curvy figure, or slow down the
torrent of albums, live performances and, most lucrative of all,
endorsement deals.
In the UK, however, it was much more difficult to pay a
surrogate to grow and birth a baby for you. In the States, land
of the free, the diva’s arrangement – if not the secrecy surrounding it – was almost commonplace nowadays. Women who were
too old to be fertile would even buy one woman’s eggs, fertilise them with their husband’s, or purchased donor sperm, and
implant them in another woman, because that way the surrogate whose womb they were renting had no relation to the
baby she was carrying, and therefore no right to keep it. One
could even dictate what medical procedures the surrogate was
to have at birth, induce the baby against her own preference,
insist on a Caesarean if necessary . . .
A wash of hope flooded through Victoria as she realised
that now she and Jeremy were moving to the US, now that she
would be on a salary identical to the one that had permitted
Jennifer to pay another woman to do all the hard work of
carrying her children, that would become a real possibility. But
then she looked up at her husband, who was standing over her,
holding out a hand. He was absolutely set on their making
their own children the old-fashioned way: his eyes were shining as if he were envisioning their babies, floating in front of
him on twin puffy clouds, like cupids in a Renaissance painting, each with a little set of wings.
I’ll have to go through with it for now, she thought gloomily, taking his hand and rising to her feet. But it’s been a few
months, and I haven’t got knocked up yet – hopefully I won’t.
I know the consultant said we were fertile, but she also said
there are plenty of women who simply can’t get pregnant –
‘unexplained infertility’, she called it. How long will Jeremy
take before I can start talking to him about surrogates? A year?
He’s so keen to start a family, maybe after we’ve been trying
for a year with no success I can point out that maybe a nice
woman with a fully-functioning womb in Vermont is the way
to go . . .
Victoria had her own way in almost everything as far as her
marriage went. Which meant that on the rare occasions when
Jeremy put his foot down, he exerted a lot of power. Highlysophisticated at picking her battles, she knew that right now,
this was one she couldn’t win.
Inwardly, she sighed again as they went out of the kitchen,
Jeremy pausing, conscientiously, to turn off every light.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘But the usual rules apply.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Jeremy said eagerly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of
changing anything.’
He padded after her like a loyal dog, up the stairs to the first
floor, which was an entire, interlinked, suite of rooms; the
master bedroom at the back, with a small bathroom for Jeremy
and a large bathroom on the other side for Victoria, out of
which a corridor with velvet-lined shelves for bags and shoes
led to her equally large dressing room.
‘I’m so excited,’ he burbled. ‘I can’t wait for you to get pregnant! That’s partly why I want a townhouse, with a garden. I
know in Manhattan we won’t have much of a garden, but still,
somewhere for the baby to play as it gets bigger . . . Maybe
we should get a puppy too – what do you think? Wouldn’t
that be lovely?’
‘My God, Jeremy.’ Victoria unfastened her earrings and
dropped them into their silk-lined drawer in her dressing-table.
‘You sound like my mother sometimes.’
But her husband was already in the bedroom, taking the
decorative pillows off the bed and placing them on the chaiselongue. Whether he heard her or not, one of the secrets to
their successful marriage was Jeremy’s ability to ignore
Victoria’s snappishness.
‘Hopefully we can manage two, one after the other,’ he said
happily. ‘I’d love a boy and a girl, of course, but it won’t matter
really, as long as they’re happy
torrent of albums, live performances and, most lucrative of all,
endorsement deals.
In the UK, however, it was much more difficult to pay a
surrogate to grow and birth a baby for you. In the States, land
of the free, the diva’s arrangement – if not the secrecy surrounding it – was almost commonplace nowadays. Women who were
too old to be fertile would even buy one woman’s eggs, fertilise them with their husband’s, or purchased donor sperm, and
implant them in another woman, because that way the surrogate whose womb they were renting had no relation to the
baby she was carrying, and therefore no right to keep it. One
could even dictate what medical procedures the surrogate was
to have at birth, induce the baby against her own preference,
insist on a Caesarean if necessary . . .
A wash of hope flooded through Victoria as she realised
that now she and Jeremy were moving to the US, now that she
would be on a salary identical to the one that had permitted
Jennifer to pay another woman to do all the hard work of
carrying her children, that would become a real possibility. But
then she looked up at her husband, who was standing over her,
holding out a hand. He was absolutely set on their making
their own children the old-fashioned way: his eyes were shining as if he were envisioning their babies, floating in front of
him on twin puffy clouds, like cupids in a Renaissance painting, each with a little set of wings.
I’ll have to go through with it for now, she thought gloomily, taking his hand and rising to her feet. But it’s been a few
months, and I haven’t got knocked up yet – hopefully I won’t.
I know the consultant said we were fertile, but she also said
there are plenty of women who simply can’t get pregnant –
‘unexplained infertility’, she called it. How long will Jeremy
take before I can start talking to him about surrogates? A year?
He’s so keen to start a family, maybe after we’ve been trying
for a year with no success I can point out that maybe a nice
woman with a fully-functioning womb in Vermont is the way
to go . . .
Victoria had her own way in almost everything as far as her
marriage went. Which meant that on the rare occasions when
Jeremy put his foot down, he exerted a lot of power. Highlysophisticated at picking her battles, she knew that right now,
this was one she couldn’t win.
Inwardly, she sighed again as they went out of the kitchen,
Jeremy pausing, conscientiously, to turn off every light.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘But the usual rules apply.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Jeremy said eagerly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of
changing anything.’
He padded after her like a loyal dog, up the stairs to the first
floor, which was an entire, interlinked, suite of rooms; the
master bedroom at the back, with a small bathroom for Jeremy
and a large bathroom on the other side for Victoria, out of
which a corridor with velvet-lined shelves for bags and shoes
led to her equally large dressing room.
‘I’m so excited,’ he burbled. ‘I can’t wait for you to get pregnant! That’s partly why I want a townhouse, with a garden. I
know in Manhattan we won’t have much of a garden, but still,
somewhere for the baby to play as it gets bigger . . . Maybe
we should get a puppy too – what do you think? Wouldn’t
that be lovely?’
‘My God, Jeremy.’ Victoria unfastened her earrings and
dropped them into their silk-lined drawer in her dressing-table.
‘You sound like my mother sometimes.’
But her husband was already in the bedroom, taking the
decorative pillows off the bed and placing them on the chaiselongue. Whether he heard her or not, one of the secrets to
their successful marriage was Jeremy’s ability to ignore
Victoria’s snappishness.
‘Hopefully we can manage two, one after the other,’ he said
happily. ‘I’d love a boy and a girl, of course, but it won’t matter
really, as long as they’re happy
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