Peter James - Perfect People

Twelve weeks. You could abort right up until how long? Sixteen weeks? Or was it eighteen?

At half past four, he rang Dr Dettore’s number again, and left a second message, a considerably more assertive one than before. He also rang Dr Rosengarten, and left word with his secretary that he wanted to speak to him urgently.

By six o’clock there had been no response from either Dettore or Rosengarten. He rang Naomi’s office, but was told she was in a meeting. He looked at his watch. If Dettore was on board his offshore clinic, he would be on Atlantic time, three hours ahead of Pacific time. Nine o’clock in the evening. Angry now, he was about to pick up the phone to dial again when it rang. He snatched it off the cradle, but it wasn’t Dettore.

It was the reporter from USA Today, a breezy-sounding young woman called Sally Kimberly. She was held up in traffic on the 101 and would be with him in fifteen minutes. Had the photographer arrived yet?

‘I didn’t realize there was a photographer coming,’ he said.

‘He’ll be very quick – just a couple of shots in case we need them.’

It was another thirty-five minutes before she knocked on his door. The photographer had arrived and was busy rearranging his office.

Dettore had still not called back and nor had Dr Rosengarten.

It was cocktail hour, which meant the lights in the hotel bar were dimmed and an endless loop of Chopin played from the speakers, giving the impression that in some alcove behind one of the banks of potted palms lurked a pianist. The air conditioning was too cold, but the tables and chairs were well spaced out, making it a good place to talk – although John’s real reason for bringing the reporter here was because it was one of the few places in walking distance from the campus that served alcohol.

He followed Sally Kimberly in through the revolving door. She was a polite, quiet-spoken young woman in her early thirties, and dressed in a conservative suit. Her body was a little plump, but her face was attractive, and she had a pleasant, caring manner about her, unlike some reporters he had encountered.

He glanced at her hands, looking for an engagement or wedding ring. There were a couple of plain bands, but not on the marriage finger. It was a strange instinct men had, he thought, some reproductive dynamic that was hardwired into the species. He could never help it himself – one of the first things he looked for was always the wedding-ring finger.

She picked a corner table at the far end of the room from the bar, and not directly beneath a speaker, so her recorder wouldn’t be muffled by the music, she explained. She ordered a Chardonnay, and he ordered a large beer for himself. He needed some alcohol to steady his nerves, already shot to hell and back by the day’s news and made worse by the prospect of this interview.

USA Today was a huge newspaper. A good article would enhance his chances of tenure, and it could catch the eye of a possible sponsor for their department. But he knew from past unhappy experiences that as a scientist you always had to be wary of the press and media.

Sally Kimberly set her small tape recorder on the table, but didn’t switch it on. Instead she asked, ‘Is your wife called Naomi?’

‘Naomi? Yes.’

‘Of course! I’ve made the connection now! She works in television PR? Naomi Klaesson?’

‘Film and television, yes.’

‘You’re not going to believe this! We worked together about six years ago on the PR for a biology series for the Discovery Channel!’

‘How about that!’ John said, wracking his brains, trying to recall if Naomi had ever mentioned her. It was quite possible; he had a lousy memory for names.

‘She’s great, I really liked her. She was pregnant-’ Her voice braked. ‘I – I’m sorry. That was not very tactful. I heard about your son. I’m really sorry for you both. I’m sorry I brought it up.’

‘It’s OK.’

After a brief silence she said, ‘So, how is Naomi?’

‘Oh – she’s doing great now, thanks. She’s got through it.’ He wanted to add, And she’s expecting again! But he held back.

‘Still in PR?’

‘Uh-huh. Right now she’s at a documentary company called Bright Spark.’

‘Sure, I know them. Wow! I must give Naomi a call, have lunch with her! She has the most wicked sense of humour!’

John smiled.

Their drinks arrived. For some time they chatted easily, graduating from the good and the bad about life in LA, to the merits of different eBook readers. Sally Kimberly sipped her white wine, John drained his beer in minutes, and ordered a second, warming to just being here with her, enjoying talking to her, feeling – if for just a short while – he was escaping from his pressures. There was something so sincere and vulnerable about her that made John wonder how on earth she survived in the rough and tumble world of newsprint.

She was single and found it hard to meet men in this city who weren’t either totally vain or totally screwed-up, she told him. And her body language hinted, very subtly, but very definitely, that she found him attractive.

He found her increasingly attractive himself, and immediately saw warning flags. In eight years with Naomi he had never strayed; although he had found himself flirting with other women at the occasional party, he had never been tempted. He needed to play this young lady very carefully; flirt, yes, but in no way lead her on.

Suddenly his glass was empty again. ‘Get you another white wine?’ he offered, turning his head for the waitress.

The reporter looked at her almost-full glass. ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’

The beer was giving him a pleasant buzz, making the problems with Naomi’s pregnancy seem easier to understand, easier to cope with. Mistakes happened all the time in medicine. Rosengarten was in a rush, he hadn’t been concentrating, and he was being arrogant saying he could determine the sex at such an early age. He wished he’d quizzed the obstetrician harder about why he was so sure, but he’d been so shocked, as had Naomi, that he had barely said anything.

‘OK – I’ll just have another-’ He tapped the side of his head with a grin. ‘Need some rocket fuel to get my brain going for you.’ He detected what might have been a slight frown of disapproval. Or had he just imagined that?

‘You have an accent,’ she said. ‘Kind of slight.’

‘Swedish.’

‘Of course.’

‘Ever been there?’

‘Actually, there’s a possibility I may get sent to Stockholm to do a piece on the Nobel Prize awards-’

‘You’re getting one for journalism?’

She laughed. ‘I wish.’

‘It’s the most beautiful city, all built around water. I’ll give you some names of restaurants you should visit – do you like fish?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘They have great fish. Best seafood in the world.’

‘Better than here in LA?’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘There’s great fish here,’ she said, a little defensively.

‘You call me and tell me that again after you’ve eaten fish in Stockholm.’

She gave him an unambiguous take me there look.

Smiling at her, then hastily turning away, he finally caught the waitress’s eye and ordered another large draught beer.

Sally Kimberly reached forward and switched the recorder on. ‘I guess we should start. OK?’

‘Sure, fire away,’ he assented. ‘I’ll do my best not to incriminate myself!’ He was aware the beers had gone to his head; he’d drunk them too fast. Need to slow down, just take a few sips from the next one, and no more.

She switched the machine off, wound the tape back and played a few moments. ‘Just checking it’s recording,’ she said. John heard himself say,… my best not to incriminate myself!