"How so?"

"It's very precise and technical. The thing I like is the mystery of it. Hardly anyone really understands what a script supervisor does. It has its own secret language. It's like the opposite of being an actor or a writer, where what you're doing is so out there and obvious. It's not the kind of job that many people think they could do." Meredith picked a piece of gra.s.s and ripped it into two neat strips. "Not that they'd want to. Most people would find it boring."

"I don't find it boring."

"You might if you had to be me for a day."

"I doubt that."

Meredith studied the ground and felt him looking at her. Being stared at made her uncomfortable, but she did nothing to stop it. She'd read in a magazine once that you shouldn't interrupt a man's gaze by talking. Men, apparently, like to stare.

"I want," he said finally, "to get to know you very well."

So do I, Meredith thought, and was about to say, but he kissed her. A perfect kiss. Velvety, tentative, but with just the right pressure.

Meredith could barely contain her excitement. She felt like dragging him into the bushes, but she knew that wouldn't do. He was wearing all white. She folded her hands in her lap and waited for the picnic to be over.

After the sandwiches and wine, they went for a walk on the Heath. The gra.s.s was squelchy and her kitten heels sank into the muck.

By the time they started back, it was verging on nine o'clock, but the sun was only beginning to drop behind the hill.

"I can't believe how bright it is," she said.

Gunther reminded her that London was farther north than Toronto. She asked about the climate in Munich, and as he was talking Meredith reached for his hand. By the time she had woven her fingers into his, they were nearly back at the parking lot.

As they approached the car, she had a vision of Gunther grabbing her by the waist, leaning her back against the Volvo and kissing her hungrily. Her interest was purely pragmatic. Kissing led to s.e.x. s.e.x led to pregnancy. Her pelvis throbbed with antic.i.p.ation. She would tell him she was on the pill.

She looked at Gunther, rooting through his leather man-bag for a misplaced set of car keys. Good jawline, she thought. Then he opened the door for her and he motioned for her to get in, but Meredith stood her ground.

"You want me to drive?" (She didn't have a licence-a fact she would have to remedy once the baby came along.) "Wrong side," said Gunther. "Welcome to Britain."

Meredith smiled at her mistake and walked around to the left side of the car. "So where to now?" she asked as they got in.

He said he would drive her back to Notting Hill. Obviously this was the first stage of seduction. Everything was coming together nicely. Her mother was out for dinner with some drunken poet friends and wouldn't be home for hours. Time, Meredith knew, was of the essence.

"Come up for a drink?" she said when they reached Coleville Terrace.

Gunther put the car into park but kept the key in the ignition. His head swung and he fixed her in his sights. Abruptly, the mood between them went from buoyant to intense. Meredith had no idea why.

"I need to say something to you." He grasped her forearm and held it in both hands like a baseball bat.

"Okay." She nodded encouragingly.

"The first night we met I was very drunk and I didn't...I feel I didn't represent myself well."

"We had fun," Meredith offered, and then, feeling she ought to say something slightly more suggestive, "serious fun."

She leaned over and kissed him again. He returned it, but only for a moment and with barely parted lips. It was exactly the sort of kiss Meredith normally liked-but tonight she had a mission. Kissing would not do. She undid her seat belt and hurled herself over the gearshift in the hope of falling seductively into Gunther's lap. She landed awkwardly, with one knee between his legs and the other foot jammed against the emergency brake.

"I want to be with you," she breathed into his hair, as she had seen actresses do in movies. With one hand she braced herself against the windshield and with the other she grabbed Gunther's fingers and pushed them under her skirt.

"Whoa, whoa," he said, and in one fluid motion lifted her over the gearshift and back into the pa.s.senger seat. Meredith smoothed her clothes and coughed.

"We did have a lot of fun," Gunther began, "but I don't want you to think that's all I'm after. The other night, I was drunk. I'm sorry for that. I want you to think better of me. And after tonight, the way we were talking...I think we should take some time to get to know each other...don't you?"

Meredith looked down. "So come upstairs and have a drink with me."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," he said. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to come inside tonight."

"But I want you to," she heard herself whine.

He reached forward and stroked her face. "Like I said, I think we should take some time. I don't want to screw this up."

Meredith opened her mouth to argue, but he pressed a finger to her upper lip.

"I'm kissing you good night now, Miss Moore."

"He's the one. I'm sure of it," Meredith said into the phone.

"Well, that didn't take you very long."

Meredith stopped and squinted at the ground. "Look, I just found a penny. Hang on a sec." She located a tissue in her bag, wiped off the moldy copper and slipped it into the pocket of her hoodie.

"Well, that confirms it," Mish was saying when Meredith pressed the phone back to her ear.

"Don't laugh in the face of fate." Meredith stepped out onto a zebra crossing, causing six cars to slam to a halt. She was on her way to the tube, which would take her to work.

"What's your call time?" Mish asked, yawning.

"Revoltingly soon. You?"

"Not till later. Her Highness has the morning off."

"So you're coming with me to this opening tonight, right? It's in the East End, not far from your place." Mish was staying with friends across town in Hoxton.

"Of course. But what happened last night? You still haven't told me."

Meredith smiled to herself and did an involuntary little skip along the sidewalk. "We had a really nice picnic, and then he drove me home and that was it."

"He didn't try to get some?" Mish sounded skeptical.

"No, that's just it. We were making out and then he stopped. He says we need to get to know each other better."

"Really?"

"Isn't that cute?"

"I guess." Mish was silent.

"Not all guys are total s.l.u.ts, you know," Meredith said.

"I know, it's just unusual behaviour," Mish said.

"Well, this was an unusual night," Meredith sniffed. "Besides, I thought it was kind of old school."

