Page 78 of The Surrogate Mother
What?
“So…” I narrow my eyes at her. “How do you know Monica?”
She shrugs. “We were sort of friends in college. Not really though. Mostly, I used to be close with her roommate.”
“So why didn’t she give me the number of heractualroommate so I could talk to her?”
She laughs so loudly, a few people on the street turn to look at us. “Oh, she wouldn’t want you to dothat.”
My stomach churns. This was the whole purpose of Sam’s plan to vet Monica—to find out if she was a wack job. But then she gave us all made up friends and family. I never tried calling her mother again, but now I wonder if the woman on the phone was even really her mother.
Maybe that’s why Monica said she was a Red Sox fan. Because the story of her being from Indiana was total bullshit.
“So Monica’s roommate didn’t like her?”
Chelsea snorts. “That’s an understatement.”
“But you didn’t like her either. Did you?”
“No, but…”
“But what?”
She hangs her head. “Monica paid me two-hundred bucks to say I was her roommate and that she was awesome.”
Oh my God. This isn’t a matter of Monica falling in love with Sam after she got pregnant. She was planning to deceive me all along.
Was Monica the one who pushed Gertie down the stairs? Was she trying to get my assistant out of the way so she could worm into my life?
What the hell? Why would she do that? Whyme?
Chelsea—or whatever her real name is—sees the look on my face and flinches. “Hey, I’m sorry about this. I didn’t think anything I said that day would make a difference one way or another. Also, I’m, like, a starving actress, and Ireallyneeded the money.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, even though I’m actually quite irritated with this girl for what she did. My whole life is destroyed over two-hundred bucks. Couldn’t she have at least held out for five-hundred? “But I do need your help.”
“Sure,” she says. “Whatever you want.”
33
The first thing I extract from Chelsea, whose real name is apparently Taylor Reynolds, is her real phone number. Sam doesn’t believe one word I’ve told him about Monica, but maybe he’ll believe another person. More than anything, I’m determined to convince him I’m innocent. I can’t get through this if Sam isn’t on my side.
The second thing Taylor does for me is she gets out her phone and places a call to Cynthia Holloway, the girl who used to be roommates with Monica. Taylor’s information may be damning, but it sounds like Cynthia’s got a whole lot of other things to say. If I could prove Monica is mentally ill, which I’m convinced she is, maybe I can save myself.
Maybe.
“I really appreciate this,” I tell Taylor, as she searches for Cynthia’s number in her phone. I remember the days when I would have all my friends’ numbers memorized. Now I’m lucky I know my own number.
“No problem,” she says, flashing me a smile. She’sfascinated by the whole thing. I’m probably giving her a story she’ll tell all her friends at happy hour tonight.
We stand on Broadway together, stepping aside to allow all the people by with their shopping bags. She locates the number and presses the green button for the call to go through. I stand there, a blister throbbing in my big toe. This is the last time I run in heels. If there’s any chance I’m going to be doing hard labor, I need my feet in good shape.
No. Can’t think that way. I’m going to fix this.
“Cynthia?” Taylor’s face brightens. “Hey, it’s Taylor! What’s going on?”
Then—I swear to God—the two of them chat for like five minutes. Like I’m not standing right there next to Taylor, with my whole life hanging in the balance. I’m convinced she’s forgotten I’m even there. When she launches into an account of everything she got at this great sale at Anthropologie, I finally tap her on the shoulder and clear my throat loudly.
“Oh!” Taylor says. “Hey, listen, Cyn, you remember Monica Johnson?”
