Marco had always thought pregnant women were aliens and he'd avoid them—almost with fear in case they'd … Actually, she had no idea what his twisted little mind expected would happen. She thought they were beautiful. It was the ultimate sign of love, wasn't it?
She'd lose her job. Knocked-up waitresses just wasn't the image the Monte Carlo Yacht Club wanted to portray. Not that she would miss the job at the Yacht Club; it paid the bills, that's all.
If she did it, and had a small apartment paid for, she could do the things she never really had time to do—read, visit museums, the cinema, spend days exploring small villages in the nearby region. It actually didn't sound like a bad idea. But she was being silly; she couldn't possibly be someone's surrogate.
Chapter 3
"I can't fucking believe it," Carli said when Sam arrived home. "I got it. I'm gonna be working on a fucking cruise ship. Isn't that the most awesome thing you've ever heard?"
"Wow," Sam said genuinely. It really was the perfect job for Carli, who couldn't sit still, even if she wanted to. Maybe a cruise environment would suit all that energy she had.
"It means I can't keep the flat," Carli said with an exaggerated sad face.
In her mind's eye, Sam saw nights of peaceful quiet in front of her. God, she was getting old. "No, of course, I completely understand." That was the thing with flatting, it was a temporary situation that could finish at any time, particularly on the OE circuit, where a moment's notice was all it took.
"You'll find someone else in a heartbeat."
"Of course," Sam said with a dismissive wave.
"I'm going down to Stanos. You wanna come?"
Sam thought about saying no, but after the day she'd had, she could use a couple of hours of fun—provided she didn't go too hard; she had work in the morning. "Yeah, okay."
*
Placing her coffee down, Sam stared at the folded paper in the corner of the bar facing out to the parking lot and the road. It was the same paper from yesterday, like it was sitting there waiting for her to come back. What were the chances that no-one had cleared it away?
Ignoring it, she stared out the window at the passing traffic and took a sip of her steaming hot coffee. It wasn't a great view as far as views went, but she didn't require a good view this early in the morning; she needed caffeine.
The paper sat like a presence in the room, emanating guilt—not outright guilt in the catholic sense, but just guilt because she was the person who'd actually seriously thought about responding to the ad, and now she was seriously thinking about forgetting all about it—ignoring the hopes and dreams of this unknown couple.
She stood up and straightened her uniform, intent on walking away, when she quickly leaned over and roughly shoved the paper into her bag. She wasn't committing to calling the number, but she wasn't committing to not calling it either.
She'd forget all about it, she decided. She'd leave it in her backpack, discover it a week or so later, and then not remember why it was in her bag.
*
After the lunchtime rush, during the dull period before the evening rush, she sat behind the bar, flicking through the flatmate wanted adverts in the paper—just seeing what was out there. She hadn't made up her mind if she would keep the flat and get someone new in, or just move onto another one. It was extra responsibility being the original taker of a flat, as opposed to the one who moved in. She wished she could live closer to work, but that just wasn't an option.
She felt completely paralysed; it seemed like such a big decision. In truth, she knew it wasn’t the flatmate thing that had her stuck, it was the other thing, the one she'd tried not to think about.
None of her friends would understand it if she went ahead with it. It was so left-field; she wasn't even sure she understood it, but it preyed on her mind. She just felt like she couldn't let it go.
After a few hours, she dismissed herself, saying she needed a quick break. She retreated out the back, where the utility area was—along with her little scooter. No-one other than staff and service people saw this place. There was no gloss here, no sparkling glass or shiny chrome, just concrete and the consistent smell of garbage. But this was the place to go for privacy, for obvious reasons.
With shaking fingers she dialled the number of the advert. She knew it by heart and she hadn't realised she did. Butterflies filled her stomach as she listened to the dial tone. She wasn't sure she would be able to speak; her tongue felt like it was three times larger than normal.
"Hello?" a woman answered. She sounded kind. That was important for some reason.
"I'm... I'm… " Sam closed her eyes. "I'm calling about the advert."
"About the surrogacy?" the woman said hopefully.
Sam swallowed the lump of nervousness in her throat. "Yes."
"Oh my god. This is amazing. Seb will be so pleased. I think the best thing for you to do is to meet him—that way you can talk and see if this is something that you want to go ahead with. This is so exciting. Shall we say one o'clock at Attribe on Thursday?"
"I can't," Sam said. "I am working on Thursday."
"Yes, of course," the woman replied. "Saturday?"
"It will have to be Monday," Sam said, her voice shaking slightly.
"Monday, excellent. Thank you so much; you don't know what this means. They're so looking forward to seeing you." It was quiet for a second and Sam started to wonder what she meant when she said they. "Bless you," the woman said before hanging up.
What did she mean they? Sam thought about phoning back and asking. She'd assumed the woman on the phone would be the one she was meeting, and some man named Seb or Zeb, or whatever. She guessed it didn't matter.
She was still shaking and felt adrenalin running through her veins. She felt she needed to run, but she just paced back and forward in the grotty utility area of the Yacht Club.
