The Surrogate

by Louise Jensen

  ‘Don’t get all mushy.’ Lisa eased open her drawer. ‘You might have crap parents but you know I love you.’ She handed me a bottle of perfume.

  ‘Lisa!’ I’d coveted Sarah Jessica Parker’s ‘Lovely’ fragrance for ages. I sprayed it onto my pulse points; rosewood and lavender danced around my nostrils. ‘What do you think?’ I held up my wrist.

  ‘It’ll do until Eva Longoria gets her arse into gear and brings one out. Let’s get dressed.’ Lisa shrugged off her dressing gown and slipped into a turquoise dress that sparkled like the sea. ‘Fuck.’ She tugged the zip. ‘I’m getting so fat.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I said, but actually she was, a bit.

  ‘God. I’ll never pull tonight.’ She turned sideward in the mirror and sucked in her stomach. ‘It’s no wonder I can’t get a boyfriend.’

  ‘I thought there wasn’t anybody you liked?’

  ‘There isn’t,’ she said a little too quickly but there was a flush coating her chest.

  ‘There is! Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m going to look awful.’ She yanked off her dress, close to tears. ‘Nothing fits me any more.’

  ‘Wear the stretchy black one. It looks better anyway.’

  ‘It’s boring and it will cling to my belly.’

  ‘You can wear my necklace to bling it up and draw the attention to your amazing cleavage instead.’ I took off my thick silver chain with the diamanté heart and looped it over her neck.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Her mood instantly brightened. ‘It’s your favourite.’

  ‘What’s mine is yours,’ I said.

  ‘Really? I’ll remember that,’ Lisa said, and in that moment neither of us could envisage a time we wouldn’t want to share.

  How things changed.

  Perry’s enormous lounge was a throng of hot, swaying bodies; cheap perfume and aftershave. On the shelf above the TV, cat ornaments rattled as the bass pulsed from oversized speakers. Red and green flashing lights lit discarded paper plates heaped with crumbling sausage rolls and drying sandwich crusts. The ‘Happy 18th’ banner had become unstuck at one end, and Perry wrenched it down before wrapping it around himself like a cape.

  I squeezed my way into the hallway looking for Lisa. She’d gone to the loo ages ago but the queue was still snaking down the stairs. Instead of waiting I headed through the kitchen and out of the open patio doors, into the garden. Multicoloured lanterns glowed; they were strung from the fence, hanging from the washing line. Even outside the music was still pounding.

  Sitting on the picnic table, feet resting on the bench seat, were Aaron and Jake. I had to gulp my vodka – liquid courage – before I could join them. I saw them at school every day but this felt different somehow, with my short dress, heels sinking into the lawn. The wood creaked as I sat next to them.

  ‘Hey, Kat.’ Aaron offered me the spliff he held between thumb and index finger, and when I shook my head he shrugged and placed it between his lips. For someone who was intent on being a doctor Aaron didn’t take his own health very seriously. As he took a drag the end crackled red before he exhaled, and the warm night air was heavy with cannabis and tobacco.

  ‘Aaron!’ Perry swayed in front of us, clutching a beer, still wrapped in the banner. ‘It’s my birthday. Got me a pressie?’

  Aaron jumped off the table, and it wobbled with the sudden shift in weight. I stretched out my arms to steady myself, my left hand resting on Jake’s knee. Aaron supported Perry as he led him back inside.

  ‘Think we should help?’ I asked reluctantly. I didn’t know Aaron very well. We didn’t share any lessons.

  ‘Nah,’ said Jake. ‘I like it here.’

  He turned to face me, and I realised my palm was still pressing against his knee. Underneath the denim was heat. I started to draw away, but he placed his hand on top of mine. Our fingers linked together, and my mouth went dry. It was crazy. I’d known him forever. He was like a brother almost, but since he’d been cast as Tony in the end of year production of West Side Story, to my Maria, something between us had shifted. There was a confidence about him both on stage and off that made my pulse flutter. He didn’t dress like the other boys, in his white T-shirt and skinny jeans, black pork-pie hat, the gold cross he always wore.

