Surrogate

Simon bought Maggie a dog when he proposed. “In case it doesn’t work, you’ll always have Bobo.” He’d meant IVF, or perhaps Maggie, or perhaps Maggie’s womb. In the months since, Maggie had considered all three. They’d met at The National Gallery. Maggie had sneezed in front of The Annunciation. It was funny, because he’d said bless you, this stranger in a duffel coat, and they’d started talking. He’d taken her to lunch, and then bed. Her inability to conceive had been perfect. Under straightened sheets she’d told him of an ectopic pregnancy, an exploded fallopian tube and the loss of the other because the surgeon hadn’t known his left from his right. Simon had put his arms around her. He was separated from his wife, still shared a house but only just. They’d been in different bedrooms for a year, hadn’t had sex for over ten, or almost. It was dead in the water; a seventeen-year blight, a passion broken, a friendship suffering the ignominy of two people who’d moved on and he was dying until he met Maggie. Maggie taught sculpture at an art school in Cheam. It was only two days a week. The rest of the time she made pottery in her sitting room, newspaper over the floor, animals massaged from clay kept damp in old paint tubs, fired at school, and given away as presents she never saw displayed. It was fine until her flatmate moved out, she couldn’t pay the rent and Simon said he couldn’t live without her. Within a week of proposing he’d moved in to her ground floor flat where Bobo already fouled the high- walled yard.

At the kitchen table, still cramped by the surprise of his presence, she said, “I’m happy with the dog.” Bobo sat beside her, his head on her lap.  His skull fitted exactly her palm.  She twined her fingers through the curls of his coat. Simon took her hand, “The clinic says we have a good chance.” Bobo looked up at her with bloodshot eyes.  “I know what the clinic says.” The clinic had felt like their fifth date.  She replaced her hand on Bobo’s head. “I think we should wait.” Simon stood up, taking his tea with him.  “And I’ve told you before, IVF is a long business. We may as well start now.” It was a bright Sunday in May. She followed him back to bed and lay beside him, the mattress warm, her head on his chest, her cheek rising and shifting with his breath. Bobo jumped up beside her but she curled the tip of her finger into the grey hair on Simon’s chest instead. “But what if it works before we’re married? Louise -” She hated saying Simon’s ex-wife’s name.  Nearly ex-wife.  He’d started divorce proceedings.  Simon dropped his arm around her. “Lou won’t mind. She’s a grown up.” Maggie wasn’t sure about that. She’d spoken to her once, Louise had called her, Simon had warned that she would. He’d said she just wanted to say hello. She’d said more than that. She’d said You have my permission, Maggie. Simon and I will always be friends. I’m pleased for him. Really and Maggie had knelt on the floor as if she’d been punched. “I never thought I’d have children, that’s all.” She’d never thought she’d get married either. “I never thought I’d have them ‘til I met you.” He kicked Bobo off the bed and pulled Maggie closer.   

She handed in her notice at the art school in Cheam. She stopped making pottery, her sitting room was cleared of clay. Simon said she didn’t need to work, and they’d need to keep it clean, Bobo would tread dust all through the flat. He didn’t think it necessary to go with her to every appointment, either. He said “They’re the best in London. They’ll take care of you.” So Maggie took the bus alone and sat amongst couples in the patterned waiting room with its sheen seat covers and leaflets screaming infertility. She was glad Simon wasn’t with her, he’d been a distraction the last time. He’d worn a hat and looked out of the window. He hadn’t asked a single question.  Dr Cable was kind and serious. Poker straight grey hair like a schoolgirl who’d suffered shock overnight, her elbows on her desk, her hands clasped together, she spoke with efficiency. “Your husband isn’t with you today?” “My fiancé́,” corrected Maggie, “but he’s very supportive.” Dr Cable smiled reassuringly, “I’m sure he is.” She handed over a pile of forms. “You’ll need to fill these in. Your signature here,” she pointed “and here. The bottom one’s a psychological assessment.” Maggie looked for a pen in her bag. Dr Cable handed her one from the desk. She got through name, address, age before she got stuck. “How thorough do they want me to be?” She was on the list of ailments. “I mean, this, for instance, depression. Do they mean -” “They mean hospitalised. On medication. You’re not on medication, and have you ever been? I think we covered that last time.” Dr Cable looked at her notes. Last time, when Simon wore the hat, Dr Cable had gone on and on about how healthy Maggie looked.  She ticked No for Bi-polar, Schizophrenia, Suicidal Tendencies and wished there was a category for Rushing Into Marriage, Fear of Abandonment and It’s My Husband Who Wants Them Not Me. On the bus home the course of drugs rested on Maggie’s lap like an overstuffed goody bag from a party she hadn’t enjoyed.

