The Baby Trail Read online

  ‘It’s a modern play by a woman called Eve Ensler. It’s supposed to be really funny.’

  Great, thought Donal, this sounds good. Funny was good.

  ‘Thank God – I thought you might drag me to The Miserables or one of those dreadful musicals where they all howl about the injustice of life.’

  ‘No, I think you’ll like this. I hear it’s very lively,’ said Lucy, beaming at him.

  They went for a drink first and just as the play was about to start – Lucy had timed it all to perfection – they ran round to the theatre and slid into their seats. Donal hadn’t had a chance to see the billboards outside so he had no idea what the play was called – or about.

  He looked around as the lights went down and was surprised to find that he was the only male in the audience. He turned round to see if all the men were down the back, but no – there was only him. The theatre was very small and they were sitting four rows from the front. He began to feel uncomfortable – where were all the men?

  A very good-looking woman came out and sat on a stool in the middle of the stage. Donal recognized her from TV. She was an actress in some comedy show. He began to relax. It was obviously some comedy stand-up thing.

  The actress began to speak – about her vagina. At first, Donal thought he was hearing things, but then he realized that, no, this woman was actually talking about her vagina being lonely and needing friends or something. Jesus Christ, he thought, had he walked into a madhouse? What the hell was this? Some lesbian arty-farty play? Was Lucy a closet lesbian? Did she swing both ways? He looked over at her: she was staring straight ahead, smiling.

  The actress began to shout now. She was roaring at the top of her voice, telling them all that her vagina was angry. Apparently it was fed up having things shoved up it. When she mentioned tampons, the audience giggled. Donal thought he’d die of embarrassment – he was not one to be sitting around with a bunch of women talking about Tampax. He hated that sort of thing.

  Donal squirmed in his chair while the rest of the audience roared with laughter and whooped along as the actress ranted on about her angry vagina. Lucy had tears running down her face she was laughing so much – all the more amused by Donal’s discomfort. Jesus, this was awful – shouting about tampons in a fake American accent. He hoped it was a short play.

  But worse was to come. The mad woman began to describe the smell of her vagina. She said she liked it smelling of fish, just the way God had intended it. Mother of Christ, thought Donal. How did I end up here listening to women talking about the smell of their privates? He looked around for the exit door. He’d never get out without causing a scene. Lucy had made sure he was sitting in the middle of the row – surrounded by laughing women.

  Donal was shocked, and he would normally consider himself fairly unshockable. He really didn’t need to hear this. He had no wish to know about this stuff. Jesus, had women gone mad? The actress got up and walked off the stage to rapturous applause. Thank God for that, thought Donal. It’s over. He hoped they’d stop clapping – he didn’t want her to come back on for an encore. He just wanted to get the hell out of there.

  He grabbed his jacket but Lucy put her hand on his arm. ‘Not over yet. Lots more to come!’ she said, winking at him.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Lucy, what the hell is this?’ he hissed. ‘It’s like some kind of cult outing.’

  Lucy smiled at him, and before she could respond a small, squat, aggressive-looking actress came onstage to replace the younger one. This one told them all to go out, spread their legs, get a mirror and have a good long look at their vaginas. Donal prayed she didn’t have a box of mirrors with her, because if they all started stripping down he was out of there. After tonight, he never wanted to hear the word vagina again. In fact, he was beginning to think he never wanted to see one again. This play was one sure way of pushing a man towards a life of celibacy.

  ‘Ladies, I recommend that you all go home and examine your vaginas tonight,’ said the actress. ‘When I was offered a part in this play, I decided I’d better look at mine and see what all the fuss was about, and I can tell you, it was an incredibly liberating experience.’ She looked around. ‘Ah, I see we have a brave man among us,’ she said, spotting Donal – he was hard to miss, being the tallest person in the theatre by a good seven inches. ‘Well done, sir. You’re the only man here tonight. Very brave of you to come. I think you should be applauded for it.’

  All the women turned to stare at Donal, who was purple with embarrassment. They clapped and cheered him. It was the longest two minutes of his life. And just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.

