In the mirror my reflection taunts me, my unwashed hair hanging limp, my face – pale and blotchy with tears – my body, a roll of flesh spilling over the elastic waistband of my leggings. Working from home I have stopped making an effort. I have let myself go. Loathing myself I stare at my image for so long my vision blurs, and I drift: Nick on our wedding day. His voice breaking with emotion as he took his vows. The way his hand shook as he slid on my ring. I dive into the memory. It is colourful and bright. Warm and comforting. Better than the here and now in each and every way. But reality pulls and pulls at me until, reluctantly, I am back in my cold and silent room, desperate to talk things through.
I pick up my phone, scroll through my contacts and press dial. It rings and rings. Come on. I urge Lisa to pick up but a robotic voice invites me to leave a message. I don’t. Instead, I try Clare. With every unanswered ring my frustration builds.
As though it is about to explode I hurl my mobile onto my bed. The desire to text Nick is immense but I want to see the expression on his face as I confront him. Agitation keeps me on my toes, and I find myself pacing furiously until my adrenaline ebbs away, and I fold myself around Nick’s pillow.
* * *
The sound of a baby crying wrenches me awake. I sit bolt upright. The lost baby? The bedroom is swathed in darkness, the shadow of my furniture eerie. The crying fades to an even louder silence, and I know, with certainty, I should not have gone to Farncaster today, walking around the town, shoulder to shoulder with the shoppers, as though I am one of them. As though I belong. Slowly, the ceiling seems to bear down, compacting the air in the room. I think of the rock through my window, the figure at the crematorium, eyes following my every move. I wrap my arms around myself. I can’t stop shivering and I know it’s with fear, not cold. It’s all going to catch up with me. I don’t know if I can keep it together any more.
Not again.
23
Now
The sky is streaked pink and orange when I wake, the sound of a baby crying sharp in my mind. I have been so restless in the night, the duvet has slithered onto the floor and I am cold and stiff. I stretch out my legs, flexing my feet, encouraging the blood to flow and chase the pins and needles away before I stamp over to the window on still too-numb-too-feel feet. The driveway is empty. I rub the sleep from my eyes, as though I can make Nick’s car appear. It doesn’t. My mobile skitters across my bedside cabinet trilling ‘Like I Love You’, and I know it’s Lisa.
‘Morning, Lisa.’
‘Hello.’ She sounds flat. ‘I told my mum last night about the surrogacy.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘Not well. She didn’t understand how I could give a child up. Not when she’s lost one.’
‘Did she come around last time? With Stella?’
There’s a beat.
‘She wasn’t thrilled, but this time it’s worse. This time—’
‘It’s me.’
Lisa sighs ‘I didn’t mean… Look, Jake was my twin and I loved him as much as her, if not more. It was an accident. I can see that. Why can’t she?’
‘It might have been an accident but it was still the wrong place at the wrong time, and if it wasn’t for me, Jake wouldn’t have been there, would he? It’s human nature to look for someone to blame.’
‘But…’ Lisa is crying now. I wait while she gathers herself. ‘You weren’t driving. Jake was and they don’t blame him. Does someone always have to be accountable, Kat? She’s so busy being angry and hurt she’s forgotten the good times.’ Her breath hitches. ‘Do you remember when we made that Easter cake? We must have been about thirteen?’
‘Yes. It was terrible! It sank in the middle.’
‘Jake said he could do better, and we told him boys couldn’t bake—’
‘And he locked himself in the kitchen and made that chocolate log. It was amazing!’
‘It was shop-bought, you know.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘I found the box in the bin. It was at the back of the cupboard, left over from Christmas. He just took off the snowman and stuck mini eggs on the top. I told him I wouldn’t tell if he let me eat the rest. No wonder I was fat.’
‘How funny. I thought he was an amazing cook. He made us a romantic meal for two once. Pasta and—’
‘Dolmio.’
‘No!’ I laugh, though it is slightly disconcerting that the person I thought I knew better than anyone managed to fool me. But I suppose we are all taken in sometimes, aren’t we? We believe what we want to see.
‘I miss him, Kat, and I haven’t had anyone to talk to about him. To be honest, my mum is still so wrapped up in grief she barely talks to me any more.’
‘You can always talk to me, Lis. I’m always here.’
‘Sorry. I’m hormonal.’
‘Don’t apologise. You’ve just lost a baby. A twin. You’re bound to be feeling awful.’
Lisa cries even harder. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop apologising, Lis.’
She blows her nose. ‘It never gets any easier. The loss. I don’t think time does heal, do you? We just have to learn to live with it, but what if we can’t? What then?’
I sift through platitudes I quickly discard, remaining silent until Lisa’s sobs abate.
‘Do you want me to come and see you?’ My offer is genuine.
‘No. It’s probably best you don’t visit Farncaster again. I don’t think you’d get a very welcome reception.’
‘What about your scan?’
‘I know you wanted to be there, but, Kat—’
‘Please. I don’t mind so much about the midwife appointments, but actually seeing the baby… I could meet you at the hospital and leave afterwards. No one will know.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please, Lis.’ The online surrogacy group I’m part of says it’s such a great bonding experience if you can be present for the scan. ‘I really want to be as involved as I can.’
