Perfect People

  29

  John had an old school friend, Kalle Almtorp, from his home town of Örebro, who now worked as an attaché at the Swedish embassy in Washington. They rarely met up, but kept in touch by email. Kalle had good connections.

  John had contacted him now to see what further information he could find out about the death of Dr Dettore, and the total silence from his ship. He also asked him for anything he could find out about the organization who called themselves the Disciples of the Third Millennium.

  This morning, John had almost two hundred emails, as well as a whole barrage of voice mails both at his home and office numbers. The story of their designer baby had hit Sweden and, it seemed, just about every other country on the planet. There were phone messages from family and friends, as well as three from publicists begging to take him and Naomi on as clients, assuring them their own personal story could be syndicated globally for vast sums.

  There was a reply from Kalle Almtorp. It was in Swedish – they always communicated in their home language.

  Kalle had barely more information on the death of Dr Dettore than John had seen on the news. Like the ship, the helicopter had been registered in Panama and the crash had happened in international waters. However, because both the pilot and Dettore were US citizens, the FAA were taking an interest. A full air-sea search was underway and a salvage vessel had been sent to the crash area. So far there had been no reported communications from the Serendipity Rose, nor any sighting of wreckage.

  As for the organization calling themselves the Disciples of the Third Millennium, Kalle had no information on them, either. It could just be a hoax, he suggested, some crank learning about the helicopter crash – maybe some religious nut – and claiming responsibility. However, he advised John and Naomi to be extra vigilant for a while, and he said he would be in touch again when he had any further news.

  John typed a brief reply, thanking him, then another email caught his eye. It was from his old mentor in England.

  John,

  This is a long shot, because I imagine you have been totally seduced by the Californian sunshine. But I’ve seen on the internet the stir you’ve caused with designer babies and thought you might want to get away? We have a great opportunity here. UK government funding, Sussex countryside, pretty well-assured lifetime employment and ample funding. This is a real boffin establishment. Two hundred acre campus. Six hundred research staff. A particle accelerator to rival Cern under construction. Micro Writing department – there’s a machine here that can write three hundred lines on a human hair . . . I’ve just been recruited to head up a new department, and we are actively looking for bright scientists in the virtual life field. I could offer you a lab of your own with great facilities and total freedom.

  In any event, tell me how you are, you old Viking sod, and what’s new?

  Carson Dicks.

  Professor. Dept of Virtuality. UK Government Morley Park Research Laboratories. Storrington. West Sussex. United Kingdom

  John leaned back in his chair and stared at it thoughtfully. If he mentioned this to Naomi, he knew exactly what she would say; she’d bite his hand off for the chance to go back to England. Back home.

  But for him it was less appealing. Sussex was where he had lived before, and he had liked it well enough. It was close to London, it had the sea, it had Brighton, which was a handsome and vibrant city, it had great countryside.

  But it was England. Dismal weather. Dismal attitudes towards scientists. It was hard to believe that a country which had been responsible for so many of the world’s greatest inventions had such an indifferent and miserly attitude towards research. Tenure at USC might be a problem, thanks to Sally Kimberly, but he could remain in the US, sell his soul and get a job in industry, with a software or maybe a pharmaceutical company.

  He liked Carson Dicks. But the thought of going back to England depressed him. Although, he conceded, it might be the answer to their present predicament.

  He typed a guarded response back, telling the professor it was good to hear from him, and he would think about it.

  30

  Naomi’s Diary

  Lori and Irwin have been brilliant to us. I still don’t think either of them really approves of what we’ve done, but they’re not showing it. They insisted we come and stay with them in their guest annex until everything dies down.

  They have a great property on Lago Vista, just off Coldwater Canyon. It sits right on top of a canyon, up above the Beverly Hills Hotel with views west towards the ocean, and to the east across to downtown LA, and their guest house is heaven – bigger than our own house!

  It’s like being out in the country, tons of wildlife, and across the canyon we can see an enormous place – Irwin says it was built by Aaron Spelling (creator of Dynasty!), but Lori’s not so sure, she thinks that place is further east. Whatever. The house must be fifty thousand square feet and there are two tennis courts. Awesome! I’ve made a note to check it out for them, and I keep forgetting – I know just the person to ask.

  It’s now four days since the news of Dr Dettore’s death, and three days since John and I featured on the front of USA Today. It’s really hard. Everywhere I go I feel people staring at me; even sitting in the car at stop lights I see people looking and I wonder if they saw the paper. I try to think, if I had read that article, would I remember the woman’s face four days on? What makes things stick in people’s minds? Every publicist would love the answer. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I’m sure I’m getting some strange looks in meetings.

  John’s had no response from the Serendipity Rose. Emails get bounced back, and the phone is constantly unobtainable. John’s friend at the Swedish embassy in Washington, Kalle Almtorp, says the US Coastguard has found no wreckage from the helicopter and no sign of the ship. There are moments when I can’t believe Dr Dettore is dead – he was such an inspiring, larger-than-life character – and other moments when I feel that I’m – that John and I both are the victims of some conspiracy.

  John is very subdued. That worries me, because he’s always been such a positive person, always known what to do. He seems lost at the moment.

