The Baby Trail Read online

  Sinéad Moriarty

  THE BABY TRAIL

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  The Baby Trail

  Sinéad Moriarty currently lives in Dublin with her husband.

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  For Troy

  Hello, I’m Emma. I used to be a normal, happy, level-headed person. I had a great husband, lovely friends, a job I enjoyed and a very lively social life – until I decided to have a baby and turned into Kathy Bates in Misery.

  It all began so innocently. I had it all planned out: come off the pill in December, have sex, be pregnant by January, have the baby in September, get a personal trainer in for November and have my figure back and the baby into a nice routine by Christmas so I could sashay around the festive parties looking like Liz Hurley after her baby. Not that I am comparing myself for a minute to Liz – or Elle or Catherine Zeta Jones for that matter.

  In fact I’ve been told I’m the image of … Sonia (the little redhead who sang those annoying pop songs for Stock Aitken Waterman), Fergie (I starved myself for weeks after that) and Julianne Moore. My best friend Lucy told me I look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but that’s what best friends do – lie to make you feel better.

  Anyway, let’s rewind to the beginning, when I was still relatively sane …

  1

  My New Year resolution two years ago was to get pregnant. Top result, I thought, as the previous year I had given up drink for ever after dislocating my shoulder in a bar dive on New Year’s Eve – well, New Year’s Day at six a.m. to be precise. I lasted a week. I thought that this resolution would be a lot more realistic and should be a piece of cake to achieve – off the pill, some sex and Bob’s your uncle.

  It was high time I had a baby. I was thirty-three and although I may have felt – and, truth be told, behaved – like I was twenty-five, it was time to knuckle down and get up the duff. I told James later that night when he came home from work. He seemed pleased – if a little surprised that I was feeling broody as I’d rough-handled his nephew over the Christmas holidays. I reminded him that little Thomas had turned the TV off at a key moment in The Sound of Music, the scene in the cemetery when the Nazis are chasing the von Trapps – I mean, come on, it’s a life-or-death situation. And I had merely nudged him gently aside. It wasn’t my fault that the child had no sense of balance, fell down and hit his head on the video-recorder.

  ‘That’s not how Imogen saw it,’ said James.

  ‘Well, Imogen is highly strung, uptight and neurotic,’ I said, smiling sweetly at James – who is very handsome by the way.

  When I first introduced him to my family I could see they were surprised, shocked, even. Before James, I had gone for a guy I thought I could save – you know, the tortured artist, unshaven, grubby and dirt poor. But then I met James and he saved me – from myself, mostly.

  He’s tall, has chocolate-coloured hair, lovely brown eyes and a killer smile. His nose is a bit big, but it looks good on a man. It did worry me, though: what if we had a daughter and she inherited it? Mind you, they can do wonders with surgery.

  James’s sister-in-law, Imogen, was a nightmare and had never liked me. She had wanted James to marry an English rose, some boring horsy public-school chick just like her, who would sit around in twinsets and pearls talking about ponies, gymkhanas and ‘maaahvellous’ recipes. She was horrified when James produced me – Irish, passionate about everything, opinionated and, worst of all, ginger.

  To be honest I don’t think James’s parents, Mr and Mrs Hamilton, were too thrilled with me either. They had hoped that James would only spend a year in Ireland, training the Leinster rugby squad, but instead he met me and decided to stay for good. However, after three years of me studiously scraping my hair back into velvet bows and donning ‘respectable clothes’ when we went over to see them, they had come round. I also held my tongue – unusual for me – when Mr Hamilton talked about ridding England of its immigrants. ‘Send the lot of them home and let us get on with it. Coming over here, sponging off our government, taking our jobs and then whingeing about it. Send them all back, I say. That’ll stop the buggers.’

  I was going to point out that two of my uncles and my brother were immigrants and ask if he wanted me to bugger off right now or would it be all right if I finished my apple crumble? But then I looked at James, who was shaking his head and mouthing, ‘No,’ so I thought better of it. Besides, Daughter-in-law of the Year, Imogen, had piped up, ‘I so agree, Jonathan, this country just isn’t the same any more.’

  James thought Imogen was ‘nice’ and refused to criticize her out of loyalty to his brother Henry. There were only the two of them in the family, so it was important that they got on. Henry had christened me Paddy (better than Spud, but still not terribly endearing) on our first meeting. Despite this little hiccup we got on quite well in an odd sort of way. He was obsessed with horse-racing and seemed to think that because I was Irish I’d been born and reared in stables – a bit like Jesus, I suppose, if you think about it. He was always asking me what I thought about horses and jockeys I’d never heard of. I have an unfortunate habit of never admitting I know nothing about a topic. Ask me any question, no matter how obscure, and I’ll have a shot at answering it. So, Henry and I had long chats about horses, bloodlines, jockeys and trainers. We once had an hour-long conversation on what it was about Dawn Run that had captured the hearts of the racing public. Henry reckoned it was her refusal to give in.

