The Mistake

One is One

She was never quite sure, afterwards, when the idea had taken hold. It couldn't have been all the way back when she was a child of haphazard parenting; a frequently-absent and disengaged Naval officer for a father, a mother too involved in socialising to care much about her lanky, solitary child or, as it turned out, her own deteriorating health. Sarah knew the idea hadn't yet appeared by her early teens when she had her nose in books, trying to ignore the inanities of the fashionable girls in school. There was no way it had been at university, when she saw for the first time how unbelievably irresponsible and just plain dumb most of the young men appeared. How annoying to be a woman equipping herself for a career, only to have to deal with the restrictions of a long-term relationship with some airhead. The idea certainly hadn't been present during the flurry of weddings her friends seemed to be enjoying in their late twenties. Nor had it been the faintest blip on her personal radar as she celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday with a vintage Blanc de Blanc and a particularly striking Frenchman at the top of the Eiffel Tower. There had been fireworks in the night sky and a letter in her bag confirming she'd achieved her desire to have a million pounds free and clear in the bank before she was forty.

But somewhere between La Tour Eiffel in September and writing a piece about Australian beaches for Vanity Fair in October, Sarah Onile Lawrence decided she was going to have a baby.

In terms of time and money, she knew she could manage it more easily than some. Her travel writing career had had the double advantage of taking her quite literally all over the world as well as paying her handsomely to do so. Her continuing unattached status made her available for a significant number of projects where a female perspective was sought without her having to worry about finding a nanny for a young brood or having to deal with a vexed spouse. And she had indeed taken advantage of every opportunity; followed every pathway to experience, done things that, at the time, even her closest friends had labelled madness. Yet it had been her madness to do or not do as she saw fit, the only accountability for mistakes of any kind lying firmly at her own feet. She was able to do precisely as she pleased; playing tennis at midnight when jet-lag wouldn't let her sleep, getting her long dark-brown hair trimmed in Rome or Barcelona or Berlin as the fancy took her. Her mirror showed a woman without too many wrinkles, whose hair still lacked any grey and whose dark blue eyes were clear and untroubled. She existed free and without constrictive emotional attachments of any sort. It was, Sarah was quite sure, the only sensible way to live.

Her parents both having done the decent thing and died before she had learned to scorn them too much for their weaknesses, also left her with just enough money to pay for either her entire undergraduate university tuition fees up front, or cover her living expenses for three years while she took out a student loan for the tuition, but not both. While she might have been able to stretch the money to four years, if she hadn't found a job and a new place to live at the end of that time, she'd have to reconsider being a student. After assuming her majority on her eighteenth birthday and after taking a very deep breath, Sarah opted for one year at university where she paid the full fee up front and paid for her accommodation and living expenses for the same year. It was a gamble, but since she had no-one to convince but herself, Sarah made a rude noise at the forms she was completing before adding her signature and throwing everything into the post.

Her Cardiff-based Bachelor of Communications majoring in Journalism and Professional writing at the University of Wales was a joy and she grew mentally and emotionally with every book and journal article she managed to cram in. Before she'd completed her first year of undergraduate studies, she'd had several pieces of writing published, a few of them actually earning some money. The most significant one had been to the Guardian's Observer. The resultant fee for a two-thousand word review of the hidden places in Cardiff paid for a month's backpacking in Italy during the university's summer break. Those first two-thousand words had taken her an afternoon to write and when she returned to Cardiff at the end of August, she had ten similar length pieces on her laptop. Within three weeks, she'd found buyers for all but one of them, and her bank balance looked positively alien; four thousand pounds of her own earned money was utterly surreal to a twenty year-old. Keeping the money coming in paid not only for the remainder of her tuition, but also for a cramped one-bedroom house-share in a student house just off Cathedral Road, twenty minutes' walk from the university, less, if she cut across the park. By the time Sarah graduated with her Honours degree three years later, she had a semi-regular travel column in three regional newspapers, her reports and reviews almost always picked up either as soon as she tendered them, or were increasingly the results of commissions she was being offered. She also had more than thirty thousand pounds in the bank.

