The Baby Trail Page 5

  Donal chatted to the barman while Lucy sat down at a grubby table and wiped the sawdust off her Jimmy Choos. A few minutes later Donal strolled over with her pint and four packets of dry roasted peanuts. ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ said Sir Galahad.

  ‘I am actually. I thought we were going out for dinner.’

  ‘Ah, sure we’ll see how we go. I’m in need of a drink after that kick in the head.’

  Over the next hour, Donal bored Lucy rigid with a blow-by-blow account of his rugby career to date, while Hoovering up four pints of Guinness. Lucy, meanwhile, sat and listened while she munched her way through three packets of dry roasted peanuts (about a zillion calories in each pack, but she was too hungry to care) and tried to drink her Harp. She decided to give him an hour to prove he wasn’t as much of an oaf as he appeared.

  With five minutes left to prove himself, the blissfully thick-skinned Donal passed out at the table. The pints of Guinness combined with the kick in the head had proven too much even for him. Lucy couldn’t believe it. This had to be a set-up, she thought. Come on, someone’s having me on. Candid Camera, You’ve Been Framed! … something? But when Jeremy Beadle didn’t appear she leaned over and shook Donal. Nothing. He was snoring. She shook him again, a little harder this time. Nothing. So she poured her pint of Harp over his head.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Oh, hello. Nice of you to wake up. I think I’m the one who should be asleep – did you manage to bore yourself into a coma? Well, much as I’d love to stay and listen to some more of your mind-numbing rugby stories, I have to go home and stick a red-hot poker into my eye. This has been a real eye-opener for me. I actually believed that man had come a long way from the cave and you, Donal, in one evening have proved me wrong. Well, I must dash, the poker awaits me.’

  ‘Ah, come on, now, relax. We’ll go and get some food. The kick in the head must have knocked me out.’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m leaving.’

  ‘Don’t be so uptight,’ said Donal, stumbling to his feet.

  ‘How dare you call me uptight? You don’t know anything about me. All you’ve done is ramble on all night about your boring rugby career.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t saying anything so I had to talk. You’ve had a look on your face all night as if you’d smelt something nasty. Like you had shit on your stupid-looking shoes,’ said Donal, pointing unsteadily at them. ‘You’re like some spoilt princess who was brought up with a silver spoon in her mouth. I’m obviously not good enough for you because I don’t drive a flash car and wear suits.’

  ‘You arrogant shit. I don’t give a damn what car you drive. I do, however, object to being collected by somebody with blood all over his face in a filthy tracksuit. I would have been quite happy to wait an extra half an hour for you if you had called and explained. As for your choice of venue! No, I don’t like smelly, dingy pubs, I never have and I never will. I drank Harp when I was fifteen and have spent the last eighteen years of my life working my ass off to make damn sure I never have to drink that shit again. And in my world, a conversation is an activity that necessitates the participation of two people. Not a coma-inducing monologue about your prowess on the rugby pitch. Maybe in your backward little town men behave like pigs and women find it attractive, but in my world a pig is a pig,’ said Lucy, standing up and grabbing her coat.

  ‘I’d say you’re fantastic in bed,’ Donal said, grinning at her. ‘I like my women feisty.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, how’s this for feisty?’ said Lucy. She slapped him across the good side of his face and stormed out.

  The next morning I spent two hours on the phone to her. She ranted and raved about what a dreadful night it had been, how awful Donal was, how she was never going on a blind date again, how all men were bastards, even the ugly ones, and how she’d rather spend the rest of her life alone than have to go through another date like that. She thought the city guys she dated were bad, but this guy was pure caveman. How could James be friendly with someone like him? He was awful.

  ‘Look, I know Donal can be a bit rugby-guyish, but he’s really nice underneath it. In fairness to him the kick in the head and the alcohol must have made him behave out of character.’

  ‘How do you know he’s such a nice guy? What has he ever done that’s so nice?’

