The Baby Trail Read online

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘And you’ll come over early to do my makeup?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘OK, well, I’ll see you on Saturday. Be here by five so we have plenty of time.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘OK – you don’t think the shoes are too high?’

  ‘No, they’re perfect.’

  ‘Because I’ll be standing all night and I don’t want to be uncomfortable. I’m not used to such high heels. Maybe I should change them for the lower ones with the straps in that other shop.’

  ‘Mum, the shoes are lovely. Stop fussing.’

  ‘Well, it’s all very well but I’m not as young as I used to be and I can’t wear such high shoes any more. Maybe I should change them.’

  ‘Mum! The shoes are fine.’

  ‘I don’t want to look like mutton dressed up as lamb. I think I’ll change them. You shouldn’t have let me buy them, Emma, they’re too high.’

  ‘Fine, change them. Wear Wellington boots and a housecoat. I don’t care any more. I’ll see you on Saturday,’ I said, and drove off at top speed before I stabbed her with the high-heeled shoes.

  When I got home James was finishing a telephone interview with the Irish Times. ‘Yes, I’m confident that we’ll beat Perpignan next week … No, I’m not daunted by playing them on their home turf, we’re looking forward to the challenge … I think our front row is the best in Europe … Donal Brady is a great asset to the team and an excellent captain. He’s a great motivator … Well, let’s win this match first before we start talking about the semi-final … OK, Gary, see you in France next week.’

  James hung up and kissed me. ‘Good day with your mother?’

  ‘Nightmare. She was like a lunatic. James, what did you mean there, “see you in France next week”?’

  ‘It was Gary Brown from the Times. He’s coming to cover the match next Saturday in Perpignan.’

  ‘I thought your match was here.’

  ‘No, it’s an away match.’

  ‘Well, you can’t go.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You can’t go. It’s day fourteen.’

  ‘Oh, you mean your dad’s party. No, of course I’m here for that. The match is next week.’

  Jesus, did I have to spell it out? ‘No, James, it’s day fourteen of my cycle. We have to have sex on that day so you can’t be in France.’

  ‘Emma, it’s the quarter-final of the European Cup.’

  ‘I know, but we can’t skip a month. It’s been five months already and nothing. I don’t want to miss one. At this rate I’ll never get pregnant. Can’t you just go for the day?’

  ‘No, I can’t. We’re going for five days. We need to train out there for a few days before the match. I’m sorry, darling, but this is non-negotiable.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could leave some sperm behind and I could use a turkey-baster or something.’ I’d read about the turkey-baster in some old novel. I realize it was a desperate measure but I was beginning to panic. James would be gone from day twelve to day sixteen. It was a disaster. The months were slipping by and my biological clock was ticking away. I’d never get pregnant at this rate.

  ‘Emma, calm down. It’s just one month. It’s no big deal. We’ll focus next month, I promise,’ James said, laughing at the turkey-baster idea. I knew it was silly but I could feel myself getting really hot and bothered. I wanted to do everything I could to get pregnant and those were key days.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to come to France.’

  ‘But, Emma, I won’t have any spare time. I have to be totally focused. This is the biggest match of my career. If we win this it’ll be the furthest Leinster have ever got. It’s a really big deal and I can’t be distracted. It’s all about training and team-bonding.’

  ‘I don’t care, I’m coming. I’m sure you can spare me fifteen minutes a day. I know it’s a really important match and I won’t distract you, but I’m coming.’

  ‘It’ll be really boring for you. I won’t have a spare minute.’

  ‘James, I’m only looking for a few minutes of your precious time. Come on, it’s not going to kill you or wear you out, and I promise not to get in your way.’

  The problem with baby-making was that it had pretty much wiped out the spontaneous rip-your-clothes-off sex we were used to. Now it was all about timing and dates, whereas before we had just hopped on each other whenever the mood took us. The focus had changed from pleasure to which-is-the-best-position-to-help-the-sperm-reach-the-egg-quickly sex. Still, if that was what it took, then that was what we had to do.

