The Perfect Mother (ARC) Read online

  friend, but she didn’t know the half of what had gone on.

  Her parents were young and trendy; they always had her

  back. Even Seamus, her boyfriend, was being welcomed

  into the fold. I would love to have known what it was

  like, growing up as part of a normal household.

  I clicked on couple number one. Marcie and Geoff

  looked decent enough. She was a schoolteacher. He was

  a Presbyterian minister. Their bio spoke of ‘strict family

  values’. But they were in their late fifties. Did they have the energy to cope with the demands of a newborn child?

  The site accepted all age groups as long as they could

  afford the fees.

  ‘Too old and too strict,’ I said, narrowing my eyes

  at the frown lines on Marcie’s face. ‘She looks like she’s

  sucking a lemon.’

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  The Perfect Mother

  ‘Agreed. Delete.’

  Bubbly-looking blondes Sabrina and Felicity looked

  more like a pair of models than homely parents.

  ‘How are you with same-sex couples?’ Dympna gave

  me a curious glance. Their faces were pressed up against

  each other and they both wore cheesy grins.

  ‘They’re more than welcome,’ I said without hesita-

  tion. ‘I’m looking for a stable couple who are in love.’

  And yet as the words left my mouth, I recalled the fire

  and brimstone sermons I’d sat through as a child and

  imagined the priest’s disapproving glare. But wouldn’t

  a father figure be more likely to do a bunk, just as my

  own had done? I sighed, wishing everything wasn’t so

  complicated.

  ‘You said she!’ Dympna twirled a lock of hair. ‘Do

  you think you’re having a girl?’

  I shrugged, doing my best to appear nonchalant. ‘It’s

  easier to say she. Makes no difference to me.’ I kept my

  eyes on the screen, but in reality, I’d felt like I was ex-

  pecting a girl all along.

  ‘Do Sabrina and Felicity go to round two?’

  I clicked the button in agreement. For now, they were

  going on my favourites list. They wouldn’t be contacted

  yet – not until I sent a message to confirm I’d like to

  know more.

  ‘How come these ones don’t have a picture?’ Dympna

  scrolled onto a couple named Julie and Glenn. A tiny

  diamond motif twinkled in the top right-hand corner

  where their profile picture should have been.

  I paused mid-yawn, lowering my outstretched arms

  from above my head. ‘Oh my God, I’ve got a diamond

  couple.’

  ‘What’s a diamond couple?’

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  I stared at the screen, excitement stealing my breath. I

  had to move quickly. This was too good to be true. ‘I can’t believe it,’ I whispered. This was everything I wanted.

  An opportunity reserved for the very few.

  ‘What? What’s it mean?’

  ‘Diamond couples are loaded. They pay twice the

  amount of everyone else.’ A grin spread over my face as

  the implications sank in. ‘They’re a stable couple, med-

  ically tested and in perfect health. They’ve been together

  at least seven or eight years, have more than one home,

  and a net worth of…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over a million pounds. They’re millionaires. I’ve got

  millionaires interested in my child.’

  I shifted position, staring at the screen. I wanted to

  savour this moment just a little longer. Dympna would

  never understand how it felt for me to come close to ar-

  ranging something so wonderful for my baby. It was about

  far more than money. It was the opportunity to give my

  little one the life I’d never had.

  ‘Why can’t we see what they look like?’ Dympna asked.

  She scratched her hair before tossing it to one side.

  Her long red curls would look beautiful on a child of her

  own one day. When her time came, everything would

  be done by the book. But things were looking up for me

  as I read Julie and Glenn’s profile page.

  ‘They could be celebrities, politicians, anyone in the

  public eye. Can you imagine it? I can’t believe they’ve

  contacted me. Look where they’re from!’

  ‘New York,’ Dympna squealed. ‘With properties in

  LA and Europe.’

  Taking a breath, I steeled myself as I tried to find the

  right words to reply. They were the only diamond couple

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  The Perfect Mother

  who had shown interest in me and my baby, and I was

  not about to blow this. I flexed my fingers before placing

  them on the keyboard.

  Hello,

  Thank you for your interest. I’d like to talk

  to you some more, should you wish to pro-

  gress things further.

  All the best,

  Rosalind

  ‘Best to keep it short and simple,’ I said, my heart giving an extra beat as I prepared to press send.

  I chewed my bottom lip, telling myself that this was

  just the first contact. No point in worrying about it. It

  may not get any further than this. But from what I’d read

  about the site, the couples who used it meant business.

  They did not like to wait around. My finger froze mid-

  air as I debated my next move.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Dympna said, before reaching out

  and pressing send. ‘What?’ she said, as I glared at her in

  disbelief. ‘If you don’t snap them up, someone else will.’

  She was right, but now the ground was beginning to

  feel like an escalator that was moving a bit too fast. Was

  I doing the right thing? I could not afford to stand still.