  ‘Well, you know James met Donal when he was still living in England playing for the Titans and then Donal decided he wanted to move home to Ireland and play for Leinster and persuaded James to come with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, the reason Donal suddenly decided to move back is because his sister Paula and her husband were killed in a car crash and they had named him as his niece Annie’s legal guardian. His parents are pretty old so he had to bring her up. He came back to look after her shortly after the crash.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘I know. Paula and her husband were killed outright and Annie was really traumatized. She was only ten at the time. She’s thirteen now and she’s in boarding-school. Donal goes to all her hockey matches and to her parent-teacher meetings and all that stuff. James said he’s brilliant to her and she worships him.’

  ‘My God, Emma, why didn’t you tell me this before the date?’

  ‘Because I wanted you to like him without the sympathy vote.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t really change anything, anyway. He may be a great uncle and I’m sorry about his sister dying, but it still doesn’t take away from the fact that he was a creature last night.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be mortified today. Honestly, I’ve never seen him behave that badly.’

  ‘Well, I have Harp and sawdust all over my Jimmy Choos to prove it. Anyway, I think I’ve chewed your ear off sufficiently for the time being. Let me know what he says to James about the date. Let’s see if he has any remorse!’

  ‘Will do. I’ll call you when I find out.’

  I told James what had happened and he found it all hilarious. Especially the part where Donal fell asleep at the table, he loved that bit. He promised he’d get the low-down from Donal at training.

  When James called later that day he was laughing so much he could hardly speak.

  ‘Well, what did he say?’

  ‘He said … ha-ha … he said … ha-ha-ha … he said, ha-ha-ha –’

  ‘James! What did he say?’ I said, beginning to giggle myself.

  ‘He said he thinks she’s fantastic and he’s mad about her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said he thought she was very good-looking but a complete pain in the neck for most of the date, but when she poured the pint over his head and read him the Riot Act he totally fell for her. He’s going to call her and ask her out.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I said, laughing, ‘is he insane? Does he not realize that she thinks he’s the devil himself?’

  ‘Donal reckons she’s mad about him. He said she got far too hot and bothered for someone who wasn’t into him and he reckons she’s gagging for it,’ said James.

  My God, the man was certifiable.

  7

  I decided it was time for some medical aids to this pregnancy lark. I didn’t want to waste another month guessing when I was ovulating. I had heard someone talk about an ovulation test at a dinner party James and I had gone to at my friends Jess and Tony’s house a few weeks earlier.

  Of the five couples invited, we were the only ones who didn’t have kids. As we were just a few months into trying, it didn’t bother me too much, but I was surprised by how boring the women were and how one-dimensional. The conversation was all about babies, and if you didn’t have one – tough.

  Jess had met them at her ante-natal classes so they all had eight-month-old babies. The conversation revolved around cracked nipples – lots of winking, wincing, laughing and in-jokes about cracked nipples. I didn’t see anything remotely funny about it but, then, I never particularly enjoyed discussing period pains either. I always thought girls who sat around talking about periods were very odd. W
hy waste time on something you have no control over, can do little about and will have to go through every month for decades to come?

  After the hilarious cracked-nipple chat, they then had a competition over who’d had the most stitches. Some weirdo called Alison was delighted to announce that she had undergone such a dreadful birth and ended up with so many internal and external stitches (internal – this was news to me!) that her doctor refused to tell her the number for fear of upsetting her, so she won. Judy who had been in the lead with thirty stitches, was not happy at being relegated to second place.

  But the pièce de résistance was the conversation about who was having post-baby sex and who wasn’t. They all said they were, but I reckoned Judy was lying because she still seemed to be having trouble sitting down comfortably and her husband spent the night leering at my boobs – even James noticed – so I don’t think he was getting any.

