The Surrogate Read online

  ‘Thank you.’ Tears had shimmered in Nick’s eyes. ‘I can’t believe you’d do this for a complete stranger.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t be a stranger for long,’ Lisa said. ‘We’ll be getting to know each other very well, Nick.’

  After we had ended the call we remained sitting at the table, grinning like idiots, until the sun lost its grip on the sky and I could no longer make out Nick’s features. We’d gone to The Fox and Hounds and giggled as we ordered champagne from Mitch. We kept reminding each other it was early days and we should be cautious, but we couldn’t help racing into the future. Wondering whether Lisa would fall pregnant quickly. Whether we might have a boy or girl.

  ‘We’ve thought it through properly. Lisa is coming around tomorrow to confirm the finer details. Nick and I can talk again afterwards,’ I say. Nick agrees with me, and it feels like a small victory, but Richard hasn’t finished yet.

  ‘You do understand if this is successful the child will remain legally Lisa’s until the parental order has been issued after the baby is born? Lisa could keep the baby if she wanted to.’

  ‘She won’t,’ I say.

  ‘And how much do you know about her family? There are conditions that can be inherited,’ Richard asks.

  I answer immediately. ‘They’re all healthy. I’ve known them for years but we’ll ask her.’

  ‘It’s not just the physical. There could be mental health issues? Personality traits that can sometimes skip generations?’

  ‘It’s all going to be fine. You don’t need to worry. Besides, half the baby’s genes will be Nick’s, don’t forget. There’s nothing in your history I should know about, is there?’

  Nick pulls a tissue from the box on Richard’s desk and wipes beads of sweat from his forehead as he gazes out of the window. ‘No.’

  ‘There we go then.’ I rest my palm on his back. ‘Everything’s fine. You’ll be such a good dad, Nick.’

  ‘I hope so.’ He turns to me. His skin ashen.

  ‘You’re a natural. I’ve watched you with Ada.’ Clare’s daughter adores Nick. ‘Anyway, it’s not all about nature. There’s nurture too, isn’t there?’

  Nick screws his face as though he is in pain. I call his name, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. I stare helplessly as he slumps forward. His head cracking hard against the corner of the desk.

  5

  Then

  Nick sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet. His dad, Kevin, stretched out on the worn sofa, fag in one hand, ash falling onto the floor. There wasn’t anywhere else to sit. It wasn’t like Nick had a bedroom to retreat to. Cigarette smoke spiralled around the page of Nick’s colouring book. He pressed his crayon harder onto the page, turning the dragon from white to green, and tried not to think about the time they lived in a proper house, like a proper family. That was before his dad put his back out and couldn’t work. Now, he couldn’t even be bothered to shave. The odd can of Foster’s he drank to ‘unwind’ at the end of the day became a lunchtime drink to ‘ease the pain’ until the snapping of the ring pull and the fizzing of lager was the sound Nick woke up to. His dad looked different. Smelled different. Was different. With all of his small heart, Nick missed the dad who used to helicopter him around the garden, as well as his grandad, Basil, who had recently died. He had loved staying in his tumbledown cottage, waking to the crashing sound of waves, the smell of salt on the air. Endless summers playing with the local kids on the beach.

  Mum took on extra cleaning and looked permanently exhausted, and she probably was despite her reassurances that she was fine. Nick might only be seven but he was aware that her hair, that once looked like spun gold from Sleeping Beauty, was now dark at the roots, and there were lines etched onto her face that hadn’t been there this time last year.

  ‘It’s only temporary,’ she had said as they moved their meagre belongings into the tiny flat. She showed him where he could keep his things in the battered old sideboard the previous occupants had left behind, with its door hanging from a single hinge. Most of his toys had already been sold at a car boot sale, and their solid wooden furniture was long gone.

  Nick’s dad had groaned as he shuffled into the lounge and flopped down on the sofa that mum explained folded out into a bed. It was where Nick would sleep. Dad had drunk can after can of lager as Mum scrubbed the kitchen and washed the windows until they sparkled but the flat still smelled sour. Despite the patchwork rug and the bright cushions Mum carefully arranged, it didn’t look like home. It didn’t feel like home.

