This was a man she would have loved to have had as an uncle, or a grandfather. He had so much knowledge, exuded such passion for life: she felt she could talk to him for ever.
The conversation moved from wine to opera. John disliked opera. He knew Susan loved it but, even so, her savvy surprised him as she talked, well able to keep up with Mr Sarotzini whose encyclopaedic knowledge of wine was nothing compared to his authority on opera. John found himself a bystander, left out of the conversation, but he didn’t mind. This was brilliant, he thought. Susan and Mr Sarotzini were hitting it off famously, she was impressing the man, she was winning this battle for the money single-handed.
John peeled the last of his eggs while they compared Rimsky-Korsakov operas, each enthusing about their own favourite, and then, over lamb cutlets, they moved on to ballet. John knew even less about ballet and loathed it even more than opera.
He could see in Susan’s eyes that she was captivated. She had gone beyond a mere show of good manners, of common courtesy to her husband’s potential business associate. She had really connected with the man. Mr Sarotzini was making plans (with John’s permission, of course, he said, with a smile): he would like to take Susan for lunch one day soon, and afterwards show her his favourite gallery, a room where there were paintings from the Renaissance of which few knew. And, perhaps, one evening a concert? And Glyndebourne before the end of the season. John must come to Glyndebourne as well, they would see something accessible, Mozart, perhaps, Don Giovanni – would John care to see Don Giovanni?
John was aware, suddenly, that both Susan and Mr Sarotzini were looking at him, awaiting the answer to a question he had not heard. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I was miles away.’
‘Mr Sarotzini is inviting us to Glyndebourne,’ Susan said, ‘Don Giovanni? I think you’d enjoy it, it’s not heavy.’
John thought that he’d rather spend an evening in hospital, having his gall bladder removed without an anaesthetic, than have to sit through an opera, but he didn’t say this. Instead he replied politely, ‘I’d be delighted.’
After dinner they went through into the club’s large drawing room, which they had to themselves, and settled into wing-back leather chairs. Coffee arrived, and Mr Sarotzini insisted John had a brandy. He ordered one for himself as well. John hesitated as a box of Montecristo cigars was offered, then selected one, acknowledging Susan’s glance which had said, ‘Go ahead, you’re allowed this!’ The banker selected one too.
The conversation had moved to the English romantic poets. Mr Sarotzini favoured Shelley, and quoted ‘Ozymandias, King of Kings’, in its entirety and, from John’s memory, word perfect.
With literature, John was on better terrain: he could get a toehold into the conversation here. But he was beginning to feel agitated. Not one word of business had been spoken the entire evening, and he wanted to steer the conversation around to this now, while Mr Sarotzini was in such good humour. All his instincts were telling him that this would be a smart time to negotiate.
As if he sensed this, Mr Sarotzini shifted his position in his chair. For some moments, he worked on his cigar, puffing out several thick clouds of smoke; then, careful not to disturb the half inch of ash, he rested it in the ashtray. He picked up his brandy balloon, and cradled it in both hands, his fingers outstretched around the contours of the glass as he seemingly studied the contents. ‘I’m glad,’ he said, ‘that we are able to feel so comfortable together.’
He gave each of them in turn a piercing stare that made John feel uneasy. ‘It is so pleasant to have so many interests in common.’ The banker smiled, an easy, warm smile. ‘There is something else we have in common also.’
John watched Mr Sarotzini expectantly, sucking on his cigar, trying to draw it back into life. It was the first he had smoked in several years and he was enjoying the taste but it was making his mouth hot and parched.
‘You see, Mr and Mrs Carter, you are childless. My wife and I are also childless, but there is a difference. You are childless by choice, my wife and I by unfortunate circumstance.’ He paused to sip a little brandy, and there was sadness in his voice when he spoke again. ‘My wife is unable to conceive or bear a child, the result of a cancer operation some years ago.’
John glanced at Susan and saw her looking at the banker with apparent sympathy. Susan was again trying to work out his age. He must be in his late fifties, she thought, at the very least, and could be quite a bit older than that. Perhaps his wife was much younger.
Circling the rim of his glass with his index finger, as if he were stroking a cat, Mr Sarotzini said, ‘This is my proposition. I am prepared to give you, Mr Carter, the one million pounds you require to pay off your bank, together with the five hundred thousand necessary to pay off the mortgage on your house, by way of the Vörn Bank acquiring a fifty-one per cent equity stake in your business.’
Mr Sarotzini paused to pick up his cigar and John’s brain raced. On the surface, this seemed fair, far more so than he had been expecting. A bank taking an equity stake in a business would customarily want around thirty to thirty-five per cent but, under the circumstances, and considering that no bank would normally allow any such investment money to be used for private purposes, the deal seemed, the more he thought about it, incredibly generous.
Then Mr Sarotzini continued. ‘In exchange for this, I would like you to be the surrogate parents for the child my wife and I cannot have.’ He drew hard on his cigar and blew a long plume of smoke up at the stuccoed ceiling.
John looked at him, unsure that he had heard correctly. He caught Susan’s eye and saw the same uncertainty. ‘Surrogate parents? How exactly do you mean?’