  Meanwhile the men were having a whale of a time discussing the latest political scandal to hit the papers: the leader of the opposition had been outed in a kiss-and-tell scoop by his mistress, Amanda Nolan, who hosted a daytime chat show. I was particularly interested in the story because I had done her makeup for Afternoon with Amanda a number of times, and had a great laugh with her. She was a real character and always regaled me with juicy gossip about well-known Irish figures.

  James called me over to tell the others about Amanda, and I had a great time with the men gossiping and arguing about the affair and its consequences for John Bradley’s political career, not to mention his twenty-five-year marriage. I could see that the mothers were none too happy for me to be laughing and joking with their husbands. I was a ‘traitor’ of sorts. But having escaped from the ‘which nursery is best?’ conversation, I had no intention of going back.

  On the way home I said to James that when we had kids, if I ever turned into a boring old fart who talked about cracked nipples on a Saturday night, he was to shoot me on the spot.

  When I rang Jess to thank her the next day, she said she could see I’d found all the baby talk a bit boring but that once I had my own I’d understand.

  ‘Do you always talk about that stuff when you meet up or do you talk about other things as well?’ I had to ask. I refused to believe that Jess found it as interesting as she was making out.

  ‘Well, we met at ante-natal classes, Emma, so obviously our common bond is our children,’ said Jess defensively.

  ‘Of course, I understand. It’s just that you never really talk about that stuff with me, so I just wondered if I was being selfish by not asking you about it. I just never really thought of it, to be honest.’

  ‘Well, of course you didn’t. You don’t have a baby so how could you know? It’s not interesting unless you’ve gone through it.’

  ‘Is it really that interesting – talking about stitches for an hour?’

  This was Jess, with whom I’d had my wildest nights. Jess, who could do twelve shots of tequila in a row without passing out or throwing up. Jess, who loved nothing better than a good gossip and a laugh about old boyfriends and disastrous dates. Jess, who had married Tony who was as mad as she was. Jess and Tony had been the most fun couple I knew. And now she was telling me that she liked hanging out with these grannies. In days gone by she would have been the first to slag them off.

  Did having a baby mean leaving your personality in the hospital? Did your conversation have to turn to nappies and nurseries? Did you not have any interest in anything outside your child? It was scary to see someone change as much as Jess had. Tony hadn’t changed – granted, he’d calmed down a bit but, then, we all had. But Jess was like a different person. She hadn’t left the house in months except to go to baby groups. You couldn’t have a conversation with her because she spent half the time cooing to little Sally or talking to her in that annoying baby voice people use when speaking to small children, and her concentration span was about ten seconds long. Then again, I thought, if you were at home all day with a baby, it probably would be all-consuming. I’d have to be careful not to turn into a boring old housewife when I had mine.

  ‘No, it isn’t that interesting, really,’ admitted Jess. ‘You know, I woke up this morning and realized how boring it must have been for you to have to listen to. In fact, I was bored myself. When I’m with the girls on my own we always seem to revert back to baby chat so I’m used to it. But seeing them through your eyes – well, they are a bit dull. I need to get out more. I think I’m turning into a granny. I haven’t worn anything but a baggy tracksuit in months. I’ve forgotten how to put on makeup. I talk to no one all day and then by eight o’clock I’m in bed exhausted. I used to be really good fun and full of beans. Now I’m just knackered all the time. God, Emma, I need to get out and get my personality back!’

  ‘Hey, you’re not boring and I’ll give you a top makeup lesson to get you back on track. Besides, I didn’t mean to insult your new friends. They were all very nice. I was just the odd one out, so naturally I found the conversation a bit one-sided. Anyway, look, let’s meet up for a slap-up dinner and lots of wine.’

  ‘I’d love that. Let’s do it soon!’

  ‘Great. I’ll call you next week.’

  I felt relieved: at least Jess was thinking about leaving the house. And if we met in a restaurant, she could concentrate on having a proper conversation. I’d get Lucy to come too. She got on well with Jess, although she was a bit cheesed off as she hadn’t heard from her since Sally was born, despite having called in with presents after the birth and talking regularly to her answering-machine.

