The Last Love Note(55)
‘I’m glad we bumped into each other at the door,’ I say. ‘I’d hoped we’d have a chance to chat. We have some shared interests!’ I’m talking, of course, of his wealth and our university’s research study into patterns of inheritance in early onset dementia. I know he lost a brother and a nephew to this insidious disease.
‘Can I get you a drink, General?’ Hugh asks, waving down a server. ‘Kate?’
‘Lancaster!’ the General says, ignoring Hugh’s question and slapping him on the back. ‘Why am I only just now meeting this gem of a woman?’
Ugh. He has no way of knowing whether or not I’m a ‘gem’. And he hasn’t met me because normally I’m on my couch, howling into my ice cream, wishing my husband was alive. He just likes my dress.
‘Kate has initiated plans for several of the university’s most successful funding partnerships of late,’ Hugh explains. It’s true. And my success has been directly in proportion to the extent to which I’ve needed to escape my life by throwing myself at various projects.
‘There’s one project that I’m particularly invested in right now,’ I say. ‘I’m not meant to have favourites, but . . .’
‘Go on,’ the General says. ‘I’m intrigued now.’
It’s a bold move to launch straight into fundraising talk. This is meant to be about easing into rapport. But while there’s no known cure for a disease that might conceivably take my son in years to come, I really don’t care for conventions.
‘We have a promising research project on early-onset familial Alzheimer’s disease,’ I say. I place my hand on his arm briefly to communicate that I know about his family history. One of his nieces wrote an article in the national press about losing her father and brother to the disease. ‘I lost my husband, too, about a year and a half ago.’
He stops short and looks at me, clearly shocked. ‘Oh, dear, I am sorry. I lost my brother and my nephew. Dreadful business. Awful! And look at you, widowed so young. Look at her, Lancaster! It’s not right.’
I don’t want anyone looking at me, not least Hugh, and feeling sorry for me. This is the very thing he knows I go to great lengths to avoid, in case I slip into a sinkhole of despair and never climb back out of it, and he is looking apologetic. He’s probably sorry this is exposing a wound. What people don’t get is the wound is always exposed. You can’t be reminded of something when it’s all you think about, even after you learn to go about the business of the day simultaneously.
‘I’m so sorry for your losses, General. That must be incredibly difficult.’
His eyes glisten just for a moment and he straightens up again. I know not to push him to say any more.
‘I would love to introduce you to our scientists one day,’ I say. ‘If that’s something you’d be interested in.’
He nods. ‘Arrange it, please. My sister-in-law wants to erect some godawful monument in honour of Stanley and Joe. I’d much prefer to see the family’s funds channelled into something that might actually help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just have to—’
He gets it. And he needs a second to pull himself together.
Once he’s out of earshot, Hugh takes my elbow and leads me into a side corridor, where it’s quiet.
‘I have to tell you, the last guy in your job was useless at this. I’d bring him to an event and he’d either blunder through from one social faux pas to another, or he’d clam up. I think he was terrified of speaking to prospective donors. And to people, in general. He preferred spreadsheets.’
I laugh.
‘When I have these conversations myself,’ he says, ‘it takes effort to build the rapport. If I appeal to them, it’s usually after months of groundwork. And often after a lot of drinks on their part. You just launch straight in.’
I can’t pretend it doesn’t feel wonderful being bolstered by this feedback. I’ve spent so much time feeling distracted of late, it’s nice to remind him why he hired me. ‘I don’t know, Hugh. It’s so much easier just being yourself. We could have tiptoed around General Delaney for months, but that’s not saving lives.’
‘This isn’t just a job to you, is it?’
The question surprises me. ‘Fundraising for the university? No, it’s magic. Think of the difference we’re helping brilliant people to make.’ As much as I dream of other things, I mean this.
He nods. ‘You’re very good at this, you know.’
‘I wish you saw more of this,’ I say. ‘And less of Grief Kate.’
He smiles. ‘Poor old Grief Kate has been through the wringer.’
‘And feels like it.’
I turn to go back in, but he stops me.
‘Doesn’t look like it, tonight,’ he says.
Hugh’s compliment startles me. It’s so unlike him to break the impenetrable fourth wall of his professionalism and acknowledge me not as a fundraising professional, a colleague, a mum, the grieving wife of a dead husband . . . but just as a woman. It’s been so long since I’ve felt confidence in how I look, or even had the emotional space outside personal emergencies and just surviving to pay any attention to that. I’d forgotten how it felt to be acknowledged not just for tragic reasons.