A Perfect Match Page 8

  11

  We rang in the New Year, drinking wine on the couch, while watching some dreadful programme on the ‘year that was’. We had planned to go out, but after a week of Henry, Imogen and the kids, we were exhausted.

  ‘This doesn’t bode well for when we have our own children,’ I said, fishing about in the box of Quality Street for the sweet with the strawberry centre. ‘If we are this worn out after a week, what’ll we be like when we come back from Russia with a baby of our own, who we have to look after twenty-four/seven?’

  ‘It’ll be easier with just one, and Thomas can be a bit of a handful.’

  ‘Do my ears deceive me? Did you just admit that Thomas is a brat?’

  ‘No, darling, I said handful. I was very careful not to use the word brat. It’s not as if you need any encouragement to give out about him.’

  ‘I know, but he really is awful. What if we get a mini-Russian Thomas? What will we do? We can’t send him back, can we?’

  ‘No, we definitely can’t do that. Boarding school should sort him out.’

  ‘You can’t send a toddler to boarding school.’

  ‘OK then, we’ll just get Auntie Babs to come over and frighten the life out of him,’ he said, with one eye on the television, as they announced the upcoming sports highlights of the year.

  ‘I hope we don’t have to wait too much longer.’

  ‘Mmmm, me too. Excellent, they’re showing the rugby.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you’ll be a brilliant dad.’

  ‘So do I,’ he said, grinning and turning his attention back to the TV as the BBC played the highlights of England’s rugby World Cup victory in Sydney for the zillionth time.

  ‘Yesssss, what a game,’ said James. ‘If only Barry O’Reilly could kick like Jonny Wilkinson, we’d really be in with a chance of winning the cup this year …’

  ‘James?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’ll be a great mother?’ I asked, feeling a bit put out that he hadn’t said so.

  ‘Go on, Jonny! What a moment to drop a goal like that. The man’s a genius,’ said James, punching his fist in the air, as if he was seeing it for the first time.

  ‘James!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will I bloody well be a good mother or not?’

  ‘Not if you roar at the children like that. However, if you nipped into the kitchen and made me a toasted cheese sandwich – thereby showing your selflessness, generosity and culinary skills – I may be persuaded to alter my opinion.’

  *

  One of my new year resolutions was to hire a cleaning woman – an excellent resolution to make, if I say so myself. You have to know your strengths and weaknesses in life, and cleaning was not one of my stronger points. My contract to do the make-up on Afternoon with Amanda five days a week had been renewed and I had got a raise, so with that and weddings and the odd photo shoot, it was going to be a good year for me financially. I could hire a cleaning woman without feeling guilty about it.

  I called Lucy to see if the woman who cleaned her house would work for me.

  ‘Hi, I need to get a cleaning woman.’

  ‘About bloody time, everyone should have one.’

  ‘I agree – when I discovered a mouldy apple under our bed as I was cleaning the house for Henry and Imogen’s visit, I realized I needed help.’

  ‘Emma, that’s disgusting,’ said Lucy, laughing.

  ‘I know, I’m ashamed of myself. So do you think Helena would clean my house?’

  ‘Afraid not. I asked her if she’d do a few extra hours for me now I’m living with Donal, whose hygiene habits leave a lot to be desired, and she said she’s too busy. But she did say she had a friend who might help out. Hang on, I’ll get Helena’s number and you can call her yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, you’re a star. So, are you free to meet up next week for a drink?’

  ‘Love to, but I’m going to the States on business for ten days and then spending a week with Dad. I’ll give you a call when I get back.’

  ‘Will you miss Donal, d’you think?’

  ‘The tragic thing is – I will. I’ve turned into one of those sad soppy girls I used to scorn, who can’t stand to be away from their man. What’s happening to me? I’m pathetic!’

  ‘Aaaah, true love’s a beautiful thing.’

  ‘I’m hanging up.’

  I called Helena, who was very nice and said she had a cousin over from Poland who would be interested. Two days later Danika arrived on my doorstep.

  ‘Hello, I am Danika. I am cleaning.’

