to be needed. She had precious minutes to compose a response to Rosalind. There would be lots of prospective couples after her, given that 99 per cent of the women who used the site were from the US. She didn’t need to check with Daniel. He was happy for her to reply on his behalf.
Dear Rosalind
Thank you for getting back to us both. We are thrilled you would like to progress things further. Apologies we have been unable to reveal our identities just yet . . .
She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
But if you’d like to talk over the phone, I can call at a time which is convenient to you.
I think you should know that we already have a little boy. He has started school and would love a sibling. Unfortunately, I’m unable to have further children. My husband and I are very happily married, and we can provide a wonderful safe, secure home for our new baby. We would like our donor to come to New York to live with us until the baby is born. Full costs would be met, as well as a generous living income and the expenses listed on the Miracle-Moms site. We will always be truly indebted for such a generous gift and will do everything in our power to make the birthing experience as pleasant as possible, particularly for a first-time mom. Our donor would be welcome to stay with us after the birth for as long as she needs to.
I hope this all sounds acceptable to you and I wait for your response.
Warmest regards.
She leaned back from the keyboard, rereading her words. She could make this work. She had to. Yet a small, creeping voice whispered from a distant place. A place she could not escape. Rosalind sounded like a nice girl. Naive. Alone. It was the reason she had chosen her. She was a vessel, nothing more than an object that fitted a set of criteria and had the right set of genes. On the plus side, she was young, pretty, artistic. But how would she react when she discovered the true nature of Sheridan’s plans? Her lips thinned in a cold hard line. It would be too late by then.
CHAPTER TEN
ROZ
There were times when the realisation of my pregnancy hit me with the force of a steam train. I didn’t want kids – at least, not yet. Yet there I was, a cliché. The result of a drunken night with the worst possible person. I tried to pinpoint what had stopped me from getting the morning-after pill. Was it my moral compass? Fear of God’s judgement and the fires of hell? Or was it a spark of love for the bunch of cells growing inside me? It was all of the above and more. Love is a dangerous emotion. It can lead to bad judgements and a lifetime of regret. I couldn’t spend my life resenting this baby – like my mother had resented me.
I researched why some couples choose a pregnant donor rather than go down the surrogacy route. There were blogs by infertile women whose lives were dominated by chemicals: hormone injections, followed by egg harvests and transfers, granted them short periods of hope. But each month, they were plunged into depression as their attempts at pregnancy failed. Many could not bear the thought of another woman carrying their husband’s child. Adoption seemed their only hope. It was hard not to feel some sympathy for these parents, so desperate for a child. Could I kid myself into believing that I was doing some good? Or would the guilt of handing over my baby haunt me for the rest of my days? Not that I was complacent. I was only a couple of months gone. There was nothing to say this pregnancy would even go to full term. But I wanted it to. Despite my conflicting emotions, I wanted my little bean to live.
I sat back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my hands resting over the waistband of my jeans. It felt good to mull over the thoughts and emotions swirling around in my head. Things were moving quickly, and I still couldn’t believe a diamond couple were interested in me. Well, interested in my baby; but we came as a package for now.
I turned to my computer and brought back up their message, my nerves tingling with anticipation. She wanted a phone call already. Normally, donors shortlisted a few couples, spoke to them