Читать книгу The Baby Bonding - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

‘HE’S been such a good boy today, haven’t you, Jack?’

The little dark head bobbed vigorously, a smile lighting up his face like a beacon. ‘I did painting, Daddy—see!’

There was a slightly tattered piece of grey sugar paper held to the fridge door with magnets, and Sam studied the wild, multicoloured handprints on it and felt his heart contract with pride. He grinned a little off-key and ruffled his son’s hair.

‘So you did. Well done. What else did you do?’

‘Um—singing, and played in the sandpit. We had fish fingers for lunch—I’m hungry,’ he added, tipping his head back and looking hopefully up at Debbie.

She laughed softly. ‘You’re always hungry. Come on, sit down at the table and you can have your tea while you tell your dad all about your day, and I’ll make him a nice drink. Cuppa, Sam? Mark and I are just having one.’

‘Thank you, Debbie, that would be lovely.’ He shrugged out of his jacket and glanced across at Debbie’s husband. ‘Hello, Mark.’

‘Hi. You good?’

He smiled tiredly. ‘I’ll do. Yourself?’

The big man nodded from his seat by the window. ‘Good. The latest effort’s coming along—what do you think?’

He held up a large square of canvas, and even from across the room Sam could see the wonderfully subtle colours and almost three-dimensional quality of the tapestry Mark was creating. It was a study of leaves, but close up and personal. There was nothing pretty-pretty about it, but there was a vigour in the composition that was the trade mark of all his designs, and this one was no exception.

‘You’re getting a bit good at this,’ Sam said, genuine admiration in his voice, and Mark lifted a shoulder, awkward with the praise.

‘I thought I’d do apples and pears next—you know, a sort of orchard theme. Maybe some plums, or autumn leaves. The country’s really inspired me—let something loose inside. I just hope they sell.’

‘Of course they’ll sell. They always sell. The shops love your designs,’ Debbie said pragmatically, sliding a mug of tea across the table. ‘Sam, take the weight off. You look done in.’

‘Busy day,’ he said. Busy, and emotionally exhausting. He sat down at the big, scrubbed pine kitchen table that filled the centre of the kitchen and leant back in his chair with a sigh. His mind was whirling with thoughts of Molly, and all he could see was her face. He wished he’d got her number, but he hadn’t, so he couldn’t ring her—unless she was in the book?

He reached for it, conveniently at arm’s length on the dresser behind him, and flicked through the pages. Hammond. There. He ran his finger down the list, and found only a few, none of them Molly.

Unless her initials didn’t start with an M. Chewing his lip thoughtfully, he ran his finger down again, and paused. A.M.?

Yes, of course. Annabel Mary, she’d been christened. He remembered now. He remembered a lot of things…

He shut the book. Perhaps he’d ring her later.

But then Jack would be in bed.

Now, then?

He needed to sort out the videos, dig out the photos. Heaven only knows what’s happened to them, he thought. They were probably in the boxes in the loft and they’d take him ages to find.

But Jack was here, now, and Molly’s eyes, when he’d talked about the boy…

Picking up his mug, he got up and went into his study and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Molly stared at the phone warily, hope warring with common sense.

Of course it wouldn’t be Sam. He hadn’t got her number, unless he’d looked her up in the book, but her first initial wasn’t M., so he probably wouldn’t find her automatically.

Then again, he’d known her full name all those years ago, seen it enough times on the endless paperwork, so maybe…

‘Oh, just answer it,’ she muttered to herself, and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Molly?’

Her heart lurched and steadied again, and she closed her eyes briefly. ‘Sam.’

‘Hi. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. Um, about you seeing Jack—I meant to say something earlier, but I didn’t get round to it. Are you busy this evening? I mean, it’s not very much notice, but I thought, if you’d like…’

Her heart lurched again, and she threw a quick glance at the door. Libby was on the other side of it, scraping on her violin, trying to get to grips with a difficult passage. She’d done her homework, and now she was grappling with this. She’d been at it for nearly half an hour, but she wouldn’t give up until she’d got this bit right, at least. Molly just hoped it was sooner rather than later, for all their sakes.

‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked cautiously.

‘I wondered if you’d like to come over. I mean, don’t worry if you’ve got other plans, or you’d rather not, but I just thought—’

‘I haven’t got plans,’ she said quickly—too quickly. Slow down, she told herself, and drew a deep, steadying breath. ‘Tonight would be fine,’ she went on, deliberately calming her voice despite the clamouring of her heart. ‘I need to check with Libby, of course, but I’m sure there won’t be a problem. She’d like to see him, too, I’m sure.’

‘Fine. Whenever you’re ready—the sooner the better, really, because he goes to bed at about half-seven.’

‘That late?’ she said, and could have bitten her tongue for the implied criticism. It was none of her business…

‘He has a nap when he gets home from nursery, and Debbie lets him sleep as long as he wants. That way I get to see him when I get in,’ he told her, and she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined a mild note of reproof in his voice. ‘Whatever. I think in any case we could make an exception tonight—apart from which, he’s as bright as a button today, so I don’t suppose he’ll be in any hurry to go to bed. He’s full of it.’

She closed her eyes against the image, the ache of longing growing with every word. ‘We’ll come now,’ she said. ‘If that’s OK? It was the first day of the new term today, and Libby goes to bed at eight on school nights. I try and stick to it if I can,’ she added, trying not to sound so pathetically eager and ending up sounding like a school matron instead. Oh, grief, he was going to think she was obsessive about bedtimes…

‘Now’s fine. I’ll give you directions.’

She scrabbled around for a piece of paper on the table and found an old envelope. ‘Fire away,’ she said, jotting down the address—surprisingly in the country, not in the town as she’d first thought. ‘I didn’t realise you lived out of town,’ she said, studying the directions and trying to place the road in her mind. ‘Will it take long to get there?’

‘No. It’s easy to find, and it’s not far out. Ten minutes from the hospital, tops. I’ll see you soon—and, Molly?’

‘Yes?’

‘He doesn’t know—about you carrying him for us. I haven’t told him. I’m still trying to work out how, but in the meantime I’d be grateful if you and Libby could be careful what you say.’

‘Sure. Don’t worry, we won’t say anything. I’ll see you soon.’

She cradled the phone, then sat for a moment gathering her ragged emotions. The scraping had finished, a sweet, pure sound now pouring through the door—well, mostly, she thought with a motherly smile as another tiny screech set her teeth on edge. Still, Libby wasn’t quite ten yet. There was plenty of time.

The door opened and Libby bounced in, the image of her father, blonde hair bobbing round her shoulders, her pale blue eyes sparkling with achievement.

‘Did you hear me?’ she said. ‘I did it!’

‘I heard,’ Molly said, her heart swelling with pride. ‘Well done, your father would have been proud of you. And talking of fathers, I meant to tell you, I saw Jack’s father today. He’s working at the hospital.’

Libby’s head tipped on one side. ‘Jack’s father? Your baby Jack?’

She nodded. ‘Well, not mine, but yes.’

The girl’s eyes sparkled even brighter. ‘Cool! Can we see him? I only saw him that once when he was born, and it was ages ago.’

‘Three years—and, yes, we can see him. Tonight—in fact now. If you’re OK with it?’

‘Sure. Can we go?’

Molly laughed and stood up. ‘Yes. Brush your hair, it’s a mess, and make sure you’ve put your violin away properly.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ she teased, but she bounced out and reappeared a moment later, her hair sort of brushed and the violin case in hand. ‘I’m ready.’

Molly picked up the directions, read them through again and put them in her pocket. ‘OK. But, remember, he doesn’t know anything about me being his tummy-mummy, so don’t say anything.’

Libby’s eyes widened. ‘He doesn’t know? How weird. Laura knows, she talks about it all the time.’

Molly thought of her other surrogate child, with whom she had an affectionate and loving relationship, and smiled gently. ‘Yes, I know—but Jack doesn’t, and it isn’t really our place to tell him.’

‘It’s OK, I won’t say anything,’ Libby promised.

‘There’s another thing you ought to know—his mum died.’