  OK, so her English wasn’t fluent, but it was a far sight better than my Polish. We’d manage with lots of sign language and goodwill. I welcomed her in and showed her around, telling her what I’d like her to do. I was a bit embarrassed, because I didn’t want to seem like a sergeant major barking out orders, but then again if I came across as a walkover, she’d probably just come every week, watch TV and spray air freshener around. Something similar had actually happened to Lucy. A few years ago, she came home one day and found Sisi, her Philippino cleaner, lying on the couch on the phone to her family in Manila, drinking a beer.

  Danika, however, seemed very enthusiastic and when she was leaving I asked her if it would be OK for her to come on Thursdays.

  ‘Fruesday, yah.’

  ‘Uhm, no, Thursday,’ I said, not sure if Fruesday was Friday, Tuesday or Thursday.

  ‘Tah, Frensday.’

  ‘No, I mean Thursday, you know Thursday,’ I said, trying to articulate as well as Felicity Kendal used to in The Good Life – it used to annoy me a bit the way she over-emphasized every word and always looked as if she was going to burst into fits of giggles. First of all, your man Tom wasn’t that funny, and, secondly, she lived in a pigsty with no clothes except for a pair of filthy dungarees and old wellies, was surrounded by smelly animals all day and had no dosh … was I missing something?

  ‘Yah, yah, Fruesday,’ Danika said slowly, giving me Poland’s version of Felicity.

  I smiled back, admitting defeat, and spent the next week leaving notes and money for her on a daily basis. She came on Friday, which was fine really as it meant the house was nice and clean for the weekend. And, as Oprah says, compromise is key, and, let’s be honest, if she didn’t understand face to face, what hope did I have over the phone? Friday was fine.

  By the time February came around the Russian tapes were still sitting in the box they had been delivered in before Christmas. I decided it was high time James and I got stuck in. I opened the box and began to read about the background to the Russian language:

  Russian is written in the Cyrillic alphabet dating from around the ninth century. Although at first glance it appears quite different, a number of letters are written and pronounced as in English (A, K, M, O and T). Whereas other letters are written in the Roman alphabet but are pronounced differently, i.e. Y/y is pronounced ‘oo’ as in food and X/x is pronounced ‘ch’ as in the Scottish word ‘loch’.

  I glanced down at some of the key words printed on the leaflet.

  Da = Yes

  HeT: Net = No

  Κaκ Aeпa?: Κak dila? = How are you?

  There appeared to be a translation within the translation. Why was it going from squiggly, illegible writing to writing I could read? If I said ‘Kak dila’ were the Russian people going to understand me or was that just a translation for plebs who were trying to learn the language but couldn’t read the old Roman-type letters? Did the Russians have the first translation too, or was it just for beginners? Did Russian students have an equivalent translation when they learnt English, like – ‘Clothes’: klows = whatever ‘clothes’ are in Russian?

  I decided to read on, maybe it would get a bit clearer:

  … there are three persons and three genders: masculine, feminine and neutral. There are six cases: Nominative, Genitive, Dative, Accusative, Instrumental and Prepositional … verbs conjugat
e according to person, number, tense, voice and mood …

  Bloody hell, how was I ever going to learn this language? I couldn’t even speak passable French. OK, I needed to be realistic. The likelihood of my being fluent in Russian this millennium, was slim to none. I’d learn key phrases and worry about learning grammar when little Yuri or Lara was older. I looked down the list of phrases and picked out ones I felt would come in handy.

  When James came home I got him to sit down and practise with me. He was even worse at languages than I was, so we agreed to keep it simple and learn: How are you? You are very beautiful, I love you very much. Which we hoped was: Kak dila? Ty ocheen’ krasivaya. Ya (ochin’) tibya ljublju. Granted, it was a long way from the fluent speakers we had set out to be, but at least it’d get the point across. Despite the brackets around ‘ochin’, we decided to keep it in. We wanted our baby to know that we loved them ‘very much’. Maybe we’d even throw in a second ‘ochin’ just to make sure they knew how we felt.