  This baby was not going to wait.

  41

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Roz

  I groaned as I strode down O’Connell Street. The tips of

  my socks were damp where puddle water had seeped in

  through my suede boots. My emotions were playing tug

  of war with me, and I questioned myself with each step

  I took towards the coffee shop. I was developing a bond

  with my unborn child already. But how on earth could

  I keep her, when I couldn’t even afford a decent pair of

  boots? The decision was agonising, and by meeting my

  mother, I was grasping at straws. There was little point

  in dreaming of a fairy-tale reconciliation. But what if I

  told her about the baby? Shouldn’t I at least consider the

  possibility of keeping it, providing I had her support? I

  thought of my home in Ferbane. Mam’s second husband,

  Tony, had sold his own property and injected the profit

  into doing the place up. They would surely have enough

  room for me.

  Damp autumn leaves swirled around my feet in their

  last dance of the season. Their time was almost over. By

  the end of the day they would be picked up by road-

  sweepers and turned into mulch. I reflected upon my life,

  and the need to take control. I felt tender, at the mercy of my hormones. I hadn’t spoken to my mother properly in

  years. I’d tried to visit them last Christmas, but I’d lacked 42

  The Perfect Mother
<
br />   the courage to follow it through. Instead, I’d observed

  her from my vantage point on the stone bridge over the

  canal near their home. She was with her new family now,

  and I felt a pang of jealousy as the three of them pulled

  into the driveway in their car. They had just bought a

  Christmas tree, and the lilt of their laughter carried on

  the air as my stepdad tried to drag it in through the front door. I watched as my mother put her arm around her

  stepdaughter Jenny’s shoulders, chattering as they entered

  the house. Who was I to invade such a happy scene? Mam

  deserved peace, not retribution. That day, I turned on

  my heel and left.

  Then she left me a voicemail, asking why I hadn’t

  turned up. I deleted it from my phone. But discover-

  ing I was pregnant changed everything. I could not

  ignore Mam’s visit to Dublin, and so here I was. My

  heart faltered as I caught sight of her in the coffee shop, sitting near the window with her back turned to me.

  Part of me wanted to run away, but she had come here

  specifically to see me. My legs carried on, and before

  I knew it, the bell was dinging over the door to an-

  nounce my arrival.

  The coffee shop was busy, bustling with people seeking

  respite from the cold. Mam turned to face me, looking as

  nervous as I was … looking like me. Her blonde hair was

  streaked with natural silver highlights, cut into a shoulder-length choppy style. I looked her up and down; she was

  only in her fifties but her relationship with alcohol had

  aged her face. She looked smart in her black shift dress

  and court shoes. I walked towards her, rigid as she took

  me in for a hug. It was awkward and horrible, too soon

  for contact, and I had to force myself to sit down. She

  quickly recovered, ordering me tea and some Victoria

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  Caroline Mitchell

  sponge, despite me saying I didn’t want food. My stomach

  felt like a butter churn going at full pelt.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, and through her false

  cheerfulness I caught a sniff of her favourite scent –

  Obsession by Calvin Klein. I knew it was reserved for

  special occasions. Coming here would have been a big

  deal for her; she didn’t get along with big cities or busy

  public transport.

  ‘It’s not far for me,’ I said, feeling like a teenager: my

  old, sullen self, staring at my hands. I caught sight of a

  piece of broken nail and frowned as I picked it away before it could snag another pair of tights.

  ‘I don’t blame you for being angry,’ she said, after

  we’d exhausted our small talk. Her hands were cupped

  around her mug as if she was clinging to a life raft. ‘I’ve been a terrible mother.’

  Finally, I met her gaze, saw the sincerity in her eyes.

  She meant it, at least for now. But then she always did, in moments of sobriety. The calm before the storm.

  ‘How long have you been sober?’ It was the first time

  I’d openly asked her about her drinking. My words hung

  in the air like a line of dirty washing, flapping in her face.

  ‘Three years, three months and twenty-one days,’ she

  said immediately. ‘Not that I’m counting.’

  An awkward laugh followed. I did not join in. Three

  years was no time at all.

  ‘Things happened in my childhood that I’m still deal-

  ing with. But there’s a time in your life when you have

  to stop being a victim,’ Mam continued. ‘When you take

  back control.’

  I nodded. Who was I to deny her that? I reminded

  myself that she was trying, but I also recalled her dark

  side and the sting of her words.

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  The Perfect Mother

  ‘I fell apart after your father left, turning to drink in-

  stead of asking for help. It wasn’t your fault. He turned his back on both of us. He wasn’t ready for the responsibility.’

  I frowned. It was hardly all his fault. She was a hard person to live with. I never blamed him for running

  away. I pursed my lips, kept my silence. I let her have

  her say.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to see you for ages, but they told

  me I had to concentrate on getting well before I took

  anything else on.’

