by Victoria Fox
‘Aurora, this is a surprise.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Reuben didn’t tell me to expect you.’
‘It was spontaneous.’
‘Lori Garcia, this is Aurora Nash.’
‘Hi,’ said Aurora.
‘Hello,’ said Lori.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Aurora smiled but the other girl didn’t return it.
What a rude bitch! thought Aurora. Didn’t she realise JB was married? Anyone would think she was a jealous psycho girlfriend.
Is she one of his lovers? thought Lori. Envy surged, despite her efforts to hold it down. JB was a player. She’d confronted that months ago.
‘How long are you staying?’ JB asked. ‘A while, I hope.’
‘A few days.’
‘Is Pascale with you?’
Aurora noticed Lori Garcia’s expression. So she was a jealous girlfriend, no doubt freaking that JB was screwing Aurora and her friend. Ha.
‘Nah,’ said Aurora, deciding to have some fun. ‘She should have come. She’s missing you like crazy.’
Clearly JB thought it a weird thing to say. ‘I’m sure,’ he said drily.
Aurora shifted her weight, thought about how to word it and wished Lori Garcia weren’t standing right there, hanging back but so obviously listening in. What a loser.
She spoke quietly, hoping her tone conveyed sufficient urgency. ‘I have to talk to you.’ She tossed a glance Lori’s way. ‘In private?’
Concern—unease?—clouded JB’s expression, but only momentarily.
‘Of course.’ He had enough discretion not to ask what it was about. ‘Tomorrow?’ He appraised her a moment. ‘Come up to Reuben’s house.’
What, too busy now with your Spanish friend? Why don’t you get back to your wife, you fuck.
‘Fine.’ Aurora nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’
That night she and Rita dined on their veranda. They ate freshly caught crab and sautéed shrimp, swordfish steak and fries and salad. It was some of the most delicious food Aurora had ever been served but she could stomach none of it.
‘Weren’t you hungry?’ Rita raised an eyebrow at Aurora’s barely touched plate.
‘Not especially.’
Rita sighed. ‘Come on, honey, the whole point of this break was to relax. LA’s not gonna be an easy ride. Make the most of it while you can.’
‘I’m tired is all.’
Rita sat back, breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. ‘Second that.’ The food and the sea air were taking their toll. ‘Think I’ll hit the hay, read for a bit.’
‘OK. Night.’
‘Aurora?’ At the door Rita glanced back, fighting the uncharacteristic urge to put her arms round the girl. She looked so young, so unhappy … so lost.
‘What?’
‘Get some sleep.’
An hour later, Aurora was still awake. She felt queasy with fear. What was JB going to reveal when she challenged him? Up till now she’d been able to pretend her worries were unfounded, convince herself they were based on nothing but an overactive imagination that had spiralled out of control. But he had the power to confirm them. He, this man she had met only once before, had the ability to transform everything about herself and her family that she believed to be true.
At midnight she gave up, threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater and made her way out on to the walkway, barefoot. It was bright, the moon a crisp orb that spilled metallic light on to the black water. Never had she seen so many stars. Thousands of them, millions, countless, puncturing the canopy: clusters, constellations, billions and billions of light years away. Pascale had told her about the time it took for starlight to reach the earth, how the stars they saw tonight could already be dead, extinguished in a soundless faraway combustion. The universe was infinite: observable space, alone, more immense than she could imagine.
‘Have you seen Aurora Borealis?’ Pascale had asked once when they were leaning out of their dorm window on a rare clear night.
‘Who?’
‘The Northern Lights, stupid.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s your name.’ Pascale had smiled her secret smile. ‘Your name means light. Aurora was the dawn. ’
****************************
The dawn felt a long way away now as she crossed to the island. She needed a walk, a diversion. Cacatra was dotted with lights that flickered and splintered like torches in the dark, people still awake, guests and staff, the faint waves of conversation and music drifting over. It was warm, the air filled with the soothing wash of waves coming to land.
