Hostage to Murder by Val McDermid Page B

Rory up on her suggestion of a celebratory meal out to cement their new partnership and to hell with the consequences. But she knew that, being who she was, that would always have been impossible. She couldn’t be sure whether it was cowardice, love, good manners or fear that meant she had to go home and participate in the insemination she dreaded; all she knew was that she couldn’t bring herself to do otherwise.
    She’d returned via the greengrocer in Hyndland who seemed somehow always to have the freshest vegetables in town. Sprue asparagus, a selection of wild mushrooms, fresh strawberries, peaches and raspberries. She’d remembered Fraser’s boyfriend was vegetarian, and while deep down she longed to serve them all congealed Kentucky Fried Chicken, her need to see the world well fed wouldn’t allow it. It was a mark of pride to Lindsay that when people ate in her kitchen, they ate memorably and well. So she’d take the time and trouble to produce grilled asparagus, wild mushroom risotto garnished with parmesan and rocket, and
a fresh fruit salad. If she’d liked them better, she’d have made a meringue shell for a pavlova, but her soul wasn’t feeling that generous.
    She’d thought that Sophie would be home early for once, but her lover only just made it through the door ahead of their guests. “Trying to avoid talking about it?” Lindsay had said sourly when Sophie finally walked into the kitchen and came up behind her to kiss her on the neck.
    â€œNo,” Sophie replied evenly, refusing to be drawn. “I was called in on an emergency consult at the Western. You’ll be pleased to hear we saved the baby and the mother, though it was touch and go with the mum.”
    Guilt tripped, Lindsay said nothing, taking out her spleen on the parmesan, producing a pile of extravagant curls.
    The rest of the evening hadn’t gone any better. Fraser and Peter had clearly already been to the pub before they arrived, drowning their apprehensions in whisky, to judge by the smell on their breath as they leaned forward in turn to plant air kisses on Lindsay’s cheeks. “So, what’s the drill?” Fraser had demanded with an air of forced gaiety. “Is there some ceremony to the Goddess, or do we just run away through to the spare room and have a wank?”
    Lindsay closed her eyes momentarily, biting down hard to keep her mouth firmly shut. “Don’t be daft,” Sophie said, her voice more affectionate than Lindsay could ever have managed in the circumstances. “We’ll eat first. Lindsay’s cooked us a lovely meal. And then . . .”
    â€œHe can provide his specimen, eh?” Peter chipped in, his ferret smile disturbingly predatory. Lindsay was glad Sophie had asked Fraser to be their donor; at least he looked like a human being, not an escapee from a vivisection lab. Sophie’s chosen donor would be a good match for her, Lindsay thought dispassionately as she poured wine for everyone. Like her lover, Fraser was above average height, especially for a Scot, and he had the same trim build. His hair and eye colour were close to Sophie’s and like her, he had good facial bone structure.
    Lindsay supposed it made sense to have a donor who resembled Sophie so closely. It increased the chances of any baby that
resulted resembling its mother. But she couldn’t help feeling an irrational pang of exclusion that Sophie had never even bothered to ask if she’d like them to find a donor who was a match for her, so that there would be at least a chance that any child would look like an amalgam of both of them, rather than be so clearly Sophie’s child.
    The dinner conversation had been gruesome. When the two men had eaten with them previously, it had been an easy and comfortable evening. But what lay ahead sat like a ponderous elephant in the middle of the dinner table, impossible to ignore yet equally unfit for discussion