The ice and alcohol collaborate, forcing me off balance and I splay my hands to the side, arms trembling under the weight of my shopping. It is a relief to put down my load on the doorstep and flex my fingers to get the blood flowing again. The miniature bay tree by the front door looks so pretty sprinkled with light snow. Its silver pot shimmering in the moonlight. I fish my keys out of my bag and let myself in to the red-brick house we are still settling into.
Nick started his property investment business purely as a way to fund the charity in its infancy days, wanting to match the money Richard was initially putting into it, but as the buy-to-let market boomed, profits soared. Nick bought this four-bedroom detached as an investment but couldn’t wait to show me, and we linked hands and ran like excited children from room to room. The house isn’t huge but it’s in a lovely area. I had watched his face shine as we tumbled into the sunflower yellow kitchen, and I knew this would be our forever home.
‘Look at the view.’ He’d bounced on his toes as I’d wrapped my arms around his waist, my chin on his shoulder, and agreed it was stunning; beyond the quintessential garden are patchwork fields, sheep grazing.
Clare lives opposite. I already recognised her from the coffee shop and was delighted she’d be living so close. She’s a single mum and only works part-time. It’s nice having someone I can grab a quick drink with. Sometimes the stories I hear at work make me crave human contact. People assume working for a charity is all shaking a collection bucket and organising raffles, but there’s so much more than that, and at times it is emotionally harrowing. I love it though.
My boots click on the shined-to-perfection laminate floor. I’d scrubbed the house before I left and a faint whiff of bleach emanates from the downstairs loo. Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, I tug off my suede boots and run my foot over the droplets of water dripping from the sole, dampening my sock. Nick won’t be home for a while, and the house is still, silent, except for the tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock.
Upstairs I put my shoulder against the white gloss door leading to the nursery and push my way inside. I’m about to become a mum. A mum. I roll the word around my mouth, tasting all the implications it brings. Dropping my bags, I sink into the chair I’ve bought for feeding and dig my toes into the soft digestive-coloured carpet, gently rocking back and forth, the lavender from the plug-in air freshener filling my lungs.
Today. We could hear today.
The room isn’t ready. A border covered with sleeping bunnies wraps itself around all four baby blue walls. Nick had been reluctant to decorate; didn’t want to tempt fate, I suppose, until Dewei was here and, in retrospect, he was right. After work one day, he had stuck his head around the door. I was balanced precariously on a ladder, feathering my brush against the ceiling, singing along to S Club 7’s ‘Reach for the Stars’ blaring out of my Roberts Radio that, despite being digital, still sometimes crackled and hissed. He disappeared, and I thought he was annoyed, but returned minutes later, having replaced his suit with an old pair of jeans and a faded Levi’s T-shirt. He crunched his way across the plastic sheeting covering the carpet, kissed me hard on the lips and picked up a paintbrush. We didn’t talk as we worked but the silence was comfortable. Easy. An hour later we had finished but we couldn’t bear to leave. Nick nipped out for a takeaway. We sat on the floor, avoiding leaning against the tacky walls, eating chips soaked in salt and vinegar, discussing what we thought Dewei would be when he grew up. We went from F1 driver (Nick) to actor (me) but in the end we both settled on happy, and although he is now not ours, that is exactly what I still wish for him.
Now, as I look around, I think tomorrow I’ll buy some pink paint and decorate for Mai and, as much as I am looking forward to her arrival, regret lodges in my throat as I think I will be painting over Dewei. Saying goodbye to the family we never got to be. I swallow back my tears. I’ve had a good day and won’t spoil it now. Instead, I kneel in front of the white wardrobe and begin to unpack my shopping. Cream Babygros with pink butterflies, tiny white socks with a lacy trim, a bib with ‘Daddy’s girl’, pastel vests with metal poppers and the softest fleecy lemon blanket with a giraffe in the corner. I fold everything carefully and pull open a drawer. My heart skitters at the sight of baby blue clothing. I lift everything out as carefully as I can, holding each item to my nose, breathing in deeply as though I can smell the baby that was never really mine to love. That didn’t stop me loving him anyway. My emotions rage against each other. I could cry at the injustice of it all and yet, as I cradle the stuffed rabbit I’ve bought for Mai, with ears that crinkle, and a bell in the tail that tings, I can’t help but feel hopeful.
A mum.
I’m going to be a mum, and the enormity of it overwhelms me. I’ll have a tiny person to protect, and panic twists in my gut. What if I can’t protect her? What if I let her down too? But I tell myself it isn’t the same. I’m not the same person I was then.
I am so lost in my thoughts I don’t hear Nick as he comes home, and it isn’t until he crouches beside me and takes my hand in his I know something is wrong. His cornflower eyes are filled with regret, and the scar on his forehead he’s always so self-conscious about shifts as he frowns. Somehow, I know what he’s about to say before he speaks and I pull back almost as though I can stop the words coming.
‘Kat. I’m so sorry,’ he says, and I try to stand but he doesn’t let me go. ‘Richard has called. There was an issue with the paperwork. Secretly he thinks someone has slipped a back hander. Mai has gone.’
And just like that my world crumbles. He holds me as my grief soaks his shoulder, his shirt darkening with the force of my tears.
‘We shouldn’t have instructed Richard. What were we thinking? He’s a commercial lawyer.’ I am desperate for someone to blame. ‘We should have used an international adoption solicitor. A specialist.’
‘Richard wouldn’t have agreed to help if he was out of his depth. I trust him. He has consulted with the other partners. There was nothing anybody could have done differently.’
‘Can we offer more money?’ Anger begins to bubble. I won’t take this lying down. I can’t.
‘It’s too late,’ Nicks whispers into my hair. He sounds as wretched as I feel.
‘What about if we fly out there?’
‘Kat.’ He speaks slowly. Patiently. And I catch a glimpse of the father he could be. ‘She’s been given to someone else.’
‘But…’ I want to say they won’t love her like we would. Like I do. But I don’t know that, do I? There are other women whose desire to hold a baby burns hot and bright. Why should I be more deserving? You’re not whispers that little voice, and all at once it feels like karma. Payback. I’ve moved away but I haven’t been able to escape myself – the things I’ve done.
‘What are we going to do? Should we try the UK? At least this sort of thing won’t happen.’ I raise my tear-stained face to Nick’s but he can’t look me in the eye.
‘I don’t think so. Remember the orphanages, the conditions? It’s much better to offer a home to one of those babies but we need to think very carefully about whether we can go through it again. It’s traumatic. For both of us.’ He envelops me in his arms, and I slump against him, numb and mute.
The moon shines through the window illuminating the nursery rhyme mobile that’s hanging over the crib, Humpty fat and round, spinning slowly. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Much later, Nick is gently snoring. Sleep hovers in front of me and every time I snatch at it, it is whisked away from my grasp. My eyes are gritty with tiredness as I pad into the nursery. The rabbits stare down at me from the border on the walls judging me: how could you let another baby go? The wood creaks as I lower myself in the chair. I rock back and forth. Seconds, minutes, hours tick by. Dawn breaks and it’s impossible to keep my eyes open any longer. Just before I slip into blackness, I remember Lisa’s words: ‘acting as a surrogate is definitely something I’d consider again.’ Hope begins to unfurl once more. After all, she doesn’t seem to hold a grudge at all, does she?
4
Now