Magpie

  Kate tried to make light of it.

  ‘I do live here!’

  ‘I know. I just … I’m used to having my own creative space during the day, you know?’

  Excuse me for breathing, Kate thought, as Marisa turned and went back upstairs.

  ‘Hang on a sec. Marisa, sorry but do you know where my trainers are?’

  Kate wasn’t sure why she was always apologising to her. She was so worried about putting a foot wrong.

  ‘Yes, I kept tripping over them so I put them in the cupboard under the stairs.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  Marisa smiled at her, guilelessly. Her golden hair was lit from the landing window behind her, the sun encircling her head, halo-like. Marisa stood like this for several seconds, smiling at Kate, her eyes wide, her feet planted firmly, hip-width apart. Kate got the distinct impression that she was being challenged, but wasn’t sure why.

  ‘Thanks,’ Kate said, eventually, hating herself for her own cowardice. I could have just said I like having my trainers there, she thought as she took her coat off. Why didn’t I do that? But for all her hippyish appearance and unbrushed hair and baggy artists’ overalls, Marisa could be intimidating. It wasn’t that she was scary, exactly. It was more that you could never predict what she was thinking or how she would react.

  Time passed. Kate didn’t talk to Jake about it because, after all, it had been her idea for Marisa to move in and she felt she was making too much of relatively trivial things. She blamed her heightened sensitivity on the situation, and was sure that her own thinking was clouded by the stress of this unconventional triangulation. So Kate stayed quiet, admonished herself for being unreasonable and simply fished out her trainers from under the stairs and her favourite coffee cup from the back of the cupboard each morning until it became an automatic reflex.

  Then Marisa started to cook for them. Kate had tried to dissuade her because, as much as she liked Marisa’s company, she didn’t particularly want her there every single mealtime. Marisa said it was no trouble and when Jake mentioned in passing that he used to like his mother’s macaroni cheese, Marisa took it upon herself to make it.

  ‘My macaroni cheese is legendary,’ she said airily. ‘Trust me.’

  When they had first met, Kate had been attracted to Marisa’s sense of self. Now she wondered whether there wasn’t a degree of over-confidence there. Occasionally, when talking about her work, she would refer to herself in grandiose terms as ‘an artist who works in paint and other media’, and Kate felt this was a bit of an exaggeration given that she illustrated twee little children’s books and got most of her orders from parents sliding into her Instagram DMs. Kate had seen a couple of them, and the fairytales consisted of simple pictures and plot lines. To Kate’s untrained eye, all the children looked similar. Jake had been more polite, asking Marisa questions about how she painted hair and what colours would she mix to get this particular skin tone and so on.

  ‘You’ll have to do one for our baby, when it arrives!’ he said, cheerily.

  ‘I’d love that,’ Marisa replied.

  The macaroni cheese, when it came, was very good. This was another thing that irked her: Kate thought of cooking as her domain and Jake complimented her on her ability to rustle up a delicious meal from any random leftovers, but now Marisa was stealing her thunder.

  ‘Mmm, this is so good,’ Jake said, eating laden forkfuls of the pasta.

  ‘It’s the lardons,’ Marisa said. ‘That, and four different types of cheese.’

  Kate noticed that Marisa directed all of her comments exclusively towards Jake, as if Kate wasn’t there. Again, she told herself she was reading too much into it. It was a delicate situation, after all. Kate was having to hand over the conception of her own child to this younger, more fertile woman. It made sense that she sought to stake a claim to the things she could achieve; to own the tasks she was good at.

  ‘It’s yummy,’ Kate said, even though she thought the macaroni cheese was overly rich for her tastes. ‘Thank you.’

  Marisa smiled.

  Jake, his plate now empty, leaned back in his chair and happily surveyed the scene in front of him.

  ‘I can’t wait to have a baby,’ he said out of the blue. ‘I know that sounds weird.’

  Kate met his eye and winked at him. Under the table, she reached for his knee.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Marisa said. ‘Why would it?’

  ‘Blokes aren’t meant to say stuff like that.’

