Nomance (10 page)

The hours passed. Then
the days.

What he needed was a
good Samaritan to jog his memory and give him a clue. And as luck
would have it, that office was performed by Philip Westhrop, when
he came to call at
Romance
one Saturday morning.

There was a knock on
the back door, which was the nominal tradesman’s entrance.

Just then Gwynne
happened to be showing Carla the plastic buckets he’d nicked from
the
EasyHomes Superstone
– a bit of stock taking lite – and,
coming at that delicate juncture, the confident rap on the door
played strongly on Gwynne’s imagination. Glancing at the door in
question, he was suddenly and absolutely convinced that the law was
lined up on the other side of it, and at that moment he found his
plastic buckets weighing like lead buckets instead.

‘Don’t answer it!’ He
hissed, ‘I’ll take that new shower attachment back tomorrow.’

Carla turned to the
door and yelled, ‘It’s open!’

‘For fuck’s sake!’
Gwynne was too indignant to run. He watched, filled by sullen
resignation, as the door opened to reveal a tall, rather desiccated
young man, dressed in a grey flannel suit.

‘Oh great.’ He thought.
‘Someone from the non uniformed services!’

‘Not another one trying
to flog sphagnum moss?’ Carla jeered lustily. She enjoyed a bit of
raillery now and then with the salesmen.

‘No, I’m not,’ the man
said.

‘Everyone’s trying to
unload sphagnum moss just lately. Come on then, tell us what you
got.’

He stepped in. ‘I don’t
think you remember me, do you?’

‘We get loads of
salesmen.’

‘I’m not a salesman.
I’m Philip Westhrop. We have met, Carla. You know, during the
party.’

Gwynne, struck as he
was by his sister’s abrupt loss of colour, was enormously relieved
to learn that the plainclothes detective was here to arrest his
sister instead.

‘Yes, I recognise you
now,’ Carla murmured darkly.

‘I’m sorry to intrude.’
The guy glanced at Gwynne. ‘I’d like a word, if you don’t mind,
Carla?’

‘What about?’

‘It’s not something I
can explain in a few words. Don’t worry though, I’m not here to
cause any sort of trouble – ’

‘What kind of trouble?’
Gwynne interrupted with subdued menace.

Philip looked at him.
‘The kind I’m not going to cause.’

Gwynne had to chew this
one over and as he did so the guy from MI5 continued his
conversation with his sister.

‘In fact, I think
you’ll be very interested by what I have to say, so I hope you’ll
hear me out. You don’t have anything to lose. In fact, you have a
lot to gain. Everything that you want, perhaps.’

‘Everything that I
want?’ Carla sounded incredulous.

‘I think you know what
I mean,’ Philip said. ‘But this must be a shock for you, so what I
want to do is go away and come back at about twelve and we can
discuss it over lunch. I mean, I’ll take you out to lunch. I’ll
explain the whole deal then. But there’s no obligation, Carla. If I
come back at twelve and you don’t want to see me, then you’ll never
hear from me again. But think about it first.’ He nodded. ‘Thanks
for your time.’

He turned and left,
closing the door after him. Gwynne gaped at Carla. ‘What the hell
was that about?’

She shook her head.
‘I’m not sure.’

‘But you said you knew
him. Who is he?’

‘He’s the father of
that kid I was carrying.’

Gwynne slapped his
head, ‘The father!
That
’s what I should’ve asked! Who the
father was.’

Carla walked away and
ended up in the chill livingroom, sitting on one of the armchairs
and staring down into the murky patterns of the carpet. Gwynne
followed cautiously, and watched her from the sofa, where she
seemed surprised to see him when she looked up again.

‘What?’ She asked.

‘Carl . . . where’s the
baby now? It’s not in your room, is it?’

But in actual fact he
was thinking of the attic.

‘With its real mother,
of course,’ Carla blared at him with exasperation.

Gwynne shook his head.
‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s simple. That guy,
Philip, and his wife, paid me to have her kid. She couldn’t have
one herself, or that’s her story. But perhaps she could and she
just didn’t fancy the idea.’

‘No shit.’ Gwynne never
imagined his sister’s pregnancy could be this interesting.

‘Anyway, I did it for
her because they’ve got the money and this business is going down
the drain . . . but you don’t care about that, do you?’