  When I was pregnant with Halley I never had any of the cravings you hear about, that you’re meant to have. But now, this frozen pea thing I have is driving me insane! I wake in the middle of the night and go down to the freezer and take out a handful of cold peas. Irwin took us all out to the Ivy last night, and I managed to convince the waiter I was serious, I wanted a side order of unthawed frozen peas. He brought them, beautifully presented as if they were oysters or something, on a bed of crushed ice.

  Going nuts? Moi?

  31

  This place truly was to die for, Naomi thought, reclining on a lounger on Irwin and Lori Shapiro’s marbled pool terrace, the sky cloudless, the warmth of the sun feeling good on her body.

  It was midday, Sunday. Irwin had taken John to his club for a round of golf, which Naomi was glad about – John needed to get out in the fresh air and away from their problems for a few hours. He was severely stressed, tossing and turning all night, and she could tell he was having problems concentrating in the daytime. He seemed to be in a daze, unsure what to do, and that scared her. In the past he had always been so mentally strong – in a world of his own at times, maybe, but in control.

  She watched the Shapiros’ two small girls, Chase and Britney, splashing around with an inflatable chair in the pool, and their son, Cooper, hunting for bugs in the shrubbery at the edge of the patio. He was six, born three weeks after Halley. If Halley had lived he might be here, wearing a hat that was too big and carrying a bamboo pole, hunting bugs with Cooper right now, she thought wistfully.

  Lori called out to her. ‘We have to leave in ten minutes!’

  They were going to lunch at Barney’s, with another girlfriend of Lori’s. Reluctantly, she climbed off her lounger and headed inside. As she entered the cavernous open-plan living area, she glanced at the television, which was permanently on. A
police officer was standing outside a colonial-style mansion, in front of a line of crime-scene tape, surrounded by emergency vehicles, talking grimly to a reporter.

  ‘This is horrible,’ Lori said, looking up from going through a list with her Hispanic maid. ‘Have you been watching?’

  ‘No, what’s happened?’

  ‘Get changed, I’ll tell you in the car.’

  *

  Twenty minutes later, as they waited in Lori’s black, convertible Mercedes at a stop light at the bottom of Coldwater Canyon, Naomi said, ‘Killed – with their babies? Those people on the news?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then Lori said, ‘Want to go by your house? See if the crazies are still there this morning?’

  Naomi looked at her watch, feeling a dark slick of fear spreading through her. ‘We have time?’

  ‘Sure. Marilyn’s always half an hour late.’

  ‘OK,’ she said hesitantly. Every morning Naomi had driven to the end of their street and seen to her dismay that the five weirdos with their placards were still camped there. She felt safe staying with Lori and Irwin. They had electric gates, surveillance cameras and ARMED RESPONSE signs all around the perimeter of their property. ‘What exactly are they saying’s happened?’

  The lights changed. Lori made the turn and accelerated down Sunset. ‘The guy, Marty Borowitz, was seriously rich,’ she said. ‘Irwin had actually met him one time. He owned a string of shopping malls, and a motel chain. He was found dead with his wife and their twin one-year-old babies in the burned-out wreck of their automobile – in the drive of their house. They’re saying it was a car bomb. Just horrible.’

  ‘Why?’ Naomi asked. ‘Does anyone know the reason?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’

  They took Doheny South, down past the Four Seasons hotel, crossed Wilshire and Olympic, then Pico, Naomi saying little, just watching the traffic and the road ahead and the places they passed, but barely seeing them. She was lost in her thoughts.

  There was so much violence in the world; so much hatred. Your son died in agony from a hideous disease. You tried to make a better life for your next child, but no matter how hard you tried, there were people who reckoned they had a right to kill you or drive you from your home because they didn’t approve of what you had done.

  The freaks with their grey van and their old LTD were still on the sidewalk, a few hundred yards in front of them right now, the weirdo man with his ponytail and the silent women self-appointed custodians of their faith.

  All the news crews had gone now; there were just a couple of cars. One contained a photographer sitting in the driver’s seat, snapping them through a long lens as they approached. From the second, a young woman emerged holding a small microphone.

  ‘You want to go in?’ Lori said, slowing right down as they approached the house.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We should just both walk in, show them we don’t care. All the time they know they’ve driven you away from your home, they’ll believe they’ve won.’

  ‘Maybe they have won,’ Naomi said. ‘I just wanted to be a mother, Lori. I never set out to be a martyr.’

  ‘If that’s how you really feel, then you’d better book yourself an abortion,’ Lori said. ‘Because, boy, it’s not just now that you’re going to have to be brave, it’s going to be for the next twenty years – and probably beyond that. You might find yourself having to battle hostility for the rest of your life. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Pull up in the carport,’ Naomi said.

  Lori obeyed.

  The two of them got out of the car.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Klaesson? I’m Anna Marshall from—’

  Lori turned on her with a venom Naomi had never seen in her friend before.

  ‘SCREW OFF, BITCH,’ she yelled at her, startling the young woman so much she retreated several paces. Naomi emptied the mail box, and moments later they were inside the house, with the door locked shut behind them.

