The air is nippy as I stand in the doorway, watching him throw his things into the boot and, although the spring bulbs are breaking through the soil – the borders speckled with yellow, white, blue – my breath clouds in front of me. Nick climbs into his car and drives away. I wave until he disappears around the corner and close the door, walk towards the kitchen. Behind me, the phone starts to ring.
‘Hello.’ I speak as soon as I answer this time but there’s silence again. I wait a second to see if it is a call centre trying to connect, and I hear it. A breath. I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. Was that my breathing I heard? And there it is again. A breath. Barely audible but someone is there. I slam down the receiver and rub my arms. Still chilled from the morning air, but my goosebumps linger.
I am walking into the kitchen to put the kettle on when the ringing starts again, and I snatch up the handset and shout: ‘who’s there?’ I wait. The silence is thick. Heavy. There’s a faint rustling sound and I think about all the people it could be. All the people I don’t want it to be, and I slowly put the receiver down. It’s nothing, I tell myself, but it does feel like something.
Tamara clicks her tongue as I mess up the dance routine again. My chest heaves and I know my face is as red as the T-shirt that is damp with exertion.
‘You’re not concentrating, Kat. Is something on your mind?’ she asks.
‘Sorry,’ I say. Hunched over. Hands on knees. I almost wish I hadn’t come, but if I miss another rehearsal, I know I’ll be replaced, and I’m not quite ready to give up on my dream.
‘It’s okay. It takes time.’ Alex stops the track.
‘And a certain level of fitness,’ Tamara mutters loud enough for me to hear.
I had been meaning to exercise each morning. Brisk walks around the block. Getting into a routine so that when the baby is here we can get out in the fresh air every day, but leaving the house is getting harder and harder. Every day I find a new excuse. The blackening sky. The threat of rain. Now a stitch burns a hole in my side, my heart is racing, and I wish I had made more effort. There are only the three of us here. We’re trying to perfect the Tony and Maria parts before tomorrow’s rehearsal when the rest of the cast will be present.
‘I need some water.’ I shuffle into the kitchen. My legs wobbly, muscles fatigued. I twist the tap and cup my hands under the cool water and splash my face before filling a tea-stained mug and gulping greedily.
‘You’re doing well.’
I start. I hadn’t heard Alex come in and water dribbles down my chin. I wipe it with the back of my hand.
‘I don’t know if it’s too much.’ I say this at every rehearsal. ‘It’s not as easy as I remember.’ In my head I’m still a teenager, but my body knows differently.
‘I think you’re capable. Very capable.’ Alex always says this too. He steps forward and reaches out a hand, and his thumb brushes my cheek. ‘An eyelash.’ He blows the pad of his thumb. ‘Make a wish.’
‘I wish we could get on with the rehearsal,’ mutters Tamara behind us.
‘Sorry.’ It’s all I seem to have said today.
Alex heads out of the door. As I follow him Tamara calls me back.
‘I’ve something for you anyway.’ She pushes a leaflet into my hand. It’s for Weight Watchers. ‘A few of the group go,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to but…’ She shrugs. ‘It isn’t as straightforward getting the costumes changed as I had thought. Might be easier to lose a few pounds?’
Back on stage Alex and I gaze into each other’s eyes as we sing ‘Tonight’. My voice wobbles and falls off-key, and Tamara stops the backing CD.
‘Can we call it a day?’
I grab my bag and my sense of failure and, as I hurry towards the exit, Tamara starts to sing ‘Tonight’, and it’s so beautiful. So effortless. The tense feeling in my chest tightens.
The welcoming smell of tomato and basil soup greets me as I push open the front door. I’m glad I took the time to dig out the slow cooker and throw lunch together before I left for rehearsal. Despite the disaster it had been, I feel a sense of achievement just for getting out.
By the time I have showered and changed there is barely time to plump up the cushions before Lisa is knocking on the door, and I envelop her in a huge hug. Despite her loose-fitting T-shirt I can see her bump has grown considerably, and I am glad she must have her appetite back. I press my palm against it, feeling the solidity.
‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’ I think of my soft rolls of fat.
‘It has to be to protect the little one. Like its own room, I guess.’ She pulls back.
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to manhandle you.’ I take her huge overnight bag and usher her inside.
‘It’s okay. It’s amazing how many people think they can touch my bump. In the queue at Tesco yesterday the cashier leant over and rubbed my belly, and I felt like saying “I’m not bloody Buddha. It won’t bring you any luck.” One woman wanted to see my bump – as though I’d want anyone looking at my stretch marked skin! Weirdo.’
‘It must be intrusive,’ I say but if it were me, I’d want everyone to share.
‘The woman in the post office asked me how many weeks I was, and when I told her, she said my bump was huge and asked if I was having twins.’
We are both silent for a moment.
‘People can be so fucking rude. My bump is too big. Too small. I’m carrying high so it’s a girl, or I’m carrying low and it’s a boy. Everyone has an opinion. Even my midwife says as the heartbeat is slow she thinks it’s a boy.’
‘Slow?’
‘Yes, but normal. Nothing to worry about.’
I reach for her bag. ‘Go and put your feet up. I’ll nip upstairs with your things and unpack for you.’
‘No!’ Lisa almost shouts, and I let go of the handles of her bag as though they have scalded me.
‘Sorry.’ She offers a weak smile. ‘I can do my own unpacking. But I’ve something to share with you first.’ Lisa looks exhausted as she sinks into the sofa and pats the space next to her.
Intrigued I sit and watch as she pulls out her iPhone.
‘Listen.’ She presses play.
At first it sounds like the noise you hear when you hold a shell against your ear on the beach, whooshing and white noise, but then I hear it, a rapid thud-thud-thud.
‘Is that?’
‘This little one’s heartbeat.’ Lisa’s hand rests on top of her bump.
‘Can I?’
Lisa presses play again, and it’s the sweetest thing I ever heard. The sound of life. Of hope. It doesn’t sound in the slightest bit slow to me. Every protective instinct lying dormant in my cells springs into being.
‘I’ll send it to you as an MP3,’ Lisa says, and I nod, not realising I am crying until Lisa brushes tears from my cheeks with her fingertips.
We sit, for the longest time, Lisa’s head on my shoulder, our fingers laced together, as I play the recording again and again, and it is in this moment, perhaps for the first time, I am aware it is not just love I feel towards this baby. I am love.
I’m a mum.
I ladle soup into bowls and carry them carefully over to the table before I slip into the seat opposite Lisa.
‘Bread?’ I offer the basket of French stick.
Lisa stretches forward and her sleeve rides up. There are tiny bruises dotted over her forearm.
‘Are you eating enough iron?’
‘Do you mean meat? I think so. Why?’
‘The bruises.’ I gesture towards her arm. ‘It’s a sign of anaemia. Perhaps you should have a blood test. You do look pale.’
Lisa doesn’t carry that glow some pregnant women seem to have. She looks washed out. Black half-moons fill the hollows under her eyes.
‘I’ll mention it when I next see the midwife.’
‘Lisa, you are looking after yourself, aren’t you?’ She knows what I mean.
‘Kat, we talked about this in depth before we started this surrogacy thing. I made one mistake as a teenager in a desperate bid to be thin. Please don’t bring it up again. It was ten years ago. We’ve talked it through. I told you I’ve never taken anything since.’
‘I know. I do believe you. Honest. It’s just you don’t look well.’
‘Everything is fine. Anyway, I’ve another appointment for a scan. Next Friday. You’ll come? You’ll see for yourself baby is healthy.’