The Baby Trail Page 13

  ‘God, I’ve been like a broken record, haven’t I? Sorry, James, I promise not to mention it once tonight.’

  ‘This calls for a celebration. I’ll book a table in La Poule. Alcohol, steak and normal sex. Whoo-hoo, I’ll be home early, all right.’

  We got all dressed up and had a great time, eating fabulous French food and drinking gorgeous red wine. It was lovely. We giggled about the first time we met, talked about our families, schooldays, friends and, for once, did not mention babies. I was tempted at one point to bring it up, but I bit my tongue – I know, miracles do happen! It was just like old times, the two of us getting sloshed together and having a laugh. By the time we staggered home we were so drunk we passed out, fully clothed, on the bed – so much for the casual sex.

  17

  Three days later James and I arrived in Sussex for the christening. I had spent a fortune on a sexy black dress with a plunging neckline and shoes with killer heels. I was determined to look my best. Thankfully, we were staying with James’s parents, Mr and Mrs Hamilton. Imogen’s mother – the dreaded Mrs Gore-Grimes – was staying with Henry and Imogen. I had met the woman once and she was awful – really overbearing and tactless.

  We had dinner with James’s parents, who raved about the twins. It was really touching to see them so excited about their new grandchildren. I started to think about how excited my parents would be if we had a baby, and had to excuse myself from the table: tears were welling in my eyes as I imagined Dad cooing over a cot, looking all proud and chuffed.

  It was ridiculous. I’d only been in the house twenty minutes and I was crying already. I told my reflection in the mirror to get a grip, dabbed my eyes and took some deep breaths. When I came back into the room, they were talking about the Leinster semi-final and Mr Hamilton was saying how he had read all the Irish papers on the Internet praising James. He was congratulating his son on his new contract and his great success in his first year as coach.

  As I looked at Mr Hamilton’s face, so full of pride at his son’s achievements, I thought of how wonderful it would be for James to have that with his own son. I began to well up again and had to excuse myself. I pinched and cursed myself for being so pathetic. I knew I had to control my emotions or I would make a show of myself at the christening. A few deep breaths later and I went back in to sit down. James was busy describing the second half of the match to his father and Mrs Hamilton was in the kitchen preparing supper.

  The rest of the evening went smoothly. I managed to get a handle on my emotions and there was no more baby chat so it was fine. That is, until James got up and said, ‘Come on, Emma. We’d better go and see the twins now before it gets too late.’

  I had hoped that we’d just see them in the church. I hadn’t planned on calling over the night before to coo at them and I knew, feeling the way I did that evening, it would be dangerous for me to be around children. But there was no getting out of it. I plastered a smile on my face and got into the car.

  Once the doors were closed, I turned to James. ‘Look, I’m feeling a bit sensitive tonight. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep wanting to cry. Can we make this a really quick visit?’

  ‘Emma, I haven’t seen Henry in ten months. I’m not going to charge out of his house after five minutes. Just relax, it’ll be fine.’

  When we got there, Imogen was holding court in the drawing room, surrounded by her brood. Her dreadful mother was there, as was little Thomas. I smiled and kissed Imogen, Henry and the twins, and bent down to kiss Thomas, but he started to cry and scream, ‘No, get away, don’t like you,’ which was just a tad embarrassing.

  ‘Now, Thomas, don’t be rude to your Auntie Emma. She’s trying to be nice,’ said Mrs Gore-Grimes. ‘Go and give her a kiss.’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ howled Thomas.

  ‘Go on, a little kissy-wissy for Emma,’ said Granny Gore-Grimes, as I prayed for the floor to open up and swallow me.

  ‘No!’ he yelled, running away from me.

  ‘Thomas, come back …’

  ‘Mrs Gore-Grimes, really, it’s quite all right,’ I said, as firmly as I could, hoping that someone would shove a soother in Thomas’s mouth to shut him up.

  Henry and James snuck out into the kitchen under the pretence of getting us all drinks and never came back. I was left with the incredible baby-making machine that was Imogen and her ‘delightful’ mother.

  ‘So,’ I said, as brightly as I could, ‘how are you feeling, Imogen? I must say you look great.’

