Surrogate

A Short Story by Eleanor Anstruther

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Simon bought Maggie a dog when he proposed. “In case it doesn’t work, you’ll always have Bobo.” He meant IVF, or perhaps Maggie, or perhaps Maggie’s womb. In the months since, she’d considered all three. They’d met at The National Gallery. 

Maggie sneezed in front of The Annunciation. A stranger in a duffel coat said, “Bless you,” and she laughed because that’s what she wanted. He took her to lunch, then to bed, where her inability to conceive was momentarily ideal, and under straightened sheets she told him of an ectopic pregnancy, an exploded fallopian tube and the loss of the other because the surgeon hadn’t known his left from his right. Simon held her tight. He was separated from his wife; they shared a house, but only just. Different bedrooms for a year, not a hint of sex for almost ten; it was dead in the water, a seventeen-year blight; he was dying until he met Maggie. 

Maggie taught sculpture at an art school in Cheam and made pottery in her sitting room, newspaper on the floor, animals massaged from clay kept damp in old paint tubs, fired at school, and given away as presents she never saw displayed. It was fine until her flatmate moved out; she couldn’t pay the rent, and Simon said he couldn’t live without her. Within a week of proposing, he’d moved into her ground-floor flat where Bobo already fouled the high-walled yard.

At the kitchen table, still cramped by the surprise of his presence, she said, “I haven’t any money.” Bobo rested his head on her lap.  She twined her fingers through the curls of his coat. 

Simon said, “I’ll pay for everything. The clinic says we have a good chance.” 

“I know what the clinic says.” The clinic had felt like their fifth date.  “Shouldn’t we wait a bit?” 

Simon stood up, taking his tea with him.  “IVF is a long business. We may as well start now.”