  I decided not to call Jess and ask her about the ovulation test because then she’d know I was trying and she’d be looking at my stomach the whole time trying to figure out if I was pregnant or not. It had happened straight away for her, she had actually conceived on honeymoon, and I knew she’d be eager to help me out in her very sweet way, but I didn’t want any added pressure.

  I took myself to Boots and scoured the shelves of the family-planning section. There was a selection of brands. I opted for a five-pack of First Response ovulation sticks. Bloody expensive too – thirty euro for five measly sticks. I nearly put them back on the shelf, but then I remembered I’d spent sixty euro the day before on a funky long-sleeved T-shirt. Priorities, I reminded myself, priorities.

  When I got home, I opened the pack and took out the instructions. First Response claimed to predict the two days when you were most likely to become pregnant. Excellent, I liked that. It sounded very positive, very confident. I should have bought these sooner.

  Right, instructions:

  If you are having difficulty becoming pregnant it could be that you are not making love in the two days when you are most fertile, around the time of the ovulation.

  Mmm, yes, that was probably what we were doing wrong. Not getting the precise days right. OK, what did I need to do?

  The test will measure luteinizing hormone (LH), which is always present in your urine and increases just before your most fertile day of the month. This increase, or surge, in LH triggers ovulation, which is the release of an egg from an ovary.

  Oh, come on, we all knew that eggs were produced at ovulation; get to the point.

  The appearance of two easy-to-read purple lines in the test’s result window indicates your LH surge prior to ovulation. Most women will ovulate within 24–36 hours after the LH surge is detected. Predicting ovulation in advance is important because the egg can be fertilized only 6–24 hours after ovulation.

  Yikes, I had no idea you only had six hours. That was absurd. How the hell did anyone get pregnant? Six hours – come on, give a girl a chance.

  Your two most fertile days begin with the LH surge. You are most likely to become pregnant if you have intercourse within 24–36 hours after you detect the LH surge.

  What? But it said six hours and then it said twenty-four to thirty-six hours, so which was it? Not so bloody straightforward, after all. I decided to get on with the test.

  How to perform the
test: holding the stick by the thumb grip, with the absorbent tip pointing downward and the result window facing away from your body, place the absorbent tip in your urine stream for five seconds only.

  The ‘five seconds only’ was underlined. Jesus, I hadn’t thought I’d need a stop-watch.

  With the absorbent tip still pointing downward, replace the overcap and lay the stick on a flat surface with the result window facing up.

  I took off my watch and placed it on the sink. I was so busy staring at it to make sure I didn’t go over the five seconds that I ended up peeing all over my hand. Yuck. I washed my hands, laid the soggy stick flat, as instructed, and waited.

  While I was waiting for the results to show up, the phone rang. My mother left a message on the machine: ‘Are you there, Emma? Are you screening this call? Well, call me tomorrow. I need to talk to you about that sister of yours. She is out of control. Not to mention your useless father, who refuses to come into town shopping for a new jacket for his own party. I saw something for myself today in that nice boutique, Lillie’s, in town, and they’ve put it aside for me until tomorrow. I need you to come with me to tell me if it’s nice. It costs an arm and a leg, so I need to get a second opinion, but it’s very stylish. Are you there, Emma? OK, well, I might pop in later to describe it to you. Call me when you get this message.’

  Shoot, I’d forgotten to call the caterers about Dad’s sixtieth. I’d have to do it first thing in the morning. I also needed to call my brother Sean in London to see if he was going to bring anyone home for the party. I’d call him later …

  Shit, now I’d lost my train of thought. What was I supposed to be looking for? I grabbed the instructions.

  Reading the results – two similar purple lines mean that you have detected your LH surge, you should ovulate within the next 24–36 hours. A purple reference line and a light purple test line mean that you have not yet reached your LH surge. You should continue with daily testing until the two lines are the same purple colour.