‘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 that 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.