  My spirits sank. There it was, back to me, the burden

  of her life. I was something she had to be well enough

  to ‘take on’. I pushed the pastry to one side. If I had any appetite left, I’d lost it now.

  ‘Things are different now,’ she hastily added, seeing

  my crestfallen face. ‘Tony’s been my rock, and Jenny …

  she’s such a sweet girl.’ She paused, sipped her tea to fill the silence. ‘I tried to send you an invite to our wedding, but your friend said you’d moved on.’

  My friend. I snorted. Dympna and I had been to-

  gether since childhood and she couldn’t even remember

  her name. ‘I got the invite,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to go.’

  I allowed her to express her sorrow. Watched as she

  visibly ran out of steam. Finally, she sighed and took an-

  other sip of tea.

  ‘I’ve been offered a job in America.’ I looked at her

  thoughtfully as our meeting wound down. ‘So you don’t

  need to worry about me.’

  It wasn’t strictly true. If things didn’t work out with

  the adoption there was no telling where I’d end up. At

  least now I knew it wouldn’t be with her. I would always

  be her problem child. She was still in recovery. I could

  not take my baby to her door.

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  Caroline Mitchell

  ‘America? Really?’ she said, her face flushed with

  concern. ‘What’s the job?’

  ‘It’s in an art gallery,’ I lied. ‘A six-month apprenticeship.’

  ‘But it’s so far away.’ She cleared her throat, as if

  knowing her advice was coming a little too late. ‘As long

  as you’re sure it’s what you want. Can you write to me?

  Tell me how you’re getting on? You always were great

  at drawing.’

  A memory tugged at my consciousness: My mother

  tearing up a portrait I’d sketched because it made her

  look old. The sting of her palm as it met my cheek with

  force, spittle flying from her mouth as she raged. Taking

  a breath, I reeled myself back to the present day.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll have time. It’ll be pretty full-on.’ I

  paused. This was painful for both of us. I needed to bring

  things to an end. ‘Listen, I … I’ve got to go.’

  She nodded. I watched her hand stretch across the

  table as she tried to reach for mine. I gripped my mug

  tightly. She rested her hand on my wrist.

  ‘I don’t blame you for being angry,’ she repeated. ‘But

  it’s healthier for us both if we can move on.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing,’ I replied. ‘In a new country,

  with a new life. You’ve got your new family, too.’

  ‘But I want you to be part of it.’

  I watched, horrified, as her eyes glistened with unshed

  tears. It was so tempting to stay, but it was too soon for

  her to take my baby on. I took a deep breath. Patted her

  hand as I tr
ied to disentangle myself from our meeting.

  ‘It’s better this way.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said, slipping an envelope from her pocket.

  ‘For later.’ Leaning forward, she shoved it into my coat

  pocket before I could say any more.

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  The Perfect Mother

  I stood, stepping back to allow a woman with a che-

  quered shopping trolley to go past. I looked at my mother

  as if she was a stranger. I was doing her a favour; she just didn’t know it yet.

  ‘I’m glad we were able to clear the air. Take care of

  yourself.’ I squeezed her shoulder. Tore my gaze away.

  ‘But … Roz … don’t go.’ Clumsily, she rose from her

  chair. I could not watch. I couldn’t … My movements

  jerky, I stumbled out of the coffee shop and did not look

  back.

  47

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sheridan

  ‘Gone, has she? It’s about time she left.’ Sheridan pulled

  a face. The journalist from Esquire magazine had com-mandeered her husband since they’d returned from the

  riding school. It was meant to be their day off, but that

  woman had monopolised Daniel for almost an hour. Not

  that Sheridan had been twiddling her thumbs. She had

  spent the time on the phone to her head of public rela-

  tions, who had managed to bag her a cover shoot with

  Vogue. But Daniel didn’t need to know that; she hadn’t finished guilt-tripping him yet. ‘It was embarrassing,’ she continued. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t leave a puddle behind

  her, the way she was drooling over you.’

  ‘Really? I can’t say I noticed.’ Daniel joined her on

  the sofa, his legs spread wide.

  Sheridan shot him a disbelieving glare. The piece was

  good promo for his forthcoming spy movie, but she hated

  it when journalists came to their home. She had grown

  used to women fawning all over Daniel, but behaving in

  such a way right under her nose left a bitter taste in her

  mouth – especially when they were as attractive as the

  young woman from Esquire.

  ‘Alexa, close the curtains.’

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  The Perfect Mother

  The swish of her blinds signalled that the electronic

  device was doing as instructed. Sensing the dimness of

  the room, high-tech lights filled the space with a warm

  orange glow. The late morning was fresh and sunny, but

  a stress headache was forming a band around Sheridan’s

  recently Botoxed forehead and she needed some kinder

  light. She picked up her laptop and kicked off her designer shoes. Her calves were aching from wearing heels, but she