Aurora kept away from the lit paths, putting her trust in the glow of the moon. The sand was cool underfoot but the rocks were sharp and she wished she’d slipped on her sneakers. By the time she reached the south of the island, when the gathered aircraft came into view—Reuben van der Meyde’s VDM helicopter crouching like a giant dragonfly—her feet hurt badly.
Back in the direction from which she’d come, Aurora spotted a smaller islet. On it was a lighthouse, its searching beam flashing and receding, flashing and receding, the rhythm hypnotic. The sightline drew her attention to a private inlet, concealing the arms of a building that was scarcely visible from this angle—in fact it couldn’t be properly visible anywhere but from the water. It was huge, imposing, whitestone, with a grand semicircular front. It was the van der Meyde mansion: she had seen it before on an instalment of MTV Cribs.
Intrigued, she located a steep rung of half-overgrown steps leading down to the beach. They had once been painted white, and the chipped, just-visible coat shone to show her the way; they were crookedly laid, like a row of uneven teeth. Evidently this route to the house was no longer used. She felt like a trespasser. It occurred to her she was a trespasser.
Distance here was deceptive and it was some time before Aurora reached the mansion, which had appeared closer than it was. A window on the ground floor was fractionally open, light emanating from inside, partly concealed behind a stone wall. She caught sight of a couple, their backs to her, heads bent together as they examined something in their laps. She recognised them as the couple she’d seen earlier in the pleasure cruiser: the newly-wed actors. Afraid of being seen, she ducked and skirted round to where the wall became shallower. The positioning of the house created a vacuum and Aurora found she was able to hear what was being said.
‘We understand.’ Reuben’s voice was softly persuasive. ‘Partnerships like yours are different. You have special requirements. Rest assured we discuss each individual case at length before an arrangement is made. Some couples choose to participate in the process, either the mother’s or the father’s genes, where others wish to keep it fifty-fifty, a clean severance. You’d be surprised at how many opt for the latter. An equal stake in the product, shall we say.’
The man spoke. ‘It could take some time.’
‘Sign the agreement with us this week and we can set the wheels in motion right away.’
Aurora leaned closer, straining to hear. She lost the start of the next bit.
‘… following a more in-depth meet we will offer you a choice of pairing. My scouts recruit women from all over the world to deliver our needs, and to provide authentic matches. After that, of course, a nine-month wait.’
‘Authentic matches?’
‘For instance, you are both dark … a fair-haired child might raise eyebrows.’
‘So if we were black, say, or Asian …’
‘We would match you with a black or Asian surrogate.’
It was the woman’s turn. ‘And the mothers?’ she asked. Her voice was anxious. ‘What happens to them?’
Reuben’s answer was immediate. ‘This is a humanitarian outreach. The women sourced—and I ask you not to call them mothers, because they are merely hosts, vessels, if you will, to the opportunity of your own motherhood—all have one thing in common. They seek a better life.’
‘A better life?’
‘And a better life is what we offer them. Don’t get me wrong: these are he
althy women—our checks are rigorous—and naturally they are physically superior. But their lives might not have taken turns altogether. fortunate.’
‘And you help them how?’ the actor queried.
Reuben laid it out. ‘Perhaps these women need money,’ he said. ‘Twenty per cent of your initial fee goes directly to them. We’re talking volumes of cash these girls have never come close to, never dreamed they would come close to. But, hey, not everyone’s set on being rich, which is why our insurance, not just for the surrogates but for their families, counts for, in some ways, a great deal more.’ There was another pause. ‘Tell me: given the opportunity to immeasurably improve the lives of those you hold most dear, simply by providing a service and keeping quiet about it, wouldn’t you seize it with both hands? Happily, women do. Women have.’