In keeping with such an independent ethos, she decided to continue her studies, taking a fancy to the languages she had already begun to pick up on her European backpacking trips. She was offered a scholarship by Cardiff to stay put which meant she only needed to pay for her lodgings and little else. In another two years, she'd achieved not only a Distinction in her Master of Linguistics, but by the time she crossed the stage to collect her diploma, she was writing for five newspapers, two tourism associations and a holiday magazine. It had been difficult towards the end of her studies; it had been a growing problem juggling her thesis and her commercial work, but she had gritted her teeth, thanked god she was single, and watched as the balance of her bank account quietly rolled over into six-figures.

Her first really big commission was a series of semi-advertising pieces for a tourism cartel based in Barcelona. Being able to write just as effectively in Spanish as she did in English was a massive advantage, and Sarah availed herself of every opportunity she could. The cartel work paid enough for her to put down a deposit on a really nice flat in South London which she immediately rented out to cover the mortgage payments. At twenty-five and less than six-months after completing her Masters in European languages, she was not only writing regularly for a dozen different British publications, but also a handful of continental ones. By the time she was thirty, she had three glossily illustrated travel books to her name, weekly by-lines in two of the nation's most prestigious newspapers and regular holiday columns in several international magazines. She had also paid off the South London flat, sold it, and had bought a very pleasing apartment in Lonsdale Square, Islington. Even though she still had a mortgage, it was relatively small, having sold her first property well and used almost the entire amount of the sale as a deposit on the new place. She also had almost half-a-million quid in the bank and had been around the world twice. Deciding to invest two-thirds of her nest-egg in renewable energies had been a terrifying moment ... all that money ... all that risk. But she took another deep breath and did it anyway; only to find that she'd stepped onto the green bandwagon at just the right moment as her investments soared. Within five years, the public appetite for solar panels and sustainable energy had exceeded even the most ambitious forecasts, and her financial future was secured.

Technically, and even though she was only thirty-five, Sarah knew she could have retired from commercial work at that point if she'd wanted; the income from her investments now more than sufficient to cover her expenses. She decided to decide what to do after she returned from France in March, where the ancient grey-cobbled streets still rang with the last songs of winter rain. And it was somewhere between the chill of Paris and the glowing heat of her latest project in the Australian south-west, that the idea of a baby took shape and became real.

How difficult could it be? Though happily unattached, she was not lacking in experience with men; Sarah had not the slightest illusion that this might be a messy, time-consuming and challenging life-change, but it was simply something she knew she had to try. There was no rhyme or reason behind the unexplained desire; it was what it was. She still had absolutely no interest in settling into any sort of constricting relationship with any long-term partner; but then, that wasn't the relationship that she wanted. She wanted a baby. Her own child to love and cherish and to share in the wonders of the world.

But how to go about it?

Other than the recent Frenchman, she had no really close male friends she could ask for such an intimate favour, and following her mother's disastrous physical decline, had never been the type to enjoy the party lifestyle. She was far too selective to simply go out and pick up a man; casual sex, unless it was at a time and place of her own choosing, was rather boring when it came down to it. Few men had ever been sufficiently interesting for her to seek a repeat performance and frankly, she got as much pleasure from her Hitachi Magic Wand as anything else. However, while mains-powered sex aids were fine and dandy in their appropriate place, they weren't much good at making a baby. In which case, there was only one thing to do. Find a fertility clinic and make arrangements for science to work its own kind of magic.

Since money wasn't an issue in this point, Sarah spent the morning phoning around several specialist clinics and comparing services and costs. Not that cost was any real problem; even the most expensive of the private fertility centres was well within her anticipated outlay, assuming all went well, which, of course, it might not. She was already on the upper age limit for a successful intrauterine process, though her age wasn't by any means as old as some of the women whose reviews she'd spent time reading. It seemed that, as long as she was relatively healthy, which she was, and not too old, which she hopefully wasn't, then the entire process was relatively simple. You had a bunch of tests, chose the parameters for your donor, identified the most suitable time of the month and endured a procedure that by all accounts was less traumatic than having a pap smear.

