“You’re on the wrong floor.”
“Of course. My sense of direction is hopeless.”
She shows me to the lifts. I press the button and wait, glancing over my shoulder to make sure she’s gone. The doors open. A middle-aged woman is standing inside.
“Are you getting in?” she asks.
“No. Sorry.”
The doors close and I peel away, following the exit signs to the main entrance. Crossing the foyer, I keep waiting for someone to yell, “Stop!”
The creature twists inside me, enjoying this.
Run!
I haven’t done anything wrong.
You’ve faked a pregnancy.
That’s not against the law.
They’ll investigate. They’ll find out about the others.
As I near the main doors I notice an overweight security guard in a gray uniform. He’s pressing a walkie-talkie to his mouth. I keep my head down, not making eye contact. The automatic doors open. I turn along Fulham Road, shivering from the shock and the sweat and my rain-dampened clothes.
The creature is still talking.
They’ll come looking for you.
I gave them a fake name and address.
They’ll find you anyway.
There is no Dr. Higgins in Leeds and I don’t have a sister in Richmond.
What about the CCTV cameras?
A bus is coming. I raise my arm and step on board, sliding down into a seat, below the windowsill. I edge upwards and glimpse the police car still parked outside the hospital.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
MEGHAN
* * *
Simon has sent me another bunch of flowers, tulips this time, along with a card apologizing for his behavior.
Please forgive me, Meg, you’re the last person in the world I would ever want to hurt. I hope you’ll think about what I said. I love you, Meg, and I love Jack, but some things are more important than friendship.
I tell Jack the flowers came from a PR company that wants me to review a client’s baby products on my blog. I should have thrown them away because they keep reminding me of Simon and what he said to me. In a bad mood, I pick a fight with Jack, which is completely unfair because he’s done nothing wrong. I complain about the nursery not being finished.
“You promised to help.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You said that last week.”
“I was busy then.”
“Right, so shall I push the baby back? Tell him to wait until you’re less busy?”
“I’ll do it on the weekend.”
“You’re away this weekend.”
“On Sunday.”
Why is he being so reasonable? I want to yell, Don’t take my crap! Stand up for yourself!
Finally, I make some comment about Simon, saying, “At least he has a backbone.”
“What does that mean?” Jack asks.
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about Simon.”
“What has Simon done? You used to be friends.”
“He makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“How?”
“Forget it.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.” I feel my body betraying me, blushing from my ankles to the top of my head. “It’s the way he looks at me.”
“How does he look at you?”
“I take it back. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You can’t just take it back. He’s Lucy’s godfather. He’s my oldest friend.”
I stop talking, which finally makes Jack angry. He goes into the garden, where he plucks leaves from a bush and throws them into the air as though wishing they were rocks.
I feel guilty because I’m the one who deserves to be punished. I should be marched to the stocks or stoned like some biblical whore.
After Jack leaves for work, I wallow in self-pity, listening to an interview on Woman’s Hour. A mother whose baby girl disappeared five years ago is recounting what happened, her voice stripped bare and scoured by grief.
I checked on Emily when I went to bed and she was sleeping in her cot. Jeremy came home late and also looked in. She was still there. It was a hot night in August. We left the window open to catch the breeze. When I woke it was almost six. I thought Emily had finally slept through. I went to check on her, but the Moses basket was empty.
We have never given up hope of finding her alive, but we have to face the reality that with each passing year our chances are fading. But I’m asking again for information. Appealing for someone to come forward. With your help, we can end the torment of our uncertainty.
Lachlan has come into the kitchen. “Why is you crying, Mummy?”
“I’m not crying.”
“Your eyes are leaking.”
I touch my wet cheeks.
“Did the baby make you cry?” he asks.
“No.”
I hug him, burying my face into his neck. He hugs me back as hard as he can.
“Careful, you’ll hurt the baby,” I say.
“Can he feel me?”
“And he can hear you. Would you like to tell him something?”
Lachlan frowns in concentration and puts his face down, pressing it against my swollen belly.
“Don’t make Mummy cry.”
AGATHA
* * *
There is no baby inside me. I am carrying an idea. I am nursing a dream. Many things can be stolen—ideas, moments, kisses, and hearts, to name just a few. I am going to steal a baby. I am going to take what I am owed because others have more than enough. I am going to live the life I was meant to live—with a husband and a child.
I can’t remember the exact moment when I made the decision to fake a pregnancy. The idea seemed to germinate in darkness and grow slowly towards the light. I read a magazine story about a surrogacy arrangement where the new mother wore a prosthetic belly hoping to “share the experience” with the birth mother. Not for the first time, I shoved a pillow under my pajama top and stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, smoothing my bump, imagining myself pregnant.
I enjoyed the fantasy and began repeating it, adding more details each time. Going online, I discovered a website called My Fake Pregnancy, which sold three different sizes of prosthetic bumps, covering each trimester. Made from “high-grade medical silicone,” the bellies were supposed to look and feel like real skin. I read the testimonials from couples who used the prosthetics because they were adopting babies and wanted people to believe they were having their own.
It took a week for my order to arrive. I began wearing the prosthetics around the flat, never outside. I bought maternity clothes and played dress-up, feeding my fantasy with more and more real-world details, looking at nursery furniture and baby catalogues. At first I simply wanted to feel pregnant and imagine a baby growing inside me. Later, I wanted people to look at me differently. I wanted to be blessed. Special. Doted upon.