Surrogate – a psychological thriller (5 page)

"I don't want this," Mole said quietly. "It's not what we planned."

"Look, you've asked for my advice, and I'm giving it. Thousands of couples use surrogate parents each year. This clinic in Wiltshire is highly recommended. Some of my biggest clients, the ones you see in
Hello!,
have used it. There was that actress ..." He clicked his fingers, trying to remember her name.

My mind cycled through what he had just told us. I mean, there were so many things to think about. "With surrogacy, how does it work? What if the surrogate decides to keep the baby?"

"There's no danger of that. The whole process is tightly controlled. That's why you should go through a clinic. There's more danger of the surrogate keeping the baby if you use a friend. With a clinic, everything is legal. There's lots of paperwork. You needn't even meet the carrier if you don't want to."

Mole and I looked at each other doubtfully. There was a lot to take in, and I wasn't sure how I felt about it. This was not something we had discussed. Did we really want a child badly enough to rent another woman's womb, which was effectively what we were doing?

"I don't know," I said. "We need to talk this through. It's not something we've even considered."

"Of course, of course," Forget said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

Have you ever thought how your life can change on the tiniest decision? Not getting on a packed bus? Turning left instead of right? That's what happened when our gynaecologist suggested going down the surrogacy route. I should have just grabbed Mole's hand and got the hell out of there.

Rain smoked around the back tyres of cars on the motorway all the way down to Wiltshire. We had a four o'clock appointment at the Arlington Clinic, the surrogacy centre Doctor Forget had recommended. Mole was quiet in the car, preoccupied. I guess she was thinking about this enormous step we were about to take. Instead of talking, we listened to music from when we were children: Blur, Oasis and the Stone Roses. I took my hand off the steering wheel and gave hers a squeeze.

Forget was not kidding when he said this clinic was discreet. It took several wrong turns down country lanes before we found the house we were looking for, and even then I overshot the entrance and had to reverse back up the road. A canopy of overhanging trees choked the long driveway up to the house. At one time the clinic must have been a handsome red-brick Victorian home, but today it had a sagging, neglected feel to it. I swung the Porsche 4x4 across the drive and came to a stop facing the house. Rain trails hung in the distance even though the rain had stopped.

We crunched across the drive to the entrance and pressed the buzzer. Pushing the door open, we found ourselves in a waiting room where saccharine photographs of happy children gazed at us from the walls. The children were even more winsome than those in the fertility clinic, all reinforcing the message that children equated to happiness, and happiness was just another thing you could buy. They say that money can't buy you everything, like love; well, I'm sorry John Lennon, but in my experience you just have to dig a little deeper in your pocket. Because even if we found a surrogate, this whole exercise was going to cost me anything up to sixty thousand pounds. The receptionist had given me fair warning to bring a chequebook along. The clinic wanted a twenty-thousand-pound deposit if we went ahead.

There was a half-finished feeling to the Arlington Clinic, as if it was either setting up or going out of business, and the corridor had an institutional smell of fried food and hot, dusty radiators.

I wondered what our surrogate was going to be like, what she was doing right at this very moment. Our lives were going to change forever in nine months' time, yet was I really ready to be a father? I knew how important becoming a mother was to the woman I loved, yet could I say goodbye to my old life? And what exactly did that old life consist of, doing blow in nightclubs? Wasn't it time to grow up and move on with the next stage in my life? I pictured myself teaching our son to ride a bicycle, my hand pressed against the small of his back, letting go and watching him turn back as he pedalled on his own. But then again, wasn’t childhood one long waving goodbye to each other?

As if reading my thoughts, Mole said: "Are you sure you want to go through with this? We can always go back to London."

"We've talked and talked about this. You want a child. I'm ready for a child. We could go on debating for the rest of our lives. We're committed, so let's do it."

Mole liked to examine every decision from every angle, which drove me mad sometimes. It took her a long time to make up her mind, whereas I, rightly or wrongly, would rather jump in and to hell with the consequences.