  That was a lie. The only consoling thing in that room was Imogen’s weight. She had whacked on a good two stone and looked very chunky. I know it was bitchy of me, but it made me feel just a little bit better about myself.

  ‘Yah, well, I feel great. Having children is such a wonderful experience. I just love my two little princesses and Henry is totally besotted. It’s true what they say about fathers and daughters. As for Thomas, well, he just loves his sisters, don’t you, Tom-Tom?’

  Thomas was glaring at his sisters with a look of pure hatred. He didn’t look too enamoured to me.

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, then, Emma, come and hold Sophie. She’s your goddaughter, after all,’ said Mrs Gore-Grimes, thrusting Sophie into my arms.

  I looked down at the tiny bundle. She opened her eyes and stared at me. My heart melted. She was beautiful. She was perfect and had that lovely baby smell – a mixture of talcum powder and baby lotion. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She sighed and then yawned, her little rosebud mouth making a perfect O. I was in a world of my own when I heard, ‘Well, well, Imogen, I think someone’s getting broody.’

  I looked up and saw mother and daughter nodding and winking at each other.

  ‘You can’t have Sophie, I’m afraid, you’ll have to have one of your own,’ added the old witch, taking Sophie from me to give her a bottle.

  ‘You really should have a baby, Emma,’ said Imogen, joining in to torment me further. ‘I know James is keen to have children, he said as much to Henry.’

  ‘You don’t want to leave it too late,’ said the fat lump’s mother. ‘You modern gals are far too busy partying and focusing on your careers when you should be having children and staying at home to look after them. Mark my words, children and grandchildren are what it’s all about,’ she said, beaming at her daughter. ‘Chop-chop, Emma. Give that nice husband of yours a child.’

  I was speechless. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so insensitive. My shirt was stuck to my back with sweat. I had to get out of there. As I went to stand up, Thomas came hurtling across the room, beaker of orange juice in hand. He tripped over my foot, drenching me and hitting his chin on the floor. He opened his big gob and screamed.

  ‘Oh, poor Tom-Tom,’ said his grandmother, rushing over. ‘Did Auntie Emma trip you up? Mean Emma! Look,’ we’ll smack her,’ she said, smacking me rather hard on the leg. ‘Mean, nasty Emma. Come on, Tom-Tom, we’ll smack her again.’

  Thomas – who, I now realized, had inherited his violent streak from his grandmother – smacked my leg, then kicked me in the shins. Meanwhile, I was trying to wipe orange juice off my very expensive Joseph trousers. Henry, who had popped his head round the door to see who was torturing poor Thomas, saw him kick me. ‘Thomas,’ he said sternly, catching his son by the arm, ‘we do not kick people. Apologize to Emma.’

  Thank God one of them thought it was out of order for him to kick me. Thomas wriggled out of Henry’s grasp and ran to Imogen, snivelling.

  ‘Thomas,’ said Henry. ‘Apologize at once.’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone, Henry, he didn’t mean anything by it. Emma tripped him up and he was just a bit angry.’

  ‘I don’t care, Imogen. He’s not allowed to kick people. He needs to learn that. Thomas, come over here at once.’

  ‘Honestly, Henry, it’s fine, forget it,’ I said.

  Christ, I just wanted to go home. Where the bloody hell was James? I mumbled about getting some tissues for the spil
l and darted out of the room. I found James sprawled on the couch in the TV room, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, watching football.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ I hissed.

  ‘Oh, hi. I’ve just been catching up with Henry,’ he said lamely, trying to hide the cigarette. I could see by his eyes that he was a little tipsy.

  ‘I’d like to go home now,’ I said, my temper bubbling below the surface.

  We’ll go in two minutes, I just want to see the end of this match,’ he said, turning back to the TV. ‘Go on, Giggs, shoot – oh, he missed again.’

  I leaned over and grabbed the keys of his father’s car. ‘Well, I’m leaving, so if you want to walk home, by all means stay and watch your match,’ I said, and stalked out the door.

  James followed me out after saying a quick goodbye to the others. He got into the car and slammed the door. I took off like a Formula One specialist, leaving skidmarks on Henry and Imogen’s driveway.