  Nick yawned. He couldn’t go to bed until Dad did, and Dad would wait until Mum finished her shift at the pub. Once home, Nick’s mum would always find time to tell Nick a story and kiss him good night. Afterwards, Nick would lie on the sofa, his thin, itchy grey blanket pulled up around his shoulders, and cuddle Teddy Edward, his bear, running the red ribbon tied in a bow around his neck through his fingers, listening to the voices drifting through the paper-thin walls. His dad’s voice low and angry, his mum’s soft and soothing, and later, the squeaking of bedsprings. Nick would clasp his small hands over his ears.

  Nick had nearly finished colouring in the dragon, as green as the ring his mum always wore that once belonged to his grandma. His tongue protruded from the tip of his teeth as he concentrated hard. For once, he had stayed in all the lines. Now for the knight. Nick didn’t have many colours to choose from. ‘Father Christmas doesn’t have much money this year,’ his mum had said, ‘although you’ve been really, really good.’

  ‘Stop fucking babying him,’ his dad had bit back.

  But when Nick woke on Christmas morning, the pillowcase he had left out was bulging with sweets, a new jumper that was Nick’s favourite blue – although when Nick pulled it over his head it smelled a bit funny and there was a small hole in the elbow – and the colouring book and crayons. Nick’s fingers hovered over the box as he deliberated between red and yellow but they had learned about St George in class last week so he picked out the red. He had tried his hardest to listen as Miss Watson’s soft voice had told the class about swords and shields, but he had drifted off, waking as his friend Richard kicked him under the desk, whispering the answer to the question he had been asked. Richard always covered for him. Nick had sat bolt upright and wiped the trail of drool from his mouth, embarrassment heating his face as he’d caught the sympathetic glance of his favourite teacher. After class Miss Watson had held him back and asked him if everything was all right at home, tilting her head to the side the way mum did when she wasn’t too tired to listen to him. He’d told Miss Watson everything was fine, and she’d told him to run along to the canteen. Nick said he’d forgotten his lunch, ashamed to admit his dad usually ate the sandwiches Mum made before she went to work. It didn’t matter much though. He never got that hungry and Richard was always happy to share. Miss Watson had pulled open her drawer and silently handed him a Mars Bar, and he thought she was pretty, like the princess in the story.

  Nick’s eyes were heavy with sleep now. The ten o’clock news was on so it shouldn’t be too much longer before his mum came home. In a bid to stay awake Nick pinched the red crayon harder between his fingers and pressed down on the page. There was a crack as the crayon split into two, and his head snapped forward as Nick’s dad slapped him. Hard. ‘Do you think your mum works all these bleedin’ hours so you can break things?’

  Nick shook his head as he tried to stop his lip from trembling. His dad hated it when he cried.

  Dad’s eyes had glinted in the light of the flickering TV as he ripped the dragon picture out of the colouring book and tore it in two.

  ‘That was for mum. For the fridge.’ Nick drew his knees up to his chest and tried to stop trembling.

  ‘I’ll let you into a secret. Mum hates your pictures and tacky fridge magnets. Says they make the place look untidy. Let’s not tell her I told you; I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut. Deal?’

  His dad held out his hand and Nick slipped his small one inside and tried not to w
ince as his dad shook it so hard his shoulder felt like it was being wrenched from the socket.

  That was the last time Nick ever coloured and the first time he had to keep a secret, but it wasn’t the last time.

  And it was far, far, from being the worst.

  6

  Now

  I jump as I feel the weight of Nick’s hand rest on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I twist my head around. My eyes drawn to the bruise on Nick’s forehead. It was blue yesterday, today it’s purple, and somehow that looks worse.

  ‘I’m fine. Stop fussing. I’ve told you it was hot in Richard’s office and I was a bit stressed that’s all. I fainted. There’s nothing wrong.’ He nuzzles my neck.