He elaborated. ‘The family might be in difficulty. They need medical care, say, or they’ve lost a loved one to crime or drugs or prostitution. The scheme promises to look after not only the individual but also her family—and not just financially but with employment, housing, education, over generations to come. We’re talking immense wealth in the short term,’ he concluded, ‘and assurance, insurance, in the long.’
‘And you sustain the payments how?’
Reuben didn’t miss a beat. ‘By regular instalments from clients such as yourselves, paid quarterly until the child reaches twenty-one. That way we guarantee discretion, now and in the future.’ A meaningful pause. ‘In doing so, my friends, you are making lives better.’
Aurora couldn’t make sense of it. Another man spoke. There must be four of them now. The actor’s manager?
‘Our concern is with confidentiality,’ the second man said.
‘Naturally.’
‘If this ever came out. The risk is immense, Reuben.’
‘There is no risk.’ Reuben’s voice was measured, assured, each question anticipated, as if he’d had the same conversation hundreds of times before. ‘That is the beauty of our service. Couples like you have many and varied reasons why they are unable, or choose not, to have a child. Those reasons do not concern us. What we do is give you the opportunity to present the infant as biologically your own, depending on your needs—be they personal, professional, public—without the mess and speculation of adoption. You announce the pregnancy, take a break from publicity or, as some couples choose to, plan appearances where you can show off the bump.’
Realisation hit. The knot fell free, its length slipped round her neck, quiet as a noose. Aurora clamped a hand over her mouth to stop herself screaming.
‘What bump?’ It was the woman again, irritable this time.
‘There are ways. We offer several cosmetic possibilities ourselves.’
‘Surely people would ask questions.’
‘Not if your term was convincing.’
‘And if the … surrogates do break confidentiality?’ the manager demanded. ‘What then?’
‘That would not happen.’
‘You can’t possibly guarantee—’
‘I can and I do. All surrogates are made aware of what it means to enter business with Reuben van der Meyde. I am a very powerful man and I will not be crossed. There are consequences. I can benefit their lives immeasurably or, if I see fit, I can destroy them.’
‘But what about the child?’ interrupted the woman. ‘The lying!’
‘It depends where your conscience sits,’ countered Reuben. ‘A simple transaction, that is all. Making one life to save countless more. My conscience is clear.’
‘What about the fathers?’ the actor asked. In a smaller voice, he clarified: ‘The biological fathers.’
‘The men, too, are vetted—’ Reuben cleared his throat ‘—but their situation is different.’
‘How?’
‘They receive a handsome payment, as you would expect, but the process, from their perspective, is anonymous. They enter a gene pool, a sperm bank, if you will. They receive no information on the woman they have been paired with and there is no further contact from us.’
A long silence followed. Aurora held her breath.
‘Put simply,’ said Reuben, ‘you must try to think of this as a surrogate agency.’
The actor: ‘A top-secret surrogate agency.’
‘It goes without saying.’
‘An agency that is fooling the world.’
‘An agency that offers a solution to all.’
‘Discretion guaranteed?’
‘More. Satisfaction guaranteed.’
Aurora turned. She could hear no more. Blood raged behind her eyes.
She wanted to vomit. She bent and heaved, retching till her stomach hurt but nothing came up. Staggering back down the beach, half running, half stumbling, she groped in the dark for something to hold on to and found only black air.
That was it, then.
That was it.
40
Stevie
A week on Cacatra and Bibi Reiner could have been the girl who’d opened the door all those months ago in New York, her hair in rollers, one hand flapping in an attempt to dry freshly painted nails that got smudged anyway when she came in for a hug. The place reached into the soul and shook it to life.
‘Back later.’ Bibi kissed her. ‘I’ve got a hot date with a spa. Want to join me?’
‘Thanks, I’d rather stay here.’
‘Suit yourself. Don’t miss me too much!’
Alone, Stevie passed the morning in their villa, reading, and every so often drifting into weightless sleep, lulled by the sound of gently lapping waves. She was trying not to dwell on Xander and the unhappiness of their parting. The way he’d reacted when she’d told him her plan to accompany Bibi to the island had left her dumbfounded.
