The Baby Trail Page 8

  Unfortunately Doreen got me towards the end of the evening – I had had enough of the baby torment and was watching James having a great time huddled in the corner, still analysing rugby with the men. I had to get away from Doreen, so I landed James in it. I told her that he was insisting on bringing up our children as Protestants and I needed her to go over and work on bringing him round. She scooted over to him and got him in a headlock.

  Sean came over to me, laughing. ‘Poor old James, should I save him?’

  ‘No, let him sweat it out a bit, I’ve had enough of our aunties for one night. Jesus, if one more person asks me if I’m pregnant or when I’m going to have kids, I’ll hit them.’

  ‘Oh dear, that bad?’

  ‘Yes! Do I look fat in this dress?’

  ‘Yep, huge. You look like you’re carrying twins.’

  ‘Hilarious, you’re nearly as funny as James.’

  ‘So – what do you think?’ asked Sean.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Amy?’

  ‘Oh, of course, sorry. She seems lovely and I see what you mean about her being so pretty. You seem very keen.’

  ‘Yeah, I am. I think this could be it for me, Emma. I really do.’

  Jesus, not her! I didn’t want Sean marrying her: she was an idiot. I looked at his face as he caught her eye and called her over. He was besotted – oh, God, he really was keen – I’d have to try again. Maybe she was one of those people who grew on you. I decided to be super-nice.

  ‘Hi, Pooh Bear,’ she said, kissing him.

  What a ridiculous thing to call someone. It was pathetic. I looked at Sean – it was the kind of cutesy name he would normally have scorned but he was beaming at her. He was definitely in love.

  ‘So, how have you found tonight? Not too stressful, I hope?’ I said, in super-friendly mode.

  ‘Yeah, it’s been fine. I always find coming back to Dublin a bit depressing, though. Everyone’s so parochial. It’s like living in a goldfish bowl. Nothing exciting happens here. I mean, I was in The Ivy recently with my agent and we were sitting two tables down from Liz Hurley. That would never happen here. London is so glamorous. Aren’t you tempted to move there with James?’

  No, you stupid cow, I am not. People like you – lepers who go to London and think they’re hot chilli peppers because they sat two seats down from some B-list celeb in a posh restaurant – are just sad. ‘No, I’m not tempted at all. James loves it here too, so we’re happy to stay put,’ I said. ‘I think I can live without seeing Liz Hurley.’

  ‘Well, maybe when you get older and married and have kids and stuff you want a more boring life,’ said Amy, endearing herself to me with every syllable. ‘But I could think of nothing worse, could you, Pooh Bear?’

  Pooh Bear decided to sit on the fence – as bears do.

  ‘I think there are pros and cons to both. Hey, James, you managed to escape Doreen’s clutches,’ said Sean, as James joined us.

  ‘Yes, I did, no thanks to my wife,’ he said, glaring at me. ‘She seems to be under the illusion that I’m a staunch Prod who’s demanding to bring up the children I don’t have as Protestants. Where did she get this notion, Emma?’

  I began to laugh. ‘Sorry, James, she was doing my head in so I fobbed her off on you.’

  ‘Well, you owe me. The woman had me saying decades of the rosary. Christ, it was awful.’

  Sean and I laughed at the thought, but the humourless Amy piped up, ‘Well, James, if you lived in London you wouldn’t have to put up with any of this backward Irish Catholicism. It’s so embarrassing.’

  ‘What’s embarrassing?’ said Babs, barging into the middle of the conversation.

  ‘Doreen’s been trying to convert James,’ said Sean.

  ‘Ha-ha, I was wondering what she was doing with the rosary beads out. That’s not embarrassing, it’s hilarious.’

  ‘Hilarious for you, maybe, not so much fun for me. My conversation went from tactical kicking to the wonder that is the Virgin Mary,’ said James, beginning to laugh too.

  ‘Well, in London people don’t behave like that. I’m so glad we’re going back tomorrow, Pooh Bear.’

  ‘What?’ squealed Babs. ‘Did she just call you “Pooh Bear”, Sean? Now, that’s what I call embarrassing.’

  ‘Barbara, for once in your life shut up,’ snapped Sean.

