Surrogate – a psychological thriller

by Tim Adler

  I lurched to the bathroom and stared at myself red-eyed in the mirror. I looked awful. Of course, we had rushed up here without having dinner. What had the waiter made of our empty booth when he arrived carrying our steaks? I examined my wine-blackened tongue and started running a shower. My washbag turned up a couple of aspirin, and after a hefty shit and trying to rub last night away under scalding water, I began to feel halfway normal. The idea of having breakfast still made me feel ill, though.

  Downstairs a maid was vacuuming the entrance-hall carpet, and I asked the duty manager where the nearest church was. There was one at the end of the village, he said. I stepped over the flex of the vacuum cleaner and out into the high street, nodding to a man walking his dog as I made my way to the church. The modest but pretty church was the first thing you saw on entering the village of Horley.

  Why did I feel the need to do this? I couldn't even remember the last time I had been inside a place of worship. The heavy door shuddered open, and a cold and musty smell greeted me. Inside, plaques commemorated local worthies, and a war memorial covered the white walls. My shoes clacked along the stone floor. A regimental flag, so threadbare that it almost frayed to the touch, hung over a tomb: a sculpture husband and wife, their hands clasped in prayer staring sightlessly at the vaulted roof. Fidelity. I ran my hand along the stone folds of the wife's gown and felt immensely sorry for what I had done. Or sorry for myself. Then I knelt in one of the pews and pressed my head against the wooden rail in front of me until it hurt. Good. God, please forgive me for what I did last night, I pleaded. If you give me another chance, I swear I will give a huge donation to this church. I heard somebody else moving around, and doubt seeped into my mind as to whether I was just talking to myself. So I sat up, feeling a little self-conscious. A female vicar had walked in through a side door and was rearranging the altar. She turned and caught sight of me, clearly wondering what this man was doing here in her church so early in the morning.

  "Can I help you?" she asked. She was small and practical looking, with her hair cut mannishly short.

  "Yes, I was wondering if you could help me. I need to talk."

  She looked puzzled. "This isn't the Church of Rome," she said. "We don't do confession."

  I stood up as she approached. "Can I ask you a question, then? If you'd done something bad, something you regretted, and you pray for forgiveness, does God automatically forgive you?"

  "What, you mean something criminal?"

  "No, not criminal. Something personal."

  "I can't answer that. God usually answers our prayers. Only in ways we do not expect. Of course, you could always make an act of contrition – a donation, perhaps."

  "But you think that God hears us?"

  "Look around you. Some of our churches took hundreds of years to be built, vast monuments to the power of prayer. Generations of people believe that prayer works. Who are we to say it doesn't?"

  It took me nearly three hours to drive from Wiltshire back to central London. An accident on the M25 slowed traffic to a stop-start crawl, like a throat having trouble swallowing.

  My car's rear bumper caught as it dipped down into the underground car park, and I swung the Porsche around, parking in my usual space. Retrieving my overnight bag from the front boot, I blipped the car locked and, swinging the bag over my shoulder, trudged towards the lift. The car park had a hot rubbery smell, and my leg felt stiff from all that driving. What had happened at the hotel had been a moment of madness, an aberration. I had fallen off the horse and was getting back on again. How I longed to see Mole's face. At the same time I felt anxiety – what if she noticed something was different about me? I suspected that women were good at ferreting out any sign of infidelity.

  The lift door slid open when it arrived on the top floor, and I stood fumbling with my keys, which jangled as I opened our front door. Dropping my bag in the hall, I called out for Mole. "In here, darling," she called. I walked through into our sitting room and felt shock run through my body.

  Alice was sitting on the sofa beside my wife.

  Mole rose to greet me with her arms outstretched. "Poor darling, you must be so tired after your drive. Look, Alice has come to see us. Isn't that a nice surprise?"

  "Yes, I can see that," I said. My mind was reeling. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. After everything we had talked about, what was it that Alice hadn't understood?

  "Would you like a cup of tea? I was just making one."

  "That would be great, thanks." This felt like a nightmare I wanted to wake up from but couldn't.

