The Surrogate Read online

  Lisa slides out of her seat, and I take the opportunity to check my mobile again. Instead of a text alert, a picture of me and Nick kissing on our wedding day fills the screen. My mood dips when I see there is still no news. While Lisa is ordering our drinks, I slip into the toilets and splash cold water onto my face. Patting my skin dry with a rough paper towel I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror, my pale face framed by dark poker straight hair, the deep purple bags that shadow my eyes.

  Back at the table I tip tonic into my glass, watching as tiny bubbles shimmy amongst the ice cubes.

  ‘I don’t know how you can still drink vodka,’ Lisa says. ‘Do you remember Perry Evans’s party? We must have drunk nearly a whole bottle between us.’ She pulls a face as though it was yesterday.

  I haven’t partied like that in over ten years. Nick keeps trying to persuade me to have a big celebration for my birthday next year, but I keep putting off thinking about turning thirty.

  ‘I remember holding your hair back while you were sick all over the washing-up in the sink.’

  I laugh at the memory and the sound momentarily startles me.

  ‘I’ve never touched the stuff since.’ Lisa shudders theatrically. ‘Jake was there that night too, wasn’t he?’ Her question is casual, as if she can’t quite remember, but I know she can. I see my own hurt reflected in her eyes.

  Before I can answer, Mitch sets down a bowl of steaming carbonara and buttery garlic bread in front of me. As I lean forward to reach the salt, the gold cross around my neck hangs down, and Lisa lightly touches it with two fingers.

  ‘You still wear this?’

  I don’t answer. I don’t need to. I know we are both remembering, and I wonder whether, even after all this time, Lisa thinks she should be the one wearing this cross, but as usual, I’m connecting dots that aren’t there. She’s been nothing but friendly.

  We fall silent for a few minutes as I twirl pasta around my fork. Lisa tackles one of Mitch’s legendary roast potatoes which Nick and I always joke should come with a chainsaw.

  ‘Tell me about this husband of yours then. Nick, isn’t it? He’s the patron of a charity?’

  I’ve a mouthful of food so I nod my response, and at first, I am grateful for the change of subject but, just as I begin to swallow, I realise Mitch never referred to Nick by his name and neither did he say Nick was the patron of a charity. The bread sticks in my throat. Is it really a coincidence she is here or has she purposefully tracked me down? And if so, why?

  Revenge whispers the voice inside my head.

  I drain my drink to silence it.

  2

  Now

  ‘Is everything okay with your food?’ Mitch asks.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ Lisa says. ‘I was just asking Kat about Nick.’ Lisa turns to look at me. ‘Mitch was telling me a little about his charity work while I ordered drinks at the bar. He sounds a lovely man.’

  That’s how Lisa knows about Nick, there’s nothing more sinister than that. Relieved, I order a bottle of red.

  Lisa eats as I push food around my plate, filling up my glass twice as often as I do hers. She is barely drinking, sipping water instead.

  ‘Why did you move here? We came on a school trip once, didn’t we? The castle on the hill?’

  ‘The rubble more like,’ I say. ‘Crappy Craneshill we called it, didn’t we?’ I suppose that was what drew me. The memories. The fact I’d been here with Jake. ‘It seemed as good a place as any.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’ Lisa asks.

  I twist my ring around my finger. The diamonds glint as they catch the light.

  ‘Eight years.’

  Lisa grasps my hand and runs her thumb lightly over my wedding band. ‘Very nice! White gold?’

  ‘Platinum.’ I feel defensive although I’m not quite sure why. We both work so hard. Nick came from nothing, just like me. It’s testament to how strong he is that he left school without any qualifications but he’s made a success of his life anyway. He is determined to provide for our family. Our family. My mouth can’t help stretching into a smile. Soon we will be three.