  ‘That’s silly.’

  Marisa propped her elbows up on the table, resting her head in her hands. The V-neck of her T-shirt gaped open, revealing the top of her cleavage. Kate was so close she could see Marisa’s tan line left over from holiday sunbathing, the flesh turning white just above where her nipple would be.

  ‘I can’t wait either,’ Marisa said, ‘and I don’t care if that makes me sound weird.’

  She giggled. Kate looked at her. The way Marisa had spoken felt so possessive, so nonchalant, as if this experience were hers to own, when it wasn’t. It was theirs.

  ‘We appreciate what you’re doing for us, Marisa,’ Kate said, making the point.

  Marisa, who had been turned towards Jake, acknowledged Kate with a slight tilt of the head in her direction. The atmosphere was heavy and Kate, feeling the oppressive weight of all that was happening between the three of them, said briskly, ‘It’s going to be great,’ and got up to start clearing the plates.

  In bed that night, Kate rolled across the mattress and slotted herself against Jake’s back, wrapping her arms around his waist. He placed his hand over hers and they twisted their legs together. She pressed her face into the nape of his neck, feeling the softest part of his hair tickle her mouth.

  ‘Love you,’ Jake said.

  ‘Love you too.’ She closed her eyes and tried to sleep but she couldn’t. ‘Jake?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Do think everything’s OK? With Marisa, I mean.’

  He turned to look at her, alert now.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s just … it sounds silly … but …’

  ‘You’re worrying me.’

  ‘Oh, no, sorry, it’s nothing to worry about, it’s just … she’s made herself very at home, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Well isn’t that what we want?’

  ‘I guess. It’s just … she moves my stuff around.’

  He laughed quietly.

  ‘Your trainers?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘They were quite annoying right there by the front door, you know.’

  ‘Stop taking her side!’

  He hugged her, adopting a jokey voice to say, ‘There are no sides! It’s not a competition. We’re all in this together, aren’t we?’

  She spoke into his chest, her voice muffled.

  ‘And you went on and on about her fucking macaroni cheese.’

  Jake laughed.

  ‘Is that what this is about? Come on, Kate.’

  ‘Do you still like my cooking the best?’

  She knew she was being childish, but she couldn’t help it. She wanted his reassurance.

  ‘Of course I do. I love you the best. I can’t wait to have a baby with you. I wish we didn’t have to involve anyone else, but given that we do, we’ve found someone who seems great and if her only annoying habit is moving your trainers, I think we can put up with it for a few more months, can’t we?’

  She snuggled closer to him.

  ‘You’re right. I know you’re right. Sorry.’

  ‘Stop apologising.’ He drew back and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. But we’re due to do the embryo transfer in a few weeks, aren’t we? And I think we’ll all feel a lot less tense then.’

  Kate was glad she’d said something. In voicing her f
ears, she had punctured them. She saw them now for what they were: paranoia triggered by understandable insecurity about her place in this unconventional family unit. The therapist recommended by the surrogacy agency had warned her she might feel like this. It was important to separate what her anxious brain was telling her from what was actually happening. Just because she thought it, did not make it fact.

  ‘You’re still the mother,’ Jake said. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  Jake was always good at calming her down and making her see things more logically. She closed her eyes again. It was quiet outside, and soon Jake was snoring lightly. Kate was edging towards the brink of sleep when she heard a floorboard creak, followed by a padding noise, like the sound of footsteps retreating.

  The next day, she wasn’t sure if she had dreamed it or whether there really had been someone listening at the door.

  21

  Annabelle’s birthday was coming up and Jake suggested they took his parents out for a slap-up lunch in a good London restaurant, and treat them to a night in a posh hotel.

  ‘She loves that kind of stuff,’ he said when he outlined the plan to Kate. ‘And that way, she doesn’t have to stay with us.’

  ‘She couldn’t, anyway, not with Marisa.’

  ‘I know. But this way we can dress it up as a present and she won’t feel hard done by.’

