lovely to see you," said Mole.
"You look wonderful," said the woman. She paused and waited to be introduced.
"Flic, this is my husband. Hugo, this is Felicity Adamako. We used to work together."
Felicity shook my hand and gave me the once-over. "I hadn’t heard you’d got married. How wonderful. I was really sorry to hear about your father. We were all so upset. I just wish you'd had a chance to say goodbye."
"I had to go back home and organise things. There was just so much to do."
"I understand. It's just that we never had a chance to get you a card or anything."
"It doesn't matter – anyway, enough about me. How are things going?"
"I'm getting married, too. We got engaged last month. Our wedding is going to be in June. I'm inviting everybody from work. You must both come."
The two women huddled together while Emily cooed over her colleague's engagement ring. I felt my attention wander. Something was rankling me, though, something Felicity had said. It was like a dark patch of sea farther out where the dangerous current lay. They said their goodbyes, promising to keep in touch, and we both watched Felicity wander off towards the lifts.
"Why your father and not your mother?" I said.
"I don't follow."
"She said she was sorry to hear about your father, but she never mentioned your mum. Just seems odd that's all. Anyway, I thought it was just you and the gallery owner."
"That was a previous job, before I met you," Mole said. She was clearly thinking about something. Then she said brightly, "Do you fancy noodles for lunch? I'm starving."
"Sounds good to me. I think there's a place up the road. Let me look it up on my phone," I said, digging out my BlackBerry. Instead of consulting Google Maps, I should have looked straight ahead of me across the TVs and laptops to the digital photo frames. Because the evidence was there, right there staring me in the face: the key to unlocking the mystery that was about to destroy my life.
Chapter Seven
The triumphal Napoleonic arch of Leadenhall Market was truly spectacular at night. The covered market, painted red and gold like a Victorian music hall, had long been taken over by bars and restaurants used by Lloyd's brokers and underwriters. It was cold and foggy that evening, and the dampness seemed to penetrate your bones.
I wrapped my coat tighter around me and reached for Mole's hand as our footsteps clopped along the cobbles. Our favourite restaurant was coming up on the right, an Italian place that specialised in fish. The waiters knew us there, and I remembered the nights when we would just sit there holding hands.
Love, though, changes from gazing into each other's eyes to facing in the same direction, and that was what this evening was about. Tonight we were finally going to meet our surrogate.
I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension. What was Alice Adams going to be like? All our dreams and plans were wrapped up in this woman, yet all we knew about her was from her biographical one-sheet and a couple of telephone calls. When I spoke to her on the phone, I was surprised by how strong Alice's northern accent was. She told me that she didn't know anybody in London, so I had offered to put her up in a hotel for the night.
The waitress recognised us and said hello while she took our coats. It felt good to be out of the cold.
The barman placed both palms down on the counter. "What can I get you?" he asked.
We both ordered a glass of white wine. "She texted to say she was on her way," I said. "How are you feeling?"
"Excited. Nervous. What if we don't like her? What if she turns out to be, I dunno, odd?"
"Remember, she's Surrogate 37. There are another thirty-nine to choose from, and that's just from the list the clinic gave us. Wallace-Jones said there were plenty of others on its books. We don't have to rush into anything."
Mole’s desperation to get this process started made me vaguely uneasy. Sometimes I felt as if she had bounced me into this. On the
"You look wonderful," said the woman. She paused and waited to be introduced.
"Flic, this is my husband. Hugo, this is Felicity Adamako. We used to work together."
Felicity shook my hand and gave me the once-over. "I hadn’t heard you’d got married. How wonderful. I was really sorry to hear about your father. We were all so upset. I just wish you'd had a chance to say goodbye."
"I had to go back home and organise things. There was just so much to do."
"I understand. It's just that we never had a chance to get you a card or anything."
"It doesn't matter – anyway, enough about me. How are things going?"
"I'm getting married, too. We got engaged last month. Our wedding is going to be in June. I'm inviting everybody from work. You must both come."
The two women huddled together while Emily cooed over her colleague's engagement ring. I felt my attention wander. Something was rankling me, though, something Felicity had said. It was like a dark patch of sea farther out where the dangerous current lay. They said their goodbyes, promising to keep in touch, and we both watched Felicity wander off towards the lifts.
"Why your father and not your mother?" I said.
"I don't follow."
"She said she was sorry to hear about your father, but she never mentioned your mum. Just seems odd that's all. Anyway, I thought it was just you and the gallery owner."
"That was a previous job, before I met you," Mole said. She was clearly thinking about something. Then she said brightly, "Do you fancy noodles for lunch? I'm starving."
"Sounds good to me. I think there's a place up the road. Let me look it up on my phone," I said, digging out my BlackBerry. Instead of consulting Google Maps, I should have looked straight ahead of me across the TVs and laptops to the digital photo frames. Because the evidence was there, right there staring me in the face: the key to unlocking the mystery that was about to destroy my life.
Chapter Seven
The triumphal Napoleonic arch of Leadenhall Market was truly spectacular at night. The covered market, painted red and gold like a Victorian music hall, had long been taken over by bars and restaurants used by Lloyd's brokers and underwriters. It was cold and foggy that evening, and the dampness seemed to penetrate your bones.
I wrapped my coat tighter around me and reached for Mole's hand as our footsteps clopped along the cobbles. Our favourite restaurant was coming up on the right, an Italian place that specialised in fish. The waiters knew us there, and I remembered the nights when we would just sit there holding hands.
Love, though, changes from gazing into each other's eyes to facing in the same direction, and that was what this evening was about. Tonight we were finally going to meet our surrogate.
I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension. What was Alice Adams going to be like? All our dreams and plans were wrapped up in this woman, yet all we knew about her was from her biographical one-sheet and a couple of telephone calls. When I spoke to her on the phone, I was surprised by how strong Alice's northern accent was. She told me that she didn't know anybody in London, so I had offered to put her up in a hotel for the night.
The waitress recognised us and said hello while she took our coats. It felt good to be out of the cold.
The barman placed both palms down on the counter. "What can I get you?" he asked.
We both ordered a glass of white wine. "She texted to say she was on her way," I said. "How are you feeling?"
"Excited. Nervous. What if we don't like her? What if she turns out to be, I dunno, odd?"
"Remember, she's Surrogate 37. There are another thirty-nine to choose from, and that's just from the list the clinic gave us. Wallace-Jones said there were plenty of others on its books. We don't have to rush into anything."
Mole’s desperation to get this process started made me vaguely uneasy. Sometimes I felt as if she had bounced me into this. On the
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