  ‘It obviously suits you. Being married.’ Lisa jars me out of my thoughts. ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away. I was temping and was sent to Stroke Support, a charity Nick was setting up with his best friend, Richard, after Richard’s grandmother had a stroke.’ I can still remember first meeting Nick in the greasy spoon – the charity still doesn’t have an office, even now. Our outgoings are minimal, most of our staff volunteers. I was expecting him to be ancient, but he was the same age as me, brilliant blue eyes, and black curls. Gorgeous, although I was blind to it at that time, still recovering emotionally and physically. Despite my numbness, I felt a flicker of interest listening to his plans. He was so passionate. ‘People can change so much after a stroke. I want to help sufferers and their families come to terms with both the possible physical and mental impairments.’ I found myself becoming more and more animated as we brainstormed fundraising ideas, perched on hard orange plastic chairs, bacon sandwiches in thick sliced bread for lunch, melted butter running down my chin. Nick had wiped it away with his thumb, and I felt a spark. He brought me back to life.

  ‘And you still work for them, Mitch said?’

  ‘Yes, I run everything. Richard is busy with his law firm, and Nick has a property development company. That keeps us afloat financially.’ I don’t draw a salary from the charity. I feel humbled to be able to help. Before I met Nick, I’d assumed strokes were something that only affected the elderly but this isn’t the case at all. The stories I’ve heard over the years have been both harrowing and heart-warming. Triumph and tragedy. As well as the admin, I arrange counselling sessions and also take my turn to man the phone line. Each and every day I think how lucky I am to have good health.

  ‘And Nick swept you off your feet?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Initially, I was in no state to have a relationship and turned him down time and time again, but his kindness softened the hard shell I had encased myself in. One date led to two, to three, until before I knew it he was slipping the ring on my finger, and I promised I would love him for eternity, ignoring the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me I should know nothing lasts forever. I was ready for my happily ever after. Even after eight years my heart skips a beat when he walks into a room. My nerve endings throb whenever he touches me. I’d be lost without him.

  ‘How is your mum?’ I study Lisa’s face trying to gauge her reaction, but I can’t read her expression.

  ‘She’s doing okay. You know what she’s like,’ she says, as if that should tell me all I need to know. It doesn’t. I don’t ask about her dad. There’s little point but suddenly I feel compelled to talk about what happened.

  ‘Lisa, I’m so sorry. About leaving. About everything.’ The fuzziness from the alcohol is starting to fade away. A headache forming behind my eyes. Mitch walks past the table with plates laden with chips, the smell of oil makes me feel nauseous.

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’

  But I have. I was involved in a car accident that rocked our small town and then ran away, leaving Lisa to deal with the questions. The speculation. But I couldn’t talk about the horror that led to the crash, I just couldn’t. Only two of us know the truth and it must stay that way.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again. It doesn’t seem enough. ‘I still feel so ashamed. I haven’t even told Nick about the crash.’ He has no idea. I have hurt people.

  ‘Why haven’t you told him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I pick at the beer mat again. ‘At first it was just too raw, and then when I thought I could share, so much time had passed it seemed wrong to bring it up, as though I’d deliberately deceived him. I didn’t want him to think less of me.’

  ‘Please, Kat. Stop blaming yourself. It was ruled an accident. The police didn’t press charges. It was one of those things. You’ve always been the same. Do you remember when
Miss Masters gave you the part of Mary in the Nativity and Shelley Evans cried? You couldn’t stop apologising, although it wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘I remember picking up the Baby Jesus and his head falling off and rolling into the audience.’ Even now, I can picture the front row. The sniggering, the sympathetic looks, the mortification on the faces of my parents. Lisa comforted me afterwards. It always seemed odd me longing to perform on stage when in real life I hate to be the centre of attention.

  ‘I still think Shelley sabotaged the doll – silly cow.’

  ‘Lisa, we were only eight! I’m sure she didn’t.’

  ‘You’ve always been too trusting, Kat.’

  ‘Still, I don’t suppose it matters now. It was hardly a West End production.’ That had always been my dream, singing and dancing in musicals. To play Maria in West Side Story. I so very nearly did once.

  ‘Do you still act?’

  I hesitate before I answer. I suppose you could say I pretend every day but I know that’s not what Lisa means.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a shame – you were really good. So what do you do in your spare time? You have kids?’ She gestures towards the Mothercare bags heaped on the floor.