  The actress who liked to look at her vagina now told them all to stand up and shout out the word ‘cunt’. She demanded that they stand up and ‘reclaim’ the word.

  ‘Come on – one, two, three – shout it out,’ she roared.

  The women in the audience started giggling and saying it quietly, then it got louder and louder and soon they were all shouting, ‘CUNT,’ at the top of their voices. Donal looked around the room in horror – they were like a bunch of wild animals. Lucy was doubled over, her shoulders shaking.

  ‘Come on, brave man, you too,’ said the actress, looking at Donal. ‘Don’t be shy, come on now, CUNT.’

  Everyone was looking at Donal and laughing and shouting, ‘CUNT.’ He gritted his teeth and said it too. God, this was the worst night of his life – shouting ‘CUNT’ in a room full of lunatic women.

  When the play finally ended and the lights went up, Donal grabbed his jacket and shot out the door like a bullet. He didn’t fancy being congratulated by a hundred liberated women for coming along to their ‘vagina show’.

  Lucy found him lurking round the corner by the side of the theatre.

  ‘Drink. I need a stiff drink,’ said Donal, grabbing her arm and diving into the nearest pub. She sat down and he went to the bar.

  ‘Pint of Guinness, white wine spritzer, and give me a stiff whiskey straight away, will you?’

  The barman nodded. ‘Just been to see that vagina show, then?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Jesus, have you seen it?’

  ‘God, no, are you mad? You’d never find me in there. But I’ve seen a few lads coming out of it and they all look like you do now. Here you go, get that into you,’ he said, handing Donal the whiskey, which he proceeded to down in one. When he came over with the drinks, Lucy was still laughing.

  ‘Oh, yeah, laugh away. You certainly exacted your revenge. That was, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst night of my life,’ said Donal.

  ‘I’m sorry but the sight of you shouting, “CUNT” was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I wish Emma and James could have seen you.’

  ‘Jesus, Lucy, if this gets out I’ll never be able to show my face in the club again. You have to keep this to yourself. I’d be the laughing stock of the dressing room – don’t do it to me. God, I can see it now – “Donal Brady, vagina man”,’ he said, beginning to see the funny side, after sinking his second drink. ‘What exactly was that? I mean, a play about vaginas talking! Is it a lesbian thing or what?’

  ‘Typical,’ said Lucy. ‘Typical male response. Just because a group of women go to watch a play that talks openly about vaginas, suddenly we’re all lesbians. If a group of guys went to see a play that talked about penises, would they be gay?’

  ‘If they were all standing up, shouting, “Cock cock cock,” then, yeah, they probably would be. It’s not very macho.’

  ‘Well, I bet you that most of the women there were heterosexual. It’s nice to go out and talk about subjects that are taboo in day-to-day life. It’s funny and liberating.’

  ‘Did she have to go into such detail, though? Some of it was a bit over the top.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t enjoy the bit about the Tampax, and not washing you vagina with shower gel – letting the fishy smell flow,’ said Lucy, grinning at him. ‘That was my favourite part.’

  ‘Please, stop, no more. Can we talk
about something else? Too much information can be a bad thing. I’d like to keep a little mystery going when it comes to women’s privates, and I can assure you that all guys prefer the smell of soap to the smell of fish.’

  ‘Come on, Donal, you can say it – cunt!’ laughed Lucy.

  ‘Stop. Enough. What do you want to drink? Same again?’

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks, I’m going to head home. I need to get my mirror out and examine my vagina. I want some of that “vaginal wonder” she was talking about. I’ll give you a call and let you know what I find!’

  13

  After Perpignan, I was convinced I was pregnant. I felt tired all the time and my boobs hurt – mind you, that could have had something to do with the fact that I was constantly poking them to see if they were tender. Also, when I went to M&S to buy food and stood by the fish counter, I definitely felt a little queasy.

