Oliver twitched up a sardonic eyebrow. “Well, you see, when a mummy and daddy love each other very much but also lack the material and social capital to support their family—”
“Very funny,” I told him. “Yes, yes, everything is part of a complex system and blah blah ethics. But since we’re doing this—and we are doing this—how do we…do this?”
“Lucien,” said Oliver, laughing in a bemused way, “two of your closest friends adopted a child comparatively recently.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Of course you—” He broke off. “Spud, no.”
Obediently, Spud stopped trying to eat the—on second thoughts, I probably didn’t want to know what he’d been trying to eat; I just quietly pretended it was a fallen leaf—and bounced back to accept a treat from Oliver’s hand.
“Good boy,” he concluded.
Spud stared at me.
“You’ve just had a treat. You don’t get double treats just because there’s two of us.”
“Arrooou,” said Spud, visibly disappointed.
He was then immediately distracted by a duck. It must be nice to be a dog.
“In any case,” Oliver went on, “we have several options, none of them without their challenges.”
“Okay,” I said, trying not to be too proud of myself for not immediately giving up at the mention of challenges.
“So there’s adoption like James and James, and although you say you weren’t paying attention, you have seen roughly what that looks like.”
“You mean, kind of like a wet goblin?”
“The process, Lucien. There’s a lot of paperwork and it takes a long time, and my understanding is that while adoption rates are down, the greatest need isn’t for people who want a new baby; it’s for people who are willing to take a child over the age of three.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Not necessarily. Although by that stage a child’s personality is taking a more concrete shape, and any trauma they’ve experienced is much more likely to cause significant problems.”
I pressed a hand to my heart. “Wow, what a beautiful experience this is going to be for us.”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but it’s incredibly important to have realistic expectations. After all, it’s not just our life it’s about.”
“God, the James Royce-Royces made it seem so easy.”
He cast me a sharp look. “You really weren’t paying attention, were you? It took them years and quite a lot of money.”
“So”—I winced—“option two, then?”
“There’s surrogacy.”
“Like ask Bridge?”
“No,” Oliver replied, “we definitely shouldn’t ask Bridget.”
“She’d probably say yes.”
“Which is why we shouldn’t ask her. Leaving aside that she only gave birth a couple of months ago, it would be extremely emotionally complicated, and could hurt all of us very badly. It’s not like asking Priya if we could borrow her truck.”
“Priya would never let us borrow her truck.”
“You’re right, that was a poor analogy. My point is, being a surrogate means doing something arduous and intimate for nine months and, at the end of it, giving away a baby to whom you may well have developed an emotional connection. And, of course, for some people it’s the right choice, but it’s a very big choice and you need to be very careful who you ask to make it.”
