She folds her manicured hands and rests them lightly over Alexa’s paperwork, which covers her desk.
“Now, the main aim of our consultation today is to ascertain whether you actually need IVF treatment or if we can proceed with the less invasive method of insemination, IUI for short. IUI is much simpler than IVF; it’s the process of selecting the best sperm from your selected donor sample in the lab and then introducing that sample directly into your uterus via a catheter. It would be a very minimal, noninvasive process, which we could do for you in about five minutes. Obviously that would be our preferred method!”
Alexa raises her eyebrows hopefully and nods in hypothetical agreement.
The tests are easy and surprisingly quick. A vial of blood is taken. Then the curtain around the bed is drawn and Phil, Duncan and I watch the extra monitor as it shows grainy black-and-white footage of Alexa’s uterus.
It’s funny how little we all know about fertility, pregnancy. It’s the single most important subject for the whole of humanity and yet I feel like I’m trying to read Urdu.
Her egg count is good. Alexa’s body softens in relief. They’ll need to get her AMH levels back from the blood work tomorrow to be sure, but it looks very promising so far.
* * *
—
We hug outside the clinic. I’ve somehow slipped from professional to personal with her. It’s been an emotional two days. Alexa jokes that she’d like to keep Duncan as her emotional support animal. I laugh. She’s funny. And Duncan does have a pretty outdoorsy beard these days. I arrange to Skype her, off the record, tomorrow night once she’s back in Kent. See how she’s doing.
It’s strange; I feel like I know her. Really know her. And I feel like she might know me. She falls somewhere between my old life and this new one I’m creating. Alexa seems more alive than anyone I’ve ever met. And suddenly I realize I care very much what happens to her next.
When I got home yesterday, Mark was working in his study. He stopped when I came in and we went and sat in the kitchen together. We’d been given tea bags and biscuits from Fortnum & Mason as a wedding gift, so I made us a pot. He only managed a few sips and a bite of orange rind biscuit. I don’t know why, but being away from him, even for a night, made me desperate for him. I led him upstairs and we made love as the daylight faded. Perhaps it’s all these new hormones; that, and the fact that we hadn’t slept together since Geneva five days previous. As I’ve said before, disgusting as it may seem, that’s a long time for us. I needed it. I hadn’t known I needed it but I did. After, as we lay tangled together on the sheets, I thought about telling him. About our baby. But I couldn’t seem to form the words. I didn’t want to spoil the moment. I didn’t want him to stop me trying to do what I need to do. And it’s still early days. The pregnancy may come to nothing. Anyway, I’ve made a promise to myself: I will go to the doctor and I will tell Mark everything, as soon as the diamonds are out of our house and we’re safe.
* * *
—
In preparation for Eddie’s interview tomorrow, I was called to Pentonville Prison at seven forty-five this morning. It’s been a week of early starts.
As Pentonville is a male facility, I’ve been told there are a few slightly different angles I need to be aware of, as I can now imagine. For example, I’ve been told to wear trousers tomorrow, that sort of thing. Best not to analyze it.
After a lot of listening, nodding, and paper signing, I make it out of the final security door and back into the icy wind on Roman Road. I wrap myself up in my coat, winding my scarf tight, trying to remember where I need to be next, when a voice behind me calls out.
“Excuse me? Hello?”
I pivot back toward the gates to see a friendly looking man in a suit jogging toward me.
“Sorry, one second—sorry to slow you down there,” he huffs, ruddy-cheeked in the cold, his hand extended. “Patrick.”
I take his hand in mine. I don’t think we’ve met before. “Erin Roberts,” I say.
Patrick beams back at me, a firm grip, my warm hand in his cold one. “Yes, yes. Miss Roberts. Of course,” he says, catching his breath. He gestures back to the prison building.
“Did I forget something?” I prompt.
“Sorry—yes. I’m just wondering what exactly you’re doing here today, Miss Roberts. I saw your name in the register but I think there’s been some confusion in administration and for some reason I think I’ve been cut out of the loop.” He looks embarrassed.
“Oh God, sorry. Yes, I was visiting the warden, Alison Butler, about the Eddie Bishop interview tomorrow.”
His eyes flare with understanding. “Right, yes, of course! The interview. And you’re a reporter, aren’t you?” He looks at me suspiciously.
Oh great. The last thing I need right now is for them to revoke the filming permission. People warned me Pentonville would be a pain in the arse. And it has been plain sailing up until now.
“No, no. It’s for the documentary. The prisoner documentary. We got the permissions late last year? Should I maybe email the info to you, Patrick? Alison has it all already. I’m pretty sure.” I can hear a hint of disbelief at the situation in my own voice. I mean, I don’t want to piss him off, but they should be on top of this. I mean, it’s a prison, for God’s sake, they should bloody well know who’s coming and going. Seriously. I think of Holli and suddenly her breaking parole doesn’t seem quite so implausible.
He catches my tone but doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he’s apologetic. “Ah, I see. Right, that’ll be it. My office has been having some issues with visitor log-ins, but that’s by the by. I’m so sorry, Miss Roberts. I’ll make sure we’re all on the same page for next week. What day did you say it was?” He squints at me in the cold September light.
“It’s tomorrow. Not next week. Saturday, the twenty-fourth. Eddie Bishop.” I say it slowly and clearly.
Patrick smiles and nods. “Perfect. I guess we’ll see you then. Sorry about the confusion, Erin.” He shakes my hand again and heads back toward the prison.
I turn and start to walk away. Should I send a confirmation email to him once I get home? Just in case. That way I’m definitely covered, right? There’ll be a paper trail. And then I realize I don’t know his surname. I turn to catch him but he’s no longer there, disappeared back into the bowels of Pentonville. Damn.
Patrick what? I run the conversation through in my mind. He didn’t mention his surname, did he?
And then a doubt suddenly flickers across my mind. I remember how cold his hand was in mine. His cold hand in my hot one. He didn’t come out of the prison, did he? If he had, then his hands would have been warm like mine.
But why would he pretend to be coming out of the prison? And then it hits me. He knows my name and what I do and where I’ll be tomorrow. Who the hell was he?
I head back to the prison gates and buzz in. A voice comes loud over the intercom.
“Hello.”
“Hi there. Did Patrick just come back in?”
“Who?”
“Patrick?”
“Patrick who?”
“Er, I don’t know, Patrick…er…I don’t know his last name,” I stammer. Better to be honest.
“Um, right. Sorry, who is this?”
“It’s Erin Roberts. I was just here?” I try not to sound too desperate but I’m keenly aware I sound fully deranged about now.
“Oh yeah, you just signed out. Sorry. What’s the problem?” The guard sounds cheerier now. He remembers me and I didn’t look crazy a minute ago.
“Um, no, no, there’s no problem. It’s just…Has anyone come through since I left?”
There’s a second’s silence. I suppose he’s weighing up whether I am crazy after all. Either that or he’s thinking about lying? “No, ma’am, just you. Should I get someone to come out to help you?” he asks tentatively. He’s popped out a “ma’am” now, shit. I’m being handled. I need to go before this escalates.