The Surrogate

by Louise Jensen

  ‘It’s his birthday. Did you even remember? He deserves something nice.’

  ‘’Course I remembered. I’m not fucking stupid. Unlike him. Leaving school without any bloody qualifications.’ The kind voice his dad had used when his mum was ill was just a distant memory. He seemed even angrier now she was better than before she got sick. Mum said it was because he’d been so scared she’d die, but that didn’t make sense to Nick at all.

  ‘He’s not the stupid one,’ Mum screamed.

  The sound of the slap reverberated through the house. Nick dropped his bag and the flowers and flew through to the kitchen.

  ‘Mum?’

  Mum stood, back to him, hands on sink, leaning over the bowl as though she might be sick.

  ‘It’s all right, love. You go upstairs.’

  ‘No.’ Nick’s voice wobbled but he was a man now. He worked full-time, and the days of hiding under his covers, hands pressed over his ears, were over. Never again would he pretend to believe the stories Mum had walked into a cupboard or slipped getting out of the bath. Besides he had one advantage over his dad now. He was taller. Fitter. Faster. He shouldn’t be scared, but Nick felt his knees begin to shake as his dad took a step towards him, hand raised.

  His mum cried: ‘Leave him alone’, and spun around, and Nick saw her swollen lip, the blood trickling down her chin.

  He knew he had a fraction of a second to decide what to do. To walk away or hit back. There was a buzzing in his ears and his blood felt as though it was on fire as it crackled and steamed through his veins. His dad’s hand connected with his cheek, causing his teeth to slam together, and Nick felt an invisible force pull his fist back and pound it into his dad’s face again and again. His vision tunnelled. He was surrounded by blackness but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. In the background, his mum screamed, bone crunched, and Nick grunted with each and every punch. The anger he felt over every past hurt his father had caused teemed with the anger he felt now. It wasn’t until his dad fell limp and loose, Nick released his grip on the front of his dad’s shirt, and Kevin, for Nick swore then and there he would never call him dad again, crumpled to the floor. Gradually the thrumming in his ears subsided, the black dots in front of his eyes faded away, and as Nick stared with horror at the bruised and bloodied face lying before him, he knew he’d gone too far.

  25

  Now

  What does Nick have to tell me? I search his face for clues as I second-guess what he might have to say.

  ‘You look like someone has died.’ It is me who breaks the silence.

  Nick threads his fingers through mine. I feel a jolt of electricity and try to pull back but I see the utter desolation in his eyes. I will myself not to cry as I relax my hand into his and wait.

  Seconds blur into minutes and still he doesn’t speak.

  ‘Is there someone else?’ I ask.

  ‘What? God, no. How could you think that?’

  ‘You weren’t here last night. You lied to me. You’ve been distant for weeks since—’ My throat is constricted with emotion. My voice quieter. ‘Since Natasha’s text.’

  ‘Kat—’

  ‘And I heard you,’ I cut in, ‘talking to Richard on New Year’s Day. He said something about getting found out and you said: ‘it’s too late’.

  ‘I did say that.’ Nick nods. ‘And now we have. Been found out.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘There’s a problem.’ His voice sounds controlled but it is only because I know him so well I can detect a slight tremor. ‘With work. But it’s nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘Work?’ I hiss out air in relief but his expression tells me this is more serious than he is letting on, and that despite his reassurances, I should worry.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We didn’t get planning permission for a renovation on a listed building. It wasn’t intentional but it slipped by Richard and, by the time he realised, we had already started and stupidly decided to carry on rather than come clean. It’s a stately home and a huge site. Potentially we could lose a lot of money, not to mention our reputation, but it’s in hand.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Marriage is about sharing and I am hurt he has kept this to himself but I don’t want to make it about us. About our relationship. He looks so miserable.

  ‘You’ve had enough to deal with – the babies, moving house – I was hoping I could get it sorted without you finding out about it. I know how much you stress.’ That bit, at least, is true.

  ‘But still…’

  ‘I know. You’re stronger than you look.’

  ‘So, is it? Sorted?’