  ‘Let me show you.’ I fish my phone from my handbag and swipe through the photos.

  ‘This is Mai.’

  Lisa’s brow furrows in confusion as she studies the photo of the baby girl.

  ‘She’s yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say firmly. I’m staying positive, getting ready for her arrival, refusing to believe anything can go wrong this time.

  ‘But she’s…’ Lisa trails off before voicing what I know I’ll be asked a million times.

  ‘Chinese. We’re adopting her.’

  ‘From China?’

  ‘Yes. There are so many children in the world needing good homes we thought adoption was the right thing to do.’ The words I’ve practised in front of the mirror for months while I’ve waited for the paperwork to be finalised sound stilted and forced. In truth, we’d been trying to conceive for almost two years before finding out we couldn’t, and even today it still feels raw. I take another glug of wine. It shouldn’t be long now. Nick thinks we’ll hear this week and then our house will become a home, and all of a sudden I can’t wait to get back there. To unpack the tiny pink dresses and warm fleecy Babygros into the glossy white drawers in the nursery. The nursery! I rummage in my handbag for my purse and gesture to Mitch for the bill. Inside my purse is the note Nick tucked there this morning.

  Stop worrying – I love you!

  It’s going to work out this time. It has to. Outside the window, day has turned to night although it is only four o’clock. Snowflakes swirl past orange street lamps.

  ‘How exciting. When do you get her?’

  I puff out air. Not quite sure what to say. ‘Soon. I hope. We should find out this week.’ My voice is small. ‘We tried before: it was a boy, but it all fell through, almost at the last minute. It’s such a precarious process, adopting from a different country.’ I’d been looking into the process here, but Richard, Nick’s childhood friend and our solicitor, suggested we look further afield. He said we had far more chance of getting a newborn, and he was right. Dewei was only six weeks old. ‘We had to start from scratch when Dewei was given to another couple without explanation. I don’t think I could face it all over again if it happens with Mai; I really don’t know what we’d do but I have a good feeling this time.’ I force a smile and don’t tell Lisa I still wake in the night dreaming of Dewei, feeling the weight of him in my arms. The smell of his hair. I’d been utterly desolate.

  ‘I can’t say I blame you. Adopting. Having a baby without ending up with a pot belly.’ Lisa pats her stomach.

  ‘You have children?’ Shame washes over me as I realise just how little I have asked Lisa about herself. In my mind, it is hard to separate her from the 19-year-old girl I last saw who vowed she never wanted a family but, of course, she’s grown up now. She’s changed. We both have. ‘Boys or girls?’

  ‘A girl.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  There’s a beat. A twisting feeling in my gut as I wonder whether something went wrong.

  Emotion glistens in Lisa’s eyes, and I find I’ve curled my fingers, nails digging into my palms, while I wait for her to speak.

  Finally, she quietly says: ‘Gabrielle.’

  I open my mouth to comment on her name, and Lisa whispers: ‘she is absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘Do you have a photo?’

  ‘She’s not… I didn’t…’ Lisa studies the table, and I lean forward, covering her hand with mine, almost sensing she’s about to say something terrible. ‘Don’t judge me, Kat.’

  ‘I won’t. Did you?…’ I want to ask if she gave her up, but I can’t bring myself to utter the words out loud. My body stiffens with the unfairness of it all.

  ‘I was a surrogate,’ Lisa says at last, and I pull away as though her hand is burning hot.

  ‘“A surrogate”?’ I repeat, even though I have heard her perfectly well.

  ‘I had a baby for a couple who couldn’t have one of their own.’ Lisa’s eyes lock onto mine and there’s something almost challenging in her gaze, and I realise I had judged her. Unfairly so.

  ‘Lisa, that’s incredible.’

  ‘I felt so privileged to do it. Acting as a surrogate is definitely something I’d consider again. Stella, the mother, she’d had so many miscarriages,’ Lisa babbles, her face bright red, and I know she is embarrassed to be telling me, but I think it is amazing.