  ‘OK, Pooh Bear, I will. Would Pooey-Wooey like a dwinky-winky?’

  I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the kitchen – before Sean lost his temper – where we dissolved into fits of giggles.

  ‘We have to get rid of her,’ said Babs.

  ‘Yeah, but he really likes her. It’s going to be difficult.’

  ‘She’s such a leper.’

  ‘I know. I wish she’d fuck off back to bloody London and leave us and Pooh Bear in peace.’

  10

  A few days later I was on the plane with James and the Leinster squad. I was the only woman among thirty men and James had been slagged mercilessly about it. They all wanted to know why I was coming when their respective girlfriends and wives were flying in on the morning of the match. James had banned them from coming out any sooner because they would be a distraction and, in his infinite wisdom, had made up some story about me needing cheering up. I discovered this when Donal slapped me on the back as we were checking into the hotel and said, ‘I hope you’re feeling better. You’re far too young and good-looking to be depressed.’

  I looked over at James, who was handing out the room keys and studiously ignoring me. When we got to our room I pounced. ‘Why does Donal think I’m depressed?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You have no idea? None at all?’

  James turned round and sighed. ‘OK, well, everyone wanted to know why you were coming with me so I said you needed cheering up – I couldn’t think of anything else on the spot and I was hardly going to tell them that you were coming out for the sex.’

  ‘But what did you tell them I needed cheering up for?’ I demanded, none too happy about being thought of as a looper by the squad.

  ‘I didn’t specify, I just said you were a bit down so I thought it best to bring you with me.’

  ‘In case I stuck my head in the oven?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you just say you wanted me here to support you?’

  ‘Because, Emma, none of the other boys have their partners here, remember? Because I banned them from coming over before the game in case they were a distraction. So it doesn’t look too good that I have you with me.’

  ‘Yeah, but why did you have to say I was depressed? Do you think I’m depressed?’

  ‘No, and I didn’t say “depressed”. I said “needed cheering up”.’

  ‘But why did you say it? Do you think I’m depressed about the baby stuff?’

  ‘No, but maybe a little tense.’

  ‘What do you mean “tense”?’

  ‘Emma, you insisted on coming with me because of dates, refusing to wait until next month, putting me in an awkward position with the team, so I said you were a bit down, OK?’

  ‘Well, if one of us doesn’t track my fertile days, we’ll never have a baby. I don’t think that’s uptight, I think that’s common sense. If I could get pregnant on my own, believe me I wouldn’t have trekked out here with you and thirty smelly rugby players. I can think of much better ways to spend my time. And I’m sorry I’m cramping your style, but you’re the coach, so you can do what you want. I bet you Alex Ferguson brings Mrs Ferguson on trips to Manchester United matches and doesn’t give a toss what the players say.’

  ‘Have you ever seen Lady Ferguson on the sidelines?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted grumpily. ‘But I bet if Roy Keane’s wife wanted to go away with him, he wouldn’t tell the whole team she was certifiable.’

  There was a knock on the door. It was Dave Carney, the assistant coach. He was coming to tell James the bus was there to take them to the training ground.
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  ‘Now? You’re going already? But we’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘I told you it was going to be non-stop.’

  ‘Well, what time will you be back at?’

  ‘I should be here for a quick shower before dinner at seven,’ James said, grabbing his sports bag and heading out the door as fast as he could.

  ‘Well, if anyone asks, you can tell them your depressed wife is feeling better.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And don’t join in any of the play, just stick to the sidelines. I don’t want you having any injuries.’

  ‘Fine. I have to go now, they’re waiting. I’ll see you later.’

  I sat on the bed and sighed. This baby lark was really getting to me. Did all women go through this? Trail around after their husbands waiting for them to spare them a few minutes so they could procreate? Where was the fun in having sex on set dates and times? Why did the women have to do all the work? Why did God make the women have the eggs? Why did the onus have to be on us? Why couldn’t it be men who had to check their penile discharge and pee on sticks and drag their wives to bed for unspontaneous sex? It wasn’t fair. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I could feel my blood pressure going through the roof. I needed to calm down so I decided to go for a walk.

