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At about 3:30 p.m., we’re on the road, heading east to Alan Woodridge’s country house, deep in the Devon countryside.
We’re in Titus’s Range Rover, and dressed smart-casual, Titus in beige chinos and a dark-blue short-sleeved shirt, me in white capri pants and a hot-pink top.
“Okay?” I ask when I see him glance across at me for the second time.
“Yep,” he says.
“Something wrong with my trousers?”
“Nope.”
“Out with it, Lawrence.”
“They’re very tight,” he says.
I look down at them. “Are you saying I look like a slut?”
He gives me a startled glance. “How did you get that from what I said?”
“I extrapolated.”
“You extrapolate a lot. It wasn’t a complaint or a criticism. It was a statement. I shouldn’t have looked, but they’re tight, and you’re gorgeous, and I’m only human.” He sounds exasperated.
“Sorry,” I say. “I should have worn a kaftan.”
He scowls at me. “Don’t think I don’t realize you’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m not!” Okay, I am, a little bit, but I’m not going to admit that to him. “I can’t help it if you’ve got sex on the brain.”
“I wouldn’t have if you weren’t sitting next to me wearing clothes so tight that they leave nothing to the imagination.” That makes me giggle, and his lips curve up. “Minx,” he says.
“Seriously,” I reply, “I didn’t realize they were that tight. Do you think I ought to change? I want to make a good impression.”
“Not at all. You look amazing. You’re right, it’s my brain.” He sighs.
“How long has it been since you had sex?” I ask.
“Nineteen weeks, four days, six hours, and about seventeen minutes.”
Now I’m giggling nonstop, and that makes him laugh. “Don’t mock me,” he says. “I thought I’d be distracting myself by concentrating on business all weekend, and instead I chose to invite the most beautiful girl in the country to go with me. I must be mad.”
I smile at him. “You say the nicest things.”
He huffs a sigh, although he smiles back. “Distract me,” he says. “For God’s sake.”
“All right. Tell me about Alan Woodridge and his family.”
“Okay. He’s in his late fifties, and he was born in New Zealand, but he met his wife, Vicky, when he came to the UK on his big OE, and he decided to stay here. They’ve got three girls, all married, and who’ve all had fertility issues, so it’s a cause that’s very close to his heart. The eldest, Carrie, has been trying to get pregnant for about eight years, and she’s had three rounds of IVF, but it’s not worked. She’s taken it hard, apparently—he actually got a bit emotional when he was telling me about her. Unfortunately his middle daughter, Rowena, has just had her first round of IUI and it’s failed. His youngest, Sarah, has gotten pregnant twice and had two miscarriages. He’s determined to do anything he can to help them, which is why he wants to invest in our research project.”
“Oliver said it was five hundred million dollars.”
“Yes, and he told me there’s more money there if the project goes well.”
“But he wants the project to be run from the UK?”
“Yes. It’s a fair enough request, and quite common to ask for a representative of the research company to be present. Obviously, Elizabeth would have been a better choice because she’s the chemist behind the development of the fertility drug, but Acheron has an AI department, and their engineers are keen to learn more about the selection of gametes and embryos.”
