Chapter 12: Eight Weeks

Lydia was staying in a suite on the fourteenth floor of the Langham.

She opened the door herself in a cream robe, with her hair down and a teapot already steaming on the table behind her.

"Marcella," she said warmly. "What a lovely surprise. Come in. Have you eaten?"

"No."

"I'll order something."

"Don't," I said. "I won't be long."

She stepped aside.

The suite was bright and tidy, with a view of the river and a vase of white roses on the desk.

On the table lay a glossy folder from an obstetrician's office and a pair of tiny knitted socks, still on their card.

Lydia poured two cups of tea without asking.

"Sit," she said. "Please. You look exhausted."

I stayed standing.

"I've read Scott's chart," I said.

Her hand stopped on the pot.

It was only for a moment.

Then she set it down very gently and turned.

"Which chart?" she said.

"The old doctor's. Eleven years of it."

I watched her face.

"Lymphoma at twenty-two, chemo, radiation to the pelvis. Three semen analyses. Azoospermia, permanent. Scott cannot father a child."

Lydia said nothing.

She did not gasp.

She did not touch her stomach.

She only lowered herself onto the sofa and crossed her ankles.

She looked at me with the same kind blue eyes she had worn at the coat check.

"I see," she said.

"You see."

"It was inevitable. You were always going to find out. You're a very good doctor."

"You knew."

"Of course I knew." She lifted her cup. "I held the basin when he threw up after the second round."

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