"All we're doing is exploring options," she said, as if to reassure herself. "We don't have to agree to anything. Oh, I meant to ask you, have you told your father yet?"

"I thought it better to tell him once we've decided. You know what he's like. He'll only stick his oar in."

A brisk-looking blonde put her head round the door and told us Mr Wallace-Jones would see us now.

Trevor Wallace-Jones had a large round face, a salt-and-pepper beard and round John Lennon glasses. He had a weak, floury handshake, and there was an off-putting softness about him. We sat down opposite his desk in his blankly modern office.

"Please excuse the mess outside," he said. "We only moved in a couple of months ago and never seem to get round to unpacking." We murmured that this was quite all right. Wallace-Jones continued. "Doctor Forget says in his notes that you've been trying for a baby for six months, is that correct? And that you got pregnant only to miscarry a few weeks into the pregnancy, yes? And that you, Mrs Cox, have been diagnosed with a hyper-vigilant immune system?"

When you see a new medical person, you always have to recap everything. We both nodded.

"Perhaps we should start by you telling me why you've decided to explore surrogacy," he said. "Then I can tell you about our work here and how we operate." In another life, Mr Wallace-Jones might have been an Anglican cleric and I looked towards Mole, who was already knotting her hands.

"When Doctor Forget told us it was useless trying IVF, something inside me died. I could feel it," she began. "You don't know what it's like for a woman to be told she can't conceive. Everything we have, everything we own ... I just feel, I just feel ... like a failure."

Mole was becoming tearful. "I can't give my husband the one thing he wants," she continued, before correcting herself. "I mean, the one thing we both want."

Wallace-Jones nodded sympathetically and pushed a box of tissues towards her.

"I completely understand," he said. "Perhaps I should begin by explaining what we do here. Basically there are two types of surrogacy: traditional and gestational. With traditional surrogacy, the sperm is injected into the surrogate between twelve and thirteen days after menstruation ..."

"The turkey baster, you mean," I said, trying to be funny. Wallace-Jones ignored me.

"... using a syringe, and then the baby is monitored and born in the traditional way. Then there is gestational surrogacy, where there are three parties involved: the father, an egg donor and the surrogate."

Mole said, "I don't understand. Are you saying that the egg donor and the surrogate are two different people?

Wallace-Jones smiled, showing an ugly row of yellow teeth. "They can be. We work with a lot of gay couples, so there's no question of them providing an egg sample. The fertilised egg is placed in the womb of the surrogate, who then carries the baby to term. So the egg donor could be a college student in California, while the surrogate could be a woman living in India."

I found the idea of an Indian woman wandering around her flat in Mumbai carrying our baby a little unsettling.

"These women who donate their eggs, where do they come from?" I asked.

"Oh, various backgrounds. A lot of them are newly married and need to make extra money. We've had models and actresses. A lot of them are in college and need the cash for course fees. Of course, that wouldn't apply in your case. You're producing eggs, it's just that your body sees any foreign object as a threat. All we would be doing is taking your fertilised egg, Mrs Cox, and implanting it in a surrogate of your choice. Your body would reject the fertilised egg, which is why you miscarried."

The idea still made me queasy. "So these egg donors, basically you're choosing the quality of the DNA?"

Wallace-Jones grinned. "Exactly. Every donor file lists the woman’s medical history, educational achievements and social background. The better the DNA quality, the more you pay."

"But that's eugenics," Mole said, furrowing her brow as she followed my line of thinking. "Only the rich will be able to afford higher-quality children."

"That's the market, I'm afraid," Wallace-Jones said with a shrug.

"If we go down the surrogacy route," I said, "what's to stop the surrogate keeping our baby? What precautions do you take?"

"We've overseen hundreds of surrogate births, and nothing like that has ever happened. So far this year we have helped deliver sixty children alone." The clinic director gestured towards a white board on the wall showing some kind of handwritten spreadsheet: tens of names charting where they were in the process. "We make you both sign a sort of contract. And we do a CRB check on the surrogate to ensure she doesn't have a criminal record. Believe me, for these women it's just a way to earn money."

