Page 23 of Things We Do for Love and Science
He tilted his head and focused on Delia. “At the risk of sounding like an overbearing big brother, let me just say this. You should have your own children. Judging by the way my kids adore you, you’d be a great mum. Your career’s important to you, and that’s wonderful, but maybe take a break every so often. Find a nice man to start a family with.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not that again. I’ll have a baby, at least one, via a sperm donor once I’ve got tenure, when they can’t sack me for getting pregnant.”
“Raising kids is hard work. It’s easier with two parents involved,” he said. “You need a proper support system, a partner, and a couple of good friends. Right now, your job is leeching every ounce of energy from you, and I’m concerned that you’re left isolated.”
“I’m used to the grind, and hardly any man is as good a dad as you are.” She patted his forearm. “There’s a host of women who have partners but are still left with the lion’s share of care work.” Heat swept through her gut. “I might as well do it on my own. At least that way I get to call the shots.”
He sighed. “I know where you’re coming from, I really do. But not every marriage is like our parents’ shitshow.”
“Yes, but what Anjali and you have is a rare phenomenon and not at all easy to replicate.”
He covered her hand with his. “How will you ever know if you’re not even trying?”
“It means I can’t fail.” She lifted her chin and slowly extricated her hand.
He studied her with a thoughtful expression. “Sorry, I overstepped. Any news with you? Other than experiments that work out and those that don’t?”
“Hold your breath, brother.” She braced her elbows on the table and rested her face on her palms. “I’m being painted. A full-length portrait. By a real artist.”
His forehead crinkled. “Delia, what’s this now?”
“Don’t stress.” She gave a dismissive wave. “It’s not a nude if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m wearing a floor-length ballgown.”
He snorted. “You in a ballgown.”
She smirked. “I know.”
There was a lull in the conversation when the food arrived. They grabbed their cutlery and started eating.
“By the way, who’s the artist?” he asked, between bites of his burger.
“I met him through work. He just lost his dad, and he likes to paint. I thought it’d be a nice thing to do, to pose for him, take his mind off things, you know. He’s also in a pretty tight spot financially.” She speared a cherry tomato with her fork and put it in her mouth.
Tom sat up. “And how did this come about?”
“John Winter needed DNA from the painter’s ancestor, and he sent me to collect some teeth so—”
Tom tsked. “Your boss asked the poor bloke for his dead dad’s teeth? A clear sign that he’s finally lost his mind.”
“No.” She put up a hand. “Not his father’s teeth, rather those of his great-great-great-great grandfather.”
“But how does he even know where his remains are?” he asked.
“They’re interred in the vault underneath their chapel. You know, the Kirwans of Renwood Hall.”
Tom’s eyebrows wandered toward his hairline. “You’re being painted by the newEarl of Renwood?”
“Yes.” She chewed on a mouthful of quiche, unbothered by the artist’s aristocratic pedigree.
Tom leaned his forehead on his hand. “This is totally mad. Those posh people don’t mix with the likes of us.”
“He’s down to earth though. Not snobbish at all. And he may soon have to sell Renwood Hall, I believe.” She put down her fork and tugged at the corner of her napkin.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” He glanced at the ceiling with mock-solemnity. “This whole bloody town and the university’s named after them, and now this.”
“Yeah, I feel sorry for him, you know. He’s so sad underneath his friendly courteousness.” The edge of her napkin was frayed, but still she kept pulling at it.
“A man who can move your heart. Is there a glimmer of hope after all?” Tom grinned.