Mr Sarotzini stared John straight in the eye. ‘Mrs Carter would be artificially inseminated – in a clinic, of course – with semen provided by myself. She would act, until the birth of the baby, as its natural mother. Then you would hand over this child to my wife and me.’
John turned to Susan. She had gone white and looked rigid with disbelief. What the hell’s going on here? Susan was signalling. And John signalled back that he had no answer. Something deep inside him had gone cold, as if he had been given a lifeline, which had been cruelly snatched away before he could reach it. He could not believe what the man had said.
Susan asked unsteadily, ‘Why? I mean, why me – us?’ She was in turmoil, trying to read the expressions on her husband’s and Mr Sarotzini’s faces.
As if anticipating this, Mr Sarotzini said, calmly, ‘Mrs Carter, let me assure you that your husband was wholly unaware of this proposition. Please believe that there has been no conspiracy between us over this.’
Trying to think clearly through her shock, Susan wanted to say something that would keep the deal alive for John. There must be hundreds of women who would be prepared to have a surrogate child for money. If that was what the banker wanted, she could find someone, there were organisations in America she had read about. ‘This isn’t something I’d want to do, but I’d be very happy to help you find someone,’ she said, sounding calmer than she felt.
Mr Sarotzini smiled. ‘Mrs Carter, to choose a parent for one’s child when one’s criteria are high is not an easy matter. Good looks are required, a sound medical history, high intelligence. You have all these qualities.’
She rounded on him, unable to hold back the flash of anger at his casual arrogance. ‘Oh, yes? How do you know I have these qualities? How do you know I don’t have a wonky circuit in my brain, or some inherited disease?’
The banker allowed her the outburst with no hint of rancour. ‘Because – forgive me the intrusion – I have done the necessary checking on you.’ He gave a placatory smile and raised his hands. Then his voice became profound and sincere. ‘Mrs Carter, I appreciate that what I am asking of you carries an enormity of implications and emotions. I am not expecting an answer from you tonight, and I would not like one tonight. This is something you must think over very carefully, and that you must discuss privately between yourselves, that you mu
st be absolutely certain about before giving an answer.’
Susan turned to John again and said, accusingly, ‘What have you told him about me? What have you said?’
‘Nothing, darling.’ He shook his head and said weakly, ‘Nothing. I didn’t know anything about this.’
There was a long silence. Unable to face Mr Sarotzini’s stare, Susan looked anywhere but at him. She studied the paintings, the faded curtains, the furniture, the badly worn carpet. Frightened, and feeling desperately insecure, she slipped her hand down the side of her chair, searching for John’s, wanting to feel it, to hold it, but it wasn’t there.
In the back of the Mercedes as they travelled home, she held John’s hand, and then suddenly she pulled away from him, leaned against the window, feeling the cold glass on her cheek, and the sensation of the darkness and the lights gliding silently by, beyond.
There was just the driver and themselves. Mr Sarotzini had remained at his club, and maybe he was staying there, she wasn’t sure, she didn’t register his plans, she was just relieved to have got away from him. She had a strong urge to tell John to stop this car, she wanted to get out, determined not to be in Mr Sarotzini’s pocket one second longer. But she checked herself. Her heart was pounding. She was angry with John, he had set this up, he must have known about it. John and Mr Sarotzini had been planning this.
Why the hell hadn’t he told her? Had he really thought she was just going to sit there and say, ‘Yes, of course, darling, anything to help the business?’
Suddenly she hated him.
Since they left the club John had barely spoken. He put an arm round her now and tried to pull her towards him, but she did not budge. ‘Hon, I’m sorry, I had no idea. No clue. You have to believe me.’
His voice sounded so small, so miserable, so helpless. Maybe he was telling the truth, after all. She took his hand again and held it, squeezed it, squeezed her rock, and her rock squeezed back.
She thought about how they had set out so happily this evening, and about the hopelessness of the mess they were in. The takeover of Magellan Lowry and the job she might no longer have in a month’s time. DigiTrak. The house. Casey.
One and a half million pounds.
Nine months was not that long. And, who knows, she might not get pregnant anyway. If she tried, perhaps Mr Sarotzini would let them keep the money. And it wasn’t that big a deal to have a baby. What the hell? She could have the baby, it would be taken and they’d have their life back.
And then she started to think how having this baby would affect their love for each other. Her carrying another man’s child. Could it ever be the same between them again? She turned to John and looked at his face. She loved this man so much. He was her world. Was anything worth risking this love for?
And John, sitting in his silence, was turning the same thoughts over in his mind. He was trying to gauge how he’d feel seeing Susan with another man’s sperm inside her, another man’s child growing inside her, and the notion upset him. He was angry with Mr Sarotzini, angry about the way in which he had been manipulated and had been made to look a fool in front of his wife.
‘It’s out of the question,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘Einstein said, “I want to know how God created this world. I am not interested in this or that phenomenon. I want to know His thoughts, the rest are details.” ’
That was fine, Susan did not have a problem with it. She read on ‘Einstein said, “People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” ’
She rubbed her tired eyes. Her whole body felt weary today after a restless night of lying awake, tossing and turning, churning Mr Sarotzini’s proposal over and over in her head.
