Surrogate – a psychological thriller (8 page)

Mole went down to Wiltshire early the following week to give her egg sample, while I was booked in to visit the Arlington Clinic on Friday. Sperm apparently did not keep as well as a woman's eggs. Alice would have to be impregnated with Emily's fertilised egg on the same day as I provided my sperm sample, otherwise the semen would lose its potency.

I remember that Friday morning very well. Like most arguments, it began out of nothing. I was standing in the hall checking the mail on the table where we kept keys and stuff like that when I noticed a more interesting envelope along with the bills. It felt like an invitation. Slitting it open with my thumb, I saw it was indeed an invitation to attend the memorial service for victims of Dutch Marquez at St Paul's Cathedral. There was talk in the office that the prime minister would attend along with the Prince of Wales. I was snobbishly delighted to be sent an invite, even if it was for such a solemn occasion, and I had a vision of glimpsing the prime minister's head between two pillars.

"Darling, we've been sent an invitation to the memorial service at St Paul's, the one I was telling you about," I said, walking down the hall.

Mole was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. "When is it again, you did tell me," she said, closing the door.

"End of July. The prime minister's going to be there and probably one of the Royals. Of course, we'll be sitting at the back in the cheap seats, but it could be interesting. There'll be press there. We might even end up on TV. Anyway, it will give me a chance to introduce you to Nigel Rosenthal and Brian Sibley. They've heard so much about you, and I want to show you off."

"You go if you like. I don't want to."

"Now hang on." I could feel my hackles starting to rise. "I've never asked you to do anything work-related before. All I'm asking is that you accompany me to this memorial service ... for goodness’ sake, it's a national event."

"There's nothing stopping you going if you want to," Mole said, brushing past me. I reached out to stop her. In hindsight, that was a mistake.

"I'm not asking you, I'm
telling
you," I said. I felt myself becoming heated with anger. For months she had been needling me about the responsibility the company had towards the victims' families – it was the one sore point in our relationship – and now she was being a hypocrite. "You keep reminding me of how awful it was all those people died, yet the moment you're asked to do something, you back away.

She stopped and turned, and I was startled by how angry she was. I quailed as she unleashed the full force of her fury onto me. She yanked her arm away.

"And what about you? More than a hundred people died that night and yet you treat this as a PR opportunity. All you ever think about is what's best for your company, how is this going to affect my business? Morning, noon and night you're on your phone checking your email. It's like you’re married to it."

"Oh yes," I said, following her down the hall. "You're quite happy to enjoy the lifestyle, the big flat and the luxury car, yet the moment your bleeding heart is actually asked to
do
something–"

This was the first real argument we’d had, and I found myself skittering on the precipice of a full-blown row, wondering how it would be to really let go. At the same time I hated arguing with her. It made me want to throw up.

"Why don't you just leave before I change my mind about having this baby," Mole said.

"You know what," I said, raising my hands. "This is nonsense. I'm not even going to engage with this. Oh, and by the way, that was pretty low bringing our child into it." I brought my face close to hers, defying her to do something. We had never even come close to an argument before.

"Go on then, you flounce out and close the door behind you," she said, standing in the hall. I was so angry I could have got down on my hands and knees and started eating the floor.

I replayed our argument again and again in the car on the way down to Wiltshire, trying to calm down and see it from Mole's point of view. Yet I was still deeply pissed off with her when I pulled up to the Arlington Clinic.

That Friday afternoon, a nurse I had noticed the last time ushered me into an examining room. There was the usual wash basin and examination table.

"Would you like any material?" she asked. I shook my head and told her I would be fine. The woman handed me a foil-wrapped condom and said she would knock on the door in a while. Would a quarter of an hour be long enough? I nodded.

Instead of some porn model with silicone implants, I pictured Mole last night lying in bed with a look of wanton abandonment. It was a lovely sight to behold. I remembered what she had said to me, looking over her shoulder and telling me she wanted to come. I felt my groin muscles tighten and came quickly, feeling a slight sense of sadness. Slipping off the condom, I left it in the Petri dish as I had been told to do.