The pills inspiring menopause were followed by injections inducing teenage tantrums and the harvest when, laden like a peach tree, her calves adjusted in stirrups after tasteless sex in a cubicle because Simon wanted to invest it with meaning, her crop was collected. The precise analysis of how well they were doing, reminded her of fruit, turning over apples, choosing the best, her mother’s gloved hand on market day. She was told she could freeze the ones she didn’t use then pumped with the hormones of a pregnant woman to receive the eight-celled embryo. Dr Cable was there, her hand on Maggie’s arm. She said, “You’re doing great,” and slid her palm into Maggie’s. “Now all you have to do is rest.” 

During the two-week wait disappointment loomed, a surrogate ghost, mugging her audacity to think she could succeed at anything. Why did Simon want a child with her when he could have found a woman with a complete set of tubes? He reminded her it was Maggie he fell in love with. Why did he want a child at all? They ruin everything, she was happy the way they were. He said it was the drugs talking and they’d get through it together. When she threw a pint of water across the room he cleared it up and put his arms around her. The day before the two weeks was up he made supper and went to the late-night chemist to pick up a test. He said, as he put on his coat, “Why wait?” Maggie was curled on the sofa, the television on, Bobo beside her. She didn’t care what images crossed the screen so long as they didn’t involve failure or prams. She said, “Two weeks is tomorrow.” He replied, “I’ll get a few. We can try tonight and tomorrow if we need to.” Before he left he handed her a glass of water with which to top up her bladder. The flat ticked with familiar rhythms, Bobo snuffled his nose under her hand, the possible life in her belly quaked and shuddered. Already, her thoughts were weapons flung uncontrollably at the embryo Simon hoped would attach. She leaned into Bobo, he replied with a sigh. She was happy with the dog but the measure of her worth was walking back through the night towards her.

Simon woke her with a kiss. “I had to go all the way to the 24-hour Tesco. The chemist was shut.” She looked at her phone. It was ten past two in the morning. There was a bottle of champagne on the table beside the plastic bag. It stared at her until she got up, pushing off the blanket, waking Bobo who tried to follow her but she shut the bathroom door and straddled the loo hopelessly, peeing everywhere. Maggie and Simon looked at the damp stick together. Two blue lines. Unmistakably. Simon hugged her. She said, “How will have time to get married before I start to show?” His divorce was moving at a snail’s pace.  He said, “It doesn’t matter. We can marry anytime.”

She was in her third term; the phrase made her feel as if she were at school, exams in two months. The nausea had passed, her body had decided its heaviness and her energy was amassed into a concentrated ball from which it threw out rampages of order brought on by panic. She folded newly ironed shirts and carried them to the bedroom, Bobo at her heels. Simon had turned the spare room into his office. She heard him rustling about as she passed the door and applauded her ability to give him space. They’d found a happy peace rippling the surface of their home, a clockwork system of caresses, her belly at breakfast, his back at night; she made supper slowly and as long as the shepherd’s pie turned out all right and the mash, smooth, she could pretend she was perfectly happy. At the table, mashed potato on a fork smothered in ketchup, Simon said, “I’ve got a week's work in Cardiff.” She said, “I’ll be fine.” 

On Monday she scrubbed the house, starting with the kitchen. On Tuesday, she went to the spa, using tokens her mother had sent her for Christmas. On Wednesday she failed to buy a buggy and cried in Mothercare while Bobo waited in the rain. Thursday was a wash out. On Friday she opened the door to Simon’s study. It was neat. No cups of coffee half drunk. The waste paper basket was empty. The desk was cleared of papers and laptop. A pen was placed on top of a pile of scrap paper, cut to size and stapled, a ruler beside it. There was nothing for her to do but it felt nice in that room, as if she was with him. She lay on her back, her feet up on the sofa, feeling relief in her legs. Bobo trotted after her and sniffed her head.  A corner pleat of the sofa cover was dented in. As she hooked it out her finger caught on something. She rolled onto her side, pressed her cheek against the carpet and reached into the dark crevice between the stuffing and the floor. There.  Something.  She drew out a photograph. It was of Simon, younger, shinier, in morning suit, grinning, his cheek pressed firmly against that of Dr Cable whose hair, hanging straight beneath a swept back bridal vail, was yet to turn grey.

