Surrogate – a psychological thriller (11 page)

Instead, I peered through the crack in the door and watched as she stood up, admiring herself in the mirror. Alice turned from side to side as she ran her hands over her belly. Then she cupped her breast and played with her nipple, stroking it with her thumb. Was this a show she was putting on for me? Did she even know I was still there? I pictured myself taking her nipple in my mouth and felt myself becoming hard. My erection quickly strained against my boxer shorts. Now she was playing with her other nipple, taking it between thumb and forefinger and squeezing it. My mouth had gone dry, and all I was conscious of was this overwhelming lust as blood roared in my head.

Suddenly, she turned and looked straight at me. Could she see me through the crack in the door? I shrank back as if jolted by an electric fence. "Hugo, is that you?" she called.

Frightened of getting caught, I tiptoed back along the hall, slipping in to the safety of our bedroom. My God, what had I been thinking of? I must be absolutely insane. "Where were you?" Mole murmured sleepily. She swept my empty side of the bed with her hand. "I felt for you, but you weren't here."

Next morning I watched Mole pack for her trip to an art exhibition in Florence. Her gallery was taking a stand at the annual show. She was folding her clothes in one of those ubiquitous wheeled suitcases when she asked whether I had seen her turquoise blouse. "Now why on earth would I know that?" I said, knotting my tie in the mirror. I was already late for work. The Americans had arrived last night and were staying at the Hilton near Tower Bridge. About a dozen of them were coming to the office at nine o'clock for my presentation. And the future of the company rested on this visit, because if the Americans liked what they saw, negotiations could begin in earnest. The market would have to be told. We had even put together a little video showing why Lloyd's was the capital of the insurance world, with lots of shots of red buses and Buckingham Palace, everything the Americans would associate with Merrie Olde England. "You're selling the sizzle," was what Dad told me. I was fretting about needing to run through my PowerPoint presentation one more time when Mole rubbed up against me, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "My handsome husband," she whispered. Barging in on Alice last night like that had been madness, madness.

The buzzer sounded, telling us her taxi was downstairs.

Alice was watching Mole leave, standing in her bedroom doorway eating a bowl of cereal. She consumed mountains of the stuff. After last night, I did not want Mole to leave us alone together. I did not want to be held responsible for what might happen. Please stay, my mind begged. We kissed lightly as the lift arrived and Mole trundled her suitcase into it. "You kids have fun," she called out. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." And with that, the lift doors shut.

Nigel Rosenthal and Brian Sibley were not too impressed with me by the time I got to the office. "Sorry I'm late," I apologised, inventing an excuse. The Americans were already waiting in the meeting room, which had been rearranged theatre style, with about a dozen of them taking up the front two rows. I began by apologising for my father's absence. "He's still not well enough to be here," I said, "but I know he has been speaking to your chief executive." I acknowledged Continual's CEO Bob Grauerholtz, who nodded back. My slides explained Berkshire RE's history and what percentage of the reinsurance market we covered. Pretty slick, even if I say so myself. One of the Americans, a jowly guy in the front row wearing glasses, raised his hand.

"Wade Sadoff, vice-president. Could you give us some clarity on your private investor structure? These, uh, 'Names'? I understand some of them got burned pretty bad in the Dutch Marquez fallout."

I had anticipated his question. "Of course, it was absolutely tragic what happened, and yes, some of our investors had to call on Lloyd's emergency hardship fund. But I can assure you we are moving away from a solely private investor structure. We are in talks with some of the smaller pension funds about taking their positions. From now on, private investors will make up a smaller percentage of our cover. Um, yes?" I said, searching for another raised hand.

"Yes, but what happens if your investors take another hit?" Sadoff persisted. "What happens then?"

"We've taken out our own insurance policy against that happening. As I said, we're moving away from the Names model to the company market. Private investors will still be used for more specialised risks." I grinned, feeling like somebody who smiled too much.

Nigel Rosenthal sidled up to me afterwards as we watched the Americans milling about. Having a fixed grin on my face was tiring. "How do you think it went?" I said, waving to one of them leaving. "The proof is in the pudding," whispered Rosenthal. Grauerholtz was chatting to Sibley and when he saw me, he did that thing where you put a hand to your ear and point. He was going to call. I felt elated. Clearly, I was the golden boy of the moment.