  Mole kissed me lightly on the mouth. "Now, don't say no before you've heard me out, but I've asked Alice to come and live with us. I know what you're thinking, but this way I can keep an eye on the pregnancy. She's told me she wants to move to London, and she doesn't have anywhere to live. So I thought, well, why not? Just until she finds a place of her own."

  Alice sat dumbly on the sofa.

  "Well, I, uh, guess so," I said. "It's just not something we ever really discussed. I know you wanted to monitor the pregnancy and everything, but we never talked about Alice actually living with us."

  "It would only be for a few weeks, and it helps Alice out. It would give me comfort too, especially during these early weeks."

  "I could pay rent if you want," Alice piped up from where she was sitting.

  "There's no need for that," I said automatically, following Mole out into the kitchen. "We've got a spare room."

  Mole opened a kitchen cupboard and pulled down the teabags while the kettle rattled with boiling water. I took her arm and said quietly, "Mole, darling, listen to me. We hardly know anything about this girl. Sure, she's carrying our child, but we don't know anything else about her. She could be a thief or have a boyfriend who's a thief. I had this friend who employed a weekly cleaner–"

  Mole stiffened. "Goodness, you're paranoid. We know where she went to school, where her last job was, where she was brought up. You've met her twice. She's a nice girl. We're only talking about nine months. Sometimes, the way you talk, it's as if you don't want this baby."

  "It's not that, it's–" I so badly wanted to confess what I had done. The words even formed in my mouth.

  "Good, that's settled then," said Mole, moving briskly past me. "Now, do you want anything to eat? You must be starving. Go and ask Alice if she takes milk and sugar. We've got some biscuits that need eating up."

  Alice had not moved from the sofa. Our dumpy surrogate was leafing through one of Mole's art books on the coffee table. I was so angry I could have torn it from her hands. Alice appeared frightened when she looked up, and shrugged apologetically as if to say, none of this is my fault. I shot a glance towards the kitchen, making sure Emily was out of earshot, and then stood over her. Glancing down, I realised I had unconsciously balled my hand into a fist.

  "What the hell are you playing at?" I hissed.

  "It weren't my fault. Honest. She insisted. She called me on my phone and said she needed to see me. I tried telling her that I wanted my own place. But she weren't having none of it. You've got to believe me, swear down."

  I felt like a tin can that had been kicked down the ribs of a mineshaft. My mind was buffering, figuring out what to do. First I never want to see her again, and now she's going to live with us? I could hear Mole still moving about in the kitchen; we had only a few seconds to finish this conversation. "All right. Look, nothing has changed. You don't say anything about what happened last night, and neither do I. Okay?"

  Alice nodded, looking as if she was about to cry. Please, God, don't start with the tears. Mugs were being pulled out of the cupboard. Mole could walk in at any moment.

  "Alice, do you take sugar?" she called out.

  "Yes. Two please," Alice replied.

  I whispered, "If my wife finds out, then my marriage is over."

  I mimed putting both hands in the air and making a placatory gesture towards Alice. Okay? Do you understand? Alice nodded. Good, that was settled
– we were both back on the same page again. Jesus wept, what a mess. Inwardly, though, I breathed a sigh of relief. Mole walked in carrying a tray with a teapot and three Emma Bridgewater mugs on it. There was that awkward silence when somebody walks back into the room and knows you've just been talking about them. A tremor of uncertainty crossed Mole's face.

  "Everything all right?" she asked.

  Alice stood up and looked out of the window. "It's a lovely place you've got here. Can you see the Shard from this window?"

  "Here, let me help you with that," I said automatically. Mole shook her head.

  "No, that's Canary Wharf in the distance," said Mole. "You can't see the Shard from here."

  Alice turned back to me. "Will you take a photo on my iPhone? I want to send it to my mate. She'll be dead jealous. Living the dream."

  Our surrogate handed me her mobile and slid the glass door to the balcony open to stand with her back to the Thames. There was a seven-story drop from the balcony, and for a moment the thought crossed my mind to push her off it. Stop being so ridiculous, I thought. Instead, I lined up her sallow face in the viewfinder.