  ‘She was an extremely tough horse, all right,’ I said, nodding and praying he wouldn’t ask me any direct questions about her career history.

  ‘Wasn’t she?’ said Henry. ‘That win in the Gold Cup when she was headed between the last two fences and just managed to get her nose in front again on the run-in really summed up her desire to win.’

  ‘I’ll never forget it,’ I lied.

  ‘But what a tragic end to a glittering career.’

  What did he mean ‘tragic’? Hadn’t he just said the stupid horse had won the race? ‘Oh, it was desperate,’ I said, shaking my head and sighing.

  ‘So brave of her to try to repeat her earlier victory in the Grande Course de Haies at Auteuil. A broken neck. What a way to go! She was definitely one of the brightest lights to grace the National Hunt,’ said Henry, his eyes misting.

  ‘So sad,’ I agreed, thinking, Come on, Henry, get a grip – it was a bloody horse, not a member of your family.

  Anyway, back to Imogen: when I grumbled on about her being a witch James jumped in to defend her: ‘She may be a little over-protective but that’s only to be expected
in first-time mothers. I’m sure you’ll be the same.’

  ‘James, I think it’s fair to say that I’ll never be anything like Imogen. I am not boring, uptight or neurotic.’

  ‘No, darling, you’re spontaneous and just a little insane.’

  ‘Better mad than boring. I’ll make a brilliant mother, though, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes, darling, you will. Now, shouldn’t we stop talking and get down to baby-making?’

  ‘Absofuckinglutely!’

  A week later I phoned home to tell my mother about our decision to have a baby.

  ‘Hi, Dad, it’s me.’

  ‘Oh, hi, how are you?’

  ‘Grand, you?’

  ‘Grand. How’s himself?’

  ‘Fine. Any news?’

  ‘Not really. Well, your sister’s in the doghouse. Some poor eejit turned up here on Friday night in a dinner suit with a big flower and a box of chocolates to take her to a ball, but she was off at some party in Cork. The poor fool was sitting here like a lemon while we tried to call her. In the end your mother felt so sorry for him she offered to go to the ball herself. That got rid of him all right,’ said Dad, as we both giggled. ‘Oh, here’s Barbara now. I’ll let her fill you in.’

  ‘See you, Dad.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, Babs. What’s going on?’

  ‘You mean apart from our mother losing the plot completely and accusing me of ruining her life? God, I forgot about the poxy ball. What’s the big deal? He’s a total nerd anyway. I only said yes because he cornered me in the library and I couldn’t think of a good excuse quickly enough.’

  ‘In the library? Were you lost?’

  ‘You’re hilarious. I was trying to find Jenny so I could cog her notes. Anyway, I went to Cork to a mad party and had a great time. I would have had a shite time at that crappy ball.’

  ‘So you didn’t forget?’

  ‘Well, OK, not really. But if you saw the state of him you’d understand.’

  ‘Bit mean, though.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I know. I’ll go and hunt him out in the library tomorrow and apologize.’

  ‘Careful! The library twice in one week? Bad for the image.’

  ‘I’ll wear a wig. Oh, Jesus, here’s Mum. I’m off before she starts spraying me with holy water.’

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, trying to stifle giggles.

  ‘Funny, is it? Funny to bring disgrace on your family? Some poor young lad all dickied up with a beautiful corsage turns up at the door to take her to a ball and she’s off gallivanting at some rave party in Cork. Well, the poor boy nearly died, as did we. We had to bring him in and feed him stiff drinks. He was as red as a beetroot. I was mortified myself and, to make matters worse, it turns out he’s Liam and Eileen McGarry’s son.’

  At this point my mother paused for dramatic effect, but it was lost on me: I had no idea who these people were. ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, Liam and Eileen McGarry from the golf club and isn’t Liam the captain this year so the whole place will be talking about what an ignorant so-and-so we’ve raised. I’d say that boy will never go outside his front door again. It’s a dangerous age for boys, you know – the percentage of suicides among boys between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five is very high.’

  I decided to step in. ‘Mum, relax. I’m sure it’ll be fine. She’s going to apologize to him.’

  ‘Pffff. Anyway, enough about that young pup. How are you?’

  ‘Great, thanks. Actually, I’ve decided to have a baby.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I’ve decided to have a baby. I’m going to get pregnant.’

  ‘Lord, Emma. I hope you haven’t broadcast this around.’

  ‘What do you mean broadcast?’

  ‘Well, these things are best kept private. Why does everyone nowadays feel they have to tell the world their private business? I blame that Oprah Winefrid myself.’

  ‘It’s Winfrey.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her name is … Oh, never mind. Just think, this time next year you’ll be a granny.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t always happen overnight, you know, especially at your age. It’s not always that straightforward, Emma.’

  ‘Well, thanks for all your support. Hopefully at the grand old age of thirty-three my ovaries haven’t totally shrivelled up.’

  ‘There’s no need to be dramatic. Just keep your business private and get on with it.’

