The Perfect Mother (ARC) Page 3
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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.
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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.
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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
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