the result they ate breakfast together at her cramped breakfast bar in the kitchen. Alex had to leave before she did, and Kate kissed him and watched him go down the stairs to the front door. At the bottom he turned and waved, and seeing him there, grinning, his dark hair tufted, Kate almost gave in and told him. Then he went out and closed the door, and it was too late.

She went to work in a strange mood of hope and near-terror, the two blending until they became indistinguishable from each other. She was hardly aware of her surroundings, getting on and off the tube automatically, letting her body take her through the familiar routine without consciously thinking about it. Only when she came up from the Underground into the morning furore outside King’s Cross was she jolted from her internal world as a fire engine blared past in a cacophony of noise and colour. Looking after it, Kate felt a disquieting tug of deja vu. But even as she tried to grasp the memory, it drifted tantalisingly out of reach, insubstantial as smoke.

She had been told to call the doctor’s surgery after eleven. She waited until two minutes past, and then picked up her office phone and dialled the doctor’s number. The receptionist took her details and put her on hold. A cheery electronic jingle filled the line. Kate tensed when it stopped, but it had only reached the end of its loop. A second later it started up again, as bland as the chime from an ice-cream van. The tune played through twice, then was abruptly cut off.

“Miss Powell?” the receptionist’s voice broke in. “Your test’s positive.”

Kate’s mouth had dried. “Positive? So I’m pregnant?”

“According to this.” There was a pause before the woman added, “Congratulations.” It was said without real feeling, but Kate didn’t care. She thanked the receptionist and hung up. She sat back, examining how she felt. No different and yet, at the same time, utterly changed. An emotion so strong rose up in her she couldn’t have put a name to it. All at once, the need to tell Alex was unbearable. She had never called him at work before, not since he had asked her not to when they first met. Now, though, she took his card from her wallet and dialled his office number.

Woman answered. “Ealing Centre.”

“Can I speak to Alex Turner, please?”

“Dr Turner’s with a patient at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?”

Kate hesitated. “No, it doesn’t matter. Thank you.”

She put down the receiver. But the urge to share the news with him was too strong to ignore. Taking a fax cover sheet from her drawer, she considered what to say. She wanted to phrase the message so that Alex would understand, but not anyone else who happened to see it. Grinning, she picked up a pen. “Your grandmother’s St Christopher worked!” she wrote. “Phone me! Love, Kate.” Pleased with herself, she went downstairs and faxed it off.

Alex didn’t call that afternoon. Kate guessed that he hadn’t got her fax, and debated sending another or phoning him again before deciding not to do either. She would see him that evening. Now she had waited this long, she could wait a little longer to give him the news.

On the way home, she stopped off and bought a bottle of champagne. Alex rarely arrived before seven, and Kate put salmon steaks in the oven and set the table in the lounge with candles and a white tablecloth. She poured herself a glass of milk and put on a CD, humming along to it while she changed into a navy blue mini-dress. She smiled as she studied the flat-stomached reflection in the bedroom mirror. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said out loud, and laughed.

It was almost seven o’clock. Kate went into the kitchen and turned on the heat under the vegetables. The CD had finished, so she went into the lounge and put on a Nina Simone collection, knowing it was one of Alex’s favourites. She made a minute adjustment to the napkins she had folded neatly into the glasses on the table and lit the candles. Switching off the lamp, she sat in the candlelight and waited for Alex.

At eight o’clock she remembered the food. The kitchen was full of steam as she turned off the oven and gas rings.

The bubbling pans subsided. The new potatoes broke apart like puffballs when she touched them with a fork, while the broccoli had disintegrated into pale, swollen florets. They bobbed on the surface, slowly sinking to the bottom as the water settled down.