  ‘Fine, I will. I’d better go now and hop on James before my biological clock stops.’

  Your cycle is twenty-eight days so you should ovulate (isn’t that just the most cringe-making word? It sounds like something fish do) mid-way. On day fourteen, when James came home from work, I was waiting for him.

  Instead of greeting him from my usual horizontal position on the couch, eating chocolate biscuits in my pyjamas and Gap hoody, I was waiting for him in the bedroom in my suspenders, which hadn’t been trotted out since our honeymoon a year ago. I had lit scented candles and left only a small lamp on in the corner of the room. My thighs and stomach looked a lot better by candlelight – believe me.

  Stunned not to find me on the couch, James walked into the bedroom, sniffing the air suspiciously. When he saw me in my suspenders he began to look really worried. ‘OK, what have you done? You crashed the car, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I did not. I just thought this would be a nice surprise for you. Make a change.’

  James sat down on the bed and took my hand in his. ‘It’s all right, darling. The most important thing is that you weren’t injured. Just tell me how bad the damage is.’

  ‘James! I did not crash the car.’ I was getting frustrated now and the suspender belt was digging into my waist. I had starved myself for weeks before the wedding and that was a lot of meals ago. ‘I wanted to surprise you and inject some fun into our midweek routine.’

  ‘Fine, but is there anything you want to tell me? I promise, no matter how bad it is, I won’t get annoyed.’

  ‘James!’

  ‘Aha, I know. Your parents have separated and your mother’s moving in with us?’

  ‘No, they have not. What do you mean my parents have separated? Do you think they might? Why should they? They get on really well.’

  ‘Emma, I’m just trying to figure out what you’ve done.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, stop being so suspicious. I just felt like spicing things up a bit. And, besides, I’m ovulating.’ I had to admit it before he cast any more aspersions on my parents’ marriage. I thought they seemed happy enough. Granted they weren’t Mr and Mrs Brady Bunch, but they got on all right.

  James looked a bit taken aback. ‘What?’

  That’s the problem with men who’ve been brought up in all-male households and go to single-sex boarding-schools – they tend not to be very au fait with the inner workings of the female body. When we first moved in together, James called from Tesco one night to see what I wanted for dinner. I asked him for chicken tikka and a twelve-pack of Tampax Super as I’d run out. He nearly passed out. He just wasn’t that relaxed around feminine-hygiene products. But, as my friend Jess said, it’s all about training. I was working on him, slowly but surely.

  ‘I’m ovulating – you know, popping eggs – so we need to go for it. It’s day fourteen. Come on, let’s get to it.’

  ‘Right, right, of course, yes. Do we have time for foreplay or should I just shoot from the hip, as it were?’ said James, laughing, as he whipped off his tracksuit.

  2

  I met James three years ago in a pub – as you do. At the time I was coming to the end of a relationship with a total loser called Ronan who was a ‘freelance journalist’ and ‘aspiring novelist’. During the six months we were together, Ronan wrote one 800-word story for In Dublin magazine and one chapter of his novel. The magazine paid him sixty quid for the article, which was the only money he earned in our time together.


  So, for six months I supported Ronan – bought all his drinks, drugs (apparently they boosted his creativity), a new printer for his computer, and even paid his rent. At first I thought he was wonderful because he was so different – poetic, lyrical, artistic – but as I got to know him better, I began to see him for what he really was: a lazy, scabby dreamer. Also, his tendency to break into poetry – initially charming – got on my nerves. Besides, as I discovered, it was always the same quotes from the same six poems.

  The first time she met Ronan my best mate Lucy thought he was a tosser, and told me straight out that I should ditch him. Although I knew she was right, I continued to see him in some lame hope that his genius would rub off on me. I also thought that by subsidizing him, I was helping him to focus all his energies on his novel – which I naïvely thought would be a literary masterpiece, and which, needless to say, he would dedicate to me for all my help and support during his early days.

  However, when I got to read the long-awaited first chapter, two things became abundantly clear: Ronan did not have a talented bone in his body and the drugs he smoked had fried his brain. It was time to move on.

  The night I met James was the one after I had read Ronan’s drivel. The usual crew I met up with on a Saturday was out, and Ronan, as always, arrived with no money. Lack of funds, however, did not affect his thirst and I was up and down to the bar like a yo-yo, buying him pints with whiskey chasers, while Lucy rolled her eyes up to heaven and quizzed him on the theme of his novel.

  ‘I don’t understand how you think a book about a guy who speaks only in rhyming couplets could be commercial,’ she argued.

  ‘But it’s not supposed to be commercial. I would never sell my soul for financial gain. It’s aimed at poetry lovers, particularly admirers of Patrick Kavanagh.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to make any money out of it, how do you plan to support yourself?’

  ‘A true artist never worries about where his next meal comes from. Besides, I have my freelance work to pay the bills,’ said the smug would-be author, as he threw back yet another pint he hadn’t paid for.