  "You've really got it sorted here, haven't you?" she said, posing for the photograph. "Some people just don't appreciate what they have."

  I will always remember that photograph. It went on Alice’s Facebook page, along with photos of Emily and me getting married.

  Mole was already pouring tea when we stepped back inside. "Now," she said. "Shall I be mother?"

  Chapter Ten

  Lying in bed that night, Mole snuggled up to me, draping her leg over my thigh. I buried my head in her neck and breathed deeply. She smelled delicious. Lifting my head, I moved a stray blond hair away from her forehead and looked deeply into her eyes, noticing how they seemed to change colour from blue to green to grey. How could I have been so stupid to do what I did?

  "I expected you to put up more of a fight about Alice," Mole sighed.

  "I want her out once she's found her feet. I don't want her moving in here permanently. Once she's found a job, she goes. Agreed?"

  Mole nodded and moved even closer. "I just want to get the baby established. If she could stay two or three months ... Once she gets past the first trimester, there's less chance of anything going wrong."

  Three or four months?

  "I was thinking of a couple of weeks at most. To be honest, I'm a bit beyond flat-sharing. She can move close by so you can be near her, but I don't want her in the flat all the time. You know what they say, two's company."

  "Okay, but let's get past September. Not really anything can go wrong after that."

  Three months. Ninety days. More than seven hundred hours. Surely Alice and I could behave as if we hadn’t transgressed for that long. What I’d done, imperilling my marriage like this, had been absolutely insane. But I figured that adultery was like stopping smoking: it was the first cigarette you lit up after quitting that was the decider – every cigarette after that becomes easier and easier. Perhaps it was the same with cheating on your wife. I had already crossed the line, so next time wouldn't be so difficult. God forbid there would be a next time, though. Really staying faithful in a relationship was the hard part: everywhere you looked there was pressure to have what we wanted, right now. Monogamy was the last holdout. Oh stop trying to justify yourself, I thought. You did what you did. Mole gazed up at me, so trusting, and I felt like an absolute speck of dirt for having betrayed her.

  "You make me the happiest I have ever been in my entire life," she said suddenly.

  I studied her face and leaned forward to kiss her. "You say the sweetest things sometimes," I said.

  It had been one hell of a day, and now I wanted it to end. I reached across my wife and snapped off the bedside lamp.

  Alice came down from Manchester with her stuff the next afternoon. Mole had asked me to help her move in, so I went to meet her at Euston station. Watching Alice walk along the platform, I compared the two women. Snow White and Rose Red: they could not have been more different. Alice was dressed in a rugby shirt and shapeless tracksuit bottoms; I compared her to Mole in one of her prim-yet-sexy outfits that showed off her delightful figure. Alice raised her hand when she saw me.

  I took over pushing her luggage trolley towards the taxi rank. One of the wheels was wonky and kept veering sideways. "How was your journey down?"

  "It were fine. Dead easy."

  "Emily's made up the bed in the spare room for you. Until you find your feet."

  "I've got an interview with an estate agent this week."

  "About a job or somewhere to live?"

  "They're advertising for a junior lettings agent. I emailed my CV."

  By now we had wheeled her trolley across the station concourse. I decided not to tiptoe around the subject any longer. Rip the plaster off, expose the wound and just be done with it. "So listen, once you've found somewhere to live, I want you to move out. I don't care what Emily says about you staying for three months. We both know the reason why," I said, trying to be as gentle as I could.

  "I've already said I'm sorry. It was bloody 'er idea, not mine."

  Well, that told me. "No, you're right. It's just that this whole thing feels like a pressure cooker. What we did– was wrong. Despite everything, I want us to be friends, yes?"

  Alice nodded and got into the back of the waiting taxi. I wrestled her suitcases onto the floor, pointedly taking the fold-down seat opposite. I wanted to be absolutely clear: from now on, we were going to keep our distance from one another.