After work, I had arranged to play squash with Currie. His space-age health club, with its immaculately white reception area, was around the corner from Lloyd's, and we tried to play together once a month. Partly it was a social thing, and partly it was to keep in shape. I mostly lost. Although a big guy, Currie dominated the court from the get-go. He just seemed to stand there, swatting everything I could throw at him. Everything will be fine if I just keep returning the ball down the side of the court, I thought, panting. A bit like my situation with Alice: everything would be okay if I just kept doing the right thing. The good-natured banter at the start of the game had gone by now. Things were becoming more serious. We both grunted as we slammed the ball against the front wall, our shoes squeaking on the floorboards. "Nine, seven," said Currie at the end of another rally. Where did he get his energy from? My heart felt as if it was hammering through my tee-shirt, which was scooped with sweat. I was bandy-legged with tiredness and hadn't got much left to give.

Currie took up his position in the serving box, tossed the ball into the air and slammed it into the front wall. Concentrate, you idiot. This time I was ready as the ball cannoned towards the back of the court. I reached out with everything I had and felt myself topple over as I did so. Shit. The wall reared up, and I crashed into it.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting down in the middle of the court, which was revolving in a figure of eight. My racket had skittered across the floor, and I had to sniff hard to keep a bulb of blood from perching on my nostril. It was all quite funny, really.

"Are you okay?" Currie asked, looking concerned as he loomed over me.

"I'm fine," I said, shaking my head. "That'll knock some sense into me."

"Let's stop there, matey. Do you think you ought to see somebody?"

I shook my head again and accepted his hand as he pulled me to standing. My shoulder hurt like hell, though, and I did wonder whether I should go to Accident & Emergency.

The changing room smelled of deodorant and sour clothing. I sat on the bench and peeled off my sodden tee-shirt. I gingerly touched my throbbing shoulder: it really hurt. Currie asked if I had time for a sauna and I said, sure. I was in no rush to get back home, knowing
she
would be there. With Mole gone for the next three days, the more time I spent away from home the better. I padded after my friend towards the wet area.

Resting my head against the hot timber, I felt the cares of the day ooze out of me. There was only one other man in the sauna with us, an older black guy. Currie leaned forward and asked if he could spoon some more water onto the coals. The black guy said he didn't mind in a rich, resonant voice from the Deep South. The stones hissed, and a wave of heat fell across our backs.

Our companion had a big dressing on his forearm, which he was worrying with his fingernail. Slowly he worked his finger under the fabric strip and peeled off the gauze. I winced as he did so. A fresh, thick scar ran along his arm, and the stitching was livid.

"Looks nasty," I said, breaking the silence.

"Uh-huh, got fucking bitten," said the black guy. For an African-American, his skin was strangely grey. His voice, though, was wonderful, like honey poured over gravel.

"How did that happen?" My skin was becoming slicked with sweat, and I rubbed both my arms and put a finger to my mouth. Salty.

"I took my girlfriend to India. She sees this cutesy dog in one of the markets and says she has to have it. I said to her, 'Honey, there's no way you can bring that back to England.' They've got quarantine and shit. And she starts crying and carrying on and I say, okay, okay, you bring it back to England, you just smuggle it under your coat, right? I mean, the thing's no bigger than a Chihuahua or one of those Yorkshire–"

"Yorkshire Terriers?"

"That's right. One of those Yorkshire Terriers. Anyway, we bring the dog back to England and leave it in her flat. Now the thing is, she's already got a cat, right? So we come home that night, and it looks like there's been a St Valentine's Day Massacre or something. Blood all over the walls. The dog's killed the cat. So we call the vet and he comes out and he says, 'That's no dog, it's a fucking rat.'"

"Jesus," I said, alarmed.

"So we're trying to get this rat into a cage, and the thing flies at me and bites me on the arm. Eventually we trap it, and they take it away to shoot it or gas it, I don't care. I never want to see that devil again." Our companion looked thoughtful for a moment. "Guess you never know what anything is ..."

He stood up, clutching his towel around himself and pushed the door open. We both watched him leave. "Poor bastard," Currie said once the door was closed.

"Yes, it looks painful," I said. My lips felt thick and numb from the heat.

"No, not that. I got talking to him about a week ago. He's always here. He's an investment banker at BarCap – that down-home way of speaking hides a razor-sharp mind. His wife kicked him out after she discovered he was having an affair. The stupid sod told her he had fallen in love with somebody on his equity research team. That's the first rule of an affair: deny, deny, deny."