Sarah realised there had to be an element of realism in this plan. No matter how much she might want this to be successful, and no matter how prepared everything was, and how carefully everything was handled, it still might not work. It seemed sensible to assume that she might not manage an instant pregnancy the first couple of times, so she'd give it six rounds of trying. If she wasn't pregnant after six cycles of the best and most intensive medical treatment she could find in London, then she'd give up the idea, go off to Chile and write the book on South American travels her agent had been banging on about for the last year.

After several weeks of rigorous research both on the phone and in person, she found the best place by far was the Centre for Reproductive Medicine at the University College hospital near Euston Square. It ticked all the boxes, had everything she needed and even the people who worked there were pleasant without being gushingly over-optimistic. It was also, as Sarah discovered, a noted centre of reproductive science with medical professionals coming from all over the world to work there and gain British experience. On top of all that, it was less than fifteen minutes away from her flat by taxi or a good half-hour's walk if she was feeling energetic. That the place was so scientifically well-known inspired a feeling of confidence; places like that would have to be above board and transparent, wouldn't they? That the clinic also had the highest success rate of any fertility clinic in London was another comforting piece of knowledge.

Getting in touch with the relevant people; filling in an endless series of forms; making bookings for tests and them more tests, and enduring the rather impersonal process of monitoring her internal body temperature twice-daily, was wearying. On top of this, Sarah was still maintaining her contractual writing obligations, though she'd already pared down her writing contracts to a more comfortable level. She taken the wise step of setting up a stash of pieces she written some months before; it would take very little for her to update them and send them in to her editors at the due time. And she had one more part of the process to go through before the actual insemination could begin prior to her next ovulation. Time to select a donor.

Sarah was surprised that she was able to be so specific in her choices. Ethnicity, nationality, general appearance, short, tall ... intellectual attributes, occupation ... it felt odd picking out the potential biological father of her child this way. But, well, science. Shrugging, she got on with it.

Ethnicity? Well, not that she really minded; her lovers had certainly been ethnically diverse, but the child might feel more comfortable if it was recognisably hers. So, Caucasian. Hair colour? Dark, for the same reason. Eyes? Blue if possible. Height, tall, like herself, but general body-shape, athleticism, musical aptitude ... none of that felt important enough to specify. In these things, she'd let nature have its way.

Intelligence level? Sarah nibbled her bottom lip at this one. She had learned to prize intellectual thoughtfulness at university and wanted her child to have the best chance in the world ahead. Yes. High. Big tick for that one. Occupation? There were several that Sarah felt broad enough to suit her general aim, ticking Mathematician, CEO, Director, Artist, Writer, Musician, Journalist and Academic. Sadly, there were no boxes for Explorer or Astronaut. IQ level? The highest possible. Income level? Not that it made the slightest difference to her, but someone who could generate a reasonable income was usually good at something. She picked Medium - High. The doctors at the clinic had advised her the donor sample had to be properly prepared before the process could take place which, judging by her own ovulation chart, would probably be sometime in the next six days. Hugging herself with excitement, Sarah poured her permitted one glass of red wine with a celebratory dinner of oysters and steak, followed by a hefty dose of Folic acid and a multivitamin pill.

That had been four months ago and, even with the best will in the world, Sarah would be lying if she pretended not to be a little disheartened. She had followed all the instructions to their very letter. She had eaten all the right things, drunk none of the wrong things; she'd lain down when she was supposed to lie down, and exercised when exercise was called for. She relaxed, slept, walked, meditated, tried yoga, read, swam, worked and spent what felt like hours at the clinic. But nothing seemed to have helped. Perhaps she was simply too old, after all. She had been advised this might have been a problem. There was no way of pretending this had been anything other than an eyes wide open affair.