  It was a Sunday morning and he was heating up croissants in the oven while rain lashed down outside, turning briefly to hail which hurled itself against the glass doors, the sound of it clattering like marbles spilled on the floor.

  ‘Sure, it’s a great idea,’ Kate said. ‘Can we afford it?’

  ‘I mean, not really, but I’d like to do something to mark her birthday. And then we’ll have a chance to tell her about the surrogacy in a neutral setting.’

  ‘OK.’

  Kate resented the way they had to ‘handle’ Annabelle, as though she were an overly sensitive child. She’d been matter-of-fact when she told her own parents, who were supportive once she’d explained to them what surrogacy actually was and why they were doing it. Her mother’s main concern had been what they were thinking of calling the baby and whether the child would have Jake’s surname or Kate’s, given that they weren’t married.

  ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Kate had said. ‘There’s a long way to go yet.’

  ‘Don’t leave it too late, love,’ her mother replied and then she had put the kettle on. ‘Cup of tea?’

  But Annabelle was a different business, and Jake had been worried about telling her ever since they’d started looking for a surrogate. Kate found it difficult to understand why he cared so much what his mother thought of him, given that he was a thirty-nine-year-old man and capable of making his own decisions about life. She wondered if it was that having been sent to boarding school at a young age, he subconsciously always felt that his mother didn’t approve of him, and he had been trying to compensate for this lack ever since. Kate had mentioned this theory to Jake shortly after they met, but he had brushed it aside and told her to please spare him ‘the psychoanalytic bullshit about boarding school’, and that had been that.

  The call was made to Annabelle, who was delighted with the birthday plan and when the allotted Saturday arrived, Jake got dressed in a linen suit, Kate in a floral tea-dress and low heels. They walked downstairs and picked up the keys from the bowl on the hallway table. As they gathered up their coats, they heard Marisa behind them.

  ‘Where are you two going?’ she asked. She was holding a paintbrush in one hand and a jar of cloudy water in the other.

  ‘Taking my mother out for her birthday lunch,’ Jake said.

  ‘Oh. Well, have fun, won’t you?’

  ‘I very much doubt we will,’ Kate said.

  ‘Kate,’ Jake said, mild admonishment in his tone. ‘We will, thank you.’

  Marisa stood there as Jake opened the front door, holding it for Kate to pass under his arm into the street.

  ‘I’d love to meet her one day,’ Marisa said.

  On the doorstep, Kate looked at her quizzically. It was an odd thing to say, wasn’t it? Or was it perfectly normal for a surrogate to want to meet the mother of the soon-to-be-legal parent?

  ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Jake said, drily.

  Kate shrugged her arms into the sleeves of her trench coat.

  ‘See you later, Marisa,’ she said, keeping her voice breezy but marking the definite end of the exchange.

  ‘Yes, see you! What time will you be back, do you think?’

  ‘Not sure. We’ll be a few hours, I imagine. Bye,’ Jake said, closing the door. ‘Have fun,’ he shouted through the letterbox.

  ‘Have fun?’ Kate laughed as they walked through Vauxhall Park. There were workmen planting lavender bushes and creating a new tarmac path through the grass. ‘What did you say that for? She’s not a child.’

  ‘I don’t know. I just felt like I’d done something wrong by not asking her along. Did you get that?’

  ‘Yeah. It was weird.’

  They scooted to one side to avoid a cyclist.

  ‘Perhaps she’s lonely? She doesn’t seem to have any friends, does she?’

  Kate shrugged.

  ‘She’s got us.’

  ‘True.’

  They took the Victoria Line tube to Green Park, where they walked the short distance to The Wolseley. They were the first to get there, and the maître d’ showed them to their table in the central horseshoe where they sat next to each other on the banquette to people-watch. He offered them a newspaper to read and they said no. He left, returning with a jug of water and Jake asked him for a Bloody Mary.

  ‘Better make that two,’ Kate said. ‘Extra spicy.’

  Increasingly, these days, she found herself craving the carefully timed narcotic release of alcohol. She needed it to relax, she told herself, and after all those months of not drinking through fertility treatment, she felt she was owed it.