Libby’s face fell. ‘Oh, poor baby,’ she said, her soft heart so typically responding to his loss. ‘Still, he can have you now,’ she suggested, her face brightening again.

If only, Molly thought, the ache returning. Libby would love to put the world to rights, but unfortunately it just wasn’t that easy.

The drive, however, was easy, his house simple to find and really not at all far from the hospital, as he’d promised. It was a lovely house, a simple, red-brick cottage-style farmhouse, with a porch in the middle and windows all around. A rambling rose, intertwined with a late-flowering honeysuckle, scrambled over the porch, and tacked on one end of the house under a lower section of roof was what looked like another little cottage, with its own white front door, and she guessed this was where Debbie and Mark lived.

Bathed in the sunshine of a late summer evening, it looked homely and welcoming, and just the sort of place she could imagine him living in. Nothing like their London house, but she’d never felt that had been him.

The garden was bursting with colour and scent, a real cottage garden, and as they walked up the path she bent to smell the last of the roses, just as Sam opened the door.

She straightened and laughed. ‘Sorry. I can’t resist roses.’

‘Nor can I. They’re why I bought the house.’ His gaze dropped and he gave her daughter a friendly smile. ‘Hello, Libby, nice to see you again. How are you?’

‘OK. I like your garden, it smells lovely.’

‘It does, doesn’t it? I can’t take any credit for it. It was like this when we moved, and Debbie does all the gardening anyway. Come in, Jack’s in the kitchen, “washing up” with her.’ He held up his hands and drew speech marks in the air with his fingers as he spoke, and his face said it all.

‘Oh, dear,’ Molly said, biting her lip at the laughter in his eyes, and they exchanged a smile that made her knees go weak. Oh, lord, this was such a bad idea. She was going to get herself in such a mess.

She followed him down the hall, Libby at his side, and as he ushered her into the kitchen she came to an abrupt halt, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, her eyes filling.

No. She wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t.

‘Jack, come and say hello to some friends of mine,’ Sam was saying, but she couldn’t move, she just stood there and devoured the little boy with her eyes as he climbed down off the chair and ran over to them.

He was so tall! So tall and straight, and the image of his father, with those same astonishing blue eyes filled with laughter, and a mop of soft, dark hair that fell over his forehead, just like Sam’s.

He tipped his head back and looked up at her, examining her unselfconsciously. ‘Hello. I’m Jack,’ he said unnecessarily, and she crouched down to his level and dredged up an unsteady smile.

‘Hi. I’m Molly, and this is Libby, my daughter.’ She looked at his sodden front and resisted the urge to gather him to her chest and squeeze him tightly. ‘I hear you’re helping with the washing-up.’

He nodded, his little head flying up and down, grinning from ear to ear. ‘I do spoons, and we make bubbles.’

‘We’ve got a dishwasher, but it’s not as much fun, and this way the floor gets washed, too,’ Sam said, laughter in his voice.

She chuckled at the words and straightened up, her gaze finally going past Sam and meeting the clear, assessing eyes of a woman in her late twenties. Her hair was spiky and an improbable shade of pink, and she was dressed in faded old jeans and an orange T-shirt that clashed violently with her hair. She looked like a tiny and brightly coloured elf, but, despite being so small, she radiated energy.

‘You must be Debbie,’ Molly said.

The woman nodded, and tipped her head towards the window. ‘This is my husband, Mark.’

She turned her head and saw him for the first time, sitting quietly in a chair in front of the long, low window, one leg propped up on a stool and a cat curled up on a riotous heap of wool in his lap. The sun glinted on an armoury of piercings, and there was an elaborate tattoo running up one arm and disappearing under his sleeve.

The unlikely tapestry designer, of course.

She smiled across at him. ‘Hi, there. Nice to meet you. Sam’s told me a lot about you both.’

‘Oh, dear, sounds ominous,’ Debbie said, laughing and scooping Jack up to sit him on the table and strip off his soggy T-shirt. ‘I think you’d better put something dry on, don’t you? You’ll catch a cold—and don’t tell me it’s an old wives’ tale,’ she said, levelling a finger at Sam.