  Mole was cooking risotto when we got back, a dish Alice had never eaten before. She watched Mole closely as she poured a glass of vermouth over the sizzling rice and breathed in the heavenly-sharp evaporation as it boiled away. "That smells bloody lovely," said Alice, who later compared it to "cheesy rice" after we’d sat down to eat.

  Despite our conversation in the taxi, Alice did not move out.

  Instead, we settled into a domestic routine, with Alice slopping around the flat in her dressing gown and absurd Eeyore slippers at night. She kept out of our way, spending a lot of time shut in her room, updating her Facebook page or visiting other internet sites she favoured. She always seemed to be online.

  Slowly the wound of what we had done healed, and skin grew over the fading scar. Sometimes I managed to forget that we had even gone to bed together. Alice was becoming more like a younger sister to Mole, and, one day I found my heart singing, nearly convinced that this whole thing had been a nightmare I would soon forget. The kaleidoscope had shifted, and the incident would soon be a distant memory.

  How naive I was.

  Alice's body was changing, too. She was putting on weight as our baby grew inside her. Mole told me she had booked Alice in to see her smart gynaecologist, the handsome Doctor Forget, for the first scan at seven weeks, so I cancelled a meeting with Nigel Rosenthal I’d scheduled for that afternoon, secretly glad not to have to pore over Excel spreadsheets with him. I kept glancing at my watch to see whether it was time to leave the office yet.

  My wife and Alice were in the waiting room when I arrived, sitting opposite a chic Arab woman. "Bit different to what I'm used to," said Alice. You could tell she was a overawed by her surroundings. This clinic was so dignified that you felt nothing bad could happen there. How wrong you could be.

  Doctor Forget put his head around the door, and the three of us followed him to his consulting room with its bubbling gas fire. It seemed like only five minutes ago that we had embarked on this great adventure, and now here we were: our surrogate lying on his examination table carrying our child. I felt both excited and apprehensive. "Now, if you could lift your blouse, I've got cold hands," he said. Alice bunched up her shirt and Forget squirted some gel onto her stomach. "Not too cold?" he asked. Alice shook her head. Forget ran what looked like a supermarket price-checker over her tummy, and the TV monitor came to life. At first, I couldn't understand the garbled black-and-white blur. But then it settled down and I saw, really saw, o
ur baby for the first time. Forget began a running commentary: "There's the head and lungs, and look away now if you don't want to know whether it's a boy or a girl."

  "I want to know," said Mole. She looked to me for approval and I nodded.

  "Well then ... it’s a girl. You’re going to be the proud parents of a baby girl."

  A girl. Somehow the question of what sex our baby would be had never crossed my mind. Just as long as it, or should I now say she, was healthy. I felt an overwhelming rush of tenderness towards this tiny image, which looked so defenceless, like a tadpole swimming inside Alice’s belly. This was our little fishy, Emily and my DNA combined.

  "Good. Everything is looking fine." It hit me for the first time that this was really going to happen, that our lives were about to change forever and a new cycle of life was beginning.

  We took a taxi back home via the supermarket, chatting about the scan at the doctor's. Somehow the idea of having a baby had taken hold. Mole got busy chopping vegetables when we were home, and I poured us both a glass of wine as she whizzed some disgusting-looking green drink in the blender. Spinach and apricots and yoghurt. Good for expectant mothers, apparently. I loved watching Mole in the kitchen, where I truly believe she was at her happiest. I sipped my wine and reflected on my good luck: I had narrowly steered the ship away from rocks that would have destroyed us and brought us safely into harbour. "Here, take this though to Alice, would you?" Mole said, licking some drops off her fingers.

  I found Alice on her single bed, hugging her knees and crying. She was rocking herself backwards and forwards.

  "Hey, are you okay?" I said, putting the smoothie down next to a box of tissues. Inwardly, I braced myself for the worst. Just agree with everything she says and get the hell out of there. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "It's nothing," she said, dabbing her eyes.

  "I thought today was a happy day, seeing the scan and everything."

  "It were. I s'pose that's why I'm crying. There must be summat wrong with me."