Not that razor-sharp a mind, I thought. He still got caught. Nevertheless, this was the moment I had been waiting for. I so wanted to tell
somebody
what had happened. The words had often formed in my mouth but then died. "I did something really stupid recently," I began.

"What, you mean at work? Go on."

"No, not at work. I meant at home. Something I shouldn't have. I had a one-night stand with somebody a few months ago."

"What, you? Mister isn't-married-life-wonderful?" When he saw I wasn't joking he turned serious. "So, who was it? Somebody in your office? Jesus, not that underwriter you introduced me to?"

"It's the surrogate we're having the baby with. It only happened once, but I've been crippled with guilt ever since. I just needed to tell somebody. You've got no idea what it's like carrying that secret around."

Currie whistled. "The one who's been living with you at home? Bloody hell, mate, talk about shitting on your own doorstep."

"I know, I know. It happened only once, before she moved in. I kept telling Emily that I didn't want her living with us, but she wouldn't listen. She's obsessed with this baby."

Currie looked at me carefully. "Does your wife know? You haven't told her, have you? Because if you haven't, then don't. You'll only hurt her, and it won't solve your problem. What you need to do is get this girl out as soon as possible."

"She's promised not to say anything. We both agreed it was a drunken mistake."

"Don't be so naive. She's got leverage over you, and the moment her back's up against the wall, she'll use it. Think of it like that rodent the man just told us about." He nodded towards the door. "You need to call in the exterminator, mate."

It felt so good to be able to tell somebody, to finally be able to share my secret. I resolved to confront Alice the moment I got home.

Dumping my keys on the hall table, I went to her room and saw that her door was open. "Alice?" I asked, pushing the door wider. As usual her room was a swampy mess of clothes, magazines and toiletries. The bed was unmade, and her laptop was running on her desk beside some dirty glasses and a food-encrusted plate. Despite myself, I stepped further into the room and peered at the screen: it was open on a Facebook page showing Mole and me on our wedding day, standing on the steps of the Register Office.

Except that Alice had photoshopped her face on top of Mole's.

Alice and I were the ones getting married.

My skin crawled as I double-clicked on the next photograph, this one taken during our honeymoon: both of us holding hands in a restaurant. But, again, Alice's face had again been crudely photoshopped over Mole's. I clicked on another and another with mounting dread as my hair rose on the back of my neck. Every photograph was the same: Alice had inserted herself into each one, pretending we were husband and wife.

"What the fook are you doing in my room?" she said behind me.

I turned around. "Alice, these photographs–" I realised I was dealing with somebody who was not quite right in the head. My instinct was to scream and shout, but I needed to tread softly. Be cautious. You never knew what might set her off. "These photos, you had no right–"

"It were just a bit of fun," Alice said, reaching for the laptop. Unthinkingly, I grabbed her wrist.

"You've stolen these photographs. My memories. It's my life you're stealing. Do you really think that you and I have some future together? This is all in your head." Careful, Hugo, you're losing your temper.

"What's wrong with you? Why are you acting like a stranger?"

"That's exactly what I am to you. A stranger."

"I were just messing about on the computer," she said.

"I want you to move out." Beat. "Now."

"Don't you put this all on me, Hugo. We knew exactly what were getting into."

"Alice. Stop this. I don't know what you think is going on, but I'm not going to jeopardise my marriage again."

"What are you saying? That making love to me was a mistake?"

"Stop using that word. It wasn't love, it was lust." I released her wrist. "Yes, I suppose I am. I'm sorry."

Alice said quietly, "If you make me leave, I'll tell your wife everything."

"Fine, you do that. I'm not afraid of you." Then exasperated, waving my hands in the air. "You know what? I don't care. You need help. You need therapy. It doesn't matter what you do or say, because there's never going to be anything between us."

"I'll tell her that you raped me," Alice said.

That was the moment I saw red. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly angry. How dare she threaten me like this? I brought my face right up close to hers. "Do you really think that I am going to imperil my marriage for the sake of a one-night stand with somebody like you? Well, do you? Do you? DO YOU?"

Alice looked at me dumbly, tears welling. She was obviously crazy. "Look, I just want you out of my flat. Please. Just leave."

Alice reached out, trying to stop me leaving. "I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean it. Hugo, stop – I fookin’ love you. The moment I saw you it were like we were meant for each other. You do feel it, don't you? You do feel it, Hugo?"