  At rehearsals yesterday he’d cupped my face between his palms as we sang ‘Somewhere’, and when he took his hands away I felt like he had taken a piece of me with him too.

  ‘Dance with me, Kat.’ He pulled me to my feet and alone, under the endless indigo sky, it felt like we were the only two people left in the world. As my body gyrated with the beat of Paul Weller’s ‘It’s Written in the Stars’ Jake didn’t once let go of my hand, and instead he pulled me closer. His lips brushed my ear, and I melted like butter as he whispered: ‘you and me Kat, we’re written in the stars’. As he pulled back, I studied his face to see if he was joking, this boy I had known most of my life, but his eyes were full of longing.

  ‘This,’ he whispered, ‘is what I wanted to do at rehearsals yesterday.’ His mouth skimmed mine, lips warm and smooth. I began to close my eyes. The last thing I saw was the utter disbelief and hurt on Lisa’s face as she stood framed in the patio doors. Perhaps I should have pushed Jake away but as his kiss grew more urgent, I knew I was lost.

  Rightly or wrongly I didn’t let Lisa’s reaction stop me slipping my hand into Jake’s back pocket, pressing my body hard against his. I wanted him and, at that time, it seemed so simple.

  If only I knew then the lengths that Lisa and I would both go to, to get what we wanted. The hurt we would cause.

  The lives that would be lost.

  If I’d know that then, I like to think I’d have pushed Jake away because, otherwise, what sort of person did that make me?

  And I’m not a monster.

  I’m not.

  9

  Now

  The week since we saw Lisa seems endless.

  ‘How was your day?’ Nick bites into his pizza – spicy pepperoni – a string of cheese stretches thinner and thinner until he snaps it with his fingers.

  Before dinner my arms had been sprinkled with gooseflesh, but now, jalapeños heat me from the inside out.

  ‘Good,’ I say taking a sip of water to soothe my burning tongue. ‘I spoke to a guy, Alex, who runs a theatre group. We had a chat about them donating the profits of their next production to Stroke Support. He seemed quite keen.’

  ‘Lisa got you thinking about the past, has she?’

  Despite the fire in my mouth, a chill snakes down my spine. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Acting. I still can’t believe I didn’t know that about you.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. I’m going to meet him tonight at rehearsal. Do you want to come?’ Outside a storm is raging. I loathe driving in the dark and rain.

  ‘Sorry, I’m meeting Richard to discuss the expenses for a new project.’

  ‘Speaking of expenses, have you transferred the money to Lisa?’ I ask Nick. We’ve agreed on £3,000 up front and when she falls pregnant, for I have to believe it is a when: £1,250 each month.

  ‘Yes. She’s probably out now spending it all on drink and drugs.’ He laughs to show he is joking but a knot of anxiety twists itself tightly in my stomach. After Lisa first offered to be a surrogate, I’d had a long conversation with her about her health and lifestyle. I grilled her, I suppose. She assured me she eats healthily, will take all her prenatal supplements and won’t drink, but still, it’s a lot of trust in someone to keep my baby as safe as I would, if I were the one carrying them. It occurred to me I could find a different surrogate. Someone who drank those gloopy green juices, performed yoga on the lawn each morning, whatever the weather, and avoided sugar and processed food. I went round and round in circles, trying to decide whether Lisa was the right person, and whether our shared history was a help or a hindrance but had concluded at least I know everything there is to know. Who knows what a stranger might keep hidden? Better the devil, I suppose you could say. The fact tha
t we’ve grown up together is a positive thing, I think. We’ll both be able to be honest if there’s anything we’re unhappy with.

  ‘Great. She’s hiring a relaxation coach.’ I was so relieved when she told me. She really was taking her health as seriously as she promised. Any lingering doubts had evaporated. ‘Lisa said when she was pregnant with Stella she had high blood pressure so it will help with conception, if she’s not already pregnant.’

  ‘What on earth is a relaxation coach?’

  ‘They teach you meditation and stuff. She’s going to see her once a week and can ring her up when she’s feeling stressed as well. It must be incredibly pressured working at the hospital. It’s horribly expensive but worth every penny, I think.’

