The Perfect Mother (ARC) Read online

  17

  Caroline Mitchell

  up my laptop, I wondered if I should have heated the milk

  in a saucepan instead. Calcium was good for the baby,

  wasn’t it? Or had I zapped all the nutrients? I glanced at

  my watch. It was three in the morning and there was no

  way I’d get to sleep without checking the adoption site

  first. I sighed, gently plucking my false eyelashes off and depositing them in the ashtray with my other bits. I’d

  never felt so torn in all my life. A part of me – the tiniest spark – considered keeping the baby after it was born.

  I’d muddle through, I told myself. Didn’t everyone? But

  I only needed to look around our flat to know what was

  best for my child. I was broke, just like my mother had

  been after Dad walked out on us both. I still remem-

  bered the poverty suppers – heels of stale bread drizzled

  with milk, a sprinkle of sugar on top. Being dressed in

  second-hand clothes that always smelled of damp. Once,

  the bullies nicknamed me ‘Vinny’, after the charity shop

  St Vincent de Paul, but Dympna put an end to that after

  giving them all what for.

  My eyes danced over the website as I emerged from

  painful memories of my past. It whispered promises of a

  better life for my child. One day I would have a family

  of my own – when I was married and financially secure.

  I’d push my baby around in a Silver Cross pram and live

  in a clean, warm house with a fridge stocked full of food.

  But right now, this was my best opportunity to give this

  baby what I’d never had.

  All that, though, depended on if I could find the right

  home. I clicked through the site, masking my yawn with

  the back of my hand. I could feel my attention waning,

  but the sight of twenty emails in my inbox made me blink

  my watery eyes in disbelief. Twenty enquiries already!

  My profile must have finally gone live. Another ding told

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  The Perfect Mother

  me three more emails had just landed. Of course. The

  time difference meant it was evening in the US. Sipping

  my milk, I peered at some of the responses: promises of

  a dream home with financial security from desperate

  couples with so much love to give. I didn’t realise I had

  one hand clasped protectively over my flat stomach until

  I looked down.

  ‘Don’t worry, little bean,’ I whispered. ‘Only the best

  for you.’

  I meant it. I only wished there was an easier way out

  of this mess.

  19

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sheridan

  The tune played in Sheridan’s head long before she started

  the recorded TV episode of It Takes All Sorts. She hunched in her seat, her fingers tightening around the remote

  control as she pressed play. It takes all sorts … the jingle filled the air. Family comes in all shapes and sizes, life never fails to surprise us, it takes all sorts in our world …

  Sheridan sat, her knees pressed tightly together as she

  stared at the screen. With the curtains closed, her privacy was guaranteed. Nobody came into this room, not even

  her husband. Her life was a whirlwind of phone calls and

  appointments and she had dismissed her team of advisors

  for some much-needed moments of peace. Her viewings

  were a compulsion, a chance to relive her childhood; her

  eyes followed the screen as Sherry, her six-year-old self,

  ran to the Christmas tree. She was wearing her pink dress-

  ing gown, her blonde ringlets shining beneath the studio

  lights. To her viewers, she appeared to have just got out of bed. Sheridan remembered her mother’s firm instructions

  as she raked the comb through her hair that morning. She

  also recalled the teeth-whitening, the facial scrubs and

  the drops that made her look dewy-eyed. Her mother’s

  ruthless ambition dictated that the episode entitled ‘Jingle Bells and Puppy Tails’ was a live show, aired on Christmas

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  The Perfect Mother

  Day. ‘If we stop making programmes, your fans won’t love

  you any more,’ was her mother’s stock response whenever

  she complained of having to work during the holidays.

  The episode began with Sherry squealing in delight

  at the sight of the presents beneath the tree. In reality,

  most of the gift boxes were empty. Like her, they were

  perfectly packaged and pleasing to the eye, but it was all

  a facade. Behind her mother’s saccharine smile was an

  insatiable hunger for more fans, more viewer ratings and

  more inches of favourable reviews in newspaper columns.

  Daintily stepping between the gifts, Sherry put four rib-

  boned boxes aside.

  ‘We’ll give these to the children in the shelter,’ she

  said, offering Dorothy, her mother, an angelic smile,

  ‘because everyone should have a happy Christmas Day.’

  Their support of women’s refuges gave them great

  publicity at that time of year. The charity was carefully

  chosen by her mother to garner the most approval from

  their fans.

  Sheridan paused the recording as the camera homed

  in on her six-year-old face. She was good, even then. She

  had picked up the empty boxes as if they were heavy,

  her expression filled with sympathy as she spoke of those

  less fortunate than herself. Now, watching it back, only

  Sheridan could see the desperation in her eyes as she

  fought to be the most-loved starlet in the USA.

  It wasn’t as if she were short of real Christmas presents.

  Dozens had been sent by fans to the television studios for

  her to keep. But each time she made a mistake, her mother

  forfeited one for the shelter, which was why she had to

  get the live performance just right. She remembered the

  burning resentment she felt towards the children who

  stole her presents away.