  ‘For God’s sake, slow down. What the hell is wrong with you now? Why did we have to leave in such a hurry? I was enjoying catching up with Henry over a few beers.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, James, did I interrupt your little tête-à-tête with Henry? How selfish of me, especially considering I was having such a jolly time myself.’

  James sighed and crossed his arms. ‘OK, what happened this time? What evil, nasty remarks did they come out with in their continuing conspiracy to make your life hell? Go on, I’m dying to hear.’

  ‘You smug bastard!’ I shouted, swerving dangerously across the road. ‘While you were having beers with Henry I was left in that room with those witches telling me to get on with it and have a baby soon before I keel over and die of old age, and how selfish I was not to be pregnant already because my husband’s going around telling everyone how fucking desperate he is to have kids and I’m such a selfish bitch that I’m holding out because I’m too busy partying. That’s the conversation I was having,’ I said, thumping the steering-wheel with rage.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, it couldn’t have been that bad. If someone looks at you sideways you think it’s a personal affront these days. Imogen does something really sweet by asking you to be godmother to her baby and all you can do is bitch and moan about it. Everything is about you, these days. Well – newsflash, Emma – the whole world is not out to get you. Will you please just calm down and stop getting so het up about every little thing that happens? It’s really tiresome. Just chill out and stop taking everything so seriously. Where’s your sense of humour gone? You said you wanted to stop drinking and eating all that healthy crap and get back to being the fun Emma you used to be – and for a few great days you were.’

  I felt as if my head was going to explode. I was so angry that I wanted to wrap the car around a tree out of spite. My hands shook as I gripped the steering-wheel. ‘Well, I’m so sorry I’ve been such a pain to live with. I must be going mad because I thought we both wanted to have a baby so I was doing crazy stuff like following the doctor’s orders and trying be more healthy. Poor you, having to put up with someone who wants to have a family with you. Why don’t you just divorce me and marry some fun, happy-go-lucky bimbo?’

  ‘If you’re going to be childish about it, there’s no point in having this conversation. I want to have a child as much as you. But I do think you need to calm down and stop being so bloody obsessive. The doctor, whose instructions you’re so eager to follow, said you needed to relax if you wanted to get pregnant. So could you please do us all a favour and try to lighten up? Stop being so grumpy and defensive.’

  I flung the car into the Hamiltons’ driveway, rushed inside and locked myself into the bathroom where I cried myself sick. At one point James knocked on the door. ‘Emma, come on out, you’re being silly.’

  ‘No,’ I said, sobbing extra loudly so he’d be sure to hear me.

  But instead of talking to me and comforting me, he walked off and went to bed. I unlocked the door an hour later and found James fast asleep in the guest bedroom that Mrs Hamilton had put us in. I couldn’t sleep in another room and announce to the whole house that we were arguing, so I climbed in beside him and spent a fitful night tossing and turning. James, meanwhile, slept like a log, stinking of beer and snoring.

  I got up early the next morning and went out for a long walk. My head was throbbing from lack of sleep and my eyes were stinging from crying. I was still really upset. James and I had fought before, but only silly fights, never ones where we said really horrible things to each other. I felt that he had overdone it last night – I knew he had been drinking, but he wasn’t drunk. He had meant what he said and it had really hurt. I knew a lot of it was true, which was worse: I was obsessed, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t control it. I thought about having a baby all the time. And everyone around me seemed to be getting pregnant on their honeymoon, or after their first attempt, like Imogen. What if I never got pregnant? What if there was something wrong with me that the doctors had missed? When I saw our friends with their children my heart ached. I wanted that for us. We’d be good parents, so why was it so bloody difficult? Well, one thing was for sure: I had to try to relax. In this state, not only would I never get pregnant but I’d end up alone.

  I stayed out all morning, only reappearing at lunch-time to get changed for the christening. When I got back, James was waiting for me. ‘Look, Emma, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. It was the beer talking. I’m sorry I upset you.’

  I shook my head sadly. ‘It wasn’t the beer, James, it was the truth. I’ve been a pain and I’ve begun to get paranoid and a bit self-obsessed about it all. I just didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.’