"And there's no emotional attachment at all?" asked Mole doubtfully. "What sort of women become surrogates?"

"That's an interesting question. Often it's women who like being the centre of attention, Daddy's little princess. Others just like the feeling of being pregnant." Wallace-Jones smiled ruefully. "Sorry, that wasn't very tactful."

"Will we get to meet our surrogate?"

"That's entirely up to you. Some parents don't want to have anything to do with the carrier until term. Others become friends because they want to monitor the pregnancy. The choice is yours."

Mole said firmly, "I want to meet our surrogate. I don't know why, but it's important to me. I mean, this woman will be carrying our baby. I want to make sure she's eating properly, doing the right things."

"What happens after our baby is born? How much contact does the surrogate have then?" I asked.

"It's all on a case-by-case basis. Some surrogates keep in touch and even come to the child's birthday parties. It's down to you as to how open you want to be about the process. Some people feel ashamed of going down the surrogacy route, as if they are a failure."

While they were talking, I glanced at the baby photos and ultrasound scans on the wall. There were lots of handwritten thank-yous enclosing baby photographs. Realising I had momentarily lost track of the conversation, I interrupted: "So take me through the process again."

"Well, you would provide a sperm sample, which we analyse for any sexually transmitted diseases." Wallace-Jones raised both palms in the air as if to say this was nothing personal. "I'm not casting aspersions; it's standard procedure. You, Mrs Cox, would provide an egg, which we then fertilise with your husband's sperm in our laboratory here. The fertilised egg is implanted in the surrogate's womb. How much you want to be involved after that is entirely up to you."

"Well, darling," I said, "what do you think? We can always go away and think some more." In our hearts, though, we had already committed and taken that small final step across the line.

"Let's do it," Mole said. "This way we know we're going to have a child."

"I need to warn you," Wallace-Jones said. "This could be a long process. Sometimes the egg doesn't take first time or it's not of good enough quality. There could be a risk of Down’s or some other genetic illness. That's when we recommend using an egg donor."

"What might be wrong with the egg?" Mole asked.

"It's usually age-related, which wouldn't be an issue in your case. Or if somebody's had chemo." The clinic director smiled like a salesman about to close the deal. He drummed his fingers on the table triumphantly before standing up.

"Fine. So now we can get on with the business of choosing your surrogate. Even though in your case we're only providing a carrier, it would be helpful if you could write a short biographical essay. We want to make the best match possible." He pushed two sheets of A4 towards us. "In the meantime, you might want to look at some possible surrogates. I know it's early days yet, and you've got weeks to make a decision. Do you want me to pull some possibles? You don't have to choose from this list. It's just to give you a better idea of who's on our books."

We both nodded, although I felt as if I was driving a car too fast on the motorway. This was all moving too quickly for my liking. Things were getting away from me.

Once again, Mole and I found ourselves sitting opposite each other filling out forms. Wallace-Jones swished out of the room to get more paperwork. "Feels like being at school again," I said with a smile. There were boxes for medical history, educational achievements and a general personal statement. Mole was chewing her ballpoint while she concentrated, and I thought about how much I loved her. "Do you think they want to know I was netball captain?" she asked.

Wallace-Jones came back in and handed me a sheaf of A4 papers. "As you can see, all our surrogates are anonymous," he commented. I glanced at the top one before setting them down: the first surrogate was an attractive young woman who was studying to be an accountant. There must have been forty or so sheets bundled together. "Now there's one thing we need to discuss before we go any further," Wallace-Jones said.

"You mean whether we want to get to know our surrogate?" Mole asked.

"No, I meant our fee. We'll need a deposit as a kind of down payment."

In the end, it never matters what the question is, the answer is always money. I reached into my jacket for a pen and started writing out a cheque for twenty thousand pounds. "Take them home and study them at your leisure," the clinic director beamed, gesturing to the profiles. "There's no rush."

If I had known what was buried in those papers, I would have taken a lighter to them and set fire to the lot, watching them curl and burn until there was nothing left.