  ‘Not yet. I drove down to the site yesterday, and the meeting went on so long I stayed overnight. I’ll probably have to go back at least once more.’

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ I know I probably can’t but I feel helpless seeing him so deflated.

  ‘You can make me a cup of tea.’ He drops a kiss on top of my head. ‘I’m going to shower.’

  ‘And that’s really it?’ I can’t help asking just as he’s leaving the room. ‘There’s nothing going on with Natasha.’

  Nick turns. His eyes seek out mine. ‘Please don’t worry about her.’

  ‘It’s been hard not to in the last 24 hours.’

  Nick pulls his mobile from his pocket and scrolls through his contacts. When he reaches Natasha’s name he presses delete and scans my face for a reaction.

  ‘I can promise you, Natasha and I having an affair is something you will never have to worry about.’ He doesn’t blink, or look away, and I do believe him but I still feel uneasy. I just don’t know why.

  * * *

  Later, after Nick has changed into a tracksuit and we have eaten, I clear away the bowls of soup we’ve barely touched. Sweep the crumbs of crusty bread into the palm of my hand and sprinkle them into the bin. I’m tired but I can’t settle. I’m longing to talk to Nick about Lisa, but he’s shut himself in his study, said he had a few phone calls to make.

  The laundry basket is overflowing and I start sorting coloureds, checking each pocket as I go. I’m stuffing Nick’s trousers and the clothes I wore yesterday into the drum when I notice a piece of paper flutter to the floor. Scooping it up I see it’s the receipt from The Farncaster Bean Café. Tiredness burns behind my eyes as I screw the receipt into a ball and lob it into the bin. After adding softener to the drawer and switching the machine on, I carry coffee through to the lounge, calling for Nick to join me.

  He flops onto the sofa, looking exhausted. We’ve both aged these past couple of years. It’s time to tell him Lisa’s news. I kneel in front of Nick and take his hand. Heat passes between his palm and mine and a ball of longing begins to unravel. I press my lips against his, my fingers fumbling for the buttons on his shirt, but he clamps his hand over mine.

  ‘Kat, I’m knackered.’

  Hurt, I try to pull away but he pulls me closer and shuffles back on the sofa, making room for me. I lie next to him, my head on his chest, feeling the thump-thump-thump of his heart.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to?’ His fingers idly play with my hair and I feel myself sink into him.

  ‘The car window was smashed in a car park. Nothing was stolen though.’

  ‘I’ll get it repaired in the morning.’ He twirls a strand of hair around his finger. ‘Did you find her?’ he asks softly. ‘Lisa?’

  There was never going to be anywhere else I was.

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Kat,’ he says, after a beat of silence. ‘I don’t want to give up on having a family, I know how much it means to you, but can we just take a break? Be normal for a bit?’

  ‘Normal?’ The word stings but I know what he means. I struggle to think of the last conversation we had that wasn’t about adoption or surrogacy. Babies have become the forefront of our world and we don’t even have one yet.

  ‘I don’t mean you’re not normal because you can’t conceive, you know I don’t.’ He
brushes my fringe from my eyes. ‘It’s all-consuming, isn’t it? The constant worry. The hope. The disappointment. I think we need a break, is all, and maybe resign ourselves to the fact we might not become parents.’

  ‘August.’

  ‘For a holiday? Italy?’

  ‘No. For becoming parents.’ I prop myself up on my elbow so I can see Nick’s face. ‘Lisa’s still pregnant.’

  ‘But she fell. Said she was bleeding. Had cramps.’

  ‘The doctor thinks it was twins and she’s lost one. She’s had a scan. She’s definitely still pregnant.’

  ‘Is that even possible? It sounds unlikely.’ His eyes search mine for reassurance.

  ‘It isn’t. I’ve googled it and it’s not uncommon to miscarry one baby.’

  ‘She’s really still pregnant?’ The expression on his face oscillates between disbelief and excitement.

  ‘Really. Look.’ I wave the picture of the scan in front of him, as though it’s a magic wand that can make his doubts disappear. ‘This is our baby.’