  Naomi looked at Lori. ‘That was pretty effective.’

  ‘Speak to them in a language they understand.’

  She laughed, uneasily.

  ‘And the religious freaks didn’t bite.’

  ‘Probably vegetarians,’ Naomi said. She sifted through the stack of mail, then went over to the living-room window and stared out. Hate was an emotion she had never felt before, not in any real, true sense. Dislike, yes, anger, yes, blind fury even. Hatred was something new. But it was what she felt for these people with their placards. A deep hatred she never knew she had within her.

  At five in the afternoon, after a lunch and then following Lori around the shops on Rodeo, unable to muster enthusiasm for anything, they returned back to Lago Vista, to be greeted at the front door by John, white-faced, totally drained of colour. He put on a cheery greeting but Naomi could tell something was very seriously wrong.

  A few minutes later, in the privacy of their annex guest rooms, he told Naomi.

  ‘I’ve had a call from Kalle Almtorp. This couple who were murdered with their twin babies, the Borowitzes? You saw it on the news?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He says it hasn’t been released to the media, but the FBI are taking very seriously a claim that they’ve been murdered by the same people who murdered Dr Dettore – this bunch of fanatics, the Disciples of the Third Millennium.’

  Naomi sat down on a sofa, her legs shaking. ‘Oh God.’

  John dug his hands into his pockets; he seemed about to say something, but then remained silent.

  ‘How – I – I mean – is – is he – sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ He walked around the room, then placed his hands behind her, on the back of the sofa. ‘I’ve had a job offer in England, from Carson.’

  ‘Carson Dicks? A job? England?’

  ‘If I took it, they’d be happy for me to start right away. I think – with all that’s happening – maybe we should consider leaving America.’

  ‘I don’t even need to think about it,’ she said.

  32

  Lying back in the soft leather seat, tired after the eleven-hour transatlantic flight, Naomi was lulled close to sleep by the soporific rocking motion of the large Mercedes that had collected them from London’s Heathrow Airport. John had his laptop open, but was slumped back, eyes shut.

  It was a long time since she had been back, and she had forgotten how green England looked compared to Los Angeles. She felt an enormous sense of relief at being on English soil again; everything looked so peaceful, even the traffic on the motorway seemed so much calmer than the turbulent freeways.

  She was longing to see her mother and her sister. And she was longing, also, for the bitter, salty taste of a Marmite sandwich – a new craving she’d had during the past twenty-four hours.

  The hostess on the Virgin plane must have thought she was nuts, she realized, when she’d asked her if she had any frozen peas and then Marmite.

  The car had been arranged by Carson Dicks, and Naomi appreciated the gesture. They were going down to Sussex, to stay in a hotel in Brighton. Tomorrow, John had a meeting at the Morley Park Research Laboratory with Dicks and the team he was going to be working with. Then he was going to have to fly back to LA to tie up his loose ends at work there and organize the shipping of all their possessions over to England.

  Meanwhile, she was going to have to start house hunting. Everything seemed to be happening at a speed that was hard to keep pace with. It was just two weeks since that newspaper article in USA Today. Two weeks since their whole lives had been turned upside down.

  Her mother always said that things were meant to be. Naomi didn’t believe that; she believed people controlled their own destinies. But she was an optimist. You just had to keep positive and eventually, somehow, things would work out OK.

  Like now.

  What do you think, Phoebe?

  They hadn’t had a second opinion yet – it was another two weeks before they would do that – but already in their minds they were reconciled to the fa
ct that they were having a girl. They’d started going through lists of girls’ names and last night, on the plane, they had settled on Phoebe.

  Phoebe was one of the Titans in Greek mythology, who were of enormous size and strength. It seemed fitting.

  She turned and looked through the rear window at the traffic behind them on the M23, watching for any vehicle that might be following them. There was a blue van immediately behind them in their lane, the middle lane. But then its indicator began blinking and it moved over and headed towards the ramp of the next exit. A small sports car was behind it. Then, a considerable way behind, a small green saloon and a red Range Rover, but both were slipping away into the distance.

  Paranoia, she knew. It had been the same on the plane. She’d walked down the aisle, studying the faces of the passengers, watching for someone who might be following them.

  What did a Disciple of the Third Millennium look like?

  She lowered her window a few inches, and the roar of air intruded into the clubroom quiet of the interior. August. Summer in England. The air was close and damp. Small chinks of blue sky amid the darkening grey. She remembered that it often looked like this before it rained. But she didn’t mind. Rain was hell in Los Angeles, but it was OK in England. Here it could rain as much as it wanted; just so long as she and John could move back here, she didn’t care how much sun she had to sacrifice.

  They were heading south. In the far distance she could see the green folds of the South Downs. This was where she and John had come not long after they had first met and fallen in love. She had brought him to England, first to Bath to meet her mother and to meet Harriet – and they had been charmed by him. Then he had brought her to Sussex to meet Carson Dicks and his other friends from the university. He had shown her off proudly, like a trophy, and she hadn’t minded at all. They had both been almost deliriously happy.

  And, she was thinking, she felt happy again now. Happier than she had felt—