The corridor was empty as I unlocked the door and peered outside. Oh well, I would find the receptionist and tell her I was finished. It was too far to drive to the clinic and back on a Friday night, so I had decided to stay overnight nearby. I would return to London in the morning. The clinic had already recommended a pub with rooms in the village, and I was wondering what to have for dinner when I turned the corner and collided with somebody coming in the opposite direction. Ow, that hurt. It took a moment for me to realise the other person bowling along was Alice. We both did a double-take and started to apologise.

"Oh, Alice, it's you," I said. "I'm so sorry."

"It were my fault. I weren't looking where I were going."

"There's no need to apologise. I was daydreaming," I said, rubbing my sore upper arm.

"So, are you here for the day?" she asked.

"I've just done my bit." I grinned. I think we were both just as embarrassed as each other.

"Aye, Trevor says I must stay overnight so they can keep an eye on me. I'm going back up to Manchester tomorrow."

"Listen," I said, turning serious. "I wanted to thank you for this. You don't know what it means to me and Emily ... having a second chance ..."

"Oh, it were nothing. Really. I'm glad I can help."

We both stood there for a moment, and I sensed she wanted me to ask her something.

"Well, I'll see you in a few months then. I'm sure Emily will be in touch. She's been poring over books and compiling lists." I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, as if to say, what have I let myself in for?

We said goodbye and I made my way to reception, thinking about what was going to happen: Emily's fertilised egg being implanted in Alice's womb and then the implant taking, ripening and blossoming like the opening of a flower. I told the receptionist I was finished and crunched back across the drive to my car.

The pub recommended by the clinic had been refurbished into a trendy boutique hotel for weekending Londoners and resembled an unhappy collision between an Ikea catalogue and an eighteenth-century coaching inn.

I realised how tired I was only as I slipped the plastic key card into my room lock. It had been a long week. Continual's lawyers had been in touch asking for data, and there had been several late nights in the office going over accounts with Brian Sibley. The due-diligence process had started: tyre-kicking, the Americans called it. Slipping off my shoes, I lay across the bed and gazed up at the ceiling, imagining a white-coated lab technician peering at my wriggling sperm through a microscope. After a while I became aware of the hum of the mini-bar, rolled off the bed and fixed myself a drink. I started running a bath and sat on the edge of the coverlet sipping a gin and tonic and watching Sky News.

I was slipping on my jacket, about to go down to dinner, when I felt a sudden panic. My wallet was not where it should be. I was also not a little pissed, having failed to eat anything all day. Instinctively I touched the right-hand side of my chest, praying my wallet would be there. Nothing. My inside breast pocket was empty. My heart contracted with foreboding.

"Fuck," I said aloud. Where had I last seen it? I was sure it had been in the clinic with me. I remembered – or imagined I remembered – the weight of it as I hung up my jacket in the clinic. It must have fallen out there. I dug my BlackBerry out of my pocket and scrolled through the list of numbers last called. The Arlington Clinic number rang and rang, but nobody answered. Friday night and of course everybody had gone home. Eventually a voice I recognised as the receptionist's gave the clinic's opening hours and an emergency contact number. I swore again. The only thing would be to telephone in the morning and hope that somebody would be there, and that somebody had had the decency to hand in my wallet. I was debating whether to cancel my credit cards when there was a knock on the door.

Alice was standing outside holding my wallet.

"Oh, thank God," I said.

"I found it on the drive," she said. "You must have dropped it getting into your car."

"Oh, I am
so
grateful. I only just realised I'd lost it. I'm such an idiot. You get into such a panic when you lose things." I motioned for Alice to come in while I riffled through the wallet: everything was there: credit cards, driving licence and, most important, the photo taken at Tate Modern showing the moment Mole and I met for the first time.

"They've done it right nicely, haven't they?" said Alice looking around.

"It's not bad," I said joining her. I felt so relieved I could have kissed her there and then. "Listen, do you want something to eat? I was just about to go down to dinner. Why don't you join me?" I wanted to thank her, plus I did not want to face an evening on my own. Alice would be company.

"All right. I don't mind if I do."