  Nick can’t help smiling as he studies the photo. ‘You can tell he’s well hung, he must take after—’

  ‘Idiot.’ I punch his arm. ‘That’s his leg you’re looking at. Or her leg. It’s too early to tell yet.’

  ‘It was twins though?’ Nick’s face darkens once more.

  ‘Yes. They do run in Lisa’s family. Look. There’s something I haven’t told you.’ It suddenly seems important I’m honest. ‘Lisa had a twin, Jake – he died in a car accident.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Nick is shaking his head.

  ‘And I was with him. In the car. It wasn’t just a bump, like I told you. We were nineteen. Almost about to start uni. He was.’ I swallow hard. ‘My boyfriend. First love, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, Kat, I’m so, so sorry.’ Nick looks horrified as he pulls me towards him and strokes my hair. His body is shaking, and I don’t know if he’s sad for me or Lisa. The boy who never got to live his life or the baby we have lost. I wait – giving him time to absorb everything while I mentally prepare for the inevitable questions, but when Nick does speak he says: ‘Sorry, darling, I’m knackered. Do you want to talk some more or is it okay if I grab a couple of hours’ sleep?’

  ‘I don’t mind if you’re tired,’ I say trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  Nick presses down on my hip as he climbs over me; our eyes meet for a moment before he averts his gaze, and I feel ashamed in so many different ways.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I should have told you.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘But what if the baby looks like Jake? I should have thought.’

  ‘Then he or she will be a reminder. Some things can’t be forgotten. They-they shouldn’t be forgotten.’ He stumbles over his words, and I don’t know whether it’s because of tiredness or emotion, but I do know, as I listen to his heavy tread climb the stairs, I have taken a step towards the truth, and I wonder what would happen if I revealed all of me to Nick. The floorboards creak above me, and I reach for the remote control and scan the channels looking for something mind-numbing. Dirty Dancing is showing again. It’s one of my favourites but as Baby carries a watermelon, my eyelids grow heavy, and as sleep beckons me over, I willingly surrender.

  * * *

  The darkness was all-consuming, swallowing my ability to think straight. To stay calm. Panic welled and despite knowing I should keep quiet – I shouldn’t make him angry – I couldn’t contain the whimper in my throat that morphed into a cry. Into a scream.

  ‘Please!’ I fumbled in the dark, trying to locate the door handle, my heart skipping a beat when, for one horrible second, I thought the handle was gone, but then my fingers located the cool metal that warmed quickly under my clammy palm. I pulled and twisted and rattled knowing it wouldn’t make any difference but I was unable to just do nothing.

  ‘Please.’ I smacked my palms against the door over and over but each slap only fuelled my fear. ‘Let me out!’ The words were ripped from me and, over the pounding of my hands, the whooshing of blood in my ears, at first, I almost don’t hear it. The sound coming from outside. I rested my forehead against the door, trying to contain my juddering breath, imagining him doing the same on the other side. My panic transformed to sheer terror as menace seemed to seep through the wood, and I stepped backwards, stumbling over something I couldn’t see. I fell hard. The last thing I remembered was banging my head.

  I wasn’t sure how long I was out but when I came around, throat dry and head woozy, my bladder was full to bursting. My muscles cramping. I tried to stretch out my legs but as I slid them forward my feet hit the wall. I reached out with my hands feeling the solidity beneath my fingertips and fought to calm my breathing before I stood, knees buckling, and paused, wriggling my toes as I tried to get my blood flowing freely again.

  ‘Please,’ I whispered now, as I touched the door. Hot tears of humiliation pricked the back of my eyes. As much as I was afraid of what was on the other side of the door, the thought of wetting myself was mortifying. My fingers brushed against the door handle and, without hope, I twisted it once more. It was still locked.

  * * *

  I am disorientated as I wake, and cold with fear. I think I hear a baby crying but my cheeks are wet and I think it was me that was crying. Everything is getting so muddled. The nightmares I thought I’d left behind are coming more frequently again, and I think it must be Lisa coming back into my life, stirring up the past. Outside the lounge window the sky is dark, clouds obscuring the moon and stars. I must have slept for hours, although it’s not surprising as last night I barely got any rest. On the TV, the forecaster is predicting the imminent arrival of a storm that will wash away the snow. What has startled me awake?