He threw up his hands in mock surrender and pulled out a chair. ‘Molly, have a seat,’ he said, and she sat, quickly, before her suddenly rubbery legs gave way.

‘Thanks,’ she said, shooting him a grateful glance, and he smiled down at her understandingly.

‘Any time. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Only tea or coffee, as I’m driving,’ she said, her eyes fixed on Jack’s small body, taking in the strong, straight limbs, the sticky-out ribs so typical of little boys who didn’t sit still long enough to gather any fat. The need to hug him close was an overwhelming ache, and she had to fold her arms and lock them to her sides to stop herself.

‘I’ll make coffee,’ Sam was saying. ‘Mark? Debbie?’

‘Not for me. I’ll have one when I’ve finished in here,’ Debbie said, tugging a clean T-shirt over Jack’s head, and Mark shook his head, too.

‘Another ten minutes and I get my pint,’ he said with a grin. ‘I think I’ll hold on for that.’

So Sam made coffee for Molly and himself, and poured juice for the children, and then, because it was such a lovely evening, they went out into the garden and sat amongst the scent of the roses and honeysuckle and listened to the droning of the bees while the children played in the sandpit a few feet away.

‘What a gorgeous spot,’ Molly said, delighted to know that Jack was living in such a lovely place. She and Libby lived in a very pleasant house with a pretty garden, in a tree-lined street convenient for the hospital and Libby’s school, but it was nothing like this. Sam’s house was only ten minutes from the hospital, fifteen from the town centre, and yet the peace and quiet were astonishing. They could have been miles from anywhere, she thought with a trace of envy, and then quickly dismissed it.

It wouldn’t have been nearly so convenient for them, particularly not for Libby, and Molly didn’t want to spend her life driving her daughter backwards and forwards every time she wanted to see a friend or visit her grandparents. It was hard enough fitting in Libby’s schedule around her own work timetable without having to factor in being a taxi service.

No, living in the town suited them, but she was still glad for Jack that he would grow up with the song of the birds drowning out the faint hum of the bypass in the distance.

‘So, what do you think of him?’ Sam asked softly, and she dragged her eyes from the little boy who wasn’t her son and smiled unsteadily across at him.

‘He’s gorgeous. Bright and lovely and…’

She broke off, unable to continue, and she looked away quickly before she disgraced herself.

‘It’s OK, Molly. I feel the same about him, so I do understand you.’

‘Do you?’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not sure I do. He’s not my son. Why do I feel like this for him?’

‘Because you gave him life?’

‘No. You and Crystal gave him life. I just incubated him until he was big enough to cope alone.’

‘Don’t underestimate your part in it. Without you he wouldn’t be here. I think that gives you the right to feel emotional the first time you see him in three years.’

She closed her eyes against the welling tears. ‘I’ve thought about him so much,’ she confessed softly.

‘You should have seen him,’ Sam said, his voice gruff. ‘I should have kept in touch, no matter what Crystal said. I wasn’t happy with it. I always felt she was wrong, and I should have done something about it. I’m sorry.’

Molly shook her head slowly. ‘She was his mother. She had the right to make that choice,’ she pointed out, determined to defend the dead woman’s decision even though it had torn her apart, but Sam made a low sound of disgust in his throat.

‘She didn’t want to be his mother,’ he said, his voice tight and dangerously quiet. ‘She went back to work when he was four months old, because she was bored at home. Seven months later she went off with her boss on a business trip to the Mediterranean, and she never came back. Her son wasn’t even a year old, and already she’d turned her back on him.

‘She wanted a life in the fast lane, and that was how she died—with her lover, on a jet-ski, late one night. They smacked into the side of a floating gin palace that was just coming into the harbour at Antibes and they were killed instantly. They’d both been drinking.’

Molly stared at him, shocked at the raw emotion in his voice, the anger and pain that had come through loud and clear even though his voice had been little more than a murmur. Without thinking, she reached out to him, laying her hand on his arm in an unconscious gesture of comfort.

‘Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry.’

He looked down at her hand, then covered it with his and gave her a sad, crooked smile before releasing her hand and pulling his arm away, retreating from her sympathy. ‘So was I. It was a hell of a way to find out my wife was being unfaithful to me.’