We sat beside each other in a booth with our knees almost touching. We both ordered steak and chips, comfort food, and I got us a bottle of house red. After my second large glass of wine, I was feeling decidedly lightheaded, and I wished our meal would hurry up. I was ravenous. That was the trouble with these country places: they might look the part, but often the staff were just local teenagers working part-time at college.

"Listen, I was serious about what I said. You don't know what it means to us that you’ll be carrying our baby. When the doctor told us we couldn't have children, we were both devastated."

Alice looked sympathetic. Was it just me, or was there just the slightest pressure of her leg against mine? "Your wife told me it were her fault you couldn't have children. I'm really sorry. Still, at least you're all healthy in that department."

This time she ran her hand up the inside of my thigh. I was so surprised I didn't quite know how to react. "Alice, I really don't think–" I began. She came forward and kissed me full on the lips, her breasts firm against my chest. Her tongue was forcing my mouth open and, despite myself, I felt the familiar stirrings. "Alice, stop," I said, pushing her away. This was madness. What if somebody saw us? Alice looked confused.

"I saw the way you were looking at me in the restaurant. I won't tell anybody if you won't."

My God, she must have read my mind when I pictured her leaning over the photocopier. Were men really that transparent? "Alice, this is crazy. I mean, we're meant to be in a business relationship."

She rubbed my groin under the table, and this time there was no mistaking the erection straining against my trousers. "I can see you want to come out and play," she said.

I can picture us both now seated at that oak settle, with Alice's hand furtively under the table. If only I could go back in time and tell myself, "Stop. You are about to ruin the rest of your life." But, of course, you never can. Instead, I took her hand and we both stood up, crossed the bar and went up the staircase. My desire was making me nauseous. Why is it that some women have difficulty comprehending that another female can be sexy even without being beautiful? And there was just something about Alice that I found incredibly sexy.

Once inside my room, I slammed Alice against the wall and started tearing at her clothes. She responded in kind, pulling at my belt and freeing my erection. My erection felt so big I thought I was going to faint.

Then the guilt started nagging at me. "Stop. We can't do this," I said, backing off.

"I want you to. It can be our little secret." She ran her hand up and down the shaft of my penis. "Well, maybe not so little."

I pulled at Alice's knickers and stuffed myself into her against the wall, not really caring if she was ready or not. "Not here," she gasped. I practically threw her down onto the bed and launched myself on top. I realise how ridiculous I must have looked with my trousers around my ankles. Her hands went round my buttocks, pulling me deeper. I backed up, putting my weight on my arms and started pumping her. Mole was so beautiful that sometimes I felt anxious about coming too quickly, but with Alice I felt no such fear. I could keep going all night if I wanted to. Alice was in a world of her own. "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," she repeated, searching for my mouth with her fingers, her pink-tipped breasts bouncing. I looked down and noticed a tattoo on her hip, a hashtag and the word "Dirtygirl". Finally I came with a weird lion-like snarl – where the hell had that come from?

I rolled off her, and we both lay there breathing heavily. Alice reached across and draped her leg over mine, nestling against me. For a moment, neither of us felt the pain of being alone. Then I felt shame bearing down on me like the weight of water crushing a diver. What on earth had we just done?

Eventually Alice broke the silence. "You're not angry with me, are you?"

"No, no, of course not. It was just so ... unexpected." I sat up and ran my hand over her stomach. Was there anything as lovely as a naked woman? I did not want her to feel bad ... I mean, I was just as guilty as she was. "Alice ... what just happened, Emily must never know, all right? It would crucify her. And would probably end my marriage. Okay, are we clear about that?"

Alice nodded, and I stroked her reddish hair. I did not want to hurt her, yet we had done something unforgivable. Now I wanted her out of my hotel room as fast as possible. I pictured her putting on her clothes and saying goodbye. Instead of which she just looked up at me dumbly and played with the hair on my chest. I pictured her leaving and closing the door behind her, as if imagining it would make it happen. Finally, she got up and started retrieving her clothes from the floor, thank God. I watched her from the bed. Would she ever go? I remembered something that Currie said to me once: he and a friend had once hired a couple of hookers for the night. "You're not paying them for sex," he had said ruefully, "you're paying them to leave afterwards."