Birth Marks (17 page)

‘Of course, there were things we could have done. Adoption was a possibility, although my age would have counted against us. No doubt influence could have been brought to bear but it would still have meant an inevitable amount of bureaucracy and publicity. And more than that, it would have meant a child that was not biologically my own. I am an old-fashioned man, Miss Wolfe. I'm afraid notions of paternity mean a lot to me. I wanted a child to carry on the family line. My child. I would have given everything I had to make that child also Mathilde's, but there are some things that even my money cannot buy, and for us time was running out. However, there was one alternative, albeit a somewhat complicated one. I am talking, of course, of surrogacy.'

The word exploded into the air like a bunch of trick flowers, so colourful, so damn obvious that the audience can only marvel at how it could ever have been concealed. For the audience read me, me and my dull, stubborn imagination. Surrogacy. Old him and young her. I had been betrayed by my own sense of aesthetics. I tried not to show it.

‘You have an admirably impassive face, Miss Wolfe. It is impossible to tell whether what I am saying is a revelation or simply the confirmation of your suspicions. Anyway, now you know. Of course, surrogacy is a delicate business. It needs careful thought and preparation. It is not every woman who is willing to rent out their womb and then walk away from the baby they have created and carried for nine months. It is also not every woman who is allowed to. That, as you may have realized, is why we went to England. Here in France they are in the process of drafting laws to make surrogacy illegal. By finding an English woman we, at least technically, avoided some of the problems. It was also a way of trying to guarantee secrecy. Had a similar advertisement appeared in a French newspaper something would almost certainly eventually have leaked its way into the press. Here I am a national figure. In England I am unknown. Nevertheless we were still very circumspect. As you know the question of surrogacy was not even suggested in the original advertisement. All applications went through an agency (who knew nothing either) and once they had screened the replies we picked a few, and only a very few, women to interview. It was only when we felt we had found the right girl that the word surrogacy was even mentioned at all.

‘As it was we were very fortunate. Or so it seemed then. Carolyn Hamilton was our first choice. She was young, healthy and intelligent. She came from a large family and was obviously fond of children, although had not thought of having a family of her own. She had lived for many years with a woman who could have none of her own so she had some understanding of the pain childlessness could cause. Also, as you no doubt know, she was at a difficult time in her own life. Her career was going badly and she was even contemplating giving it all up and trying something else, perhaps going back to college or even beginning her own business. But to do this she needed money, and, as you also know, she was very heavily in debt. Last of all there was something about her that none of us could have predicted—her extraordinary similarity to Mathilde. It seemed to us that she had been delivered by fate. Assuming, of course, that she would be willing.

‘Of course we made it as tempting, and as easy, as possible. Needless to say there was never any question of intimacy between her and me. Conception would take place by means of artificial insemination and she would be paid for each attempt, regardless or not of whether she conceived. If and when she did conceive over the course of the first few months she would be paid a sum of ten thousand pounds. Then at birth, when the baby was handed over, a further fifty thousand would be added. Yes, it was a lot of money. Deliberately so. On the other hand I don't believe it was an easy decision. Indeed to be frank with you I still don't quite understand why she agreed. It is, believe me, something I, we, have thought about a great deal over the last few months. Certainly she was genuinely moved by our plight, that much was clear right from the start. Also she and Mathilde liked each other, got on very well. And, of course, she needed the money. But more than that I can't say. Mathilde herself has another theory. She believes that Carolyn felt in some way trapped, that all through her life other people had made decisions for her, and this was one chance for her to take control, do something for and by herself. How far that is true I cannot say. All I can tell you is that she did agree and almost immediately.

‘We drew up a contract. The terms were simple. Aside from the money, and of course a promise of complete secrecy, our only other stipulation was that as soon as conception had taken place she should come and live with us here so that as far as possible we could be involved in the pregnancy of what would be our child. In return she asked that we keep on her flat in London and arrange for communication between her and her guardian to take place as if she was still living there. It seemed that she was as concerned as we were to keep the matter absolutely confidential. We agreed and, as you know, her correspondence was all duly posted in London. No one knew where she was.

‘In the event conception took a little under three months. During that time she travelled to France on a number of occasions for artificial insemination. At the beginning of May pregnancy was confirmed and she came to live with us at Villemetrie.'

He paused. It had been a long speech and he seemed to have run out of saliva halfway through. I could hear a sticky dryness in his voice. She had heard it too. She looked up at him and frowned, then leant over to the table and poured him out a glass of water. He took it without acknowledging her. As he gulped it down I found myself staring at the ski runs of old flesh stretching between his chin and his neck. He seemed to have become scraggier as I watched. I had an image of an old man sitting in his glass and steel tower rotting away, his skin flaking and dropping off while a foetus ducked and swam in an ocean of fluid. Such a story. The old king and the barren young queen; a fairytale filled with the magic of gynaecological science and the goodwill of a graceful peasant girl willing to sacrifice her body in return for riches. I could almost hear Frank chortling in the background. Didn't I tell you, Hannah, everyone has something to sell? But you know what they say about supping with the devil…All in all a Grimm fairy tale, and so weird that I could find no immediate reason for not believing it. I wondered briefly why he had decided to tell me. Certainly if I had been him I might have gambled on another lie: an informal adoption of an accidental baby would have made equal sense and, although he wasn't to know it, might have given me equal satisfaction. Except, of course, either way we would have reached the same point. And the same question. What happened to spoil a happy business arrangement?