"But you think he'll be up for it tonight?"

Meredith hummed into the phone. A closed-mouth giggle.

"He might be a gentleman," she said, "but he's still a guy."

When Meredith arrived at the gallery that night, Mish was standing outside having a cigarette.

Meredith gave her a sticky lip-gloss smack on the cheek.

"C'mon," she said, dipping her head toward the door.

"I'm not sure you want to go in there," said Mish.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I'm just warning you."

"About what?"

Mish shrugged and raised her eyebrows until they nearly touched her hairline. "I don't want you to freak," said Mish.

"Why are you being so weird?" Meredith hated it when Mish guarded information.

"See for yourself," Mish said.

Meredith turned to enter the gallery alone.

His work, she imagined, would be a porthole into his mind. Through his pictures she would be able to see not just his character but the character of her unborn child. The child she was meant to conceive tonight. She was sure of it.

And what a gift it was that she would be able to understand Gunther's inner workings by looking at his artwork. This way they could skip the relationship part and get right to the important business of making a baby.

What luck they had met when they did.

Everything was set: her hair, her outfit, her pretty lingerie. Even her cycle was cooperating. If biology was on her side, surely it was a sign. Stepping over the threshold, she was filled with warmth and certainty. Yes, the universe was a beneficent place after all. It had listened to her calls and answered them in turn.

Gunther was standing near the back door, deep in conversation with a woman in a purple caftan. Meredith took a gla.s.s of champagne from a thin man with a tray and consumed half in two consecutive gulps. The small, overlit room was mobbed with people, most of them, she noticed, wearing gla.s.ses with architecturally complicated frames. Another tray appeared before her, this one bearing chopped-egg finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Ironic snacks, she thought, and took two.

She eagerly elbowed her way through the throng toward the wall. If she looked at Gunther's pictures now, she hoped she could come up with something extra-insightful to say about them when he found her.

But when she finally reached the front of the scrum, the sight brought her up short. Before her was a largish photograph in black and white depicting a young girl of maybe thirteen or fourteen, nude and heavily pregnant. Some sort of ball or sock was shoved in her mouth, making it impossible to discern whether she was enjoying herself. Meredith guessed not.

She quickly moved on: a decapitated dog (maybe a collie?) being f.e.l.l.a.t.ed by an old man. Hard to tell exactly how old, because he wore a leather face mask like the one Hannibal Lecter wore in The Silence of the Lambs, only without the little cage over his mouth to prevent him from eating people. Meredith moved around the gallery in a mounting state of unease. The more she looked, the more shocked she was, and the more shocked she became, the more deflated she felt.

How could she have been so naive? It was humiliating. Who were these people anyway? And what was wrong with her that she could be attracted to someone who took photos of people in pain? The exhibit was a porthole all right, one that led directly into Gunther's twisted, rotten brain. Maybe it was fashionable or some kind of sick joke-Meredith didn't care. She also didn't care if he thought she was a tasteless bourgeois provincial for loathing him for it. She simply wanted out of there.

In a quick, ten-minute lap of the gallery, she observed a young girl being penetrated by broomsticks while a snake slithered out of her open mouth, an elderly man in various positions of coitus with a horse, and two nude little boys in ski masks smoking cigarettes. The funny thing was, none of the people around her seemed the least bit unnerved. Meredith eavesdropped on their commentary, which consisted mainly of observations on composition and shadow, rather than the subjects of the photographs themselves.

A young woman and a man dressed in identical black V-necks and shapeless army jackets stood to her left, looking at a photograph of a topless old woman wearing a nose clip and a bathing cap shoving a handful of baby mice into her mouth like popcorn.

"Hilarious," said the girl.

"Yes." Her date's head moved vigorously up and down. "I love the way he submerges his humour in the corporeal anxiety of significance. Enormously funny."

Neither of them laughed.

When Meredith went to the bar for more much-needed champagne, Mish was standing by with a concerned look on her face.

"So," she said.

"Oh, don't even."

They tried to make a break for it, but found themselves blocked. Gunther was in a corner near the coat check, chatting closely to a young man in a Greek fisherman's cap. He started when he saw Meredith. (Mish disappeared to the bathroom.) "Ah," he said, kissing her on each cheek and drawing her forward. "Meredith, I'd like you to meet my friend Perry. He is a member of my group."

"Nice to meet you," she said, fists clenched in her pockets. "And are you a photographer as well?"

The young man pushed his hands deep into his pockets and coughed, obviously uncomfortable with female scrutiny. Meredith judged by the smear of angry red pimples across his cheeks that he must be very young.

"Nah. Jus sculpcha." He spoke with the accent and cadence Meredith could only identify in her mind as "cab driver."

"So what exactly do you sculpt?"

"d.i.c.ks mosely. Black d.i.c.ks at the moment, but oy've done Orien'al and whites as well."

Meredith chewed her lip.

Gunther jumped in. "Perry is doing a racial study of male s.e.xual organs around the world-isn't that right?"

"At's it, guv," said Perry. He drained his pint gla.s.s and, without another word, abandoned company for the comforts of the open bar.

Gunther smiled. "So what do you think?"

"About what?" Meredith asked, hoping to stall him.

"About the art!" He laughed harshly, and then came in close and whispered in her ear. "Before you answer, I think you should know I can't take criticism."

Meredith nodded brightly.

"I was joking," he said. "I want an honest Canadian perspective. What do you think?"

The smile on her face congealed. "To be honest-" She paused. How to put it? She panicked. "I love the way you submerge your humour in the corporeal anxiety of significance."

Gunther c.o.c.ked his head. "An astute observation."