  I began to get excited. We’d have to give the baby a French name as it was conceived in France. A little Jacques or Delphine. We’d take them to France on holiday and they’d grow up bilingual. It was July now, so I’d be giving birth in March. Maybe I’d give birth on St Patrick’s Day and we’d have to call him or her Patrick or Patricia. I’d take the summer off and spend warm sunny days bonding with the baby. I’d be able to take it on long walks to get fit again. We’d stroll by the sea and chat to other mothers and their infants; it would be fantastic.

  As the due date of my period grew closer, I poked my boobs regularly, just to make sure they were still sore. I also stuck my nose into a plate of smoked salmon and definitely felt a twinge of nausea. I took naps between makeup jobs – after all, I needed my rest. Two days to go, one day, due day … nothing. Hurrah, I was pregnant. I rushed down to Boots to get a pregnancy test, and on my way back I felt it. My period had arrived. I was devastated.

  When James came in that evening I greeted him from the couch, blotchy-faced and surrounded by tissues. He said all the right things, then went out and got me my favourite takeaway Thai dinner and watched Love Story with me – even though I had subjected him to it already and he thought it was a load of rubbish.

  ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry,’ I mouthed along with Ali McGraw, as I sniffled into my Kleenex and James stifled a yawn.

  Two days later, James told me that he had made an appointment with our GP Dr Murphy to talk to him about fertility and see if there was anything we should be doing that we weren’t. ‘I hate seeing you so upset, so I think we should talk to the professionals and sort this out,’ he said.

  I felt a bit strange going to Dr Murphy about fertility. He had been my doctor throughout my childhood, but when I had needed prescriptions for the pill and smears, I had gone to the Well Woman Centre. I was too embarrassed to go to Dr Murphy and ruin his nice innocent view of me. Dr Murphy was there for when you had the flu, or tonsillitis or the measles, not for anything that implied you might be having sex. Still, it was nice that James was making an effort, and he was right, we did need medical advice, so we went along.

  Dr Murphy greeted me like a long-lost friend and sat us both down. ‘Now, my dears, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, Doctor,’ said James, and cleared his throat, ‘Emma and I have decided to try for a family. We are now in our mid-thirties and feel that it’s time we began to look at the possibility of conceiving …’

  I decided to jump in: James was being far too long-winded and waffly. ‘The thing is, I’ve been trying to get pregnant for seven months and so far nothing’s happening. So I’m a bit fed up.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dr Murphy. ‘How old are you now, Emma?’

  ‘Thirty-three and a half.’

  ‘And you, James?’

  ‘Thirty-five.’

  ‘Well, I have to say first of all that you both have youth on your side. I’m quite sure that there’s nothing wrong with either of you – these things don’t happen overnight. When you’ve been on the pill for any length of time and then come off it it usually takes the body a good six months to adapt. I have no doubt it’ll happen for you very soon. The important thing is not to get too stressed about it. Just relax and enjoy yourselves and it’ll all come together.’

  ‘Is there something we should be doing or taking that could help speed things up?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, ovulation tests can be helpful in narrowing down your most fertile days and, of course, a healthy lifestyle helps. Maybe you could cut down a bit on caffeine and alcohol and try to exercise a couple of times a week. But everything in moderation is fine. Don’t be stressing yourselves out unnecessarily.’

  ‘But what if something’s wrong and we don’t know about it? What if I have endometriosis or uterine fibroids?’ I asked. I had spent a few hours that morning on the babycentre.com/fertilityproblems website and I wanted concrete reassurance. I wanted answers, tests, results.

  ‘The likelihood of you having either of those problems is very slim, but if you like we could do some preliminary tests. A sperm sample test and some blood tests to check your hormone levels and a smear might be worth looking at.’

  ‘Yes, I want to have those,’ I said, jumping at the chance to do something. ‘I really want to move forward on this, Doctor.’

  Dr Murphy looked at me and smiled. He could see my frustration, desperation and impatience.

  ‘OK, well, I’ll set up an appointment with a gynaecologist colleague of mine, Dr Philips. He’s very good, I know you’ll like him.’