  Reassured, I dip my cloth into the bowl filled with warm water and lemon multi-surface cleaner, wringing it out, wiping the worktops until they are so clean they squeak. Lisa is coming and I want everything to be perfect. The air is citrus fresh, and my hands are pink and raw. The copper pans hanging over the Aga shine as the sun streams through the trifold doors. Swinging open the fridge, I pull out peppers and celery, and after shutting the door I wipe my fingermarks off the handle.

  ‘Just think,’ I say to Nick as I rub the stainless steel until it shines, ‘one day this could be covered in drawings from our child. What do you think? A fridge covered in gaudy magnets?’

  Nick doesn’t answer, and as I turn around I am shocked to see the anger plastered over his face. ‘Nick?’

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Let me help.’ Nick rinses the vegetables under the tap before I shake them dry, cool droplets of water speckling my forearms. I’ll chop them into crudités to have with humus. Spotify streams a pop playlist; Little Mix threaten ‘Black Magic’.

  Nick usually laughs and tells me I’m too old to like them, but we all have them, don’t we? Guilty pleasures. And although he says he hates pop music, often we bop around the kitchen together while we wait for dinner to cook. Stupid, over-the-top dance moves from an era that doesn’t fit with the music at all: The Mashed Potato; The Twist. Today, though, there is no singing or dancing. We are both on edge.

  ‘Are you getting changed?’ I ask Nick. ‘You look too casual.’

  He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his hair shower-wet. His bare feet have left dull marks on the floor I’ve mopped twice.

  ‘It won’t make any difference what I wear. I wish you’d just—’

  I step forward and silence him with a kiss. His stubble grazes my chin, and I taste peppermint.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I wrap my arms around his waist. ‘You must be nervous too.’ I snuggle into him. Sometimes I forget how hard it must be for him and, once again, I am grateful he chose to stay with me and didn’t leave me for someone who could give him babies. I never could understand why Nick chose me in the first place. Why he pursued me so hard, with my hair that hangs limp and my bottom that strains my jeans at the seams. As he holds me, my mind drifts to the memory of the night he proposed.

  * * *

  He had taken me out to dinner but he barely ate; fiddling with the corner of his napkin, refilling his glass more often than usual. I had convinced myself he was going to break up with me as I pushed my chicken breast, oozing with garlic butter, miserably around my plate. Over the strains of classical music, I’d drunk in every last detail of his handsome face over the flickering candle. The black curls I loved to run my fingers through. The scar on his forehead.

  ‘Marry me, Katherine.’ His words sprang out of nowhere, and my hands rose to my chest to hold his question close to my heart. ‘I’ll look after you. I’ll be a good husband. I promise.’

  ‘Yes!’ I didn’t take a second to think about it. I loved him, I did, although it wasn’t with the all-consuming, flame-hot love I’d felt before, it was real. Solid.

  We had toasted: bubbling champagne tickling my nostrils. Later, we’d lain in bed, sheets tangled around our legs, his fingers rhythmically stroking my hair; I had thought I had never been so happy. But as I was nodding off my subconscious whispered I had been this happy once before, and the last thought I had, before sleep tugged me under, was of Jake.

  * * *

  There’s a squeal of brakes. The crunch of metal. It’s dark. So dark. I cannot see and panic tornadoes through me.

  It’s hot. Unbearably hot. Acrid smoke seals off my throat. I cough and cough, my lungs burning with the effort of trying to drag in air. My ribs feel as though they will shatter. ‘Jake’. I’m calling his name over and over but I think it must be in my head because I can’t hear. Just for one solitary moment there is perfect, perfect silence before my senses roar back to life. Someone is screaming, anguished cries my ears will never forget but I don’t think it’s me. I can’t move. I can’t think. I’m trapped and I’m scared. So scared. There is something warm and sticky running down my face and, as it trickles down my nose, I can smell the blood. Every cell in my body urges me to move. To run. But I can’t. Jake!

  * * *

  I was drifting on the edge of consciousness. One foot in the past, one foot in the present, not able to step fully into either, not entirely sure where I wanted to be. When the roaring in my ears began to subside and my pulse rate started to slow, I became aware of Nick’s steady breathing as he slept beside me. The sheets were damp with sweat, my pillow damp with tears. I scrubbed at my cheeks with the sleeve of my pyjamas, mopping up my guilt. Even in sleep I couldn’t reach Jake. Even in sleep, it was too late. And it was always, always, my fault.

