Sale or Return

Cassy looked at the pictures filling the screen, the latest celebrity couple smiling broadly, their white teeth gleaming as they presented their perfect new baby to the World. They’d used a surrogate, of course, why ruin your figure when somebody else would take one for the team, at a price.

She thought of that exchange between George Bernard Shaw and Isadora Duncan when she had apparently suggested to him that if they had children together, they would have the perfect combination of her beauty and his brains. The risk is that they get your brains and my beauty instead, my dear, he had countered, laughing. That was then and this is now, Cassy thought, there would have been no such chances taken with this baby.

Cassy’s interest in celebrity babies had started some months earlier with a chance meeting with a man in a pub. Okay, it was a blind date; she’d swiped right for him on a dating app. She was a sucker for a neatly trimmed beard and dark-framed glasses. In his profile, he said he worked in a hospital, and she’d assumed doctor. It wasn’t until a few dates in that she discovered he worked in the lab of a private hospital which had very wealthy clients. She’d said she was a travel agent, and no, the discount wasn’t great, so all’s fair in love and war. He was coy about what he did, but using her investigative journalist’s skills, she deduced that it was something to do with helping couples get the baby they wanted via IVF. With further help from half a bottle of Tequila, she discovered that he was a geneticist and, from the other half, that he edited the genes of celebrity embryos to order. They had a menu for clients to choose from, for God’s sake, eye colour, height, hair colour, intelligence and so on. He’d swiped right for her, apparently, because of her beautiful eyes, one green like a cat and the other blue like a clear summer day; quite the poet. Of course, her heterochromia was just the sort of thing his clients wanted to edit out. Having seen her look a little offended, he’d said that despite all he did in his day job, he thought that her natural imperfections were beautiful. She’d always been a bit self-conscious of her eyes and it was sort of a backhanded compliment, but she knew that he meant well. At this point, he’d become a bit touchy feely before sinking into a drunken stupor, waking the next day with all apologies for what he had or hadn’t done, he honestly couldn’t remember anything, Your Honour. His head was banging, and he was never going to drink Tequila ever again.

The gene editing to order, if you could afford it, didn’t bother her as much as she thought it would as it was all legal and above board since Parliament had passed the bill a number of years ago, but it was a chance remark a few days later that piqued her interest.

They’d arranged to see a rerun of Terminator 2, which Josh loved, surprising for such a nerdy guy. He’d rung to cancel shortly after six. He’d had a hell of a day and just wanted to chill with a few beers and some indie rock, another surprise. This guy was full of surprises. He hoped she didn’t mind. No problem, she said, but suggested a Chinese, they both had to eat, didn’t they? She’d pick it up from Yan’s on her way. And don’t worry, she’d leave early; they both had work the next day. Besides, she loved the Arctic Monkeys, and she’d noticed that he had a collection of their albums to die for. Chilling on the sofa, listening to D is for Dangerous, Cassy gently pressed Josh about his day. They’d had a return, he said. Something had gone wrong, and the client hadn’t got what they wanted. The boss had dealt with it; he didn’t know how and didn’t want to know, but he was furious. This had been the sixth return this month. They had spent the day reviewing protocols and practising procedures.  Not his mistake, Carl’s, again, that slapdash idiot, and they had all paid for it.

It wasn’t until Cassy got home that the enormity of what Josh had said hit her. They’d had a return, and the boss had dealt with it, he’d said. That meant that a child had been returned, but how had it been dealt with? Cassy knew this was the scoop she had been waiting for to transform her career. Five years in, nothing interesting had come her way until now and she was getting despondent, but this was big. She struggled to sleep, going over and over in her head how she was going to pitch the story to her editor, Angus.

Next morning she knocked nervously on Angus’s office door.

“Come in,” he shouted, “but it better be quick, I’m knee deep in tomorrow’s front page, the PM’s been caught with his pants down again, literally. They can’t hush it up this time.”