Two more attempts and she'd have to review her decision. Should she extend the process for another six months or give the whole thing away as a bad job? She hadn't told any of her few friends about the attempt, not wanting sympathy or smothering sentimentality.

"We'd like to try a new donor," Doctor Engels leaned forward over his desk immediately prior to the fifth attempt. "Not that there's been anything wrong with the previous samples we've used, but sometimes trying with different biotic material can make all the difference. Are you agreeable?"

Of course she was. The particulars of the donors she'd selected were vague at best. So she was hardly likely to be picky at this stage. "As long as the basic selection parameters are the same, I have no problem trying anything," she sighed. "Though I'm also fully aware that no matter what we try, this mightn't work. You've been very up front about that, and I'm not the unrealistic type."

"Then if you're ready?" Engels stood, indicating the door. "The nurse is waiting for you in Room Three."

Nodding, Sarah walked down the well-carpeted hallway to the designated room. It was the one she'd been in four times previously, and she knew the ropes by now. Changing swiftly into a loosely-fastened paper gown, she sighed as she got onto the comfortable bed, listening as her usual choice of relaxing cello music piped in through speakers on the wall.

"This won't take but a moment," the nurse prepared the usual paraphernalia, including the catheter and slim syringe. "A bit chilly for the time of year," she said, helping Sarah into the best position. "Doing anything nice for Easter? Time simply flies these days."

Gritting her teeth at the unlikable though not painful or even really uncomfortable sensations, Sarah breathed deeply until everything relaxed and she began to float away on the lovely music.

"There, lovey. All done." The nurse was already piling the used equipment back onto a nearby trolley, snapping the rubber gloves from her hands as she tucked a couple of pillows beneath Sarah's knees to let her rest more comfortably. "Now just you lie there for a half-hour and have a bit of a nap if you can. I'll be back in to see you when it's time."

Nodding fractionally, Sarah lay back and let the measured tones of YoYo Ma float around her head. As soon as she was free from this place, she'd grab a cab home; have a healthy snack, rest in front of the television until the early evening when she'd probably go for a gentle swim at the Cally Pool, less than ten minutes away from her flat. Then she'd come home, have a light supper and maybe do a little work on one of her waiting commissions. She had five on the go right at that moment, but only two were getting close to their submission date. If she could knock one out tonight, then she could have a chat with her agent in the morning about any new book commissions going in her field.

And then, of course, she would wait.

###

It was now the seventh of May, five weeks since the last treatment. Five weeks in which, very importantly, certain events had not taken place. Refusing to allow herself to become overly excited, Sarah did all the things she had been told to do; take all the supplements she was supposed to take, rest when she was supposed to rest. The one thing she had been advised not to do was use any off-the-shelf pregnancy tests from Boots.

Naturally, therefore, Sarah was currently standing in her ensuite bathroom watching the second hand of her watch crawl around the dial with no fewer than five different pregnancy test strips laid out on the fine marble top of the vanity unit. Each kit ranged in colour from white through pink and purple to deepest dark blue. Some had one tiny plastic window; a couple of them had two windows. Several were ready for reading in less than three minutes; one of them took up to five minutes. But they all did exactly the same thing, and so Sarah watched as the second hand swept agonisingly slowly back up to the top of the hour. Holding her breath, she picked up the first test strip and stared. Then she looked at the second and then the third, barely glancing at the last two. Two lines. There were two lines in all of them.

She was pregnant.

"O.M.G.," a big grin crawled over her face and she felt a little lightheaded at the knowledge she'd finally managed to do the deed. Blinking rapidly, Sarah had three thoughts in her head. The first was to phone and leave a message for Doctor Engels, before contacting the obstetrics clinic she'd previously selected in Milford House, home of the London Obstetrics Centre. The next thing she knew she really ought to do was ring her agent and explain why she might not be on the market for anything major six-months from now, and for him to let her know if there were any interesting projects in the offing that she could complete within that time frame.

