And, accepting the polite laughter, Kate would look at her mother and still see the perplexity in her eyes behind the social smile. She wondered what her parents would say if they had been alive to see what she was doing now. She told the taxi driver to stop as soon as she saw the gas tank she’d been given as a landmark. She knew it was irrational, but she didn’t want him to know where she was going. The driver, a middle-aged Indian man, spoke to her over his shoulder through the glass partition as she handed him the fare. “Do you want a receipt?”
It was her suit, Kate thought, that and the leather briefcase, marking her as a businesswoman. She had worn them as camouflage, she saw now, a pretence that her visit was official, not personal. “No, thanks.” She wanted only to be away from the taxi, with its musty odour of cigarettes and worn leather. She climbed out quickly onto the pavement, delaying over putting away her wallet and smoothing her skirt until the taxi pulled away with a rattle of blue exhaust. The fumes trailed in the still, warm air, dissipating slowly. Squinting in the harsh sunlight, Kate looked around to get her bearings. The street was deserted. Nearby a newsagent’s shop stood with a curtain of multi-coloured plastic strips hanging in its open doorway, swaying slightly. Further along was a garage, wooden doors pulled back to reveal a shadowed interior. The tinny echo of a radio came from inside, but there was no other sign of life. The sun bore down on her shoulders. Its dry heat was hot on the back of her neck, contradicting the spring chill in the air. She could feel it pressing against her through the lightweight jacket as she began walking. The empty street made her feel as self-conscious as if she were on display. The clinic was on the opposite side of the road to the gas tank. It was set slightly back from the pavement, with spaces for car parking in front. Flat-roofed and brick, it was as unprepossessing as a warehouse. Kate felt a flutter of nerves as she approached. A single step led to glass-panelled double doors. On the wall at one side of them was a small white plastic sign. In plain black lettering it said, “Department of Obstetrics and Gynaecology”.
What am I doing? The question jumped out at her with sudden clarity. She looked around, guiltily. But no one was watching. The street was still empty. The doors creaked as Kate pushed them open and went inside. They swung shut behind her with a squeal. She stood in a small foyer. The floor was died with yellow vinyl squares, scuffed and pock-marked but clean. The place had the bottled-up smell of any public building. A sign saying “Reception” pointed down a corridor. Kate hesitated a moment before following it. The door to the reception office was slightly ajar. She knocked lightly on it and pushed it open. The two women in the room turned to look at her. One was middle-aged and sat behind a desk. The other was younger, and stood holding a folder.
“I’m … I have an appointment,” Kate said. The younger woman smiled. “Kate Powell, is it?” Without waiting for a reply she strode forward, her hand outstretched. Kate took it. “I’m Maureen Turner. We spoke on the phone.”
Her manner was relaxed and friendly and, with a sudden inversion, the building no longer seemed quite so dingy and alien. Kate smiled back, relieved. The woman spoke to the older one. “We’ll be in the end interview room, Peggy. Can you arrange for two teas to be sent in?” She turned to Kate again. “Is tea all right? The coffee maker’s on the blink, I’m afraid.”
“Tea’s fine,” Kate answered, realising as she said it that she didn’t really want anything. But the other woman was already walking out.
“It’s just down here.”
Kate fell in step beside her. Their footsteps clicked on the died floor, slightly out of synchronisation. The woman opened a door at the far end, holding it open for Kate to precede her. Inside, it was hot and airless. Several low plastic armchairs were set around a wooden coffee table. It looked like a teachers’ staff room, Kate thought.
The woman went to the big window and began wrestling to open it. “I think we’ll let some fresh air in before we start,” she said, straining against the window catch. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
Feeling anything but, Kate chose the nearest chair. Air leaked out of the plastic cushion in a slow hiss as she settled into it. The window came open with a jerk, and the woman brushed her hands as she turned away from it. “There. That’s better.”
She sat down herself and gave Kate another smile. “You found us without too much difficulty, then?”
“Yes, fine. I got a taxi from the tube station.”
“Probably wise. I’m not the best when it comes to directions.”
Kate smiled politely. She knew the small-talk was intended to put her at ease, but it was having the opposite effect. She felt her edginess returning. The woman set her file on the low table between them.
“Are we the first clinic you’ve approached?”
“Yes, I got your number from my GP.” Kate hoped her nerves didn’t show.
“So you haven’t had any counselling on donor insemination before?”
“Uh, no, no I haven’t.”
“Fine, that’s no problem. Now — “
There was a rap on the door. It opened immediately and the older woman Kate had seen earlier came in, carrying a tray. There was a pause while she set it down and left. Kate fought the urge to fidget, answering yes to milk, no to sugar as the tea was poured and stirred. A cup and saucer was passed across. Kate took it and sipped, tasting nothing but heat and a faint sourness of milk. She put it down again. The woman took a sip from her own cup before placing it on the table.
“To start with, as you know, I’m a counsellor, not a doctor, and this is just an introductory session. All that’s going to happen today is that I’ll tell you a little about donor insemination itself, and the legal aspects that are involved. Then, if you’re still keen, we’ll take a couple of blood samples for routine tests. But I’ll come to that later. If you have any questions, or if there’s anything you feel unsure about, feel free to stop me and ask.”
Kate nodded, not trusting her voice. She reached for her cup again, to give her hands something to do.
“Right, now, I gather you’re unpartnered?” the counsellor continued.
“Is that a problem?” Kate set down the teacup without drinking.
“No, not at all. I know not all clinics will treat unpartnered women, but we try not to discriminate. However …” Kate stiffened as her expression became more sober “… we are required by the HFEA — that’s the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority, the regulatory body — to take into account the welfare of the child. So later I’d like to talk about how you see yourself dealing with issues like combining work with raising a child, and the pros and cons of telling your child how it was conceived. Is that all right?”