Hold My Hand: The addictive new crime thriller that you won’t be able to put down in 2018. M.J. Ford

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       Chapter 1

      FRIDAY

      Jo tried to ignore the vibration in her jacket pocket and concentrate on what Dr Kasparian was saying.

      ‘… the cost of the vitrification starts at three thousand pounds for one harvesting procedure, but there are discounted rates for subsequent treatments.’

      ‘And would you recommend that?’

      The doctor – well-tanned, athletic, expensive-looking wire-rimmed spectacles – spread his hands.

      ‘In most cases, the initial hormone boost should allow us to harvest more than one egg. Of course, probability-wise, you are more likely to conceive the more cycles of fertilisation you undertake.’ He looked at the papers in front of him. ‘Based on your age, any single attempt yields a twenty-two per cent chance of a successful pregnancy.’

      ‘One in five,’ said Jo flatly.

      ‘A little better that that,’ replied the doctor.

      Not great odds either way. Her phone stopped ringing.

      The doctor cocked his head sympathetically and removed his glasses.

      ‘Ms Masters, I realise this is a big decision for anyone, whether a woman of twenty years, or someone older. No fertility treatment is foolproof. But I can assure you that here at Bright Futures, we are solely concerned with providing you with the best possible care and outcomes. Our protocols are designed to the highest medical technology standards in the field. Our results reflect that – we’re in the top ten percentile points of success.’

      ‘So three grand?’ said Jo. If she got the promotion to Detective Inspector, it wouldn’t be a problem. ‘Do the eggs have a best before date?’

      The doctor smiled. ‘Not in practical terms, no.’

      ‘And can I pay in instalments?’

      He looked taken aback. ‘Erm … that isn’t something we usually do.’

      Jo stared at him. Told herself not to get flustered. Just be straight.

      ‘Right, but can you?’

       Christ, I sound desperate.

      The doctor looked away first. ‘There may be ethical considerations,’ he said. ‘If we were to freeze your eggs, then subsequently, through no fault of your own, the payments were to fall into default—’

      ‘Is that a “no” then?’

      The doctor placed his glasses back on. ‘Perhaps you could excuse me for a moment? Hopefully I can discuss the matter with my colleague.’

      Jo nodded and watched him stand up and walk out, leaving her alone in the plush room.

      She let her gaze travel around the dark wood furniture, clean lines, books neatly stacked. Perfect, sanitised order. She wondered how much a gynaecological consultant earned. Probably a hell of a lot more than a DS for Avon and Somerset Police. There was a single photo frame on the desk, facing partly away. Jo leant forward to look. It showed Dr Kasparian with a man who must be his partner – dark-haired, well-groomed facial hair, maybe fifty, but with a carefree face that looked ten years younger – and two teenage boys. All hanging off each other on a leather sofa. They looked perfect too.

       Good for them.

      The door opened and she sat back in her chair.

      ‘Good news,’ said the doctor. ‘Monthly payments for six months should be fine. Would you like my secretary to start the paperwork, or would you like to go away and think about it? There’s really no rush.’

      Isn’t there? thought Jo. Easy for you to say.

      She’d have preferred a year of payments, just to be safe, but she could probably afford it over half a dozen instalments.

      ‘Yes, please,’ she said, and though it galled her to add it, ‘Thank you.’

      The phone in her pocket was ringing again.

       Just leave me alone, Ben. Just for ten fucking minutes.

      * * *

      The paperwork didn’t take long, but the questions got more personal as they went along.

      First, the basics. Name (Josephine Masters); address (she gave the rented place in the south of the city; didn’t need Ben somehow getting mail about this); DOB (as if she needed reminding); occupation (copper). Then medical history. Clean bill of health, apart from the scare last year; alcohol unit intake (everyone lied, right?); do you smoke (no, but gagging for one right now); last period (the 18th); last instance of sexual intercourse (regrettable); last pregnancy (she paused a moment, wondering whether it was the conception date they wanted, or the date of the miscarriage, then opted for the latter). The secretary tapped deftly at the keyboard with manicured fingers. She was perhaps early twenties, a pretty, natural blonde, combining elegance and amiability in a way Jo could never have managed at that age.

      Jo wondered what the young woman thought of her. Did she judge? What did she think of the going-on-forty-year-old sitting opposite, her hair needing a colour, her crow’s feet obvious, her sensible shoes СКАЧАТЬ