The final thing Sarah had promised herself to do was to go out and celebrate at one of her favourite burger joints in the borough of Islington, Byron's in Upper Street. She'd avoided all fatty foods for nearly six-months and felt she deserved a classic double-cheeseburger with special courgette fries and a large banana smoothie. It might be the last time she had such fodder for a while.

Doctor Engels was naturally delighted, asking her to make an appointment for an confirmation test at the clinic, though that was more for their own records than anything else. The receptionist at Milford House remembered her earlier inquiry and was equally happy to instate her as a provisional patient until a final choice of obstetrician had been confirmed. Her agent, who went by the somewhat florid sobriquet of Milton Ajax, was rather less congratulatory. She had known him since he first rejected one of her early pieces while she was still at university in Cardiff, and as he had been generous enough at the time to offer a really solid critique of her writing, she'd naturally thought of him when she genuinely needed an agent to deal with the contracts she was being sent. Not quite old enough to be of her parent's generation, Milton had looked after her interests from the first, and she trusted him to death.

"Pregnant?" he sounded first shocked, then fatalistic. "I didn't even know you were that serious about anyone," he said slowly. "Who's the lucky chap?"

"There's no lucky chap," Sarah sank down onto an overstuffed settee with the phone at her ear. "I'm flying solo on this one."

There was a pause as the other end of the conversation. "You've done this deliberately?" Milton's tone had wandered away from the surprised into the concerned. "There's no Mister Lawrence on the horizon?"

"Nope," Sarah held the phone tight to her ear as she lolled back on the sofa. "Though whoever invented the IVF process might be considered an honorary grandparent, I suppose."

"You've been to a ... a ... one of those places?" Milton's voice sounded half way between disturbed and scandalised.

"Well, my darling Milt," Sarah was grinning at the man's slight discomfort. He was such an old prude at times. "Science is a wonderful thing and, in this instance, has managed to get Yours Truly right up the duff." Her grin got bigger at the thought of Milton Ajax squirming at such vulgarisms.

"And you don't even know who the father is?" Milton felt he had to at least inquire.

"Nary a clue, nor do I ever intend to know," Sarah raised her eyebrows and contemplated the ceiling of her sitting room. "This is all strictly impersonal; no names, no pack drill," she said. "The biological father of my child might be a banker or a drummer in a rock band," she sounded airy. "I don't know and I really don't care either way, though it does make me feel vaguely wicked and deliciously tarty," she had to bite her lip not to laugh.

"I think you're mad," Milton was calming down, though she could tell he was still vaguely disapproving. Ah well. His choice. She didn't have to make his problems her problems. "Are you going to be stopping work?"

Sarah laughed lightly, shaking her head even though there was nobody to see. "And why on earth would I do anything that silly?" she asked. "Until I'm too far gone to pick up my laptop, and maybe in the first few months when I start changing nappies," she added. "It might be nice to actually have a holiday of my own for once."

"But in the meantime, you're still okay for anything that might crop up?" Milton was clearly thinking about her writing career.

"As long as I can finish it before the loinfruit arrives," Sarah grinned again. "It's due at the end of December," her grin widened even more. "A perfect Christmas present, in fact."

"I still say you're mad," her agent's tones had mollified somewhat now that the idea was sinking in. "But you must promise me that if there's anything you need, you will ask, won't you?"

He sounded so sincere and so suddenly thoughtful that Sarah found her throat tightening. "Of course I will, you foolish literary agent, you," she smiled understandingly. "I wanted you to be the first to know, that's all."

"And I'm glad you wanted to share the news with me," his voice was softer now, a caring note in his words. "You know I'll always be here for you, whatever you need."

"I do, and I think you're a darling person," Sarah smiled brightly. "I have to rush; there's a couple of other people I really have to share this with," she said. "Talk soon, yes?"

"Of course we'll be talking soon," Milt sounded more like his usual self; bluff, gruff, pedantic old Milton Ajax.