‘Didn’t you know?’

He shifted slightly, moving away as if even that small distance made him less vulnerable. ‘That they were lovers? I suppose I should have done. The signs were clear enough, although she’d never told me in as many words, but, no, I didn’t know. She’d been itching to get back to work from the moment Jack was born, apparently, but she’d never really said so. Like everything else, she just let me find out.’

‘But—why?’ Molly asked, stunned that anyone could keep secrets in a marriage. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to keep anything from Mick.

‘Just her way.’ He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘I suppose the first hint I had that things weren’t all sweetness and light was when I came home one day and found an au pair installed—so we’d have a resident babysitter, she told me. She wanted to go out at night to glitzy restaurants where you pay a small ransom for a miserable little morsel of something unpronounceable, when I was coming home exhausted from work and just wanted to fall asleep in front of the television with my son in my arms.’

‘So who won?’

He gave a sad, bitter little laugh. ‘Who do you think? Crystal wanted to go out—and what Crystal wanted, Crystal got. She said she had cabin fever—said she could understand how women got postnatal depression.’

‘And did it make any difference?’

Again the low, bitter laugh. ‘No, of course not. Then a few days later I opened a letter addressed to her by mistake. It was a credit-card bill, and in three weeks she’d run up thousands—and I mean thousands, literally. I went upstairs and looked in her wardrobe, and tucked in amongst the clothes she already had were loads of new things I’d never seen—sexy little dresses, trouser suits, skirts, tops, all designer labels, all from the big Knightsbridge stores—the sort of thing you’d wear if you wanted to seduce your boss.’

‘And it worked, I take it.’

‘Oh, yes. I confronted her about the clothes, and she cried and said she was miserable at home, and of course she loved Jack, but she just wanted to get back to work, she missed it. They were work clothes, she said. She had to look the part. So I paid the credit-card bill, and she went back to work, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

She wanted to reach out again, to comfort him again, but he’d withdrawn from her and she couldn’t. Instead she concentrated on watching the children, wondering how much this fractured upbringing had affected Jack.

Would she have had him for them if she’d known what had been in store? She’d had doubts about Crystal, but only when it had been too late, towards the end of her pregnancy. Had it been a mistake to hand him over at birth?

And then she heard Jack laugh, and saw the happy smile on his face and the love on Sam’s as he watched his son play, and she knew it hadn’t been a mistake, any of it.

Mick had died, too, although their stories couldn’t have been more different, but the result was the same and Libby was now in the same boat as Jack. Molly could never have said that having her daughter had been a mistake, or regretted her birth for a moment.

No, she had done the right thing for Jack. It was Crystal who had failed him, not her, and Sam was certainly making a good job of parenting him now, as she’d known he would.

She looked at her watch. ‘It’s getting late,’ she murmured, and Sam nodded.

‘Yes. I suppose they both ought to go to bed soon. Have another coffee before you go—just a quick one.’

And so she did, just because he didn’t seem to want her to leave and Libby and Jack were getting on so well, and in any case, given a choice she would have sat there all night watching Jack and absorbing every little detail about him.

She followed Sam back into the kitchen, deserted now that Debbie and Mark had gone to their own rooms in the little cottage on the end of the house, and as Sam made the coffee, she watched the children through the window.

‘Penny for them.’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing, really. It’s just so good to see him. I just want to hug him…’

Molly broke off and turned away, but before she could move far she was turned gently but firmly back and wrapped in a pair of strong, hard arms that gathered her against his chest and cradled her in his warmth.

The sob that had been threatening since she’d arrived broke free, and he shushed her gently and rocked her against his body, and gradually she felt her emotions calming, soothed by the comfort of his arms.

‘OK now?’ he asked, his voice gruff, and easing back from her he looked down into her eyes.

She nodded, dredging up a watery smile, and Sam lifted his hands and carefully smudged away the tears with his thumbs.

‘That’s better,’ he said, a smile hovering round his eyes, but then something shifted in their clear blue depths, and she felt her heart thump against her ribs. His brows drew together in a little frown of puzzlement and he eased away, releasing her abruptly and stepping back, busying himself with the coffee.

