Alchemist Read Online Free Page B

nothing had changed between them.
    With her own thirtieth birthday looming up next April, and still single in spite of some past close relationships, to her irritation the thought of children often preyed on Monty’s mind. She liked to think she was stronger than other women, that she wasn’t simply a prisoner of her genes and sentenced, by the mere lack of a Y chromosome, to broody emotions about washing nappies and wiping bums.
    There were some days when she successfully convinced herself that she really did not like children, that they were loathsome little creatures, rating on her own list of desirability only marginally higher than being suspended upside down in boiling oil. But there were other times when her defences were blown away and she would find herself sucked into an emotional whirlpool of longing.
    Monty and Anna had been at school together and had gone on to the same art college. Anna was a genuinely gifted sculptress, and her talent was evident. She had already had successful exhibitions, and was getting many commissions. Monty considered herself to be a moderately proficient landscapepainter, but no more. She had hoped for a career in the art world, either in restoration or valuation. But halfway through her second year at college her mother had died, and she had taken a few weeks off to help her father who had been devastated by his loss.
    Sarah Bannerman had died of breast cancer within a year of the disease being diagnosed, and her husband had felt a deep sense of guilt and failure that, despite all his work, he had not come up with any kind of gene therapy in time to save her – feelings that had since been heightened by the announcement that scientists in America had found a way of detecting the cancer gene.
    Dick Bannerman, although a brilliant scientist, was a hopeless businessman and had depended on Monty’s mother, who had been his secretary, PA, and book-keeper. Monty had intended helping him out just until she could find a suitable assistant for him, and now, nine years on, she was still with him and had become his right hand.
    Although sometimes regretting that she had abandoned her art, her biggest love in life, Monty enjoyed the challenge of her work and was fiercely proud of her father. Largely as a result of his own enthusiasm, she had gone from being profoundly uninterested and ignorant about science, to having a fascination and deep respect for it.
    Anna and Mark Sterling lived in a tumble-down Georgian farmhouse on the edge of a Berkshire village, ten miles from Monty’s cottage, and Mark brought in an increasingly large salary as a lawyer in a London practice. Anna had always been a character who liked to be in control of every situation, and even tried to organize her friends’ lives, but recently Monty had begun to notice that in spite of her growing success she seemed to be losing some of her grip.
    Normally strict with her pets, Anna allowed her new puppy, a boxer named Buster, to run around unchecked. As they sat in the untidy kitchen, Monty watched as the dog emptied the contents of the wastebin on to the floor without a word of admonishment from Anna, who simply refilled their glasses with white wine and ignored it.
    Monty studied her, a little alarmed at the changes she wasnoticing. Anna was an attractive girl, but she put on weight easily and she was definitely doing so at the moment; although parcelled as she was in a sloppy joe and shapeless trousers, it was hard for Monty to tell quite how much.
    â€˜Anna, you don’t look happy,’ Monty said. ‘What’s wrong?’
    Her friend shoved the bottle of Australian Chardonnay along the pine table as if moving a chess piece. She stared morosely at the table. ‘I’m infertile. I can’t bloody conceive.’
    â€˜I – I didn’t know you wanted to,’ Monty said, taken aback.
    â€˜We’ve been trying for two years. My period started this morning – three weeks