“Angus,” Cassy stuttered, she’d always been a bit wary of him. Like most hot-headed Glaswegians he didn’t suffer fools lightly.

“Spit it out,” he replied brusquely, glancing up.

“I’ve got an idea for an exposé on the sinister side of the trade in designer babies, the rejects and returns,” she blurted out.

“You’ve got my attention,” Angus said, staring at her intently as she explained about Josh and the hospital, minus the sex.

He lapped it up.

“Do it,” he said as soon as she’d finished her pitch. “I’ll give you Mark.”

“Mark?” she questioned, she’d heard the rumours.

“Yes, Mark,” he replied directly. “He’s the best for covert filming and trust me, his investigative skills are second to none, forget what you’ve heard. You’re a rookie and this could be dangerous, you need someone who knows their way around this sort of scoop. It’s non-negotiable. I’ll call him.”

“Got it,” Cassy nodded.

“Now piss off,” he said returning to the copy on his desk, “and be careful.”  

Cassy left the office as casually as she could, barely able to contain the excitement building inside her. As she shut the office door, she punched the air and let out a shriek of delight, causing a few heads in the newsroom to look up from their desks. Without needing to ask, they knew what had happened and eyebrows were raised in respect.

Later that afternoon, sat at her poky desk tucked away in the corner of the newsroom, the natural light from the windows struggling to reach it, her mobile rang.

“Cassy Philips?” a raspy voice, from too many fags and booze, asked. “It’s Mark Porter.”

“Mark, yes,” Cassy replied, caught off guard.

“We need to meet,” Mark said abruptly. “See you at The Flag in five, corner of Upton Street. Bring your notebook.”

Before she could express her annoyance at him giving her orders when she was the lead reporter on the story, the phone rang off. Good start she thought to herself. I can see we’re going to get on like a house on fire, not.

Cassy had never been to The Flag before and standing in front of it in the grey autumn mizzle, she wasn’t sure she wanted to, now.  The red brick of the Victorian pub was blackened with age and the small weather-worn windows, insufficient to let in much light, even in the midst of summer, were opaque. She knew it was a haunt of the old-time hacks, not that Mark was one of them, but she suspected he liked to think he was.

Mark Porter was something of an enigma in the newsroom. Although only a few years older than Cassy, he hadn’t studied journalism at Uni like most of the new breed of reporters but worked his way up after leaving school at sixteen. He’d learnt the trade by keeping his ear to the ground and convincing one of journalism’s legends to take him under his wing early on in his career. He’d covered everything from international conflicts to political scandals to celebrity fluff. Tipped to win the Press Award for Young Journalist of the Year for a gritty piece on the toll of gambling addiction, he’d just retreated into the shadows, with no explanation, only emerging occasionally to take photos, leaving the stories to others.

Cassy entered the pub, her eyes taking a few minutes to adjust to the gloom, the stale smell of cigarettes still lingering in the air even though it had been years since smoking in pubs had been banned. She scanned the bar for Mark, the dark flagstones, faded green leather banquettes, pitted wooden tables, hunting prints and cast-iron fireplace, all circling an ornately carved wooden bar, more like something that should be in a church than a pub, hinting at the pub’s glory days.  She spotted him eventually half-hidden at the back of the pub, cradling a pint of something dark. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought from his appearance that he was some homeless guy who’d scraped together enough money to shelter from the rain with a pint.

“Mark?” she asked approaching him.

“I’ve taken the liberty of getting you in a pint of mild,” he said gesticulating towards a glass opposite him, without acknowledging her.

He watched as she took a large slurp, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

“Proper,” she said with a slight Devon twang, “although I’d have preferred the dark. Mild’s for daintier maids.”

Mark smiled. She’d passed the test.

“Now, let’s cut the crap, shall we?” she said business like, hanging her coat on the back of the chair and sitting opposite him, “and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

“Yes, boss!” he replied, faking a salute. 