‘Um—about the photos. I’m not sure where they are. I’ll ask Debbie to dig them out. They know who you are, by the way, so you don’t have to worry about what you say in front of them if Jack’s not there.’

She nodded, willing her heart to slow down and her common sense to return.

If she hadn’t known better, she could have sworn he’d been about to kiss her and had then thought better of it.

No, not better. She couldn’t think of anything better than being kissed by him, but he obviously didn’t agree, to her regret.

Still, he was probably right. Their relationship was complicated enough without throwing that particular spanner in the works, however much she might want him to, and of course he had no idea how she felt about him—how she’d felt about him for years.

They went back out to the garden and drank their coffee and talked about the hospital—nice and safe and neutral, but there was a tension between them that could have been cut with a knife, and it was almost a relief when Sam put his mug down and stood up. ‘Right, time that young man went to bed, I think,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s nearly eight.’

Molly almost leapt to her feet, quick to follow his lead. ‘Good grief. I didn’t realise it was so late,’ she lied, and hustled Libby off the swing and towards the car.

Sam scooped Jack up, and just as she was about to get into the car, he leant over in Sam’s arms and held out his arms to her.

‘Kiss!’ he demanded.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hugged him gently and received his wet little kiss with a joy that brought the emotion surging back.

‘Night-night, Jack,’ she said unsteadily, and met Sam’s eyes. Her own must be speaking volumes, she realised, but he would understand. ‘Goodnight, Sam—and thank you.’

‘Any time,’ he said, his voice gentle, and the concern in his eyes nearly set her off again. She got hastily into the car, fumbled with her seat belt and drove away, eyes fixed on the road.

‘Are you OK?’ Libby said, seeing straight through her as usual, and with a little shake of her head she pulled over, folded her arms on the steering-wheel and howled.

Libby’s little hand came out and squeezed her shoulder, and Molly wrapped her hand firmly over her daughter’s and squeezed back.

‘Poor Mummy—you’ve missed him, haven’t you?’ she said with a wisdom way beyond her years, and Molly laughed unsteadily and nodded.

‘Yes. I miss Laura, too, but at least I see her. Still, I’ll be able to see Jack now, so it’ll be OK. It was just such a lot all at once. I’m sorry, darling. I’m all right now.’

She pulled herself together with an effort, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, and then swapped grins with her darling daughter. She was so like Mick, so sensible, so good at understanding her, hugely generous and loving.

Crazy, but even after all this time, she still missed him. He’d had the best sense of humour, the sharpest wit, the most tremendous sense of honour.

And dignity. Despite the accident that had left him in a wheelchair, and with all the resultant dependence on others for his most intimate bodily functions, Mick had never lost his dignity, and she’d been unfailingly proud of him.

She wondered what he would have made of her decision to be a surrogate mother. She’d always thought he’d have been supportive and understanding, but he would have worried about her. She could never have done it if he’d still been alive, but he wasn’t, and it had been something to do to fill the huge void that his sudden and unexpected death had left behind.

In those black months after the pneumonia had claimed him, she’d been lost. She’d cared for him for years, and suddenly there had been only her and Libby, and she’d felt useless.

She’d needed to be needed, and because of a chance remark, she’d been given an opportunity to do something to help others who were unable to have children naturally. Because of Mick’s paraplegia they’d only been able to have Libby with the help of IVF, and it was only one step further to imagine the anguish of a fertile mother who, due to a physical anomaly, was unable to carry her own child.

She couldn’t have done it except as a host, but neither of the two children she’d carried had been genetically hers. They’d both been implanted embryos, so handing them over hadn’t been like handing over her own child. That would have been too big a wrench.

Handing Jack over and knowing she wouldn’t see him again had been bad enough. It had taken her years to get over the pain, and she realised now that she had never truly recovered. If he’d been her own child, it would have destroyed her. It had nearly destroyed her anyway, but now, by some miraculous stroke of fate, he was back in her life, and she didn’t intend to let him out of it ever again.

The fact that Sam would also, by definition, be part of her life as well was something she would have to deal with—and so would he.