  ‘I don’t. Emma, look, I want a baby as much as you, and I know it’s harder for you as the woman. I’m just worried that it’s taking over your life completely. I hate seeing you so unhappy.’

  ‘I know. I’m going to try really hard to chill out about it all,’ I said. ‘Oh, my God.’ I’d just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: I looked like a hag. Thank God I was a makeup artist: at least I could do something about my blotchy face. ‘Look at the state of me. Come on, help me get ready. I need to look sensational so fat Imogen can be jealous of me for a change.’

  Half an hour and layer upon layer of makeup later, I was ready. I looked at myself in the mirror – not bad: I scrubbed up well. I came downstairs and James whistled. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘And by the way, I have no intention of running off with any bimbo, particularly when my wife looks this hot.’

  The christening passed without a hitch. Having vented my frustration the night before, by the time we got to the church I was feeling calm and serene – I know it’s hard to believe but I was, honestly!

  My love affair with my goddaughter Sophie was complete when I saw her all dressed up in her christening gown. She looked like a tiny angel. Her other godmother, Gemma – an old school pal of Imogen’s who was hugely pregnant and, thankfully, seemed happy to take a back seat – didn’t get a look in. I was the one who proudly held Sophie as the vicar wetted her head, and she made my day by not uttering a sound. The other twin’s godmother – Imogen’s horsy friend Annabelle – struggled with a howling Luisa when the water hit her forehead.

  My dress went down a treat, and as Henry’s friends got drunker and drunker, they kept staring down my top and telling me that I was a ‘fine bit of totty’. As I was the only woman there who hadn’t given birth, the male attention was a welcome relief from the constant round of:

  Wives: ‘So, how long have you been married?’

  Me: ‘Nearly two years.’

  Them: ‘Any children?’

  Me: ‘No, none.’

  They nod. I nod. We smile awkwardly.

  Them: ‘Ah, well, no need to rush into it.’

  Me: ‘No … yeah … yeah … no … no need to rush.’

  Them – desperately looking to get away from me: ‘Oh, look, there’s Victoria and Charles, I must go over and
say hello, do excuse me.’

  Me – delighted to see the back of them: ‘Sure, no problem.’

  But the best part of the day was when I pulled aside Thomas – who had kicked me again during the meal – while no one was looking, and told him that if he ever kicked me again, I’d rip Tinky Winky’s legs and arms off and feed his torso to a pack of hungry wolves. Thankfully his speech was still basic and all he could muster as he cried in his grandmother’s arms was ‘Emma, mean, Tinky Winky … arms … hungry,’ but a suspicious Mrs Gore-Grimes kept a close eye on me for the rest of the afternoon.

  18

  A couple of weeks later Lucy, Jess and I went out for dinner. We had been seeing a bit more of Jess in the last few months as Sally was in nursery now two days a week and she was in much better form and less distracted. I had arranged the dinner to celebrate Lucy’s recent promotion and pay-rise. I wanted to make a fuss of her as she was always trotting out to congratulate everyone else on engagements, weddings and babies. It was time to focus on her for a change.

  We met for drinks at seven. I ordered champagne and we toasted Lucy’s new job. She was chuffed with the attention and we settled down to a good night of drinking and laughing – until I went to pour Jess a second glass of champagne and she stopped me, shaking her head. ‘Sorry, Emma. No more for me, I’m afraid.’ I looked at her. Her eyes welled up and she began to cry. ‘Yep, I’m pregnant again. I’m thrilled, really, just a bit emotional about it all,’ she said, unconvincingly.

  I saw Lucy’s shoulders slump. Her night of fun and celebration was officially over, after fifteen minutes in the limelight. I felt really sorry for her. It wasn’t fair of Jess to come in and start weeping about being pregnant. For God’s sake, what the hell was wrong with her? She wanted kids, and she was clearly having no problem producing them so why the glum face? Besides, if she had suddenly decided after Sally that she didn’t want any more, why hadn’t she gone back on the pill?

  ‘Well, that’s great, Jess,’ I said. ‘You must be thrilled. You always said you wanted a couple of kids.’