  ‘It’s up to her, I guess. Richard put in the agreement she can use the expenses for anything relating to her well-being. We should be glad she’s not drinking a bottle of wine a night to relax.’

  My eyes flick over to our empty bottles waiting to be recycled.

  ‘Maybe we should try meditation…’ I grin.

  ‘I can think of better ways to relax.’ Nick lifts his eyebrows suggestively, and I suddenly wish I was staying in but, if I were, Nick would likely become engrossed in paperwork while I’ll be glued to social media on my phone. I only use Twitter and Facebook for the charity though that in itself could almost be a full-time job. Perhaps we should go to Italy before the baby comes, while it’s still just the two of us.

  We finish eating and I clear the table, popping the pieces of crust on the worktop near the back door to give to the birds in the morning. Nick rinses the plates while I lick my fingers before slipping on my shoes and buttoning my coat.

  ‘See you later.’ I do a jazz hands goodbye and high kick out of the room.

  The community centre is freezing cold. There’s a proper stage in a huge room. Grey folded chairs are stacked around the edge of the shiny parquet flooring. It smells of my old school. Rubber plimsolls and boiled cabbage. But it isn’t the smell that causes my breath to hitch in my throat. On the stage, feet pounding, arms swinging, a group of men of different ages, belt out ‘Gee, Officer Krupke’. The song strikes me with such force I lean heavily against the wall as though I would fall without its support. They are performing West Side Story. A film of tears coats my eyes. I can almost see Jake on the stage.

  It takes me a second to realise the music has stopped and a couple are standing in front of me.

  ‘Hello.’ My voice sounds distant and hollow, as though it belongs to someone else. I shake the hand that is offered. ‘Kat, from Stroke Support. You must be Alex?’

  ‘Yes, and this is Tamara.’

  ‘Hello.’ She beams a smile. Glossy pink lips framing impossibly white teeth.

  ‘Take five, everyone,’ Alex shouts. ‘Shall we?’ He gestures over to the chairs and the three of us sit in a triangle. ‘So, as I said on the phone, our next performance will be June. We won’t start advertising it until the new year, although we’ve been rehearsing for a few weeks. Most of the cast work full-time and we don’t get together quite as often as we’d like. We’ve had a chat, haven’t we, Tam, and we’d be happy to donate the proceeds to Stroke Support.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamara says. ‘And you’d help us with advertising?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll print the posters; we’ll need to put our logo on, and put out some leaflets. We can probably get the local paper to run a feature, and the radio. They’re normally really good with things like this. We’d provide the programmes as well and get some volunteers to sell them on the night, as well as doing a raffle in the interval.’

  ‘Sounds fabulous. We can firm up the details later if that’s okay? We’ve only got the hall booked for another hour. Do you want to stay and watch us rehearse?’ Alex checks his watch.

  I don’t want to stay. I’ve never been able to watch West Side Story since. It’s too painful. Too raw. But I find myself saying yes.

  ‘Who’s playing Tony?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s me,’ says Alex. ‘Tam is Maria. We’re not hogging the best parts, honest. But other members have busier lives. This is our life. A bit sad really.’

  ‘At least we know we’re reliable,’ Tam says. ‘We lost our Anita this week. She found out she was pregnant. She’s gutted. She’s already got three kids and doesn’t want another.’

  My stomach clenches like a fist at the unfairness of it.

  ‘Don’t suppose you act?’ Alex raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. Well, I mean, I used to. At school. I was never…’ The words are coming out in a gibbering rush and I can’t stop them. ‘I was Maria once…’ Again, I feel that contraction in the pit of my belly. Despite the hours of rehearsals, I never got to perform in front of an audience, did I?

  ‘So you know the part?’

  Too late, I realise what I have walked in to.

  ‘It’s been years…’

  ‘It’s like riding a bike. You never forget. What do you think, Tam? You practised for Anita a few years ago, didn’t you? You know both parts really well so you could swap and Kat could be our Maria.’

  ‘But I’ve never played Maria.’ It seems only I can detect the faint note of desperation in Tamara’s voice and that’s probably because I’ve heard it in my own.