The rest of the evening went quickly as Sarah thumbed through her telephone book to see if there was anyone who'd be mortally offended if she didn't tell them the news. There were less than a handful, for which she was immeasurably thankful; get all the baby nonsense out of the way right at the beginning, and she could get herself back to work, at least for the next few months, or until she got too big to fly. An idea appeared in her mind about writing a travel guide for the pregnant professional; understanding airlines, sympathetic travel services, carefully designed hotels ... it might be fun to do. It would also be her child's introduction to the fabulous world of international travel.

Eating the last of the courgette fries and patting her tummy with happy fingertips, Sarah knew this was going to be an amazing experience of unparalleled growth, mental development and personal affirmation. This whole baby-thing was undoubtedly going to be brilliant.

###

"What?" She looked from one to the other of the three, tense-faced men watching her from the far side of Doctor Engel's desk. "What do you mean, 'there's been a mistake'?" Sarah felt her pulse begin to pound faster as their words sank into her muddled brain. Had the confirmation tests uncovered something awful? Had the donor suddenly admitted some previously hidden, but dreadful congenital disorder? Was she not even pregnant? What was the problem?

"Not in terms of the baby's health or in any way that your donor's parameters were compromised," Engels raised his hands towards her in an attempt to reassure. "It's simply that the donor sample you were given ... was not exactly meant to be used in our fertility program," he smiled placatingly, a little too much anxiety showing in his eyes.

"That tells me nothing useful whatsoever," Sarah felt herself warm with annoyance. Normally, she avoided losing her temper, but she had a feeling that this might be one of the times it would help. "In simple words, if you please," she crossed her legs and waited, deep suspicion written all across her face.

"My name is Bailey, Marshall Bailey," the oldest of the three men stood, smiled fleetingly and began pacing a little way off behind the desk. "I'm the Medical Centre's senior legal advisor and it falls to me to set the situation out in legal terms," he turned and smiled down at her. Neither his tone nor his rather patronising expression were terribly helpful, though Sarah was a veteran of many contractual negotiations and was unfazed by Bailey's pompous manner.

"So we're dealing with a legal situation then?" Sarah steepled her fingers in her lap. "Should I have my own legal representative join us for this discussion?" she asked, lightly. The response to this question would provide a great deal of information.

"Oh, there's no need for lawyers to get involved, not really, is there?" Engels and the third, as yet unintroduced man exchanged glances.

"And yet you felt a need to have your own senior legal advisor here ..." Sarah splayed her fingers in the air, questions hanging unspoken. "Perhaps if someone told me what was actually going one, we might be able to consider potential solutions to this problem, whatever it is."

"An excellent way to see the situation, indeed, excellent," Marshall Bailey's smile was as false as the rest of his behaviour and Sarah realised at that moment that the clinic had made a very embarrassing mistake indeed, even though she didn't know yet quite what it was. They were panicking; both Engels and this man Bailey were terrified.

"You say the donor sample you gave me was the wrong one?" Oh, god ... Sarah's pulse thudded afresh as her imagination kicked in. The donor was a convicted serial killer and they never knew! A cannibal psychopath, a homicidal maniac ...

"In addition to this centre focusing on reproductive science, it also undertakes research in stem-cell application, as well as a number of highly classified projects," Bailey pursed his mouth and looked down at his feet. "There are numerous research activities taking place here at all times, involving many test subjects; an almost endless stream of biological samples being taken, analysed, stored, used," he frowned to himself. "It is almost inevitable that, at some point, a single sample intended for one purpose, might be misdirected and used for another, entirely different purpose," he paused, inhaling slowly, raising his eyes to hers.

Oh. Sarah realised what had happened. Her donor had not meant his donation to be donated.

"But you say there is no problem with the baby's health; that this ... misplaced …sample still matched all my specific parameters?"

"This is all quite true," Engels joined in, leaning forward on his desk, clearly relieved Sarah hadn't yet launched into a screaming fit. "Without going into details, I think I may confidently say that this particular donor is exceptional in every measurable way ..." he was about to say more, but was silenced by a swift hand-movement of the third, and thus far silent member of the trio. He was short and thin with a weaselly face and wore a dark, seriously business-like suit of good quality. He seemed far more sombre than either Engels or Bailey. If she had to watch out for any of them, it would be this guy, Sarah noted to herself. She took a slow breath and waited for the other boot to drop.