She threw up, exhaustively, her head bent into the porcelain bowl.  When she looked at the photograph again it was the same. There, the serious eyes that had bent over Maggie with support. There the ungenerous mouth that had broken into fullness when Maggie shared the news. Unmistakably. The clinic was the best in London. Simon had said so on countless occasions and perhaps it was Maggie who was being weird, not understanding.  She’d never met his ex-wife, or thought she hadn’t, she’d only spoken to her once but this was Dr Cable in bridal gown smiling beside a younger Simon and she’d sat across her desk to Maggie and said nothing.  And neither had he.  Perhaps they were being sensitive. Perhaps they were more grown up than Maggie and in some very grown-up modern way they both wanted the best for each other.  She hadn’t met anyone from his life; she’d joked that he kept her in a box marked, Private. His father was dead, he had no brothers or sisters and his mother suffered frailty in Wales. He’d said his friends needed time to adjust, many were still loyal to Louise, and Maggie had understood at the time that this meant he was serious. She’d been the same, keeping him in a box marked, Mine. Her parents had tried to swoop, flapping hot air, making her feel incapable but she’d fended them off.  Her sister had shouted congratulations from Burnham Market, noting that it was a little rushed, while her friends, curious at the unforeseen twist had trodden lightly. She’d been happy that way, keeping judgement at bay, keeping the love nest intact, hanging on to the privacy of their first night together. These thoughts took her through to Friday lunchtime. She’d say she didn’t mind who his ex-wife was and press the point of her maturity on all matters in general. She’d be perfect for him and get this matter over with. She couldn’t afford waves. A storm. She needed calm. There was a simple explanation and she was sticking with it, whatever it was, until he came home, when he’d hold her and not get angry that she’d sneaked into his study and pulled out a photograph she was never supposed to see.

A walk with Bobo and Escape To The Country got her to Friday night. She’d tucked the photograph so far beneath the collapsing stuffing that she doubted either of them would ever reach it again. Simon dropped his bag in the hall and kissed her quickly. He washed then joined her in the kitchen, sighed with pleasure as she put his meal before him. She’d made roast chicken. It gave to his knife in strands. He said, “Are you all right? Has the baby been giving you trouble?” Like a bad neighbour, or a hernia. She shook her head.  Her brain wouldn’t behave. She’d ordered it to make light. There’d be a way of explaining this so long as she could stay quiet and think. But it offered dark pathways and would not come up with a question she could bear. He tore off a chicken leg and stripped the skin with his teeth. There was a gravy drip on his wrist. He licked it off, chewed, wiped his mouth and laid his hand on her arm. “Have you been speaking to your mother? I thought we’d agreed to avoid family until this was over.” “Over?” She hadn’t touched her plate. Her cutlery was still clean. He released her arm and got back to his food. “Delicious chicken.” It wasn’t delicious. It was manufactured and overcooked. Her head swam towards him and away. She felt the baby kick.

He didn’t leave her alone the whole weekend. He was kindness personified. He brought her tea, and lunch on a tray. He made sure the remote was close at hand and massaged her swollen ankles. On Monday he said, “Are you sure you’re ok? I could take the day off.” He looked at his watch.  She said, “It’s probably the hormones.” When he left she went to his study. She smelt the same dust as she pressed her cheek to the floor but she couldn’t find it. Her fingers, then the ruler from his desk, picked out nothing. That evening he said, “You’re going to need money for that wedding dress.” She said, “What dress?” He leant his hovering gentleness deep into the air around her. “I’ve put £15,000 into your account.” She said, “But you said you were nowhere near.” He kissed her, “But don’t you want to start planning? It might take your mind off things.” She didn’t know what things he was referring to. He put a pile of catalogues on the bedside table. Women in white smiled at her. “How do you know my account number?” She spoke uncontrollably. He looked hurt. “Maggie,” he sat beside her, askew on the edge of the bed. “What is this?” Her face hot, she spoke quickly, “I wasn’t planning to spend so much.” He said, “You gave me your account details when I moved in, remember?” Of course she remembered. He’d been managerial about it. He’d put money into her account every month to make up the rent. He rubbed her toes. “Perhaps we should have a party. You and Bobo, you’re alone here all day and we haven’t announced it properly, have we? It’ll be fun.” He went to the bathroom. She listened to him cleaning his teeth. The baby tumbled and turned, making sleep impossible. Bobo whined to go outside.  The thought of her wardrobe, of picking out something creased and ill-fitting made her cry.