  ‘It would save Kat playing catch up if she had a role she knew.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Tam says. ‘I’m happy if you are.’ But the set of her jaw, the narrowing of her eyes, are a direct contrast to her words.

  ‘Let’s try you out and see if you fit. Everyone,’ Alex claps his hands, ‘Kat’s going to sing us a song.’

  As I stand centre stage, I have a sense of not being present in my own body. It feels as though a thousand eyes are burning into me. There’s a thrumming in my ears and the room feels as though it’s spinning. I don’t have to do this, I know, but as sick as I feel, there must be a part of me deep down that wants to try, because as the backing track starts, I begin to sing. My voice is hesitant at first. My timing off. Something passes over Tamara’s face and, as I deliberate whether it is annoyance or amusement, I forget my line.

  ‘Sorry.’ My whole body is trembling as though I am in shock.

  The backing track starts again, and this time I close my eyes and I don’t just hear the music, I feel it. The emotion rises as I remember singing ‘I Feel Pretty’ to Jake in his bedroom, powering my voice. My body starts to sway and my pitch is now perfect.

  When I’ve finished I open my eyes, blinking furiously as the room comes back into focus. Taking in the expressions of the cast, the applause, I know, without a doubt that I am Maria. Again.

  It could be a positive thing, I tell myself as I inch out of the car park. It will give me something else to talk about with Nick. Something that isn’t work or babies. Ever since he’d mentioned not wanting to lose sight of us I’d been worried, although we’re just as affectionate as we ever were. Just as thoughtful. I still bring him a cup of tea in bed every morning, he still fills my car with fuel, but it would be good for him to see me in a different light. The romantic lead. Who’d have thought? My rising excitement is tempered by the fact I have to drive home in the dark. In the rain. The fear I feel in a car has never really left me, despite my GP referring me onto a course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. ‘It’s not unusual for the victim of an accident to feel anxious in a vehicle,’ the therapist said, but despite her soothing tone, her use of the word ‘victim’ increased my agitation. When I’m behind the wheel I feel such a weight of responsibility, not just for me but for the other road users, as though I am the one that has to keep them safe, in a way I couldn’t before.

  The heater blasts out air and my toes begin to thaw as I leave behind the town and the street lamps, heading for home. The weather is atrocious. The radio station is playing Fifties music, and Elvis begins to sing ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ I snap off my stereo, my breath coming a little faster. My shoulders hunched. Rain flings itself at the windscreen and the wipers swish at double
speed but visibility is poor. My hands grip the steering wheel tight as I lean forward in my seat. Along with the woody smell of the air freshener swinging from the rear-view mirror, a sense of foreboding fills the air. I ease my foot off the accelerator. It wasn’t the car that hurt me, I think in the way I’d been taught. It was human error. Knowing that is supposed to make me feel better. It never does.

  The moon is hiding behind the rain clouds, and everywhere I look is black. Crushing. The sky blends in with the road and my full beam picks out the rain sheeting down. There’s a particularly nasty bend coming up, and I slow down again, dropping into second gear. From behind there’s a flash and the blast of a horn, and my underarms prickle, but I can’t bring myself to drive faster. The horn blares again. Intimidated, I speed up, trying to put some distance between us, but I can’t help thinking of the other time I was in a car with the dark and the rain. The accident is sharp in my memory, clearer than it has been for years, and suddenly I am terrified. I drop my speed again hoping the other car will go around me. There’s another blast of a horn, for longer this time. Headlights flash once, twice, three times. I tilt my rear-view mirror to stop myself from being dazzled. I’m arced over the wheel now. Every muscle in my body rigid. The car blasts its horn again, and I urge myself to calm down as I heave in a breath as though I am suffocating. There isn’t a good place along this country track to overtake but I know there is a lay-by coming up, and I have seconds to make a decision whether to stop or carry on. It will be safer to let them pass. I indicate left and twist the wheel. My tyres scramble for traction and squeal, and the sound transports me back. My body is stone as I wait for the impact. The pain. But the car straightens and I am safe in the lay-by. The other car tears past me. I am hyperventilating as I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. Panic tearing my chest in two. I haven’t felt like this for years. It’s all starting again. Just like I always knew it would.