  I aim the remote at the TV to silence it, listening instead for sounds of Nick. There is nothing to be heard except the ticking clock in the hallway, the sound amplified in the quiet. My skin prickles. Something isn’t right. Slowly I swing my legs from the sofa.

  I have such a strong sense of being watched the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I shiver involuntarily and wrap my arms around myself. There’s a soft shuffling sound coming from outside, it’s barely discernible, and if adrenaline wasn’t flooding through every cell in my body, enhancing my senses, I might not have heard it.

  Somebody is out there.

  It’s late for visitors but I wait for the doorbell to ring. Seconds tick by and nothing happens. I can’t take my eyes off the window. There is a lightness radiating from the snow, but all I can see in the glass is the lounge furniture reflected back at me. I tell myself it’s nothing, even though I know it’s something. I have to psych myself up before I can stand and cross to the window, terrified a face might suddenly appear. There’s a smack against the glass. The sound comes again and again, and I realise the predicted storm has arrived, hailstones are clattering against the windowpane. I force myself to calm but as I stretch both arms out and grasp the curtains I see it, just before I can swish them closed. A shadow. A movement.

  Somebody is out there.

  There is not much to see beyond my own reflection as I stare outside. Part of me wants to run and fetch Nick, but almost of their own accord my fingers release their grip on the curtains and my feet carry me to the hallway. I flick on the outside light. My hand stretches towards the front door handle. I press my ear against the wood. There’s a crack of lightning, and I almost turn and run up the stairs, but instead, I slowly crack open the door. Light floods in. No one is there, and I step outside, the snow and the rain saturating my socks, numbing my toes. Since I’ve been sleeping, fresh snow has fallen and the driveway is a blanket of white, but to the side of the garden, by the fence, where somebody who didn’t want to be seen would walk, are footsteps. They lead to the lounge window, where they stop, before circling back again, avoiding the front door.

  There was somebody out here.

  And they were watching me sleep.

  It feels like a
warning.

  You mustn’t tell, Kat.

  26

  Now

  I’ve taken to skipping breakfast these past few weeks. Ever since I saw the footprints in the snow I’ve had a feeling of being watched. I’m not sleeping properly, and my appetite isn’t what it was. Rationally, I know it’s unlikely anyone followed me home from Farncaster, but my mind races, jumping to conclusions. After all, Nancy saw me in that magazine, didn’t she? God knows who else did. I know it’s most likely Lisa coming back that has set me on edge: the approach of the ten-year anniversary. But in the dead of night, when shadows loom, and floorboards creak, I’m surrounded by an aura of dread. The cold, bony fingers of the past are reaching out to me.

  But today I will need my strength. I throw a couple of rashers of bacon in the pan, standing back as they sizzle and spit. Despite eating less, at our last rehearsal, my costumes would no longer zip up. Mortification heated me from my toes to my scalp as Tamara told me not to worry, she could easily order some more in a bigger size. That didn’t stop me standing on the scales the second I got home. They still said I weighed the same. I think the steam must have affected the reading and made a note to buy some more. That’s the trouble with working at home and living in leggings, isn’t it? You don’t notice the waistbands getting snug, and I may be skipping meals but I’m still eating chocolate Hobnobs as I work. Cramming them into my mouth as though the mindless chewing will keep my snarling memories at bay. It doesn’t.

  Outside the garden is a riot of colour. April showers have nourished the weeds tangled amongst the plants. Nick keeps promising to tidy the borders.

  The radio plays Corinne Bailey Rae’s ‘Put Your Records On’. It’s one of my favourites but I don’t sing along, focusing instead on slicing crusty white bread. One piece is an inch thick and the other is virtually see-through, but I slather it in ketchup nevertheless. I eat standing up, a tea towel tucked into the neck of my top to protect it from the grease dripping from my chin. When I’ve finished I punch out a text to Lisa.