Surrogate – a psychological thriller (7 page)

Mole kept trying to talk to me about our baby, but I am ashamed to say I wasn't really listening. All I could see was dollar signs. For some reason, a swimming pool full of money popped into my mind, and a gleaming cartoon Rolls-Royce. "What time have you booked the restaurant for?" she said, interrupting my thoughts.

Mole said she wanted to go to the baby department of Peter Jones on the way back from Dad's, to look at nursery equipment.

"But the baby's not going to arrive for at least nine months yet," I said. Mole assured me it was just window shopping. "I'm not going to buy anything. I just want to see what's out there." Inwardly I shrugged and made a mental note to buy a newspaper.

Mole went around the baby department, trailing her fingers along the row of cots, testing a baby-listening device and examining some kind of nappy-storage system. The amount of paraphernalia was mind-boggling. I exchanged a rueful look with another husband following his wife around. Poor sap. Eventually I'd had enough of bottle-sterilisation devices and baby baths. The television and gadget department beckoned from the other side of the store.

"Mole, I'm going to be over there if you need me," I said, pointing to the plasma TV display. Mole nodded, wrapped up in thinking about our baby's needs.

After about ten minutes or so, Mole found me watching a pop video, marvelling at the picture quality. "It's almost as if the image is too good," I began. Another voice, a woman’s, cut across mine. "Emily, is that you?"

The owner of the voice was black and about our age, possibly younger. She had a lovely warm smile. The two women hugged and stepped back to appraise one another.

"Flic, how lovely to see you," said Mole.

"You look wonderful," said the woman. She paused and waited to be introduced.

"Flic, this is my husband. Hugo, this is Felicity Adamako. We used to work together."

Felicity shook my hand and gave me the once-over. "I hadn’t heard you’d got married. How wonderful. I was really sorry to hear about your father. We were all so upset. I just wish you'd had a chance to say goodbye."

"I had to go back home and organise things. There was just so much to do."

"I understand. It's just that we never had a chance to get you a card or anything."

"It doesn't matter – anyway, enough about me. How are things going?"

"I'm getting married, too. We got engaged last month. Our wedding is going to be in June. I'm inviting everybody from work. You must both come."

The two women huddled together while Emily cooed over her colleague's engagement ring. I felt my attention wander. Something was rankling me, though, something Felicity had said. It was like a dark patch of sea farther out where the dangerous current lay. They said their goodbyes, promising to keep in touch, and we both watched Felicity wander off towards the lifts.

"Why your father and not your mother?" I said.

"I don't follow."

"She said she was sorry to hear about your father, but she never mentioned your mum. Just seems odd that's all. Anyway, I thought it was just you and the gallery owner."

"That was a previous job, before I met you," Mole said. She was clearly thinking about something. Then she said brightly, "Do you fancy noodles for lunch? I'm starving."

"Sounds good to me. I think there's a place up the road. Let me look it up on my phone," I said, digging out my BlackBerry. Instead of consulting Google Maps, I should have looked straight ahead of me across the TVs and laptops to the digital photo frames. Because the evidence was there,
right there
staring me in the face: the key to unlocking the mystery that was about to destroy my life.

The triumphal Napoleonic arch of Leadenhall Market was truly spectacular at night. The covered market, painted red and gold like a Victorian music hall, had long been taken over by bars and restaurants used by Lloyd's brokers and underwriters. It was cold and foggy that evening, and the dampness seemed to penetrate your bones.

I wrapped my coat tighter around me and reached for Mole's hand as our footsteps clopped along the cobbles. Our favourite restaurant was coming up on the right, an Italian place that specialised in fish. The waiters knew us there, and I remembered the nights when we would just sit there holding hands.

Love, though, changes from gazing into each other's eyes to facing in the same direction, and that was what this evening was about. Tonight we were finally going to meet our surrogate.

I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension. What was Alice Adams going to be like? All our dreams and plans were wrapped up in this woman, yet all we knew about her was from her biographical one-sheet and a couple of telephone calls. When I spoke to her on the phone, I was surprised by how strong Alice's northern accent was. She told me that she didn't know anybody in London, so I had offered to put her up in a hotel for the night.

The waitress recognised us and said hello while she took our coats. It felt good to be out of the cold.

The barman placed both palms down on the counter. "What can I get you?" he asked.

We both ordered a glass of white wine. "She texted to say she was on her way," I said. "How are you feeling?"

"Excited. Nervous. What if we don't like her? What if she turns out to be, I dunno, odd?"

"Remember, she's Surrogate 37. There are another thirty-nine to choose from, and that's just from the list the clinic gave us. Wallace-Jones said there were plenty of others on its books. We don't have to rush into anything."

Mole’s desperation to get this process started made me vaguely uneasy. Sometimes I felt as if she had bounced me into this. On the other hand, I truly loved her and wanted her to be happy.

Mole said, "I was reading that you have to eat lots of vine leaves when you're pregnant. They're stuffed with folic acid."

"It's not you who's going to be pregnant. Don't tell me you're getting one of those phantom pregnancies. I hope you're not going to get lots of cravings for coal and ice cream in the middle of the night."

"I am, and I'm going to eat and eat until I'm big and fat and you won't love me anymore."

She blew out both cheeks and made me laugh. Looking at her perched on a barstool in her mini kilt and with her blond bob, she looked so bloody cute I wanted to kiss the tip of her upturned nose. That was when I saw her. Alice had walked in off the street and was looking around uncertainly. A big lumpy girl dressed in a jumper and a plaid maxi skirt. Her reddish hair was parted in the middle and fell down to her shoulders. Not the most conventionally attractive of women, that's for sure, but even then I could sense there was something about her, a malevolence that seemed to suck the energy out of the room. I realise this must sound perverse, but I found it sexually exciting, and sex should always have a touch of cruelty in it, like angostura bitters clouding a glass of gin. However, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I raised my hand and Alice came over. "You must be Alice," said Mole. "This is my husband, Hugo." We shook hands, and I asked how her hotel was.

"Ooh, it's lovely," Alice said. "It's got those little gold chocolates that you see on telly." Mole and I exchanged a look behind her back. We talked for a bit about her train ride down and whether she had found the restaurant all right, and then the waiter came over and told us our table was ready.

Our corner was beside the fish tank. Alice watched fascinated as tiny fish quivered in the water while the waiter handed out menu cards. "This place specialises in seafood," I said, opening my menu. Alice concentrated on hers and said she'd never had scallops before. Mole and I both ordered turbot. "Very good, very fresh," the waiter enthused while taking our menus back.

"So, Alice. What do you think of London so far?" I asked.

"It's much bigger than Manchester. I thought I'd get one of those buses to take me round tomorrow before I go home. You know, Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, Harrods."

"That's a good idea. I've heard they're really good fun."

I was just about to get into other places she must see on this, her first visit to London, when Mole interrupted me. She was determined to get down to business.

"Alice, I was wondering if you could tell us a little more about yourself. Who your parents are, where you grew up, that kind of thing. All we know about you is the piece of paper the clinic gave us."

Alice reached across the table to get a bread stick, and her jumper showed off the swell of her heavy breasts. As she reached, I also noticed a thick scar on her wrist. What the hell was that about? A childhood accident, putting her fist through a window, or something more sinister? "I grew up in Salford. Me mum's a cleaner in the local school, where me dad's the caretaker."

"But you went to university in Manchester, right?"

"Salford Metropolitan," Alice corrected her. "It used to be the polytechnic. I did sociology but I couldn't find a job anywhere. I ended up working behind a bar."

"And you're still working at this pub?" Mole continued, unperturbed.

"Um, these are delicious," Alice said, reaching for another bread stick. "No, I got made redundant just before Christmas. They let everybody go. I've been on Jobseekers since then. It's really bad. There aren't any jobs. That's what made me think about surrogacy. A mate of mine did it, and she said it was dead easy. She made twenty grand."

"So there's nothing keeping you in Manchester anymore? You could move down to London?" Mole pressed on.

"I suppose so. I hadn't really thought about it. P'raps I could get a job in London. There are plenty of restaurants here. I could be a manageress."

Mole nodded. "Oh yes, there are plenty. What I'm getting at is, I want to be really involved in the pregnancy, making sure you eat the right kind of stuff, get plenty of rest. How would you feel about it?"

"Don't make nowt difference to me. It's your baby."

I didn't like where this conversation was going and wanted to head it off at the pass. "Alice," I interrupted. "What do you like doing? In your spare time, I mean."

"I like real ale, and I like Rugby League," she said.

I laughed, "Oh God, don't tell me you keep pigeons as well."

Now it was Alice's turn to laugh. She was not as unattractive as her photo suggested. She reminded me of a girl you might see in the office standing over the photocopier when you're a bit hung over and you wonder just what it would be like ...

"No, I'm not that bad. What about you two? What do you do for a living?"

"Well I'm in the insurance business. Planes, ships, everything needs insuring." I did not want to get into the complexities of reinsurance right now.

"And I'm in the art world," said Mole. "I work in an art gallery, although that will stop when our baby's born." We looked at each other, and I felt warmth spread across my chest. There, she had said it. Our baby.

"I've never had much time for art, paintings an' that," Alice said. "I'd like to learn, though."

The waiter brought our plates, and Alice tucked into her spaghetti. She had what you'd call a healthy appetite and was nearly finished when I was only halfway through my grilled fillet.

"Mmm, these are yummy. Bit like fishy chicken nuggets," said Alice, spearing another scallop.

"What you're doing, it's a big step," Mole said. "Will this be your first child? Have you had a baby before?"

That was something that had never even occurred to me. In my heart I knew that Mole was slightly more intelligent than I was; it was as if she could see further, like that afternoon in Forget's surgery, and sometimes I felt myself struggling to catch up. After all, I was in my exalted position only because of an accident of birth. Alice shook her head. "No, I've never been pregnant. I don't even have a bloke." She looked up and held my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than she ought to have done. Somewhere at the back of my mind, a discordant note was sounding. The truth is that even then, right at that moment, I somehow knew this was going to turn out badly. A sixth sense.

"How do you know you're going to enjoy being pregnant?" I said. "What I'm trying to say is–" What I was really trying to say was how did she know she could even get pregnant? Wallace-Jones had said most surrogates already had families but enjoyed the full feeling of carrying a baby.

"Me sister's got three kids. Her husband says he just bloody looks at her and she's up the duff. Me mam comes from a family of seven. I don't think I've got any worries on that score." She glanced at Mole. "Sorry. No offence, mind."

Mole acted as if she hadn't heard her. "So why are you doing it then?"

Alice looked at my wife as if she was stupid. "It's the money, innit? Beggars can't be choosers."

This was the moment I was waiting for. I remembered that Dad had warned me about our surrogate developing maternal feelings. "I just want to be clear about this," I said. "This is purely a financial transaction, right?"

Alice looked at me blankly. "I'm not going to run off with your baby, if that's what you mean."

We ordered coffee, and I paid the bill using the company credit card. Besides, how would Brian Sibley know that Alice wasn't a broker from Willis or Marsh?

We said goodbye outside the restaurant, our breath smoking in the cold. Watching Alice disappear into the night, I asked Mole what she thought.

"She's not who I expected, that's for sure. All that stuff about real ale and Rugby League. I thought she was going to say she kept ferrets next."

"Did you notice the scar on her wrist?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's a scar on her wrist. A thick one, too. Looks like she put her hand through a window or something." I left the implication that Alice might have taken a knife to herself hanging in the air. I couldn't get that thick jagged scar out of my mind. There had been nothing about it in her medical record. "The point is," I said, changing the subject, "is she the right one for us?"

"Well, she certainly doesn't beat around the bush. She's straightforward, and I like that. I suspect she can be moody, but in the end, it doesn't really matter because we're just renting her womb." She gave me a look. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be crude. So, to answer your question, yes, I liked her. I think we're going to get along just fine."

I did not share Mole's confidence. Something was not quite right about Alice Adams, something I couldn't put my finger on. A lawyer friend once described this sensation as "typing one key to the left". That was how I felt about Alice Adams. Watching her walk off, I felt as if I had been buzzed by a dangerous fish, a shark or a stingray perhaps, its tail waving as it disappeared into the gloom.