red. By my calculations, you’re just about to
ovulate. Shall we give it a go?’ His voice slipped into a pleading
tone. ‘We really should get on with it, Vicky. We want two, and
you’re thirty-four, darling. No time to waste.’
A stab of panic shot through Victoria, as it did every single
time Jeremy mentioned children. He was the one that wanted
two so badly, not her; he was the one who wouldn’t be content
with a penthouse in one of the most sought-after addresses in
Manhattan, who needed a proper house, with two small children running around, disrupting everything, making messes,
and worst of all, ruining the figure that their mother had dieted
and exercised so hard to achieve . . .
‘I’m not sure it’s the right time for me to get pregnant,’ she
said nervously. ‘After all, there’s the move now, and I’ll be
starting my new job—’
‘Now, darling,’ Jeremy said more firmly, ‘you keep saying
that it’s never the right time, and you know that sometimes
one just needs to get on with things. No time like the present!
Besides,’ he added cunningly, ‘the younger you are, the quicker
you’ll snap back into shape. Remember the consultant telling
us that?’
Jeremy knew just the argument that would convince his
wife, the prospect of leaving babies so late that stretch-marks
became a real issue. When Victoria had realised that Jeremy’s
heart was set on having children, she had toyed with the idea
of adoption – so fashionable nowadays, everyone was doing
it! First it had been China, but that was rather passé by now
– Angelina Jolie had sourced hers from Vietnam and Ethiopia,
Madonna from Malawi, Maxie Stangroom from Rwanda. The
world really was your oyster. Victoria was so fair and blonde,
a dark-skinned baby would look fabulous in her arms. She
wasn’t one of those fashion editors who eschewed black
models – far from it, she’d always booked a whole range of
ethnic types for shoots.
Reluctantly, however, she had had to concede defeat on the
idea of adoption, at least until they had been trying for years
and years to have a baby of their own. Jeremy would only
agree to it under those conditions. She was desperately envious
of bloody Jennifer Lane Davis, who had had not one, but two
children made with her own eggs and her husband’s sperm,
implanted in a surrogate, who had then carried them to term.
It cost, apparently, $100,000 a baby, with lawyer’s fees and
‘living expense’ extras for the surrogate, but Jennifer hadn’t
had to go through morning sickness, swollen boobs, water
retention, or any of the horrors associated with childbirth – let
alone a schedule afterwards based round having to pump milk
like a cow from breasts which, at that point, might as well have
been udders.
Jennifer’s story was that she was unable to carry children
successfully herself, due to Irritable Bowel Syndrome; well,
Victoria didn’t believe a word of it. Jennifer just hadn’t wanted
to get fat, and Victoria couldn’t blame her. It was increasingly
common among actresses, singers, women whose bodies were
forensically scrutinised by the media every time they stepped
out of their doors or their limos, to go the surrogate route.
Right now there was huge speculation that the leading,
unquestionably A-list R&B diva of the moment had imported
a poor Latin-American woman with a good track record of
getting pregnant to New York, put her up in a lavish Manhattan
apartment on the Upper West Side, and sent her to the best
fertility doctors in town. The woman was apparently carrying
a baby made from the diva’s eggs and equally famous husband’s
sperm; once she had it, she would hand it over and slip back to
her home country and her own children, with a fortune and a
cast-iron confidentiality agreement. The diva, Victoria had
heard, was perfectly capable of having children, as far as
anyone knew. But neither she nor her husband had wanted to
risk spoiling her famously
ovulate. Shall we give it a go?’ His voice slipped into a pleading
tone. ‘We really should get on with it, Vicky. We want two, and
you’re thirty-four, darling. No time to waste.’
A stab of panic shot through Victoria, as it did every single
time Jeremy mentioned children. He was the one that wanted
two so badly, not her; he was the one who wouldn’t be content
with a penthouse in one of the most sought-after addresses in
Manhattan, who needed a proper house, with two small children running around, disrupting everything, making messes,
and worst of all, ruining the figure that their mother had dieted
and exercised so hard to achieve . . .
‘I’m not sure it’s the right time for me to get pregnant,’ she
said nervously. ‘After all, there’s the move now, and I’ll be
starting my new job—’
‘Now, darling,’ Jeremy said more firmly, ‘you keep saying
that it’s never the right time, and you know that sometimes
one just needs to get on with things. No time like the present!
Besides,’ he added cunningly, ‘the younger you are, the quicker
you’ll snap back into shape. Remember the consultant telling
us that?’
Jeremy knew just the argument that would convince his
wife, the prospect of leaving babies so late that stretch-marks
became a real issue. When Victoria had realised that Jeremy’s
heart was set on having children, she had toyed with the idea
of adoption – so fashionable nowadays, everyone was doing
it! First it had been China, but that was rather passé by now
– Angelina Jolie had sourced hers from Vietnam and Ethiopia,
Madonna from Malawi, Maxie Stangroom from Rwanda. The
world really was your oyster. Victoria was so fair and blonde,
a dark-skinned baby would look fabulous in her arms. She
wasn’t one of those fashion editors who eschewed black
models – far from it, she’d always booked a whole range of
ethnic types for shoots.
Reluctantly, however, she had had to concede defeat on the
idea of adoption, at least until they had been trying for years
and years to have a baby of their own. Jeremy would only
agree to it under those conditions. She was desperately envious
of bloody Jennifer Lane Davis, who had had not one, but two
children made with her own eggs and her husband’s sperm,
implanted in a surrogate, who had then carried them to term.
It cost, apparently, $100,000 a baby, with lawyer’s fees and
‘living expense’ extras for the surrogate, but Jennifer hadn’t
had to go through morning sickness, swollen boobs, water
retention, or any of the horrors associated with childbirth – let
alone a schedule afterwards based round having to pump milk
like a cow from breasts which, at that point, might as well have
been udders.
Jennifer’s story was that she was unable to carry children
successfully herself, due to Irritable Bowel Syndrome; well,
Victoria didn’t believe a word of it. Jennifer just hadn’t wanted
to get fat, and Victoria couldn’t blame her. It was increasingly
common among actresses, singers, women whose bodies were
forensically scrutinised by the media every time they stepped
out of their doors or their limos, to go the surrogate route.
Right now there was huge speculation that the leading,
unquestionably A-list R&B diva of the moment had imported
a poor Latin-American woman with a good track record of
getting pregnant to New York, put her up in a lavish Manhattan
apartment on the Upper West Side, and sent her to the best
fertility doctors in town. The woman was apparently carrying
a baby made from the diva’s eggs and equally famous husband’s
sperm; once she had it, she would hand it over and slip back to
her home country and her own children, with a fortune and a
cast-iron confidentiality agreement. The diva, Victoria had
heard, was perfectly capable of having children, as far as
anyone knew. But neither she nor her husband had wanted to
risk spoiling her famously
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