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  Caroline Mitchell

  Pressing play, Sheridan watched as she coveted a tall

  pink box that vibrated under her hands.

  ‘It’s moving!’ she squealed, as if she didn’t know what

  it was.

  She ripped at the paper, taking in the air holes pressed

  into the cardboard. Sharp, excited giggling followed as a

  Labrador puppy bounced out. Well, flopped, really. Her

  mother had sedated him because he had been making too

  much noise. Sherry held him close to her chest to disguise

  the fact that her new pet was spaced out.

  ‘I’m going to call him Bouncer!’ she said with genu-

  ine delight, as her mother and screen father bent down

  for a hug.

  In reality, the couple couldn’t stand each other, but

  the public was not to know that. Soon her screen friends

  would join them and a party would take place. They

  would wish their viewers a merry Christmas, and when

  the episode ended, her mother would begin planning the

  episodes ahead. Mother’s performances before the camera

  were brief; it was Sherry who was the star. And just two

  years after Bouncer’s appearance, Sherry’s viewing rat-

  ings shot up once more. After all, nothing tugs on your
<
br />   heart strings more than the death of a pet. His demise

  was cruel but, according to her mother, necessary. She

  said Bouncer was clever – too clever; there was even talk

  of his own spin-off show. There was no way she would

  allow Sheridan to be upstaged by a dog. As she cried real

  tears, Sherry hated her mother for what she did, but she

  learned a valuable lesson as her popularity grew. Power

  and wealth were there for the taking, as long as you

  knew how to play the game. After an award-winning

  performance at Bouncer’s funeral, Sherry’s number one

  status was restored.

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  The Perfect Mother

  Nowadays Sheridan Sinclair was part of a picture-

  perfect family; she and Daniel had been voted the most

  successful celebrity couple of 2019. But others were snap-

  ping at their heels and threatening their sponsorship deals.

  She needed to up their ante. She knew where things were

  going wrong: their son Leo was the faulty component. He

  hated having his photo taken, and tugged at the clothes

  Sheridan dressed him in. He could not sit still for two

  seconds; he’d pull faces and scratch his head. He was far

  from a natural in front of the camera. He was not like her.

  But a girl … Sheridan stared at the TV screen. A girl

  had the power to delight her audiences. And it wasn’t as

  if she would work her that hard. Things were different

  now. With social media, they only had to give glimpses,

  carefully constructed insights into the lives they want-

  ed to portray. She allowed her thoughts to wander. A

  blonde-haired little girl would secure their position for

  years to come. And if it didn’t work out? She thought

  of Bouncer. Life was one big stage show … and players

  could be written out.

  23

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Roz

  I buried my head beneath my pillow and exhaled a low

  moan. I did not want to get up, but my lie-in had come

  to an abrupt end with a sharp poke in the back.

  ‘Wake up, you lazy moo. Are you dreaming about

  Tom Hiddleston again?’

  Blinking, I cleared my vision. ‘Eww, no. What time

  is it?’

  Dympna’s red hair dangled over me, her bacon sand-

  wich making an unwelcome sensory advance. ‘It’s gone

  ten. I made you a cuppa. There’s toast there, too, if you

  fancy it.’

  I pulled back my new Dunnes Stores duvet, the one

  with the hearts that I’d saved for a month to buy, and

  sucked in a breath as Dympna slipped in beside me, her feet freezing as they pressed against mine. It was our weekly

  ritual. Dympna didn’t do hangovers. Each Sunday morn-

  ing she’d hop into my bed, bringing tea and toast, and

  we’d dissect the night before. Her afternoons and most

  evenings were spent with Seamus; I appreciated that she

  was not one of those fair-weather friends who dumped

  you the minute they got a new squeeze. She furtively

  wiped a splodge of ketchup from my duvet. It’s a good

  thing we were besties.

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  The Perfect Mother

  I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes before gratefully ac-

  cepting the cup of Lyons tea. Now she had her boyfriend

  and I was off the booze, there were no regrets about the

  night before. But I should have known my friend was way

  ahead of me. Reaching down, she picked up my laptop

  from our threadbare rug and placed it in front of me on

  the bed. ‘I thought we could go through this instead – see

  if you’ve got any replies on that Mammy Mashup site.’

  ‘It’s Miracle-Moms, and I thought you didn’t approve,’

  I said, remembering the stack of emails dinging into my

  inbox the night before.

  ‘I don’t, but we’re only looking. Go on…’ She snuggled

  up beside me with a dangerous twinkle in her eye. ‘It’ll

  be fun.’

  ‘Fun’ was not the word I would have used, but it was

  better than some I could think of. ‘Well, I suppose we

  can look at the site,’ I said reluctantly. Last night, I’d shut my laptop with a snap, too freaked out to read any more

  of those responses. ‘But I need to pee first.’