She couldn't believe she'd done it; she'd called. It was a huge step, a momentous one. She knew she could back out, but it would be much harder when there were two people sitting in front of her with all their hopes and dreams resting on her. She wanted to talk to someone, but the only one here was Crystal and she would never understand; she would look at her in that way, like she was a complete alien.
Instead, Sam walked across the road and along a bit to get to the bakery that sold delicious, but ridiculously expensive Pain au Chocolat. She needed something sweet at the moment.
Sitting on a bench, wolfing down her pastry, she started to calm down—feeling as if a huge weight had come off her. It felt right, like it was what was supposed to happen. She would meet these people, and if she didn't like them, she would just take it on the chin and say no. It wasn't a commitment—like the woman on the phone said, they would meet and check each other out. That's all.
Although Attribe was one of the most expensive restaurants in town—Michelin star and all—not a place she'd ever expected she would be going as a customer—a waitress maybe. It was even swankier than the Yacht Club. But then infertility struck everyone, Sam guessed, no matter what your means were, and it was just as painful for the rich as it was for everyone else. She couldn't feel that someone was less worthy of receiving help just because they were rich.
*
Carli packed up her stuff and vacated her room by the week's end, leaving the house completely quiet, like it was sighing with relief. It was an unfair thought, but Carli was just so full-on. But the house seemed large and dark without her there.
Sam still didn't know what she was going to do about her living situation; whether she'd get someone else in, or do something else. She wanted to wait to see how this meeting went, the one on Monday. She would make some decisions after that. The idea of a change did appeal; she could treat the surrogacy as a job with lots of leisure time. Or she could work throughout it and save a good chunk of money. There was appeal to both options, but she was on her OE, and the idea of just being here and exploring was tempting—just the idea of a change was exciting. The job at the Yacht C
lub was starting to drag a bit; there was only so much of customer service one could take.
She was getting ahead of herself; she hadn't even agreed to do it. It wasn't like it was a done deal. She had to get a grip.
The weekend dragged. It had been the slowest weekend she could remember. Without being able to help it, she'd gotten excited about it—the idea of helping someone, of stepping out of her life and giving someone the ultimate gift. Even the idea of being pregnant was exciting. She wasn't ready to be a mother herself, but it would be exciting to watch her body change and do this incredible thing it was capable of doing.
She knew some women absolutely loved being pregnant. Some didn't and she hoped she wasn't the kind of person who had miserable pregnancies. But as far as she knew, the women in her family fared quite well.
She hadn't told anyone she knew—knowing it wouldn't necessarily be received well. Her mother would try to talk her out of it, at least at first. She would eventually come around to the idea that it was a kind and altruistic thing to do. Her brother—oh, who cared what he thought, she didn't. Her older half-brother would completely understand and would support her, but she just wasn't ready to talk about it yet. And what was there to talk about? She was meeting a childless couple, that was all.
Incredibly nervous, Sam drove into Monte Carlo on her day off. The roads were clear this time of day as all the workers were already in their offices, or shops or wherever they worked. She pulled into a space just down the road from Attribe. The good thing about having a scooter was the she could park it anywhere, forgoing the need to get a car park, which cost a fortune. Monte Carlo was very French in that respect, scooters were seen as little more than bicycles, and their presence was tolerated. She placed the industrial grade lock around the wheel spokes as even though this was the capital for the rich, there were still plenty of thieves.
Walking into the restaurant, she faced the maitre d’ who gave her a look like what was she doing trying to get in there.
"I'm meeting someone," she said pointedly to the snotty man. "A Mrs Muir set up a meeting for me." The woman had sent her a text with all the details, including directions to the restaurant, which was unnecessary as Sam already knew where it was.
The man sniffed. "This way," he said, looking less than pleased. He obviously didn't like having one of the riff-raff in his establishment. "Shall I take your helmet?" he said, pointing at the bulbous attachment to her arm.
She wanted to argue, saying that she would sit with it on the table, but then conceded that it might not be the appropriate time to be spiteful with snotty French maitre d’s. She handed the helmet to him and he took it as if he thought she had lice. She narrowed her eyes at him. He wasn't important, she thought to herself and dismissed him and his rudeness. She hadn't quite experienced blatant, un-PC rudeness until she’d come to Europe. They were just different here in their attitudes and it was perfectly alright to think someone wasn't up to your standards. She was getting used to it.
Walking through the restaurant, she was struck by the large windows framing the view of Monte Carlo and the sea beyond. The restaurant was quite high up in the hills, sitting in a spot with unobstructed views back over the township. This was expensive real-estate and the view was stunning—the beige of the buildings against the blue of the ocean, and white boats lined up in neat rows along the coastline. It was gorgeous, as was the interior of the restaurant—modern decor of the highest standard, intermixed with white cane furniture. An odd combination, but it worked.