He shrugged. ‘So, how
did you meet them, these people?

‘Through a doctor. He
owns a clinic in Acton. I met him in Cyprus.’

‘Cyprus? Is he straight
up?’

‘Of course he is. He
earns a good living out of it too.’

‘Yeah? So how much did
you get out of it?’

‘Five thousand.’

‘Five thousand! Is that
all? You can’t even get a decent motor for that.’

‘You don’t have to tell
me, but I was desperate, wasn’t I?’

Gwynne’s face flushed
with indignation. ‘It doesn’t seem right. I mean it’s a new life,
isn’t it? That should cost at least as much as a decent motor. You
ought have kept it, just to spite them.’ Then he noticed that if
she had done this she would be even worse off. So he added, ‘And of
course, waited a few months before sending it to the social for
adoption.’

Carla smiled. ‘You
bonehead, if I did that, they’d only find out and adopt it
themselves, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yeah. Slimy Bastards!’
Gwynne murmured. Then, having pinned these people down in the great
scheme of things, he began to wonder about the motive for Philip’s
visit. ‘So anyway, what’s he talking about when he says he wants to
give you everything you want? That’s money, ain’t it?’

Carla thought about
this. ‘Maybe they want me to have another kid. I wouldn’t put it
past them.’

‘Well, now’s your
chance!’ Gwynne cried feverishly. ‘Make fucking sure they pay the
going rate this time.’

Carla reddened. ‘I
don’t care how much they want to pay. Being a surrogate mother is a
traumatic experience. The nearest you could come to it is being in
a car crash. After something like that you just want to
forget.’

But for Gwynne, a car
crash was the very worst example of a traumatic experience,
implying, as it did, the fulfilment of a dream – owning a car in
the first place. A decent one too. He wouldn’t want to crash in an
old nail, would he?

‘Well, they sound like
a pair of right shits, Carl, I agree,’ Gwynne said, adopting the
tone of the oily salesman who’d sold Carla the sphagnum moss that
she didn’t need. ‘But still, if he wants to take you to lunch then
why not just go ahead and see what he says. At least you’ll get a
good meal out of it.’

Eleven
:
Credit Lunch

Philip arrived an hour
later to pick Carla up.

He took her in his
rust-blistered Rover down the traffic-clogged streets to Putney and
having parked it between two other cars with mere inches to spare
he conveyed her into a designer restaurant.

This had a striking
similarity to the interior of Gerald’s fertility treatment clinic.
There was a predominance of white wall, broken by a discreet-few
pine-framed pictures that did not retain the gaze too long, nor
even try to draw it, but which were quite content to do no more
than satisfy the peripheral vision.

‘Ah, Saxifrage, hi
there. Table for two, please.’ Philip said, as a waitress
approached them – a peculiar, diminutive being, with purple
lipstick and a shockingly frosty smile. She welcomed them in a
clipped, upper-class accent and led them to a table, leaving them
with a menu each.

‘I don’t suppose I can
smoke here,’ Carla said, when they were alone. Not because she
wanted to smoke as such, but because that was the only thing which
all the designer chic said to her.

Philip glanced around.
‘No, I daresay you can’t. In case you are wondering what to try,
I’d recommend the beef fillet, with baby carrots and pea volute.
Though, for myself, I think today I’ll try the rack of lamb with
new season garlic. I’ll get you a half bottle of Shiraz, shall I?
It’s not sweet, but not too dry either, and although this may come
as a terrible shock, Carla, I have to say I want to do everything
in my power to see you reunited with your baby.’

Carla found herself
lost for words. The waitress, Saxifrage, returned to the table just
then with a carafe of water.

Philip ordered for them
both.

This gave Carla time to
think. When the waitress had left them alone again, she asked,
‘What’s wrong with it, then?’

‘With what?’

‘The kid.’

‘Nothing, it’s
fantastic. Look.’ He pulled some photographs out and began to show
them to her.

‘Ugh, put them away!
I’m here to eat, aren’t I?’

‘I’d thought you love
to see Porchester again,’ Philip said.

‘Porchester!’ Carla
scoffed loud enough to turn some heads.

‘Oh, well, don’t let
that put you off. Change the name. The kid won’t know any better.
Like, I had this dog once which my parent’s brought as a puppy from
a family who were moving abroad. They originally called it Carbon.
Yeah, that almost put me off too. It was all black, you see. But I
persisted, and within a week it learned to run to me when I called
Butch.’