  She examined the table. The menus were thick to the touch and the salt and pepper shakers were silver. There was a curtain around the door to prevent draughts from reaching the clientele, which Kate thought was always the mark of true class.

  Jake’s parents arrived fifteen minutes late, with Annabelle rushing towards the table looking harried. She was a billowing torrent of cerulean silk and apologies about the trains. Chris appeared a few seconds later, having checked their coats in, sporting a tweed jacket and a vague smile.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Annabelle said, as Jake stood to let her slide into the banquette beside Kate. ‘The train was delayed by a trespasser on the line. It was awful! Every seat taken. People standing. Even in first.’ She paused. ‘I did text.’

  ‘Oh, sorry Mum, I wasn’t checking my phone. Anyway, don’t worry, you’re here now. We’ve been having a lovely time.’

  ‘I can see that,’ she said, casting a glance at the empty Bloody Mary glasses.

  ‘I’ll have one of those,’ Chris said, summoning a waiter over. ‘Anyone else?’

  Kate nodded gratefully.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of champagne, darling,’ Annabelle said, ‘given that it is my birthday celebration.’

  ‘Of course! We must order a bottle,’ Jake told the waiter.

  Annabelle squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you, sweetheart. Treating your mother. Such a good boy.’

  Kate tried not to roll her eyes.

  ‘And how are you, Kate?’ Annabelle turned to her. ‘Sorry, I’ve barely said hello what with all the rush!’ She gave a sprinkling little laugh. She was wearing dangling sapphires from each earlobe and a discreet diamond on a chain around her neck. She seemed tense, and every time her head moved, the earrings wobbled with her.

  ‘I’m good, thank you. It’s nice to—’

  ‘Darling, will you pass me my pashmina?’ Annabelle ges
tured at Chris, who took out a pale blue scarf from a tote bag embossed with the National Trust insignia. She draped it around her shoulders, shivering and huddling as she did so.

  ‘I’m freezing, aren’t you?’ She clutched Kate’s hand. ‘Feel how cold I am!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Kate replied. ‘I’m sure you’ll warm up soon. Do you want me to get your coat?’

  ‘No, no, no, it’ll take far too long.’ Annabelle removed her hand, annoyed. ‘Let’s order, shall we? I’m starving; aren’t you, Jakey?’

  When the food arrived, Annabelle added salt to her chicken salad, shaking it over the leaves for several seconds, claiming that the dish was ‘a touch on the bland side’. She ate half the bowl, then left the remainder untouched. The conversation revolved around Annabelle’s concern for Toad, who had recently been involved in some dispute with a student at the university she taught at in Dublin. The student in question had complained that Toad had made a transphobic comment in a lecture and now Toad was suspended from her job while the university authorities investigated.

  ‘I mean, people are so sensitive these days. You can’t say anything for fear of being lynched.’

  Kate groaned, pressing a napkin to her mouth to disguise it as a cough.

  ‘With respect, Annabelle, that’s not the best metaphor.’

  Annabelle gazed at her, as though from a vast distance.

  ‘Oh, I suppose I’m using the wrong language now, am I? Well, you can’t put a foot right.’

  Jake shot Kate a look but she pretended she hadn’t seen him. She knew he would tell her later that his parents were products of a different age, that it was all to do with context and that although he personally didn’t support their casual racism, you couldn’t hope to teach them new habits. Kate disagreed and felt an obligation to point out discriminatory attitudes. It was one of their long-running arguments and it would probably never be resolved. After all, Kate thought indignantly, Jake had only stopped voting Tory when he met her.

  At the table, there was an awkward silence which Chris broke by ordering a bottle of Picpoul.

  The meal revived itself after that. Kate bit her tongue as Annabelle veered into the topic of Brexit, claiming she had met the most wonderful ‘immigrant cleaner’ at her friend Trisha’s house the other day who had ‘quite convinced me it’s the wrong thing for this country to leave the EU. Hard-working people like her deserve a chance, I say. She’s not claiming benefits, despite what Farage and his ilk would have you believe …’