"Your party is this way," the maitre d’ said and led her over to the corner—the best spot in the house, where a coffee table sat in the corner location, completely open to the balcony outside. A palm tree partially obstructed the table, but she could see the form of a woman, wearing purple and fuchsia. And not just tacky purple and fuchsia—this was the kind that Dior did, or some other expensive fashion house. Sam wasn't into fashion to the degree that she could tell where that outfit came from, but she knew enough to know this was something that had come off the catwalk.
As Sam walked around the plant, she saw the woman—also something that had come off the catwalk. She was gorgeous, shiny tanned skin, sleek long black hair and the face of an angel. Actually, she looked familiar. Sam had seen her somewhere, and as she stepped around further, she saw the man sitting next to her, Sebastian Luc—The Sebastian Luc—playboy extraordinaire. And the woman next to him was Shanna, the supermodel girlfriend. It was so obvious now, how could she not have spotted it? Sam's jaw dropped open. This was not what she'd been expecting.
She knew of Sebastian Luc; she'd had a little crush on him when she was younger. European celebrities rarely made it into the gossip rags in New Zealand, but he did every now and then when he was younger. He had short hair now, as he sat there leaning back in his white suit, looking cool and relaxed, his ankles crossed in front of him. He must be in his mid-thirties now, she thought.
He used to have long hair when she'd had a bit of a crush on him—long, wavy dark blonde hair and an attitude that dared people to question his masculinity. He didn't follow trends; he was the trend—and he had been. He went against the grain and the world had followed. She remembered this photo of him coming out of a nightclub, even making a baby-blue sweater look hot—the way only a European man could pull off. He was some relation to the royal families in Europe and sometimes appeared at their events, like weddings and such. She wasn't entirely sure how he fitted in, but he'd been a well-known identity in the bright, young royals set. He'd even tempted Calvin Klein into a mad moment of Euro-love for a few months, running a campaign centred around the man in front of her. He'd never modelled again after that, apparently feeling he was done after dabbling for a bit of fun, but the pictures were... stunning. Sam wondered if he still had the same amazing body.
Sam tried to breathe and recover from the shock of being confronted with the couple in front of her. Shanna Maya sat with her perfectly tanned knees together and her hands in her lap; her bright beautiful eyes looking up at Sam as she stood there staring at them. A voice sounded through Sam's brain, telling her to close her mouth and start acting normal. They were just people, who just happened to be obscenely beautiful. It only went to show that anyone could be struck by infertility.
The woman smiled as Sam sat down, feeling extremely out of place. Her smile revealed a broad row of perfect, white teeth. "We are so pleased you could come. You have no idea what this means to us," she said, placing her hand to her chest. She had a mixed accent, the strange pronunciation of someone European who'd spent a great deal of time in America.
Sam cleared her throat, trying to get over how surreal her day had turned. "Actually, I do," she said with an awkward smile. "It is the reason I am here. My brother and his wife had trouble, but I was too young at the time to help them then, but I never forgot the unhappiness they went through." She was babbling, feeling extremely uncomfortable.
"You are an absolute angel," Shanna Maya said, her head turning as she spoke, and her hair floating around her like it defied gravity.
Sam smiled tightly, still feeling uncomfortable with these people studying her. Shanna leaned over and shook her hand, it was slightly cold to touch, but there wasn't much to her—not an ounce of fat on her perfectly toned body. A gold bangle jingled as she moved and her nails were flawlessly manicured, making Sam want to hide her own home-job with Carli's purple sparkling nail polish. Next she shook Sebastian Luc's hand, who had a warm, firm grip.
She wasn't really a person who suffered with sycophancy when confronted with celebrities—not that she'd met a lot—but she still couldn't believe she was shaking Sebastian Luc and Shanna Maya's hands. In fact, she was here talking about having Sebastian Luc and Shanna Maya's baby. Life really couldn't get more surreal.
It was strange to think that such a perfect couple would be suffering from such a debilitating thing. She wondered if they'd gone through months and months of heartbreak like her brother and her sister-in-law, wishing for
nothing but a baby.
Sam smiled at them as they all sat, unable to think of how to proceed with discussions on such a delicate subject matter amongst perfect strangers.
Chapter 4
Sebastian sat in his office, looking out at the spectacular view, considering how complicated his life had become since he’d met Shanna. After years of playing around, he’d started to think he was too jaded for any meaningful dealings with women—and then he’d met her, one evening on a friend’s yacht in Santorini. She’d come into his life; she was passion and beauty rolled into one, with a big dollop of ambition. He’d been attracted to her as he’d been to no other—enough to coax him into a life of domesticity. And now she wanted a baby. He’d thought she was joking at first, but she’d been dead serious. ‘It will ground us, darling,’ she’d said. He could almost hear his mother celebrating in the background.
He wasn’t strictly opposed to the idea of a child, but he was at first apprehensive of what the presence of a child would do to their life. They’d managed to find a balance in their relationship, one he felt worked and he was worried that a child would bring chaos. But if Shanna wanted a baby, he would give her one—he just hadn’t expected the process to be so complicated.
A Material Gift (D'Arth Series Book 2) Page 2