  I could see James was not happy about the prospect of me tagging along to France. He was really nervous about the match and he wanted to be there for the team one hundred per cent. But I wasn’t going to distract him. I just needed his sperm once a day.

  ‘I really don’t think it’s a great idea, but if you promise not to get annoyed when you’re left on your own all day and not wake me up in the middle of the night for chats because you can’t sleep then I suppose it’s OK. I’ll allocate you two minutes and twenty-five seconds of my very precious time.’

  ‘Very generous of you to allocate two minutes for foreplay,’ I said, grinning. ‘I promise not to pester you when you’re coaching. In fact, you won’t even know I’m there,’ I said.

  ‘Somehow, Emma, I doubt it.’

  That Saturday I went to my parents’ house at five to do my mother’s makeup. I had organized caterers to serve the food and set up a bar so that Mum and Dad could enjoy the party without having to worry about people’s glasses being empty, or them not having enough to eat.

  When I arrived, Dad was skulking around in his new suit, looking harassed. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Your mother’s like a lunatic. I’m going to hide out in the study. I’ve had to change my tie three times already. Good luck!’ he said, and scampered off.

  I went upstairs to my mother who was sitting in her bathrobe, hair in curlers, on the phone to my Auntie Pam. ‘No, I’m just wearing an old dress I have from years ago. Nothing fancy at all. OK, well, Emma has just arrived so I’ll go. I’ll see you later, Pam. ’Bye now.’

  ‘An old dress from years ago?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘What are you like?’

  ‘Emma, people don’t need to know your business. As I’ve said to you before, keep yourself to yourself. Now, what’s this about Sean bringing a girl? He called me this morning to say he’s bringing someone and that he told you last week, and you never said a word to me. What’s going on? Who is she? Is it serious?’

  ‘Well, Mum, I was just keeping myself to myself.’

  ‘Stop that nonsense. Now, who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Amy, she’s Irish, and he seems to like her, but it’s early days so don’t be getting too excited.’

  ‘Oh, lovely, an Irish girl. What does she do?’

  ‘She’s an actress.’

  ‘An actress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ My mother was suddenly less enthusiastic. ‘What does she act in?’

  ‘Who?’ said Babs, strolling in mid-conversation and throwing herself on to the bed.

  ‘Sean’s new girlfriend. He’s bringing her to the party tonight,’ I said, filling her in. ‘Apparently she has been having great difficulty getting parts because she’s too pretty.’

  ‘What?’ they both said.

  ‘Too good-looking? What a load of bollocks,’ said Babs.

  ‘Barbara, there is no need for foul language. What do you mean she’s too pretty? I thought that would be an advantage.’

  ‘I agree. Look, I’m just telling you what Sean told me. We can ask her ourselves when we meet her. Sean said she’s a stunner.’

  ‘Compared to who? Gwen McKenna, the dog he was snogging at Christmas?’ Babs sniggered, flicking her blonde hair back over her shoulder. She was a real head-turner – tall, thin and blonde – and she kne
w it. Her face was actually not her best feature, she had inherited Dad’s rather large nose and square jaw, but she had nice blue eyes and lovely long, thick, very blonde (bleached) hair and a knock-out figure. She ate like a pig and was stick thin, but she was only twenty – in a few years she’d have to work at it, everyone did. I was looking forward to the day when she’d have to go to the gym like the rest of us mere mortals to keep the blubber at bay.

  ‘Babs, don’t be so mean. Gwen is attractive in her own way.’ In fairness Gwen was very unattractive, God love her, but Babs was far too dismissive of people for her own good.

  ‘Oh, get over yourself, Mother Teresa. She’s a minger. Anyway, I’m off to have my shower.’

  ‘Barbara?’ said my mother, looking very serious all of a sudden. ‘I’m warning you now. You are to wear something respectable this evening. It’s your father’s sixtieth birthday, not a nightclub. I’m not having you showing us up in front of the relations. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Relax, I’ll dress like a nun.’