The day of the party it rained. Their guests rushed in leaving brollies and wet footsteps in the hall. The small sitting room of her ground floor flat became crowded with people she didn’t know, and Dr Cable. “What’s she doing here?” she caught Simon’s sleeve as he weaved about the room offering red or white. “Maggie,” he admonished, as if that was all that was needed.  Her mother turned up and immediately took command of the nibbles. Maggie sat collapsed, attended by the faithful Bobo, his grey curly coat entwined in her fingers, his bloodshot eyes reaching for her.  None of her own friends came.  She hadn’t told them. If they weren’t there she could pretend it wasn’t real. There was fussing everywhere. They knelt beside her, Simon’s friends, in ones and twos, or leant kindly as if they meant well. They all told her she was amazing.  A woman with short-cropped hair pulled up a chair. “I’m Gloria.” Maggie had no energy. With effort she said, “It’s nice to meet Simon’s friends at last.” Gloria smiled.  “I, we, all of us, we just want to say it’s marvellous what you’re doing.” Maggie rested her cupped hand over Bobo’s head, her eyes on Dr Cable.  “People keep saying that.” She’d greeted her with a hug. Now she was over by the fireplace in deep conversation with Maggie’s mother. “Poor Lou,” continued Gloria, following her gaze. “She had the worst time of it. It was like watching a car crash over and over. We all thought, if anyone can do it, it’s her but,” she shook her head. “They tried for so long.” “I thought she didn’t want children,” said Maggie. “Louise?”  Gloria’s deep brown eyes were startled. “It was all she ever wanted. All they ever wanted.” Maggie’s throat was dry, it was hard to speak. “He said he didn’t want them till he met me.” Gloria looked round the room helplessly. “Maybe he’d given up hope, you know?” Maggie did not know. Gloria continued, “They must have done seven or eight cycles at least, then Lou got ill and they had to stop. She had one left in the freezer, they were terrified of doing it again, it being their last, they were saving it up but these things, they can’t keep them on ice forever; it’s five years, isn’t it? That’s what Louise kept saying, and five years passed and we all thought that was it, they stopped talking about it after that, we thought they’d come to terms with it, accepted that it wasn’t to be, and then you came along so I guess not.” She smiled wanly.  “I mean, she’s the expert, so she’d know. Perhaps she got some sort of extension or…. anyway we just thought they didn’t want to talk about it, there’d had so many false starts, false alarms, so many disappointments.  They’ve both said you’ve been marvellous.  Can I get you a drink or something? Some water? A tea?” Maggie wanted to get up but she couldn’t move. Gloria said something about fetching a sandwich and left with a pat on Maggie’s shoulder. There was chatter and laughter in spirals swinging towards her. Her mother had the expression of Maggie’s failures to date, she kept looking, and looking away. Simon swooped in as Maggie struggled to stand. “You look pale. Is there anything you need?” To wake up a year ago, thought Maggie, and to Simon she said, “I need to lie down.  He said, “I’ll get your mother,” and she couldn’t find voice to say no.

Beneath sheets and blankets, Maggie closed her eyes. Bobo jumped up beside her and curled into the crook of her legs.  Her mother said, “Really, Maggie, I do feel a dupe, you could have told me, I mean some would call it a service though goodness knows, lending your womb to complete strangers is stretching it but there was no need to make up such a cloak and daggers story, your boyfriend.  And I was so looking forward to meeting him.  Still if you will refuse to have children yourself, the least you can do is help others. I suppose we might have had something to say if you’d told us, but I hear he’s paying you very well so at least you can stop living hand to mouth.” She tucked Maggie in rapidly. “And he bought you that dog.  At least you’ll have him.”

When she woke the flat was quiet.  Simon and his ex-wife who was still his wife who was Louise who was Dr Cable stood by the window, their forms in silhouette to Maggie who saw them before they saw her. They talked quietly, their arms around each other. She tried not to move but they noticed her anyway, her open eyes, her hands curling over the duvet, Bobo shifting his weight.  “You’ve done so well,” said Louise. She loosed herself from her husband and sat on the edge of Maggie’s bed.  “And you’ll always have Bobo,” added Simon, leaning in beside her, tickling Bobo’s stomach. Bobo rolled onto his back, his eyes on Maggie.