  During the third week in February, six months after my initial enquiry about the adoption, I received a letter from the wonderful Julie Logan, senior executive officer of the Health Board’s Intercountry Adoption section. She was delighted to inform me, that due to a number of couples dropping out for various reasons, James and I had obtained a place on the adoption course, beginning 25 March. I screamed the house down and tried to call James, but he had his mobile switched off, so I jumped into the car and drove down to the training ground.

  James was in the middle of the pitch surrounded by numbers one to eight of the team, giving them a lecture on some type of new move, when I came charging across squealing and screeching at the top of my lungs.

  ‘Jaaaaaaaaames, we got it. We’re in!’ I bellowed, as James, looking decidedly embarrassed turned around. I threw myself at him and, in my enthusiasm, knocked him over and landed on top of his chest.

  ‘Ah, come on now, get a room,’ said Donal, laughing.

  ‘Emma!’ said James, clambering to his feet. ‘I’m in the middle of training. Whatever it is, I’m sure it could have waited.’

  ‘No! I had to tell you straight away. We’re in, James, we’re in. We’ve got a place on the next adoption course. We’re starting in two weeks,’ I shouted, half-laughing, half-crying.

  ‘Oh,’ said James.

  ‘Fantastic news,’ said Donal, as he and the other players patted us on the back and then moved off to give us some privacy.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I asked. ‘You don’t seem very excited.’

  ‘You just took me by surprise,’ said James, catching his breath. ‘It’s great news. A little daunting, but great. Yes, really great,’ he said, hugging me as the news sunk in.

  ‘Ya ochin’ ochin’ tibya ljublju,’ I said, sniffling into his jumper.

  ‘Y’o skin, tibia, jubly to you too.’

  12

  While Lucy was in New York she found herself missing Donal – a lot. She couldn’t wait to see him when she got home. He had said he’d pick her up from the airport, despite the fact that the flight was landing at 5.30 a.m., as he was dying to see her. On landing, Lucy scuttled into the airport toilet and changed out of her ‘travelling tracksuit’ into her newly purchased Victoria Secret underwear, figure-hugging jeans and tight black top. She put on her make-up, brushed her hair and examined herself in the mirror. Not bad. She felt her stomach flip when she thought of seeing Donal again.

  She waited impatiently for her bags to come off the carousel and just about managed to stop herself from running out the arrivals door. She looked around eagerly to find Donal. She thought she’d spot him straight away as he was so tall, but she couldn’t see him anywhere. She skirted around the crowd, but there was still no sign of him. Maybe he got stuck in traffic, she thought. Yes, that was probably it – oh well, so much for the dramatic exit. She sat down and called his mobile. It was switched off. Maybe he’s in the underground car park, she thought. Yes, that’s it.

  Twenty minutes and ten attempted calls later, she began to get worried. Maybe he was in a crash. Oh my God, maybe he was lying on the middle of the road, dead. It’d be just her bloody luck. She finally meets the man she loves and his car gets mowed down by a truck on his way to collect her. Alone again. She tried to calm down by telling herself not to be so ridiculous. There was probably some very simple reason that he was late, maybe his car broke down or maybe he had injured himself in yesterday’s match. Yes, that was probably what had happened. He was always getting injured. He had probably sprained his ankle or something – well, then, why hadn’t he called? If it was a simple excuse, why hadn’t he called to let her know?

  Lucy decided to get a taxi home. She’d left several messages on Donal’s phone and, for the moment, there was nothing else she could really do. As the taxi driver droned on about the shocking price of petrol, the long hours, the traffic, the disastrous results of the Irish soccer team … Lucy began to panic again. She had a horrible feeling something dreadful had happened to Donal. Oh God, she thought, as she arrived to the house, his car wasn’t in the driveway. Her stomach sank, but when she opened the door, Donal was lying face down on the couch snoring loudly, and the room reeked of stale alcohol. All Lucy’s concern and worry turned to anger.

  ‘You big thick hairy savage. Where the hell were you? I thought you were dead!’

  ‘What? Who?’ said Donal, waking up as Lucy ranted and raved at him.

  ‘… selfish bugger … promised you’d collect me … unreliable tosser.’

