He shook his head, but she grabbed his chin and glared into his eyes and then he was back there, back as a young man who blushed at the thought of speaking to a crowd, who wanted nothing more than not to be noticed, and who had been noticed.

The anticipation of seeing Avigail again was making him extra careful at work. He knew how easy it would be to allow his mind to wander, and in a lab that could be dangerous. So he’d focused his attention on the minute details around him: the exact rpm of the centrifuge, the cautious motion of his thumb as he dispensed the contents of a pipette. He’d managed to push his nerves so far down they didn’t show on his face, they just rested somewhere around his lungs to tingle with every breath he took. He’d suggested drinks, but she said no – a picnic.

She was sitting on a red-and-white-checked blanket, laid out over the long grass under the shade of the weeping willow. Her hair looked darker, out of the sun, and her long flowing maroon dress was splayed around her on the blanket where she sat, watching his approach. He fiddled with his clothes, readjusted his collar and started apologising for the frayed edges of his corduroy trousers.

‘Sit down,’ she said, and his apologies evaporated on his lips. She passed him some white wine and smiled. ‘Did you bring them?’

‘Oh, yes, I erm …’ He reached for his bag, but she caught his hand.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘You can show me later.’

He nodded.

‘There were no problems?’

‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It’s not secret.’

She sipped her wine, her eyes not leaving his face.

‘I mean, it’s not public, but it’s not secret. We have nothing to hide,’ he smiled. ‘We’re doing the right thing, for everybody.’

‘My daughter is staying with some friends,’ she said.

‘Eva?’

He had never met her daughter.

‘Do you want children, James?’ she asked, the intimacy of the question all the more intoxicating for how softly she spoke it. He felt the red rising up his neck and tried not to imagine the act of making children with her.

‘Yes, I … yes,’ he managed.

‘And you would trust them to a FullLife machine rather than your wife?’

‘I don’t have a wife,’ he said.

‘Pretty soon no one will,’ she said. ‘No wives, no mothers …’ She put her hand on his thigh. ‘No women.’

‘It’s not … no, it’s not like that.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s not … sinister.’

He could feel the warmth of her hand through the thick fabric of his trousers, and wished he had worn something more lightweight. He wanted to close his eyes, imagine her hand moving further.

‘It’s not natural,’ she said.