  The sound of the doorbell breaks Nick and I apart. Lisa must be here. Feeling sick, excited, scared, I rush down the hallway, skidding to a halt in front of the telephone table, tugging a brown, curling leaf from the pale yellow roses Nick bought me yesterday. I hope Lisa can sense this is a happy home, despite the increasing strain we’ve been under trying to expand our family. A perfect home for a child. Strip away the polish, the bleach, the lemon cream cleaner and underneath there’s love and laughter, and that’s what matters the most really, isn’t it?

  ‘Lisa.’ My voice is an octave too high as I step back and welcome her inside. We hug and my clothes dampen as I press against her wet coat. We’ve spent hours chatting on the phone every day but it feels odd to have her here.

  ‘Come through,’ I say gesturing towards the lounge.

  ‘Kat, this is gorgeous.’ Lisa shrugs off her mac and spins around on tiptoes. I have a flashback to our ballet classes. Pirouettes and tutus. Hair brushed into buns. ‘And you have a piano now. I’m so pleased. You always wanted to learn.’

  I had begged my parents for music lessons but Dad thought the arts were a waste of time, though I got the feeling Mum would let me if she could. Dad only tolerated me being in the drama group in sixth form because I got extra credit towards my extended project, and the points would count towards uni.

  ‘I’m trying to teach myself but it’s not as easy as it looks.’ In truth, I have probably spent more time dusting it, imagining the row of silver picture frames that would display photos of our happy smiling family. Dewei, head thrown back, roaring with laughter, in a swing; tossing bread at the ducks; baking cookies together, steam rising from gingerbread men, the tips of our noses dusted with icing sugar. I could imagine Dewei balancing on the piano stool when he was old enough, banging out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ while I smiled and clapped. Then the adoption fell through, and the image in my mind had to change to Mai, and it was never quite the same. I think, even when we first signed the paperwork Richard had filled in for her, I half expected something to go wrong. And now the picture frames in my mind remain blank and empty.

  The sound of a throat clearing causes us both to look up. Nick hovers in the doorway looking like a guest in his own home. I cross the room and take his hand. His palm is as sweaty as mine.

  ‘Lisa, this is my husband, Nick.’

  ‘Hello, Nick. You look even more handsome in the flesh.’ Lisa shakes his hand. His face milk-white. He�
��s as nervous as me.

  ‘You two haven’t met?…’

  ‘I saw his photo in the Sunday magazine,’ Lisa says, and I frown. She hadn’t mentioned she’d seen a copy when we first met the other day. ‘Mitch showed it to me. In the pub?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I’ll make some tea.’ It isn’t until I am leaning against the worktop as the kettle gurgles and splutters, I realise it was Mitch who first showed me the photo in the Sunday supplement, and he gave his copy to me to keep. How could he have shown Lisa? But he could have bought another one, I suppose. I lift the tea tray and rattle down the hallway. Approaching the lounge I hear Nick exclaim: ‘I can’t believe it! Not Kat?’

  They both turn to me as I enter the room.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Lisa’s eyes are wide. ‘I thought, being married, you’d have told Nick everything.’

  7

  Now

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you used to be on stage?’ Nick takes the tea tray from me, and I wipe my palms on my tunic top, feeling horribly exposed. But, of all the things Lisa could have revealed about my past, this is hardly the worst; still, when I find her gaze, I see a flicker of something in her eyes, and I feel a cold lurch of fear. Have I made a mistake inviting her into my home, into my life?

  ‘It was only school productions and all such a long time ago now. I was hardly Jennifer Lawrence.’

  ‘She’s being too modest.’ Lisa is smiling warmly now, Nick too, and I think it must only be me who can feel the atmosphere spitting and crackling with secrets. ‘Kat was really good, always the starring role. And you loved it, didn’t you?’

  ‘I loved a lot of things then but it doesn’t mean I do any more,’ I say, and a flash of something crosses Lisa’s face and I know she’s thinking of Jake too. Thinking she loved him more than me. That she loved him first.