  A week later, and James was giving his sperm sample at a private clinic recommended by Dr Murphy. I went with him for moral support, although he said he didn’t need any. The clinic was very plush and the waiting room was full of couples whispering to each other. All the men looked fairly tense. James was a bit grumpy about me tagging along. ‘You really didn’t have to come, Emma. I don’t need hand-holding,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, but what if you can’t manage to give a sample and you need some help?’ I whispered back. ‘I don’t want some saucy nurse having to go in and finish off the job for you. I’d rather be on hand to help you out.’

  ‘In fairness, I think I can manage a sample on my own, thank you.’

  ‘Well, just in case I brought you this,’ I said, handing him a picture.

  ‘What on earth …?’

  ‘It’s Halle Berry in the James Bond bikini. You told me you found it a turn-on, so I tore it out of a magazine in the hairdresser’s yesterday.’

  ‘Very thoughtful of you, darling. Didn’t the hairdresser mind you ripping pages out of her magazines?’ said James, shaking his head and smiling at me.

  ‘Not when I explained what it was for. In fact, she told me she thought I was very open-minded and understanding.’

  ‘Great, so everyone in the hairdresser’s now knows what I’m up to today. Anyone else in on it?’

  ‘No, believe it or not, I didn’t take out an ad in the Times.’

  The nurse came out and called James. I went up with him. She handed him a small cup and told him to place his sample in it. ‘And we have provided some material to help you. We know it can be difficult for men to give samples on demand, so there are some magazines and a video if you need to use them.’

  ‘Yes, right, thank you, Nurse,’ said James, blushing furiously as he strode towards the door.

  I sat down and tried not to laugh.

  Twenty minutes later James came out and handed the nurse his sample.

  ‘How did it go?’ I asked.

  ‘Not here,’ he hissed, as he frogmarched me out of the clinic.

  When we got outside I asked again.

  ‘It was fine. A bit slow to start, but I got there in the end.’

  ‘You were in there for ages. What type of porn did they have? Playboy or what? What was the film? Debbie Does Dallas? Was Halle’s picture helpful?’ I asked, giggling.

  ‘Well, I must say the magazines were pretty hard core — Mayfair, Hustler, that kind of thing, and the film option was Shakespeare in Lust,’ said James, laugh
ing now too.

  ‘Did you watch it?’

  ‘No, the magazines did the trick.’

  ‘Were they new or old?’

  ‘Old.’

  ‘Gross. Were the pages stuck together?’

  ‘Well, no. If the pages were stuck together the guy wouldn’t have been aiming in the cup, now, would he?’

  ‘Was it hard to get it into the cup?’

  ‘It was a bit on the small side, but I managed.’

  ‘I wish they gave women something to look at when they’re having smears. It would make the process a lot more pleasant.’

  ‘Maybe you should suggest it to Dr Philips tomorrow.’

  I decided not to bring porn to my appointment with Dr Philips. He was a sweet man in his mid-fifties, and I think he would have passed out at the mere suggestion.

  He took a smear, then some blood tests. He asked me questions about my periods – were they regular? Heavy? Painful? Long? Was there cramping? Sweating? Light-headedness? Severe mood swings?

  When we had ruled out most of those things, he suggested that I go for an ultrasound to check that my womb looked healthy and to look for any signs of polycystic ovaries. He booked me an appointment for the next day. I was to eat nothing and drink two litres of water at least an hour before my appointment and under no circumstances was I to pee – I had to be nice and bloated for the ultrasound.

  The next day I woke up and poured myself a glass of water. After one glass I felt I needed to pee. After fifteen I thought I would burst. I got into the car and drove to the clinic. Every bump in the road was torture. I thought I was going to pee in the car. It was awful. When I got to the clinic, the receptionist said the radiologist was a bit behind and she was afraid I’d have to wait forty minutes for my appointment. She was right to be afraid, I thought grimly, as I sat down and crossed my legs. Very soon she’d need a pair of goggles and a swimming-cap behind that desk – my bladder couldn’t take much more of this: it was begging to be set free and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could control it.

  Forty torturous minutes later I was lying back on the bed, legs akimbo while the radiologist tut-tutted. ‘Did Dr Philips not make it clear that you needed to drink two litres of water before coming here today?’ she snapped.