The other woman frowned. “Receive?” she asked. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Is it a deposit, this money?”
“For what? This is a women’s health clinic. We care for women’s physical problems. We’re paid to do so. When you got the additional funds, we’ll see you. Bring your medical records along.”
“Why do you need them?”
“You want a medical service, don’t you? Isn’t that why we’re talking? Or is there some other reason?”
“It’s the matter of paying so much in advance.”
“Well, I can’t help with that. It’s how we do things.”
“But will you guarantee—”
“Listen to me. You just used up your five minutes, and we’re not speaking of anything further standing here on the pavement. You gave me fifty pounds. You can top that up to three hundred when you have it.”
Adaku felt the sweat on her back. It was dripping to her waist. But she nodded. Then she said to the woman, “I don’t know your name.”
“You don’t need to know it. You won’t be writing me a cheque.”
“What do I call you, then?”
The woman hesitated. Trust or distrust. She finally chose. She dug a card from her bag and handed it over. “Easter,” she said at last. “Easter Lange.”
25 JULY
THE MOTHERS SQUARE
LOWER CLAPTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
Mark Phinney was awakened by Pietra’s voice. She was murmuring darling, darling, darling, and these words had intruded on his dream: her finally willing body beneath his, and himself so ready that his bollocks ached. But as he swam to full consciousness, he realised the aching bollocks had to do solely with his morning erection, and Pete’s words came from the baby monitor as she talked to Lilybet in the next room. As he lay on his side beneath a single sheet—the thin blanket having been kicked off sometime during the night’s unremitting heat—Pete began to sing quietly. His wife had a genius for making anything into a song. She never used the same tune twice, and she managed to make up rhymes on the fly.
He could tell from the accompanying sounds exactly what Pete was doing as well: changing out Lilybet’s oxygen tank, after which she would see to her nappy. He remained in bed till the nappy song began, at which point he threw off the bed sheet and rose as Pete sang gaily: “Oh we’ve got a stinky mess, yes we do, yes we do . . .”
Mark smiled in spite of himself. He so admired her. His wife’s devotion to Lilybet had never wavered in the ten years of their little girl’s life. She was attentive, educated, and unceasing in her efforts to help their daughter, especially to give her more of a life than the mess of her birth had condemned her to. He was sick at heart about what amounted to his own devotion to the girl.
His mobile chimed on the bedside table. He saw it was a message from Paulie: Beer tonight, Boyk? He thought about what beer was probably a euphemism for. He replied with, Need to be here. But ta. Paulie replied with an emoji thumbs-up.
Mark stared at the mobile’s screen for too long. He realised afterwards that if he’d set the smartphone back on the table, he’d have been safe. No chain of thoughts leading his mind in the wrong direction and therefore no temptation. But he wasn’t fast enough. Both were instantly there: thought and temptation. He scrolled through his contacts to one of three that had numbers with no name given. He tapped the message thinking of u.
He waited for a reply. He wondered if it was too early. In a minute, though, the chime signalled and he looked down to see that there was a link. He tapped on this to hear their song, although he knew the entire idea of their having a “song” was completely mad. Except . . . this one’s refrain was so dead apt—“No, I don’t wanna fall in love . . . with you”—in a voice so deep and mellow the song sounded more like a meditation.
Mark understood why she’d sent it. Her heart ached as his heart ached, and their pain described the complete impossibility of their situation. He closed his eyes as he listened to the song, mobile pressed to his ear.
He was thinking about how to respond when, “Mark, is it work?” Pietra had come into the bedroom.
He swung to her and saw that she must have been up and about for quite a while as she was fully dressed: blue jeans, trainers with no socks, a white T-shirt. He called it her uniform, and it altered only in cooler weather, when the white T-shirt became a white dress shirt, usually with the cuffs rolled up. When he told her to buy something new and different for herself, she responded with the same declaration. “I don’t need anything else, love,” which was more true than false in that she rarely left the flat and when she did, it was most often with Lilybet in her heavy chair, the emergency oxygen on its stand behind her. If the subject of dinner out or taking in a film came up—just the two of them, and Greer could stay with Lilybet for a few hours, couldn’t she?—the response remained the same. I do so hate to ask her, Mark. She already does so much.