‘Why would you want to go there?’ he’d asked stiffly, his back to her at the patio doors.
‘Bibi needs me, Xander. She’s been through things you or I couldn’t imagine. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.’
‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t explain.’
‘Try? Because you know I can’t bail on my best friend because my husband’s decided he doesn’t want me to go to Cacatra for some reason he “can’t explain”. ’
Stevie had attempted to make sense of their argument. She knew Cacatra Island was owned by Reuben van der Meyde, and dim recollection prompted the image of him sitting at JB Moreau’s side at the Frontline Fashion event she’d been invited to in Vegas, the one Xander had refused to attend. Old adversaries, he’d said. How he was whenever the fashion magnate was brought up in conversation, like he’d seen a ghost. Was that it? Was this something to do with JB Moreau?
Xander had turned on her, gesturing between them. ‘It’s not about … this, is it? ’
Their phantom baby. Nothing, still.
‘Why would it be about that?’ She had taken his hand. ‘This isn’t about running out on you, all right? I love you.’
‘Then go someplace else. Anywhere else. Please. ’
The last thing Stevie wanted was a marriage of secrets, even though they were under a year in and already seemed to be building up an arsenal of the things. For, despite Xander’s evasiveness, she had to admit she hadn’t been honest with him, either: the truth about Linus Posen’s death hung over her like an axe … but she had to respect Bibi’s confidence. She began to wonder if they might have rushed into the wedding. The more she tortured herself, the less convinced she became that she knew her husband at all. What if their relationship was a fake? What if she’d signed on to spending the rest of her life with a stranger? Whatever Xander was hiding, it clearly had to be enough to compromise their relationship—his behaviour was too bizarre for it to be anything else.
Around lunchtime Stevie swam in the sea, floating on her back with her palms in the air. The sun was blazing and the water was cool, lightly rocking her body. The current was stronger than she’d thought and when she went to put her feet down, expecting to mee
t sand or rock, she was surprised to find that she’d drifted out. Her limbs felt tired and the distance back to the villa, against the tide, was disheartening. Behind her, further out, was a lighthouse island, closer to her than the main beach. She let the current wash her towards it, deciding to rest there till she had strength to swim back.
The shore was rocky and sharp, painful on the soles of her feet, and because of the lone building’s sheer walls there was little if any shade. The lighthouse itself dated back, she guessed, to the sixties. It was typical of its style and fairly well preserved, given the battering it must have received over the years, its white-hot walls only slightly chipped, flaps of paint peeling away. She felt thirsty and a bit sun-sick, and hammered her fist on the door once or twice in the hope someone might hear. There was no response. Raising a hand to ward off the midday sun, she spied a small rectangular window at the very top. It was impossible to see clearly but she thought she saw the dark outline of a person back away from it.
‘Hello?’ she called. A seagull swooped overhead with a lonely cry, coming to rest on the chalky tip. It flapped its wings once or twice. Stevie squinted at the window, wondering if the island and the heat were playing tricks on her.
There was a docking space and a landing rope on the south of the islet. She touched the tip of the rope with her toe and felt it was still wet. Obviously the building was still in use, though for what she couldn’t imagine. It didn’t look like a working lighthouse and, anyway, from what she could gather, visitors typically arrived by air. She attempted to peer into one of the lower windows but they were too high. With a little jump she could catch a gloomy glimpse of its interior, but all she could decipher were piled-up boxes and what looked like paperwork. Folders and files, too many to count, and a system of shelves that would have been more at home in a library, with large initials at the end of each row: A, H, M… P, S, W…
She was relieved when a speedboat approached, its tail of white foam looping as the vessel came to rest. A man in uniform was at the wheel.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked. He helped her on to the boat and close up she saw that he was young, with a broad, flat face that brought to mind the back of a wooden spoon.
