‘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.
I break away from him and back into the hall, determined to ‘work the room’ and show him that tonight’s potential victory wasn’t a one-off. The event is filled with people who I know are interested in their future legacy or want to make something of the legacy of people they’ve lost. I feel uniquely placed to understand that, and to gently float ideas about how they can make a difference.
Hugh works just as hard. I’m aware of him across the room, understated charm offensive in full swing. It occurs to me what a strong team we make when we’re totally on our game – or when I am. It’s rare for him not to be.
The evening evolves with the arrival of a band, and a few people drift onto the dancefloor. I haven’t danced since the last time I was out with Grace, just before everything tumbled. Being out tonight, Charlie-free, dressed to the nines and feeling confident for the first time in years, I am itching to get out there.
‘Do you dance as well as you network?’ I’m asked by the app developer I’m chatting with, Arch Jacobs. He’s been an overnight sensation, making a small fortune with an intuitive podcast app that apparently cuts post-production in half.
‘I can’t remember!’ I say, hoping it’s like riding a bike.
He takes my hand and pulls me into the centre of the room. The band is catering to the older demographic, playing a range of hits from Glen Miller through to Elvis, and this is exactly the dress for the task. I’m loving the way it feels as I move, loving all of it, really: the music, the freedom, the temporary holiday this night is giving me from Charlie and all the sadness.
Eventually we peel off for a drink and sit down. I feel like I’ve exorcised months worth of stress in just one set of songs.
‘That was great,’ Arch says, still catching his breath as he places a gin and tonic in front of me on the table. ‘Where’d you learn to dance like that?’
‘School of life,’ I reply, and he laughs.
‘What’s your story, Kate?’ he asks. ‘Married? Kids? Divorced?’
‘Widowed,’ I answer. Even now, it feels unnatural to utter the word.
Like most people when I break the news, Arch looks immediately uncomfortable. He’s searching for words to wrap around a situation like ours. ‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry for reminding you.’
‘How could you have known? And thanks.’ I hadn’t forgotten!
The air is charged with a type of awkwardness I’ve come to accept. I’m forever having to smooth this over for people, help them navigate the topic and reassure them it’s okay. On top of everything else involved in grief work, it’s just another layer of difficult.
I want an excuse to leave, the spell of the evening broken now. I catch sight of Hugh, who’s having a conversation with someone at the back of the room. He looks over and responds to my subliminal communication. I watch him wrap up his chat, shake the guy’s hand, grab his suit jacket on the way past his table and walk to ours.
‘Hi,’ he says to Arch. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. Hugh Lancaster. Amazing app, mate. Well done.’