‘OK.’
She still sounds reluctant but I’m already mentally planning my route, how I can drive around the outskirts and avoid the town centre.
‘You’ll let me know as soon as it’s booked? I don’t want to make anything harder for you, Lisa. I promise. I respect your mum doesn’t want anything to do with me but I’m here to support you in whatever you need, and it doesn’t have to be baby related. It’s been good – talking about Jake.’
‘I’ve missed you,’ Lisa blurts out.
‘Come and stay with us. Soon. Bring some old photos.’
‘The ones of Jake in that crazy pork-pie hat he wore?’
‘He was wearing that the night of Perry’s party.’ It had slipped backwards as we shared our first kiss, and he’d steadied it with one hand, his other massaging the back of my neck.
‘I’d like to come and stay,’ she says, ‘and share memories of Jake. I’d like that a lot.’
A feeling of warmth wraps itself around me like a cloak, and I berate myself for the time I’ve wasted.
* * *
The shower spits and splutters. I scrub at my skin, as if I can wash away my tiredness. The water torrents along with my emotions. Of all the things I am feeling about Nick, underneath the suspicion, the disappointment, the worry, bubbles happiness that me and Lisa are okay. The baby is okay.
As I lather coconut shampoo, I practise the things I’ll say to Nick but, even in my head, the words sound cold and accusing. It will be better to wait and see what he has to say for himself. Once dried and dressed, I paint on a brave face. My skin tight under a thick layer of foundation.
I have chopped vegetables, dissolved stock cubes and am pacing barefoot, from sink to cooker and back again, my soles sticking to the tiles, when Nick slinks into the kitchen.
‘Hey.’ He can’t quite meet my eye. ‘I didn’t think you’d be home yet.’ He dips his head to kiss me, and his stubble grazes my cheek.
I pull back as the rank smell of whisky stings my nostrils.
‘I’ve not been back long.’ My voice is jovial, giving him the chance to tell me the truth, but underneath my calm exterior, anger is simmering like the soup on the stove.
‘Something smells good!’ He lifts the lid on the pan and inhales deeply.
‘Where have you been?’ The question slips out before I can think it through.
‘I nipped to the office to pick up some papers. I missed you last night.’ Nick nuzzles my neck, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, squeezing me so hard my lungs grapple for air. I try to wriggle from his grasp, but he clings on and I can’t break free. Sliding my arms around him, I feel his shoulders shake and think he might be crying but I can’t be sure. I half-expect to smell traces of perfume – there’s nothing but stale alcohol. Nick puts his palm on the small of my back, drawing me closer until there isn’t even a centimetre gap between our bodies, yet I’ve never felt so distant from him before.
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I say, pulling back. I find his eyes before saying: ‘I know.’
There is a flash of panic on his face. ‘You know?’ He speaks slowly. Carefully. As if buying himself time to form a proper answer in his head before he says it out loud.
‘I know you weren’t here last night.’
A sharp intake of breath tells me I have caught him by surprise.
‘No. I wasn’t.’ He doesn’t elaborate further.
‘Where were you?’ I cross my arms. I am afraid of his answer but, at the same time, I am desperate to hear it.
‘Kat.’ He whispers my name with such regret. ‘I am so, so sorry but there is something I need to tell you.’
24
Then
Nick was freezing when he woke. His duvet was thin and his too-small pyjamas hadn’t kept him warm. They’d moved into a two-up two-down council house a few years before but it still wasn’t a happy home. There was a time, when his mum had breast cancer, that Nick had seen a different side to his dad, but once Mum had been given the all clear, it was as though all the fear, all the worry his dad had felt, transcended into anger. He was worse now than he had ever been. Nick had begged his mum to leave – Dad was becoming more and more violent – but she’d say to Nick: ‘He’s still in there. The man I fell in love with. Remember when I was ill?’ But Nick thought, if you had to be dying for someone to be nice to you, they probably didn’t love you as much as you hoped. He wouldn’t think about that today though. It was his birthday. Nineteen! Although there would be no party, no decent presents, he didn’t care. He didn’t want anything except for his mum to be away from his dad. Nick worked full-time at Tesco now and rarely spent any money on himself. Everything went into a savings account. One day he’d buy a big house like the one mum cooed over on the property programme last night, with the island in the kitchen and the copper pans hanging above the Aga. He’d paint the kitchen sunflower, his mum’s favourite colour, and while he went to work, she could bake cakes. She would never have to work again.
Nick caught a whiff of something delicious, not the usual mildew smell that filled the house as the patches of mould climbed the walls, clung to the ceiling, but sausages. Nick jumped up and pulled on a pair of socks before padding downstairs towards the kitchen as quietly as he could. His dad liked to lie-in.
‘Happy birthday, Nick!’
Mum crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around him; she smelled of oil and cleaning products. Nick hugged her fiercely.
‘You must be shattered?’ He stepped back and studied her face. She looked so much older than Richard’s mum, although they must be around the same age. The wrinkles surrounding her eyes definitely weren’t caused by laughter.