‘I don't like mysteries any more than you do, Miss Wolfe. If I knew I would tell you. All I can say is that for most of the pregnancy everything went absolutely according to plan. After some initial sickness Carolyn was well and active. She lived here in the summerhouse which gave her privacy when she needed it. She walked and visited Paris and the countryside around. She and Mathilde spent a good deal of time together, involved in the process of the pregnancy, reading, talking about it. Miraculously for us, it seemed, she felt able to share it with us. In short she was in excellent spirits, content, indeed I would say almost happy with her decision. There was certainly no hint of what was to come.

‘Of course, as the pregnancy progressed and became more obvious it became advisable for her to spend more time here. At first she didn't seem to mind. Then, towards the end of the year, something changed. Having spent long periods of time with Mathilde she now actively avoided her company and she spent more and more time on her own alone in the summerhouse. Thinking that perhaps she was becoming anxious about the birth we didn't impose. On the contrary we let her be. Our doctor assured us it was only natural for her to feel unsure, perhaps even overwhelmed by what was happening to her. She had at times during the pregnancy suffered from intermittently high blood pressure, not enough to cause any serious worry, but enough to force her to rest. Bearing this in mind he warned us against pressurizing her. We did as he suggested and gave her more space. We spent an uncomfortable Christmas together: we preparing ourselves for the birth of our baby, she now apparently equally distressed by the prospect. Then in the middle of January she came to me and asked to be released from the contract. She said she would find a way to pay back all the money and would never divulge the identity of the father, but that she had decided that she couldn't go through with it, it was her child and she wanted to be its mother.

‘You may or may not understand when I tell you that I refused. She was over seven months pregnant. The baby, my baby—or rather our baby as we'd come to think of it by then—was almost ready to be born. It was clear from my deteriorating health that this would be our last chance. I offered her more money. I told her I would set up a trust fund for any other children she might have in the future. That she and they would be financially secure for the rest of their lives. I even offered her visiting rights, so she could see the child at certain times every year. And when I had nothing else left to offer I threatened. The contract she had signed was legally binding. She had understood that when she signed it. If she tried to break it I would take her to court and force her to give up the baby. Of course I would never have done it. The contract would never have stood up in a court of law and the scandal would have destroyed us all. She knew that.

‘She asked me to give her a week to think about it. That was on Sunday IIth. For the next six days we waited. She said nothing. On the next Saturday morning she asked Maurice, the driver who I believe you have already met, if he could take her into town to buy a present for her guardian's birthday. I admit I was concerned, but I felt that a refusal would be an admittance of mistrust, and would make things even worse between us. Of course he had instructions to accompany her everywhere. Which he did. Except in the changing-room of one of the big department stores. She was a long time inside. And when he made inquiries…well, there was another exit and she was no longer there. So simple. Anyway, once she had gone there was nothing we could do. Given the situation we could hardly call in the police. She knew that as well as we did. We checked the airports and the train stations, but she was nowhere to be found. We waited all afternoon, hoping against hope that she might come back. After a while we called her London apartment but there was no answer. Finally on Saturday night Daniel flew over to try to find her. But, as you know, by the time he arrived it was already too late. Two days later we heard the news.'

He was silent for a moment. ‘Obviously what happened between Saturday morning and Saturday night we will never know. For a while I think we hung on to the hope that her death might not have been deliberate; that perhaps the emotional strain of the leaving and the physical strain of the travelling could have triggered off high blood pressure and she might have suffered some kind of fit and fallen into the water. Certainly our doctor has suggested as much. But that was before the inquest and the news of the suicide note. It must have been a sensitive coroner to find a way to soften the verdict. I suppose there may be such a thing as too much guilt, too many people let down and disappointed. I can only imagine that that, along with the pressure to repay what was a large amount of money, and the fear that I might indeed pursue her and the baby, drove her into an action of despair. A despair which, I need not add, has since become ours.'

Beside him Mathilde was sitting still as a rock. He slid a long thin hand over hers and held it tightly. She didn't appear to register the pressure. They sat there for a while, statues of sorrow. He shook his head and sighed. ‘When we heard what had happened I had to decide whether or not to go to the English police. Obviously what had taken place here was relevant to her death. On the other hand nothing I could have told them would have brought her back. Her or the child. And, given the nature of the circumstances, even if I had managed to keep it out of the inquest it would have been bound to become public eventually. It is ironic. The French, unlike the English, are not obsessed by the sexual misdemeanours of their national figures. A mistress or two would hardly be worth the cost of the ink on the page. But illegal surrogacy leading to suicide? I have been in newspapers long enough to know it would have proved irresistible. The effects on my reputation I will leave you to imagine. But more important would have been how it would have destroyed the little time and privacy that Mathilde and I have left together. And that is something I would do anything to protect.

‘You will now understand why I chose not to tell you the truth when I first met you. This business has brought enough heartache to my family without the risk of it being made public now. I had hoped you would be satisfied with my explanation. When you turned up this afternoon with the postcards it was clear that Daniel was right and you were not. As I'm sure you know, the postcards in themselves prove nothing. And should you be contemplating taking them to the authorities I could, of course, deny all knowledge of them. I probably don't need to add that my word against yours might be something of an unfair contest. However, it is not my intention to blackmail or threaten you. On the contrary. It is more a question of throwing myself on your mercy. The coroner's report was accidental death. It was, in the end, I think a fair description. And one that it would be kinder to all of us, particularly the memory of Carolyn herself, to leave unchallenged. Of course I appreciate you have a job to do, and a responsibility to your client. I understand I cannot force you into secrecy. All I would ask is that, in as far as you feel it possible, you and your client respect our desire for privacy. There will be little enough of it left.'