One moment she decided that as John had never wanted a family, this might be her only chance to experience childbirth; at the next the thought of being impregnated by someone else, however clinically, filled her with horror. And the knowledge that she would have to live with that not just for the nine months of the pregnancy but for the rest of her life made her decide each time that no, she could not possibly do it.
In the corridor outside her tiny office an animated conversation was taking place about a copy-edit deadline on a book that was being rushed into print. Susan sat surrounded by piles of manuscripts. She chugged down some coffee, then noticed the flashing icon on her computer, and checked her e-mail; it wasn’t important, just a memo about a two-week shift in a publication date.
It was pelting outside. Hard summer rain lashed the rooftop that was her view; high above it, a crane was swinging a steel girder across the slate-grey sky. She liked this attic office. Magellan Lowry had moved into this building over seventy years ago, and most of the offices, like her own, appeared not to have been redecorated since. But it didn’t matter, it added to the character of the place, to the pleasure of coming here. Cracks in the walls, gaps where chunks of plaster had come away and ugly damp stains were all pasted over with jacket designs, cartoons and photocopies of brilliant reviews. And how many other people in London, she wondered, had a working gas fire in their office?
She turned her attention back to Fergus Donleavy’s manuscript, but almost immediately her phone rang. It was her secretary, Hermione, a seriously bright Sloane whom she shared with Kate Fox, telling her that Mark Rivas was on the phone. It was the second time he’d rung this morning, and he had said it was urgent.
She took the call. ‘Hi, Mark,’ she said. ‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you, got stuck in an editorial meeting that went on longer than I expected.’
Mark Rivas was an agent she particularly liked. He had the knack of finding good new science writers with original ideas, and he had a finger on the pulse of what was wanted.
‘How’s things?’ he asked. ‘What the latest on …?’
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Everyone had their own personal shorthand for the takeover of Magellan Lowry, and this was his.
‘Not much change in the last week. Rumours about job losses still flying. Denials in the trade press.’
‘I saw.’
‘So?’ she said.
‘Susan, I have a hot new writer, name of Julian DeWytts, Dr Julian DeWytts. He’s stunningly good-looking, very charismatic, and is hosting his own seven-part series on genetics for BBC 2 this autumn, called The Gene Lottery. He’s written an accessible book on inherited diseases, and I thought of you immediately.’
‘Me and how many others?’ she asked, good-humouredly.
‘Four,’ he said, which, Susan knew, probably meant eight.
‘Is there a floor?’
‘It’s going out to everyone simultaneously.’
‘And what kind of money are you looking for?’
‘A lot,’ he said.
Susan was a little dubious. ‘There’s already been a ton of stuff on genes and inherited diseases,’ she said. ‘Steve Jones has covered the territory pretty thoroughly, in his books and on television. And Dawkins.’
‘Julian’s in a different league. Take a look at the manuscript – you won’t be disappointed.’
She told him she would, and promised that if she was interested she would get back to him with an offer within ten days, mentally shifting further back into the future the other five manuscripts she had to read.
Then she started to concentrate again on the first six chapters of Fergus Donleavy’s rewrite. He was anxious to hear if she felt he was now on the right track. She struck her pencil through the second Einstein quotation, putting a note in the margin, which said:
‘Not necessary, you already made this point on page 28.’ Then she added, because her tiredness was making her feel punchy today, ‘I’m not even sure this entire chapter’s necessary. What does it contribute?’
Kate came in, holding a book. She was a couple of years older than Susan, married to an economics researcher, and had two children. Tall and well-built, Kate had a booming, jolly perso
nality, and a handsome face beneath a bob of straight brown hair. Susan liked her because she was one of that rare breed of people who are totally unfazed by anything life throws at them.
Kate was the first person in whom she had confided when she and John had decided to buy the house – and they had snuck down to see it in an extended lunch hour. Kate thought the place was wild, and loved it.
‘This the one you meant?’ Kate asked.
Susan looked at the cover. It was a photograph of a pregnant woman’s abdomen, except, as if by X-ray, the foetus was visible inside, snugly curled up. The book was titled Pregnancy – The Myths and the Reality, by Dr Maria Anscombe.
Susan turned it over, glanced at the back of the jacket, then looked up at Kate. ‘It’s the one you edited, right?’
‘It’s brilliant. She’s a terrific communicator. I found it really helpful myself – it’s the best guide to pregnancy.’ Kate gave Susan a quizzical look, then smiled. ‘Hey! Is there something you’re not telling me here?’
Susan shook her head, but could not prevent herself blushing. ‘It’s for a friend.’
She waited until Kate had left her office, then pushed Fergus Donleavy’s manuscript to one side, opened the book and started to read.
‘So?’ Archie said, as he padded, naked, across the cork matting into the men’s shower room, sweat was running off him. John was looking at Archie’s flesh. Great flaps hung from his belly; he was beginning to develop a figure that would make a Sumo wrestler proud, and yet he had just thrashed John on the squash court. Trounced him.