give it back.’
Claire watched her nephew stomp across the slate floor out of the kitchen. ‘You can’t seriously think it’s a good idea that my husband wants another woman to have his baby.’
‘On the other hand, you’d have a baby at the end of it.’ Helen offered Claire another biscuit. ‘And people pay a lot of money to have a surrogate. Presumably she’d do it for free.’
‘This isn’t about money.’
‘But it never hurts to consider it.’ A wail came from the other room. ‘Josh! Give it back to your sister!’
‘But why would Romily even want to do it?’
‘You’ve been friends since university, haven’t you?’
‘She was friends with Ben before I ever met him, so that’s how I knew her. We haven’t really spent much time together, just the two of us. We don’t have much in common.’
‘Aren’t you godmother to her daughter?’
‘That’s because she asked Ben to be godfather and I was part of the package.’ Claire nibbled at a biscuit. ‘It makes sense to have a godmother and godfather who are married. I’d do the same thing, if we … Anyway, she’s Ben’s friend mostly.’
‘Do you think there’s something going on between them?’
‘Hels!’
‘Well, I have to ask. It’s the obvious question.’
This was what Helen was like: if she thought something, she said it. Claire had to admit that this was one reason why she’d come to visit her sister this afternoon. And the same reason why, quite often, she stayed away.
‘It’s not like that,’ Claire said. ‘They talk football most of the time. They go to the Rose and Thistle, which is always full of men. He treats her like one of the blokes.’
‘As long as you’re sure, then— Sarah! Stop teasing him! Sorry, Claire, I need to sort this out.’
While Helen was out of the kitchen, Claire pictured Romily. Gangly, awkward, with her thick, cropped dark hair with the cowlick at the back that never lay down properly. Her frayed-hem jeans, her battered tennis shoes and her bitten nails; the freckles on her nose like a child’s, the way she sat on a chair always with one leg folded beneath her. Romily didn’t look old enough to be a mother, or to have a PhD. From the back she looked like a teenage boy, the type who would have beetles and snails in jars on bedroom shelves, frogs in her pockets. She melted into corners, lapsed into daydreams or abstract mental classification. She’d always taggedalong, turned up at odd hours according to her own chaotic schedule.
She’d been a fact of Ben’s life when Claire had met him. If she’d ever been hostile to Claire, that would have set Claire’s back up, but she’d never been anything but friendly in an offhand way. Ben said she was shy.
Posie was more vivid in Claire’s mind; she’d spent more time with Posie than with her own nephews and niece, because Romily had needed help with childcare in the early years. Posie was a bright smear of warm limbs and blonde hair, dreamy blue eyes. She had a sweet smell of her own, like apples in a bowl. Claire’s arms knew by themselves how it felt to hold her small body. The little girl was hungry for mothering, for cuddles and exchanges of girly confidences. She looked nothing like Romily, who treated her with absent affection. As if Posie were a favourite specimen that she was fond of but not quite sure what to do with.
There were secret moments, when Posie was asleep in the bedroom they called hers, curled under the quilt that Claire’s grandmother had made. Or when she greeted Claire with a big hug and a kiss. Or when Claire handed her a tissue, or when Posie’s hand crept by itself into Claire’s. In those secret, private moments, Claire sometimes pretended that Posie was hers.
It didn’t do anyone any harm. In reality, Claire knew she couldn’t let herself love Posie too much. It wouldn’t be wise to love her as much as she’d love her own child – not with her full heart. Not when in the morning, after sleeping
Claire watched her nephew stomp across the slate floor out of the kitchen. ‘You can’t seriously think it’s a good idea that my husband wants another woman to have his baby.’
‘On the other hand, you’d have a baby at the end of it.’ Helen offered Claire another biscuit. ‘And people pay a lot of money to have a surrogate. Presumably she’d do it for free.’
‘This isn’t about money.’
‘But it never hurts to consider it.’ A wail came from the other room. ‘Josh! Give it back to your sister!’
‘But why would Romily even want to do it?’
‘You’ve been friends since university, haven’t you?’
‘She was friends with Ben before I ever met him, so that’s how I knew her. We haven’t really spent much time together, just the two of us. We don’t have much in common.’
‘Aren’t you godmother to her daughter?’
‘That’s because she asked Ben to be godfather and I was part of the package.’ Claire nibbled at a biscuit. ‘It makes sense to have a godmother and godfather who are married. I’d do the same thing, if we … Anyway, she’s Ben’s friend mostly.’
‘Do you think there’s something going on between them?’
‘Hels!’
‘Well, I have to ask. It’s the obvious question.’
This was what Helen was like: if she thought something, she said it. Claire had to admit that this was one reason why she’d come to visit her sister this afternoon. And the same reason why, quite often, she stayed away.
‘It’s not like that,’ Claire said. ‘They talk football most of the time. They go to the Rose and Thistle, which is always full of men. He treats her like one of the blokes.’
‘As long as you’re sure, then— Sarah! Stop teasing him! Sorry, Claire, I need to sort this out.’
While Helen was out of the kitchen, Claire pictured Romily. Gangly, awkward, with her thick, cropped dark hair with the cowlick at the back that never lay down properly. Her frayed-hem jeans, her battered tennis shoes and her bitten nails; the freckles on her nose like a child’s, the way she sat on a chair always with one leg folded beneath her. Romily didn’t look old enough to be a mother, or to have a PhD. From the back she looked like a teenage boy, the type who would have beetles and snails in jars on bedroom shelves, frogs in her pockets. She melted into corners, lapsed into daydreams or abstract mental classification. She’d always taggedalong, turned up at odd hours according to her own chaotic schedule.
She’d been a fact of Ben’s life when Claire had met him. If she’d ever been hostile to Claire, that would have set Claire’s back up, but she’d never been anything but friendly in an offhand way. Ben said she was shy.
Posie was more vivid in Claire’s mind; she’d spent more time with Posie than with her own nephews and niece, because Romily had needed help with childcare in the early years. Posie was a bright smear of warm limbs and blonde hair, dreamy blue eyes. She had a sweet smell of her own, like apples in a bowl. Claire’s arms knew by themselves how it felt to hold her small body. The little girl was hungry for mothering, for cuddles and exchanges of girly confidences. She looked nothing like Romily, who treated her with absent affection. As if Posie were a favourite specimen that she was fond of but not quite sure what to do with.
There were secret moments, when Posie was asleep in the bedroom they called hers, curled under the quilt that Claire’s grandmother had made. Or when she greeted Claire with a big hug and a kiss. Or when Claire handed her a tissue, or when Posie’s hand crept by itself into Claire’s. In those secret, private moments, Claire sometimes pretended that Posie was hers.
It didn’t do anyone any harm. In reality, Claire knew she couldn’t let herself love Posie too much. It wouldn’t be wise to love her as much as she’d love her own child – not with her full heart. Not when in the morning, after sleeping
Similar Books