‘Butch?’ Carla queried
with a faint smile.

Philip frowned. ‘I do
want to help you, Carla.’

Carla leaned forward
and propped her chin on her hands. ‘Then why do you want to do
everything in your power to see your child back in my arms?’

He looked confused.
‘Because . . . you really want him back?’

‘Bollocks to that.’

Philip’s jaw went
slack. Then he bleated, ‘But what about the maternal instinct? It’s
the strongest instinct there is.’

‘Which is why I can’t
understand why Juliet would want to let it go.’

‘Ah, but you see,’
Philip went on, eager to explain. ‘Juliet and I are getting
divorced. Or at least we’re on the downward spiral that leads to
divorce. At this stage, I feel he would have a better future with
you. You see? There’s no need to feel guilty about taking him.’

Carla groaned and put
her face in her hands. She stared at him through her fingers.
‘You’ve got a flipping cheek. I carry the thing and now you expect
me to bring the little fucker up.’ She dropped her hands.

Philip leaned forward
and grasped one of them. ‘How about if I pay you as well – to take
it away?’

Carla withdrew her
hand. ‘Why are you so desperate to get rid of it?’ Her eyes widened
in alarm. ‘Just what did I give birth to?’

Philip laughed. ‘He’s a
healthy kid. Honest, Carla, you couldn’t wish for better.’

‘Yeah? Then why would
Juliet let you get rid of it? What happened to
her
maternal
instinct? Okay, you’re getting divorced, but that doesn’t mean she
can’t keep the kid.’

Philip’s amusement
faded fast. He picked his fork up so that he could twiddle
something nervously between his fingers.

‘A kid, you know, would
make a divorce very messy. Juliet will claim crippling child
maintenance off me. Look, lets say I pay you instead. A one off
payment. How about . . . another five thousand pounds?’ Carla did
not respond. ‘I’ll add five later this year, and five next. You’ll
have had fifteen thousand altogether. What do you say?’

‘But then I’ll get
lumbered with a kid to bring up. And I don’t want one, even if you
were paying me regular maintenance.’

‘Ah, but you see, you
couldn’t claim maintenance off me,’ Philip said perkily, ‘that’s
what’s so beautiful.’ He eyed the fork, moving around and around in
his fingers and murmured . ‘But don’t worry about bringing it up.
Just wait awhile and then sell it for adoption. They’re crying out
for babies in America. You’d get even more money then, wouldn’t
you? Maybe twenty-thousand pounds. Maybe a lot more. I tell you,
he’s a great looking kid.’

Carla’s interest
quickened. ‘Twenty thou?’

He smiled at her. ‘Or
more. It’d be easier than you think. I’ll even do the research for
you. And as for claiming the kid back off us, don’t worry – you
won’t have to do a thing. I have a lawyer. David Chudhury. He’ll
work with you and make sure you get him back. You have to hurry
though, Carla. You have to lodge your claim within the next two
weeks, or under English law you’ll lose your right to take him
back. What do you say? You’re looking to make thirty-five thousand
pounds altogether. Not bad for no work, eh?’

Carla didn’t feel the
need to answer straight away. She studied Philip for a moment. ‘You
must really hate Juliet to do something like this to her.’

Philip avoided her
eyes. ‘No, I don’t hate her,’ he said. His lean, haughty face
twitched with hurt. ‘I can’t help myself. I’m trapped.’ He scowled
at his plate. ‘It’s my fault. I thought marriage would change the .
. . way I felt.’ Misery played across his features for a moment,
then he looked up at her defiantly. ‘All right, enough’s enough.
There are other options. Will you help? Yes or no?’

A silence grew between
them. Carla heard the sounds of the restaurant echoing from a
distance. ‘Okay then, but only if I get all the money you’re
offering up front. The full ten. That’s my condition.’

‘That’ll be difficult,’
Philip said, but he looked relieved.

‘See, it’s no good to
me in installments,’ Carla kept drilling, not daring to believe she
had struck oil yet. ‘I need the money straight away to make any
difference. I’ve got a business to sell and I want to start up
something new.’

‘Okay, okay, lets
fucking well talk.’

Gush!

Twelve
:
Flies on Serena