  Two hours later – having made up my mother, who complained that I was being heavy-handed, and Babs, who complained I was putting on far too little – we were ready. I was wearing a red wraparound dress – which, surprisingly, didn’t clash with my hair. Thankfully, it had got darker as I got older so it was now more auburn than ginger. Babs was wearing skin-tight, very low-cut (of the almost-exposing-her-pubic-hair variety) snake-skin trousers and a beige boob tube. She only came down after Sean had arrived with Amy so Mum couldn’t cause a scene.

  Amy was very pretty – stunning face, beautiful porcelain skin, great smile – and had short, blonde hair. She was, however, small and a touch – shall we say, curvy? For some unknown reason she was dressed like someone who didn’t have a mirror at home. Lucy and I called girls like her ‘friends-and-family girls’. As in, how the hell could their friends and family let them go out dressed like that? Surely if any good friend saw you wearing something that really didn’t flatter you, they’d mention it. Or, at least, your mother would … Well, mine certainly would.

  Amy was wearing a tight backless silver dress that did nothing for her curves. Her neck was covered in a silver choker, with GUCCI emblazoned across the front – handy for those who wanted to know where she had bought it but were too shy to ask.

  Sean was standing with his arm round her looking like the cat that got the cream. He was delighted with her and, in fairness, I could see why. She was by far the best-looking girl he had ever been with. James was clearly impressed too. ‘Very nice to meet you, Amy. Great dress,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, I got it in Harrods. That’s the great thing about London – the choice of shops is so good. Dublin’s such a backwater when it comes to fashion. And the social life in London is so much better, there’s no comparison. Why on earth did you come to live here?’ asked Amy, turning up her delicate little nose at the thought.

  ‘To be honest, I think London’s full of tossers, present company excluded, of course,’ said James, smiling at Sean. ‘Anyway, it’s a well-known fact that redheads are fantastic in bed,’ he added, winking at me. ‘Now, who needs a refill?’

  The doorbell rang, and for the next hour my uncles and aunts and friends of my parents flowed through the door. The men all made a beeline for James to congratulate him on winning the match and to quiz him about his plans for the quarter-final. They huddled in the corner analysing the players, trying to outdo each other with statistics and rugby trivia. Everyone had an opinion on how Leinster should approach the game in Perpignan and they all wanted to voice it.

  Meanwhile, in the other corner, Amy was holding court. She was telling my aunties how wonderful London was, as if they were hillbillies who’d never been further than the local barn dance. ‘… The restaurants are so superior to the ones here and the bars are so cool. My agent is always taking me to these new places – he’s really well connected so we get tables at all the top restaurants.’

  ‘Your agent, did you say?’ said my Auntie Tara.

  ‘Yes, I’m an actress.’

  ‘Oh, how exciting. What parts have you played?’

  ‘Well, I nearly got a part in EastEnders but they said I was too good-looking,’ said our future Hollywood star.

  ‘So, have you actually acted in anything?’ asked Babs.

  ‘Well, I’m doing auditions at the moment, and if I don’t get a part soon, I’ll probably go to Hollywood. My agent thinks I should go straight into movies. The American market is more open to hiring good-looking women.’

  ‘Would you ever think of coming back to Dublin and trying your luck here?’ I asked, a bit fed up with listening to her pie-eyed fantasies.

  ‘Come back here? Are you mad? The best thing I ever did was getting out of this dump. If you want to be successful you can’t sit around Dublin waiting to be discovered. London and New York are where it’s at.’

  ‘What auditions are you going for?’ asked Babs.

  ‘I’m currently preparing for an audition for a part in the new Barclays ad.’

  ‘Barclays Bank?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s a new ad campaign they’re running for their new branding, so it’s a really big deal.’

  OK, come on. She had to be joking. An ad for a bank was a really big deal and involved preparation? Give me a break. It’s not exactly Shakespeare. I decided to try to be open-minded for Sean’s sake. Maybe this ad was going to break the mould and be like a mini-movie or something.’

  ‘So what does it entail?’

  ‘Well, I’m going for the bank manager’s part. I have ten lines of fairly complex dialogue and it has to be delivered in a friendly but professional manner. It’s very difficult to get the tone exactly right, but my acting coach and Sean have been helping me out,’ she said, smiling over at Sean.