‘I’m fine.’ She smiled but it was only with her mouth.
Nick reached to switch on the kettle to make her a cup of tea, but she slapped his hand lightly.
‘Sit down and open your presents.’
On the table were two gift-wrapped boxes. He picked them up one by one and shook them, trying to guess what was inside. He slid his fingers between the join in the wrapping paper on the one he thought might be a book and eased it open, wanting to savour the moment.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ He flipped open the cover on the encyclopaedia and ignored the ‘Happy Christmas, Emma!’ inscription on the inside.
‘If you’re going to find a better job than shelf stacking, you’ll need to know all that stuff,’ Mum said. She had wanted him to stay on at school, go to uni, but how could he? He needed to be a man. Contribute to the housekeeping. He’d left school as soon as he had turned sixteen, eager to be bringing in money, but without sitting his exams it had been hard to find anything decent and he’d taken the first job he’d been offered.
‘Open the other one before the sausages burn.’
Nick picked up the other box. He had no idea what could be inside. Smoke began to rise from the frying pan so he tore the paper off quickly.
‘Mum!’ Nick stared at the Nokia box, almost too afraid to look inside in case it housed something other than a mobile phone. He’d wanted one for ages and, more than once, he’d been tempted to buy one out of his wages but they had an unspoken agreement almost, him and Mum. Every penny would go towards their future.
‘I hope it’s okay. It’s nothing fancy but you can text and call. I’ve topped it up with £5 credit for you.’
Nick slid the packaging out of the box. It was nothing like the one Richard had. There was no Internet, not even a camera, but Nick turned it over in his hands as though it were a gold bar. ‘It’s brill. Thanks.’
‘Tuck in or you’ll be late for work.’ Mum slid sausages from the pan onto a plate.
Nick forked baked beans into his mouth as he switched on his phone, and it wasn’t until he was halfway through his breakfast he realised his mum wasn’t eating.
‘Where’s yours?’
‘I’ll have mine later with Dad.’
Nick hesitated. His mum was getting so thin he often wondered whether she ate at all.
‘Really. Hurry up before yours gets cold.’
Nick finished, and his mum took his plate to rinse, and as he stood he couldn’t help but pull open the fridge door. There were only three sausages inside, and he knew his mum wouldn’t be eating at all.
His phone felt hard and heavy in his bag as he walked to work, a constant reminder his mum had yet again gone without.
‘Happy birthday, mate.’ Richard pressed a box into Nick’s hands when they met for lunch, and he sauntered into the chip shop to buy them both lunch, as though it wasn’t a big deal he’d just given Nick an iPhone. Nick had only ever seen a picture of one – apparently, they were going to be huge but they were almost impossible to get.
‘What the fuck? I can’t accept this, mate.’ Nick tried to give it back to Richard when he returned with bags of hot, salty chips and golden fish. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful, but Richard gave him so much and it didn’t seem fair the only thing Nick had ever been able to do in return was teach Richard how to play football. Even if he was bloody good at it.
‘I want you to have it.’ Richard opened a sachet of ketchup with his teeth.
‘I think—’
‘You think too much,’ Richard cut in. ‘I think you want one. I think you should have one. Seriously.’ He leaned closer to Nick and lowered his voice. ‘I’ll always do what I think is right for you. No arguing. We’re mates. We’ve got each other’s backs, right?’
‘Always.’ Nick felt his grin almost split his face in two as he opened the box and pulled out the handset. ‘They’ve only just come out though. How did you manage to get one?’
Richard tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ve contacts. I can sort anything out. It’s not what you know—’
‘It’s amazing!’
‘It’s nothing.’ Richard shrugged.
But it was something. To Nick. ‘I owe you one.’
‘Oh, you do,’ said Richard. ‘I won’t forget.’
Walking home after work Nick passed the pawn shop and a
thought struck him. He didn’t need two phones. He could sell one and buy his mum something nice without it affecting their savings. Some flowers, perhaps, or chocolates?
The bell trilled as he pushed open the door. The smell of coffee rushed towards him. The man behind the counter, comedy moustache, eyed Nick suspiciously.
‘If it’s nicked, I’m not interested.’
‘No. It was a present. Honest.’ Nick put his rucksack on the counter and unzipped his bag. He rummaged through his Tesco uniform until his hand connected with the chunky Nokia. As Nick began to pull it out of his bag, he remembered the radiance on Mum’s face as she’d watched him unwrap it that morning, her hands raw and red from cleaning, as she served up the breakfast she couldn’t afford to eat herself. Nick dropped the handset as though it had suddenly burned him. Instead, he pulled out the iPhone Richard had given him and tried to ignore the heavy feeling in his heart as he saw the man’s eyes light up, and although he only offered Nick a fraction of what he knew it must have cost, he stuffed the notes into his pocket anyway.
The shouting was audible before Nick had even unlocked the front door.
‘You spent the housekeeping on a fucking phone?’
He hesitated, as though his dad’s anger was pushing him back. He stood on the front doormat, clutching the baby pink carnations he’d bought. Tucked inside his bag was a box of Terry’s All Gold. There was still some cash left he’d give his mum.
The Surrogate Page 13