When he smiled, he looked much younger, she thought, and his intense blue eyes were interesting, shame they were hidden by an unkempt mop of slightly greasy curly brown hair. With a good wash, some cleaner clothes and a better haircut, he might have potential she mused, before chasing the thought from her mind and getting back to the matter in hand. What was she thinking? There was serious work to be done. 

Cassy knew she wouldn’t get any more out of Josh when she brought up the topic of the return, again, a few days later, and he got really annoyed. It was time to end their relationship before he got suspicious. She told him she would be away for work for the next few months. They were expanding their reach into Africa, and she’d been asked to secure deals with hotels and tour operators. It might be best if they cooled it for a while; she’d catch up when she got back. He looked a bit crestfallen, but it didn’t take him much time to change his status on the app to single.

What they don’t tell you when you study investigative journalism is that most of it involves hours, days, and months of desk research before any real action takes place. And that posed the first big problem for Cassy and Mark, where were they going to work, store their information etc.? No chance of a room in the news office building, even the basement had been commandeered, the PM scandal had ballooned. Not her flat, way too small. Had the estate agent described it as compact and bijou? She couldn’t remember. Mark’s place was no better, although a lot more filthy. She was sure she had heard the scurry of rats when he’d invited her over for a drink, preferring to meet in The Flag after that.  It was Mark who came up with a solution in the end. I know a guy who’s got a lock up, away from prying eyes, we could use, he’d said. Nothing fancy but it’s got a loo and there’s a pretty good caff round the corner. Which is how Cassy found herself in a draughty space under an old railway arch in a part of London she had previously tried her hardest to avoid at all costs. 

“Your face is a picture,” Mark laughed snapping a photo of her quickly on his phone. “It’s the look of someone who’s trodden in something nasty, and the smell won’t go away.”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, it’s a bit dirty,” she replied, “and chilly. And I’m not sure I’m brave enough yet to look at the loo.” 

“I didn’t think you’d be too high and mighty for a little bit of dirt,” he teased, “I thought you Devon girls were used to muck.”

Cassy gave him her middle finger.

“Very lady like, I must say,” he continued. “Look, it might not look much but, believe me, we will need space for this sort of story and that sort of space in London, that’s got electricity, WIFI, a phone signal and running water, doesn’t come cheap, certainly not as cheap as this place, and Angus, the tightwad, will thank you for it. Anyway, there’s nothing that bleach, a good scrub, some insulation, a few boards and a bit of furniture won’t fix. You can splash out on quilted toilet paper and an air freshener, if you must.”

Cassy smiled. He was right. Angus had said keep the expenses low and the more she looked, the more she saw the space transformed. 

A week later, they were up and running, painstakingly trawling through office waste from the hospital for leads. The cleaners were happy to collect it for them, they were just going to chuck it out anyway, so didn’t see any harm in it, and the extra money was a godsend, especially for Madge whose daughter was disabled, and the money meant she could a afford a carer, once in a while, to have a night out with her friends at the Bingo. It never ceased to amaze Cassy how little care was taken by organisations, like the hospital, in the way they disposed of their information. She was sure that their celebrity clients would be filing suit after suit if they found out what she had uncovered so far. Most of it wasn’t for now, but she had stored away a few choice bits for the future.

Over the following weeks, the magnetic white boards started to fill as information was sorted and grouped.

“I think we’ve got enough to start with the surrogates,” Cassy said, pointing at the fullest board. “Let’s start with interviewing on of the former surrogates, like Sian Jones and then move on to a current one, Lila perhaps.  What do you say we get out of here and get some action?”

“Phew, I thought you’d never ask,” Mark replied, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow for extra effect. “I’d have caved in a week ago but you’re in charge.”

Cassy wasn’t sure if he was saying they should have got out of their bunker earlier, and if he’d been in charge they would’ve but she chose not to rise to the bait this time.