  Acting coach? For a Mickey Mouse part in some crappy bank advert?

  ‘So when’s the big audition?’ asked Babs, who I could see was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Next week, so I have a few more days to go over my lines with my coach. My agent says this could be my big break. The coverage would be huge. It will air after every prime-time show on TV and my face will be on all the billboards around London. You can’t buy that kind of publicity. It will make my career.’

  ‘Wow! I had no idea bank ads were such a springboard for success,’ said Babs, still managing somehow to keep a straight face.

  ‘Well, a bank ad here in Ireland obviously wouldn’t be any good, but an English one being watched by millions of people could make you famous overnight.’

  ‘Well, I hope you get the part,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I will, my coach says I’m word-perfect,’ said the shy, retiring Amy.

  I had to get up and move away. This girl was an idiot and a delusional one at that. Granted, she had a lovely face, but she was no movie star in the making, and she talked a lot of crap. I was pouring myself a large vodka when my Auntie Pam came up and dug her bony fingers into my arm. Pam was a real nosy-parker – of the curtain-twitching variety – and drove us all mad. She was my father’s youngest sister and even he wasn’t too keen on her.

  ‘Well, Emma, how’s married life?’ she asked.

  ‘Great, thanks, Pam,’ I said, throwing back a glug of vodka.

  ‘I see you’ve put on a bit of weight since I saw you last? Have you news for us? Is Dan about to be a granddad?’

  Oh, great. Just what I needed – some annoying old bag telling me I looked fat and reminding me that I wasn’t pregnant.

  ‘No, Pam, he isn’t.’

  ‘Oh, now, I know you young ones don’t like to say anything till after the first three months. My Julie was the same. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,’ said the biggest mouth in Ireland, winking at me.

  ‘No, Pam,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m not pregnant. There is no baby on the way.’ I wanted to make it crystal clear so she couldn’t misinterpret it in any way and cause more embarrassment by telling everyone Dad was about to be
a grandfather.

  ‘Oh, well, now. You’d want to get on with it. Aren’t you married over a year? Your mother would love a little grandchild. She sees how fond I am of mine and has often said she’d love some of her own. You don’t want to leave it too late, Emma, you’re not a slip of a thing any more.’

  ‘Yes, thanks for reminding me, Pam.’ God, the woman was maddening. Just because her daughter had sprouted five kids in seven years didn’t mean the rest of us wanted to. Now I felt fat and barren.

  By the end of the night I had been asked by my Auntie Tara if I was feeling broody, my Auntie Aisling if there was a pitter-patter of tiny feet on the way any time soon, and my Auntie Doreen if I was going to bring up my children in the Catholic faith.

  Fifteen years ago, at the time of the moving statues in Ireland, Doreen had gone down to stand in a field with thousands of others to stare at a statue of Our Lady that was said to have moved and spoken to one of the local girls. After five hours in the field, Doreen was convinced she saw it move – my father claimed it was because Doreen was swaying from exhaustion after standing still for so long. From that day forth, Doreen had given up drinking and smoking and now attended Mass every single day, without fail. She was always preaching to her wayward relations and was particularly keen to convert James – who, thus far, had managed to dodge her.

  Doreen spent her holidays in Fatima, Lourdes and Medjugorje with all the other pilgrims. She told me she was very concerned that I might bring up my children as Protestants and they would never know the true wonder of Our Lady. ‘The Catholic faith has brought me great joy, Emma. I hope you’ll give your children the chance to be brought up in this wonderful religion.’

  I was a lapsed Catholic who hadn’t been to Mass in ten years, but I was planning on bringing up the children I was trying to conceive as Catholics. Although I might not have seen the inside of a church in a while, all those years spent in the school chapel had rubbed off on me – once a Catholic, always a Catholic. James said that as long as our children didn’t become priests or nuns he was quite happy for them to be brought up Catholic. It made sense as we lived in a predominantly Catholic country, he said, and as he had no ties to the Church of England, he was OK with it.