  After inputting my password, I left her to it while I

  tiptoed down our ice-cold hall lino to the loo. Outside,

  the wind howled around our badly fitted windowpanes.

  Winter was coming early by the look of things. Five

  minutes later, we were settled back in bed, our tea topped

  up from the pot.

  Dympna cooed as she took in the site. ‘It’s very swanky,

  isn’t it? Considering what it’s for, like.’

  The site was built in a mixture of silver greys and pas-

  tel pinks. Miracle-Moms.com was emblazoned across its

  header, with the tagline Are you ready for your little miracle?

  beneath. I guessed that it was created to appeal to both

  parties – the header to ease the conscience of the ‘donor

  mom’ and the tagline to tempt the wannabe parents into

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  Caroline Mitchell

  parting with huge wads of cash. The prospect of giving

  my baby to strangers made me squirm, but I’d still found

  myself creating a profile on the site. After all, nobody was forcing my hand.

  ‘Here, will you look at this.’ Dympna clicked onto the

  surrogacy page. Low-cost surrogacy program: only $45,000 –

  includes three attempts with egg donor and baby birth.

  Beneath it was another headline that made Dympna

  gasp. Guaranteed luxury surrogacy option: only $99,999 – un-limited IVF egg collection cycles and embryo transfers. Everything included. We don’t stop until your baby is delivered into your arms!

  Shaking her head, Dympna stared in disbelief. ‘And

  here’s me on me knees every morning cleaning toilets

  for nine euros an hour.’

  ‘That’s the surrogacy page,’ I tutted, turning the laptop

  back. ‘My stuff is on the adoption page.’

  But Dympna was not ready to give up just yet. ‘Look

  at the conditions.’ She squinted at the screen. Her glasses were in her bedroom, but she was too enthralled to get

  them now. ‘It says here you’ve not to have smoked, drunk,

  or used drugs since your pregnancy.’

  ‘Which is why I’ve given up drinking.’ I didn’t touch

  cigarettes or drugs. I sighed, knowing what her next

  question would be.

  ‘But what about before you knew you were pregnant?

  We were out on the lash just a couple of weeks ago.’

  Heat rose to my cheeks. I felt guilty enough about our

  weekly nights out, but told myself they were history now.

  ‘Have you seen the expenses page?’ I asked, in an ef-

  fort to change the subject, but Dympna’s head was tilted

  to one side as she worked it all out.

  ‘Ah, I get it now,’ she said. ‘That’s why you deleted

  your Facebook page – getting rid of the evidence.’

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  The Perfect Mother

  ‘No flies on you,’ I smiled, leaning over to sip of my

  tea, which was getting cold.

  Dympna did the same before returning her attention
/>   to the screen. ‘Oh, my giddy aunt … you get $27,000

  base compensation with a monthly allowance of three

  grand…’ She leaned forward, scrolling down. ‘Clothing

  allowance … loss of wages … mental health support …

  $250 per counselling session … You even get paid to pump

  breast milk.’ A giggle escaped her lips at the prospect.

  ‘Can you imagine it? We could put you on one of those

  milking machines. Do you get paid per boob?’

  ‘I won’t be pumping anything,’ I replied, failing to

  see the humour. ‘I’m not a cow.’

  ‘Hmm, Louise Finnegan might disagree. The look

  on her face when she saw you flirting with her fella!’

  She was talking about last night. As drunk as she’d been,

  Dympna’s mind was as sharp as a tack.

  ‘ He was the one flirting with me,’ I replied, pulling an expression of mock outrage. The last thing I was interested in was another relationship.

  ‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘I told her you wouldn’t do that

  to a mate.’

  I gave my best friend a watery smile. I was telling

  the truth about Louise’s boyfriend, but she was wrong

  to have such faith in me. Dympna must never find out

  who the baby’s father was. Which was another reason I

  had to give her away.

  27

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sheridan

  Sheridan’s gaze followed her son as he urged his pony to

  gee up. Leo sat straight in the saddle, his small fingers

  tightly gripping the reins as he was led around. A soft

  autumn breeze ruffled his steed’s black mane. His name

  was Rufus, and he was equipped with the imperturbable

  patience needed for such a role.

  ‘Keep going, honey. Now give me a big smile!’ Sheridan

  called as the pony was led around a second time.

  ‘I’ve cleared your schedule for today, but I’ve had to

  pencil in an appointment with Aaron Schreiber at two on

  Friday.’ The voice was that of Sheridan’s personal assistant, Samantha, who followed her everywhere she went. At five

  feet eleven, she had the body of a model, but combined

  with a forgettable face. Regardless, she was good at her

  job and Aaron Schreiber’s fashion house would be perfect

  for Sheridan’s new clothing line.

  Ignoring her, Sheridan took a picture of Leo, then

  straightened the peak of her Yankees cap to shield her

  eyes from the early morning sun. The smell of freshly

  cut grass wafted from the paddock, making it feel like