"I represent the interests of the ... donor in this matter," the man didn't even bother with an introduction. "While the gentleman is as unhappy with the situation as is the clinic, he is also aware that he must, in some way, take responsibility for what, in the fullness of time, will hopefully result in a healthy child. Since my client is financially secure, he would very much like to ...

"Stop right there," Sarah raised her left hand up, palm outwards. "No," she added quietly, suddenly understanding what they were asking her to do and not wanting any part of it. "From the very beginning, I have been fully determined and perfectly capable of managing this situation entirely on my own and without interference," she kept her voice low, though she could feel the anger beginning to roil again in her stomach. She rose gracefully to her feet.

"I am also financially secure, and I do not need, want or require any man to be involved in my life. I do not want the donor to be held responsible, irregardless of how much he has in the bank, or how very much he might wish to do something for my child. Gentlemen, my answer is no."

"Ms Lawrence," Marshall Bailey lifted both hands in an unconscious plea. "Please consider," he suggested carefully. "The donor, and in this case, a truly unsuspecting man, must surely have some right to acknowledge his child?"

Sarah stood tall and unmoving, intensity hardening her features. "One of the reasons I came to this centre for treatment," she said, very calmly, "was because of its extraordinarily comprehensive policy on donor and patient anonymity," she paused, looking straight at the nameless, dark-suited man. "I can see that my legally-assured privacy has already been violated," she added, staring unblinkingly at each of the three men in turn. "However, you should know that I am a cautious person by nature, and have learned never to sign any form of contract without first having it thoroughly vetted by my own legal advisors," she allowed a tight smile to curve her mouth. "In this matter, and according to your own policy, my privacy and my choice to maintain that privacy supersedes any wishes of the donor, whether he donated his biotic material knowingly or not," she took another slow breath. "If I am approached in the future, in any way or form by either the donor or any of his ..." Sarah paused, turning her stare directly back at the unsmiling man in the business suit. "Representatives, then please know that not only will I take great pleasure in suing this clinic, the university and both you, Mister Bailey and you, Doctor Engels, to the fullest extent of the law, but you should know I am also a journalist," she said, pausing again. "And being a journalist, with many journalist friends and colleagues, it would be the work of a moment for me to expose this entire shambles in the public domain, which would, I am sure, result in a significant loss of funding from both the public and private spheres," she smiled sweetly. "I do not want to know this man, I do not wish this man, whoever he might be, to have anything to do with me or my child, now or at any time in the future. This child is entirely my affair and I will not hesitate to defend my legal right to absolute privacy," breathless, she paused a third time, straightening her back. "Am I clear?"

"And is this your final word on the matter, Ms Lawrence?" Mister Dark Suit looked at her with a suddenly appraising eye. "You are not prepared to permit the man I represent either formal or informal access to the child, even though he is most certainly legally entitled to that access?"

Picking up her coat and bag, Sarah walked towards the door. "If I hear one more word about this, the next people you talk with will be solicitors and journalists," she said, observing the weaselly-faced man lift a phone to his ear as she headed out into the deeply carpeted corridor. Her chest was tight with unexpressed fury, however, by the time she'd reached the front entrance of the clinic, she felt her stomach muscles slowly beginning to relax. When she rounded the corner of the large building and reached Grafton Way, she was able to take a deep breath without shuddering, and by the time she turned onto Gower Street, looking for a cab, Sarah felt almost normal again, though her thoughts continued their mad spin.

Heading into Euston Square, Gower Street was very busy with all manner of ambulances, delivery vehicles and, police vans, as well as the usual mid-day central-London traffic of business people heading out to lunch. Still caught up in her gradually receding anger, Sarah took absolutely no notice of the sleek black Jaguar parked across the road from the hospital buildings.