  ‘Mercy – please. Stop shouting,’ he begged, as his brain began to catch up. ‘Lucy, I’m sorry. I went out for one pint last night – I even took the car because I was only having one drink – but it turned into a bit of a session and I got in so late that I decided there was no point going to bed. So I stayed up and watched TV till it was time to go and collect you. It seemed like a great idea last night. I must have nodded off. Sorry about that. Come here to me, you gorgeous thing. I’m delighted to see you.’

  ‘Get away. You stink of booze. Thanks a lot – some welcome home this is,’ said Lucy, pushing past him and stomping into the bedroom.

  ‘Come on, Lucy, forgive me. I’d all the best intentions, I just got carried away last night with the excitement of you coming home and one thing led to another and I had too much to drink. What can I say, I’m a disgrace to myself and my family and my country.’

  ‘Piss off. I’m too annoyed to talk to you. I’m going to get some sleep,’ she said, throwing her bag on the floor.

  ‘Hit me. Go on, give me a belt, I deserve it. Let your anger out. Come on, thump me,’ said Donal, obliging her by bending down.

  ‘I’m not going to hit you. Just go away.’

  ‘Come on, hit me. It’ll make you feel better and it’ll make me feel better. Come on, go for it,’ he said, lifting her arm.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on, just do it, will you.’

  ‘OK then,’ said Lucy, swinging a punch that landed right in the middle of Donal’s nose.

  ‘Jesus Christ! I said hit me, not break my bloody nose,’ said Donal, staggering backwards.

  ‘You told me to punch you,’ said Lucy, feeling guilty as blood began to trickle down Donal’s chin.

  ‘Yes, because I thought you were a girl, not Mike feckin Tyson in drag. Jesus, I think you’ve broken it.’

  ‘Sorry, but you shouldn’t have wound me up. I’ll get some ice.’

  ‘Where the hell did you learn to swing a punch like that?’ asked Donal, following her into the kitchen.

  ‘They had these self-defence classes at work last year, so I went along,’ said Lucy, fumbling around in the freezer.

  ‘I pity the poor fecker that ever tries to attack you – he’ll end up in traction. Did you ever think about taking anger management classes? It might be safer for the rest of us.’

  ‘Shut up and hold this to your nose.’

  ‘I’ve missed you, Rocky,’ said Donal, grinning from under the packet of frozen peas,
pressed to his nose.

  ‘Me too. It’s a pity you’re injured, you should see the underwear I’ve got on.’

  ‘I’m a quick healer,’ said Donal, chucking the peas to one side and throwing Lucy over his shoulder, as he charged into the bedroom.

  When Lucy woke up later that afternoon, she saw Donal examining his nose in the mirror.

  ‘Is it bad?’ she asked.

  ‘The good news is that despite your best efforts, you didn’t break it. The bad news is that I’m going to look like this for a few days,’ he said, turning around to show her two black eyes.

  ‘Oh shit, Donal, I’m sorry,’ said Lucy.

  ‘You’re forgiven. One look at that underwear and I forgot all about my nose. Besides, I’m well used to being battered about on the rugby pitch.’

  Lucy winced as she looked at his swollen eyes. ‘I have something for you that might make up for the punch. It’s a little something I picked up in New York. I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘More sexy underwear from the amazing Victoria Secret? That woman should be knighted for her services to the male species.’

  ‘No. Hang on,’ said Lucy, fishing about in her bag. ‘Here it is.’

  She handed him a parcel.

  He opened it. It was a framed picture of Pamela Anderson. It said, ‘To Donal, good luck in the Cup this year, captain. Love Pamela x x’.

  Donal looked up, mouth open.

  ‘She was staying in my hotel, and I know what a fan you are, so I told her you were this superstar sportsman in Ireland and asked her to sign a picture for me. She was really nice about it,’ said Lucy, grinning at him.

  Donal came over and kissed her.

  ‘This is the best present I’ve ever been given. Wait’ll I show the lads. So come on, tell me, how did she look?’

  ‘I have to admit – stunning.’

  ‘Lucy Hogan, you never cease to amaze me,’ said Donal, shaking his head. ‘Some guys come home to a girl in an apron, baking apple pies. I come home to Mike Tyson, wielding autographs of Playboy centrefolds. Where have you been all my life?’