  ‘It’s such a selfless thing to do. I feel hopelessly guilty I can’t conceive. Less of a woman, somehow.’ I bite my lip. Know I’m over-sharing. My carefully fabricated pretence of adopting purely to give an unwanted child a home crumbles instantly.

  ‘Did you ever think about surrogacy? Rather than adoption.’

  ‘Not really, no. I read the headlines in the newspaper last week. That celebrity is looking for a surrogate but I don’t know much about it. Tell me.’

  ‘I met Stella at work. She was lovely but approaching forty and despairing she wouldn’t ever have a family of her own. She’d tried everything to have a healthy pregnancy. You know that feeling? When you want something so badly you almost feel you’ll kill for it.’

  I inhale sharply.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lisa winces. ‘Bad choice of words.’

  We fall into silence.

  An icy finger runs down my spine, and I look over my shoulder. The door to the pub is firmly shut and the fire is blazing but I can’t stop shivering.

  3

  Now

  It is winter dark as I step out of the cab. An icy wind biting my nose and ears. Whirling snow dances in front of my eyes. Instead of lowering my head and ploughing forward like I’d usually do, I turn my face towards the sky and stick out my tongue, catching the snowflakes and swallowing them down as they melt. I feel younger than I have in ages. Lighter. It was good to see Lisa. The more we drank, the more we laughed, until my stomach muscles ached and my paranoia was cleared away with our dirty plates. We have promised to keep in touch. I gaze up at the half-moon, my breath clouding in front of my mouth, and imagine I can see my hopes for the future soaring sky-high amongst the dotted stars.

  I’m careful as I pick my way down our gravelled driveway past my Honda CRV. Nick thought the solidity of a 4 x 4 might help me feel a little more relaxed on the roads. It doesn’t. It’s inevitable that I have to drive sometimes, but I catch a cab, or the bus when I can. Nick knows I’m nervous, because I told him I was involved in a ‘bump’ before I met him. I said everyone walked away, and he’s never pressed me for details. He was quiet for a few days before announcing he’d enrolled us both on an advanced driving course. He’s a typical man in that respect, always wanting to fix things, find solutions, and while I was pleased he was trying to support me, some things just can’t be fixed. The instructor told us ‘advanced drivers are safer, more observant. Incre
asing awareness of potential hazards makes you statistically less likely to have an accident.’ Nick had nodded along but even after the course I felt anything but safe.

  The ice and alcohol collaborate, forcing me off balance and I splay my hands to the side, arms trembling under the weight of my shopping. It is a relief to put down my load on the doorstep and flex my fingers to get the blood flowing again. The miniature bay tree by the front door looks so pretty sprinkled with light snow. Its silver pot shimmering in the moonlight. I fish my keys out of my bag and let myself in to the red-brick house we are still settling into.

  Nick started his property investment business purely as a way to fund the charity in its infancy days, wanting to match the money Richard was initially putting into it, but as the buy-to-let market boomed, profits soared. Nick bought this four-bedroom detached as an investment but couldn’t wait to show me, and we linked hands and ran like excited children from room to room. The house isn’t huge but it’s in a lovely area. I had watched his face shine as we tumbled into the sunflower yellow kitchen, and I knew this would be our forever home.

  ‘Look at the view.’ He’d bounced on his toes as I’d wrapped my arms around his waist, my chin on his shoulder, and agreed it was stunning; beyond the quintessential garden are patchwork fields, sheep grazing.

  Clare lives opposite. I already recognised her from the coffee shop and was delighted she’d be living so close. She’s a single mum and only works part-time. It’s nice having someone I can grab a quick drink with. Sometimes the stories I hear at work make me crave human contact. People assume working for a charity is all shaking a collection bucket and organising raffles, but there’s so much more than that, and at times it is emotionally harrowing. I love it though.

  My boots click on the shined-to-perfection laminate floor. I’d scrubbed the house before I left and a faint whiff of bleach emanates from the downstairs loo. Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, I tug off my suede boots and run my foot over the droplets of water dripping from the sole, dampening my sock. Nick won’t be home for a while, and the house is still, silent, except for the tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock.