‘Pregnant?’ Mel says, when Rachel tells her, ten minutes later. ‘You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘It’s not what you think,’ Rachel says.
She wishes she’d kept quiet. Telling people, telling your best friend, makes it real. And she’s not quite sure if she’s ready for it to be real. This is all very new. And Mel’s face is just … horrified. She wasn’t expecting congratulations, she certainly wasn’t expecting Mel to be pleased or anything mad like that, but she wasn’t quite expecting this. Mel is absolutely fucking furious.
‘I didn’t even know you were seeing someone,’ Mel says.
‘I’m not.’
‘So it’s that fucker’s?’
‘No, it’s not Amarjit’s – will you even let me get a word in?’
And Mel just looks at her, and the words all dry up and she feels hot tears welling up and she can’t even really say why. ‘Fucking hormones,’ she mutters.
Mel passes her a tea towel that has a tomato sauce stain on it, and that makes Rachel hiccup a laugh.
‘So, it’s my sister’s baby,’ she says.
Mel’s mouth falls open. ‘Your – sister’s?’
‘I’m their surrogate.’
‘Since fucking when?’ Mel has never shouted at Rachel but her voice is very definitely raised right now. Why? Because Rachel has gone ahead and done something without discussing it with her first? ‘I’ve only been gone a fortnight, for fuck’s sake. You decided to do this and got pregnant within the space of fourteen days? Jesus Christ.’
It’s been longer than that, of course. She had the discussion with Lucy over a month ago. She didn’t tell Mel about it then for the same reason she didn’t want to tell her about the results of that discussion, about how it’s ended up. Talking about it out loud means it’s something that’s really happening, not something she’s just thinking about. In reality she hasn’t thought about it. She has very deliberately been trying not to think about it at all.
‘Why are you so angry?’ Rachel asks.
Mel leans forward and looks her right in the eye. ‘Because you’re vulnerable, that’s why, and they’re fucking taking advantage of you.’
‘It was my suggestion,’ Rachel says hollowly.
‘Doesn’t make any difference; you could suggest you’re planning to walk up the M11, doesn’t mean they should just go, oh, okay then, here, I’ll drop you at the slip road, does it?’
‘But,’ Rachel says, ‘they don’t know how I’ve been. I’ve been hiding it from them, or trying to. It’s not their fault. And besides, it’s done now, and yes it’s really fucking hard and I’d quite like it if you could try and be a bit supportive instead of telling me how fucking stupid I am. I know that already. I know.’
Mel’s eyes fill with tears, and that alarms Rachel more than anything else. She has never seen Mel cry before. ‘What is it?’ she asks, suddenly fearing that something about pregnancy and babies is a trigger for Mel, something she knows nothing about. They have talked about lots of things, but they still haven’t plumbed the depths of all the horrible things that led them to that doctor’s surgery on that Tuesday morning almost a year ago.
‘You’re just … you’re just too bloody lovely for your own good, Rach. What are we going to do with you?’
‘I feel fine about it,’ she says, and manages a smile, even though the smell of Mel’s burnt toast is making her heave.
Mel wipes the tears away angrily, and calms down a little. ‘Bollocks you do.’
‘Look,’ Rachel says, ‘I can’t say this to Lucy, but maybe it won’t happen. I only just had a positive test. I’m trying not to think about it too much.’
‘Yeah,’ Mel says, ‘maybe. Look, I’m sorry for going off on one like that. I just – I know how far you’ve come in the last couple of months. I don’t want you to end up going downhill again, that’s all.’
‘Everything’s just been a bit of a shock. I’ll get used to the idea soon. It just … it happened really quickly.’
‘I thought they were doing IVF,’ Mel says.
‘That’s not possible for them. They were considering adoption but Ian’s not keen, he wants there to be some biological link. They were on various surrogacy forums and they had a couple of potentials but it didn’t come to anything. Lucy told me all this out of the blue. She’s normally so … so together, you know? And she was just falling apart over it.’
‘So you – what, you offered? Just like that?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Did she ask you?’
‘No. I just said, well, I’m free for the next few months, why don’t I do it for you?’
‘Jesus Christ, Rach.’
You fucking idiot.
Mel doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to. Rachel knows it’s what she’s thinking. Yes, it’s a big deal. She had known it the second those words were out of her mouth. I’m free for the next few months. Why don’t I do it for you?
Lucy’s reaction – the overwhelming relief, exhaustion, hope, gratitude – all there in front of her. What was she going to say? I was just joking, didn’t mean it, whoops, just ignore me.
Lucy had called Ian straight away, still in tears, so hysterical she could barely get the words out. And Ian had asked to speak to Rachel, and to her shock he was in tears on the phone too – all he kept saying was, ‘Are you sure? You mean it? You really mean it?’
And what could she say, then? That afternoon their reaction, their gratitude, had carried her on its shoulders, given her nothing but relief at having finally done something good, something positive. Lucy had taken Rachel into the city and Ian had left work early and they had gone for a drink at the Assembly Rooms, champagne and cocktails to celebrate.
They had already done their homework, of course: they knew, or rather Lucy did, exactly what needed to be done in terms of the legality of having a baby for someone else. She would email it all to Rachel to look over. They were both keen, very keen, for this to be entirely Rachel’s decision. In the toilets, Lucy had cried again, and said to Rachel that she would understand if she changed her mind, and she mustn’t think that it would spoil their relationship, they would always be sisters, Lucy would always love her no matter what.
Drunk by then, drunk and hollow and a bit numb, Rachel had nodded and said that she would think about it over the weekend, think about all the paperwork and the legal stuff and the practicalities, and then she would give them her final answer on Monday.
Lucy had stopped crying and gone very quiet, and not long after that she had called a cab and dropped Rachel off on the way. As she had got out of the cab, almost as an afterthought because surely this did not need saying, Rachel had looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Don’t tell Mum.’
And Lucy had replied, ‘Course not.’ With a huge Lucy smile.
On Saturday morning Lucy had phoned to see how Rachel was. She had a headache, and a weird feeling inside, a kind of emptiness, as if she was already a vessel waiting to be filled. She had been awake for hours, thinking with a mixture of excitement and terror about how it would work and how it would feel. On the one hand she had nothing to do, and this would give her purpose. This would give her a reason to not have to look for a job and not deal with Amarjit. By the time she’d had a baby it would all probably be clearer, what she wanted to do next. It would be a year or so out of her life. A year doing something brilliant, something positive, that would change her family’s life for the better. It would make Lucy and Ian happy, her parents happy, and at what cost to her? Probably quite a lot of pain, but women did this every day, had always done it – how hard could it be? The pain wouldn’t last for long. And then Lucy and Ian would have a baby, and Rachel could go out into the world and make a fresh start. Again.
On the other hand, it was a fucking big deal. A massive deal. Having a baby for someone? What if it didn’t work, whatever they did to get her pregnant? She was envisaging blood tests, IVF, hospitals, drugs to make her fertile. It might
take years. What then? Did they give up? At what point would they call it a day? Would she spend the fertile years of her life trying to get pregnant for someone else? What if she met someone? What if she decided she wanted a child herself?
That was a kicker, of course. Rachel had not felt vaguely maternal, not at all: she had friends who’d had babies and she always found herself feeling sorry for them – the lack of sleep and the lack of freedom and the sudden, insane pressure of responsibility. And the babies themselves were tiny and weird-looking and a bit alarming, and Rachel was good at cooing over them and then gratefully handing them back.
Then on Saturday evening she had gone out for a walk – some fresh air to clear her head – and had walked round to her parents’ house to see Dad, mainly – not to tell him, but just to absorb some of his quiet wisdom and gentle dadness. And instead she was confronted by her mother, dry-eyed but more emotional than she’d ever seen her, pulling Rachel into a bony embrace.
‘You’ve always been so kind, Rachel. I’m so proud of you for doing this. So, so proud.’
Her mother had, to her sure and certain knowledge, never used the P-word in relation to Rachel before. She’d previously reserved it exclusively to refer to Lucy, whose school reports, first-class maths degree and eventual accountancy partnership had undoubtedly warranted it.
Rachel had looked at her phone a few minutes later to see the text from Lucy, sent an hour before.
Sorry – Mum asked re surrogacy and I had to tell her. Xxxx
Her mother being actually proud of her for the first time added an extra weight on to the pressure on her shoulders. Now it wasn’t just Lucy and Ian she’d be letting down if she changed her mind. Not just Lucy and Ian who would think less of her.
Then, on Sunday morning, Lucy had turned up unexpectedly and taken Rachel out for coffee. Mel had still been in bed. She’d been out on a date with Darius the night before and Rachel hadn’t seen her; had heard them both come in at threeish. He was probably still in the house.
Rachel had had another sleepless night and was scarcely functioning. But a double espresso and a chocolate brownie had perked her up and she was actually listening when Lucy dropped her next bombshell.
‘So, Ian and I were talking. I know you really like sharing with Mel, but we thought you’d need somewhere better to live, so we decided you could move into my old house while you – you know, while you’re having the baby. We can’t give you money, that’s not legal, but we can give you expenses, and we can definitely give you somewhere to live. For free.’
Lucy and Ian had three properties, at the last count – the four-bedroomed cottage they lived in, and both the places they’d had before they married: Ian’s flat in the city, currently occupied by a recruitment consultant and his girlfriend; and Lucy’s old house, a Victorian terrace not far from the university. It had been a student house for a while but Lucy had recently redecorated it, in the hope of attracting a slightly more careful class of tenant. It was currently empty.
‘But … you’d be losing out on the rental,’ Rachel had stammered.
Lucy had shaken her head. ‘We can afford it,’ she said. ‘And at least this way we can – you know – help you out a bit. To say thank you.’
Rachel had been overwhelmed by the implications of it, of being beholden to them. What if they needed money suddenly, and turfed her out? What if she didn’t get pregnant – at what point would the offer of free accommodation be withdrawn?
She had gone back home to think about it. If Mel had been there, then probably this might have been the moment that she would have told her, and it would undoubtedly be the moment at which Mel would have said something like what the actual fuck and how about fucking no, for a start, you’re not a fucking baby machine. But Mel had gone out for lunch with Darius.
She does not say this to Mel now, of course. It’s not her fault.
She had only been home for twenty minutes when her phone started buzzing with messages. One from her mother was warily happy, but with a subtext.
I’m so pleased you’re thinking about Lucy’s idea. It’s a good thing to do. But you know Lucy and Ian have been through such a lot – so you need to be certain about it. I know you’ll do the right thing.
She was waiting for Rachel to screw up again and ruin everything, of course. Because Lucy and Ian have been through such a lot. And because Rachel always screwed up eventually.
There was, of course, really no choice. There had been no going back, from the moment that the suggestion had left Rachel’s mouth, having barely passed through her brain on the way.
She’d looked half-heartedly at the websites Lucy had directed her to, the forms she would have to complete to sign the baby over to her sister. If the child was Ian’s, of course, then it was all a whole lot easier and more straightforward. It had looked almost easy.
‘Tell me about that picture,’ Fraser says.
They are halfway down the second bottle. Rachel finishes her glass, as if fortifying herself. ‘Which one?’
‘Both, if you like. Only if you want to.’
There is a pause before she speaks again. Then she tells him.
The baby had stopped moving. She had gone to bed the night before, thinking, she’s been quiet today, and the next morning had got up feeling like something was definitely wrong. She was twenty-six weeks and four days pregnant, her bump well and truly out there, and the baby had a definite sort of routine: she would move a lot when Rachel got up in the night to use the toilet, sometimes a proper little wriggle party that made it hard to go back to sleep; she would move in the mornings when Rachel had breakfast; and she would move regularly throughout the day. She had tried to remember how long it had been since a definite movement had been felt, panicked, and phoned Lucy in tears.
Lucy had been at work about an hour, had a meeting scheduled for 10.45, but immediately cancelled it and came to pick Rachel up from home. Rachel had worked herself up into a terrified silence. Lucy took her to a posh deli and sat her down with a coffee and a piece of artisanal seeded toast with plum jam that came in a little silver dish. Rachel had stared at it, hand on top of her bump.
‘It’s fine,’ Lucy said. ‘Honestly, darling, I know you’re worried, but I’m not. I’m sure she’s fine, and you are too.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know, but fretting about it definitely isn’t going to help. So I’ve made us an appointment to get checked out.’
After the coffee and the toast Lucy took her, not to the maternity unit, but to the private scanning place where they had had a massively expensive 4-D scan done last month. They had fitted them in straight away, Lucy said, and they only had to wait a short while before they were called in.
And, of course, everything was fine. As soon as the gel was applied to Rachel’s belly, she could feel the shifting movements inside her again. An elbow, or a knee, some lump pushed Rachel’s skin from underneath, and then the scan was just a formality, checking that everything was fine. The baby had changed position and her feet had been towards Rachel’s back – any kicking would have been less easy to feel.
Afterwards, out in the bright sunshine of the car park, Lucy had insisted on a selfie to record the moment.
You could see everything on Rachel’s face: the exhaustion, the panic, the relief. And Lucy’s wide smile – relief too, no doubt, but also a weird kind of triumph at having been vindicated. See? Everything’s fine. I knew it was.
Fraser
‘My sister loves that photo,’ she says.
‘It’s a nice one.’
‘You think?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘It’s nice of her. I just look – a bit done in.’
‘I think you look good.’
She lifts her head and smiles at him. ‘You think I look good?’
She’s a bit sad and vulnerable and he doesn’t want to take advantage. He knows that there will be a ‘fuck it’ point. In his head he’s started calling it that, meani
ng that he’s acknowledged the inevitability that at some point something is going to happen. He can’t pinpoint the moment something changed, but there is a dynamic here that feels beyond his control. They’ve moved from awkwardness to some sort of weird teasing companionship, and beyond that into something else. It simmers inside him every day, while he puts a lid on it and waits. The clock is ticking down on her stay on the island. She will be leaving in a month, maybe less. There is no point in doing anything, and then sometimes he thinks that there is no point not doing anything, either. What’s the worst that can happen? She might laugh in his face. And then she’ll be gone, and if he really needed to he could go and see Kelly and none of it would matter anyway.
Whichever way he slices it, though, the issue gets complicated.
Rachel isn’t some girl in a nightclub. Rachel isn’t a sex worker. Rachel is someone he’s going to see every day for the next however long, someone he’s sharing a house with. And, if he makes an idiot of himself, then the time she’s here is going to feel like a fucking eternity.
And besides, he doesn’t want to hurt her. Not now, not ever.
And he can feel the slipping of control over his life, already, and nothing’s even happened.
‘I mean, I don’t know. Pregnancy suits you. Is that the wrong thing to say?’
‘No …’
He wishes she would come and sit on the sofa next to him, thinks about asking her to do that. Fights the urge.
‘What about the other one?’
‘The one of me and Emily?’
‘Aye, that one.’
‘You want to hear about giving birth?’ she teases. ‘All the gruesome details?’
‘Sure.’
He doesn’t, really. That is to say, he wouldn’t if it were anyone else but Rachel. But he wants to keep her talking.
He’s not going to tell her this, but he was there when Kelly had her baby. It wasn’t planned, she hadn’t exactly asked him to be present, but he had been laid off the month before she was due and he had been spending a lot of time round at hers. Helping her out. Fixing things. Not staying over, even though she’d asked. On that day he had come round in the morning with a couple of bags of groceries and found her in considerable pain. Stayed with her long enough to work out that this was it, it wasn’t just backache from overdoing things. Then her waters broke. He cleaned it up while she sat on a folded towel at the kitchen table, then he drove her to the birthing unit at the hospital. He had been giving her lifts to her appointments, had been with her at the birthing centre so many times that the staff there undoubtedly thought he was the baby’s father. He didn’t disabuse them. He didn’t care what they thought. He was never going to see any of them again.
You, Me & the Sea Page 21