  As I wandered around the pretty town of Perpignan, all I could see were mothers with babies and pregnant women. It was like a Stephen King horror movie – every mother and child in the town must have been out on that sunny Wednesday. They were coming at me with their prams and bumps from every angle. The midday heat wasn’t helping my mood either, so when I passed a church, I decided to pop in, cool down and light a candle.

  Since I had become a lapsed Catholic, the only time I ever went into a church was to light a candle for a special request. The last time had been when I wanted to lose weight for my wedding. The Slim Fast milkshakes just weren’t doing it for me, so I resorted to divine intervention. In the end, Lucy got me twelve sessions with a personal trainer as an early wedding present and it worked a treat.

  I had been religious in the past, though. When I was at school – a good old-fashioned Catholic convent run by slightly barmy nuns – I had gone through a very religious phase. I was twelve and my teacher was a very holy woman called Mrs Butler. We said a decade of the rosary first thing in the morning and then we had a collection for her brother, Father Brian, who was working in Peru as a missionary. After lunch we had another decade of the rosary and then another before we went home.

  I adored Mrs Butler and thought she was absolutely wonderful. That year she went to Jerusalem for Easter week and didn’t her husband drop dead on the way to communion in the holiest church in the Holy Land on the holiest day of the year – Easter Sunday. Well, poor old Mrs Butler was distraught, as was I. In fact, I think I might have cried even more than Mrs Butler at the death of her husband – whom I had never set eyes on.

  Mrs Butler looked to her faith to find solace and I joined her. I prayed every night after school, kneeling down in front of the statue of Our Lady that we had on the table in the hall. I would spend hours on my knees – rosary beads in my hands – praying for Mr Butler’s soul, Father Brian’s mission, the starving children in Africa, peace in Northern Ireland, that Johnny Logan would win the Eurovision song contest …

  My parents were at a loss. They didn’t think it was right to discourage me from praying, but they were concerned at the intensity of it. Whenever they wanted to use the phone, they had to do so with me kneeling beside them in the hall praying silently. It got on their nerves, but they weren’t sure how to handle it.

  When I announced at dinner one night that I wanted to become a nun and go out to the mission to help Father Brian bring God to the indigenous people of Peru, my parents decided to speak to me. Later that night they came into my room and sat on the side of my bed. This was always a bad sign. If one came in and sat on your bed you knew you were in trouble, but if they both came in you were in deep shit.

  ‘What are you reading there, kiddo?’ asked my father, trying to be all jokey to ease the tension.

  ‘The life of Saint Bernadette,’ I said not looking up from my book, which I was truly engrossed in. Saint Bernadette was my new hero. John Taylor from Duran Duran was out; Saint Bernadette was in!

  ‘Pet, why are you spending so much time praying? Is there something troubling you, apart from poor Mr Butler, of course?’ my mother asked, much more in tune with what was going on.

  ‘I’m praying for God to give me a vocation,’ I told them in all sincerity.

  My mother took my hand. ‘Sweetheart, there are lots of things you can do when you’re older to help people. You don’t have to be a nun to be a good person. You could be a doctor and save people’s lives, or you could be a lawyer and defend people who have been wrongly accused or—’

  ‘Mum,’ I said, looking at her with pity, ‘there’s no greater way to serve God than to be a nun and not get distracted by material goods.’

  ‘But you won’t be able to have children if you’re a nun.’

  ‘The children of Peru will be my children.’ I had an answer for everything.

  My mother looked at my father and shrugged. He gave it one last shot. ‘Emma, nuns can’t do tap-dancing, you know.’

  I faltered. Tap-dancing was my favourite out-of-school activity. I loved it and fancied myself as a bit of a Ginger Rogers. But I rallied well. ‘God sets us all little challenges, Dad. My sacrifice will be tap-dancing – it’s a small price to pay compared to what other people have to forgo.’

  I was so pious that the Pope himself would have looked like a sinner compared to me. It lasted three months. In June I said a tearful farewell to Mrs Butler and went on a family camping holiday to France where I met Jean-Christophe, fell madly in love and had my first snog. The rosary beads were out and tanned French guys with fluff on their upper lips were in.

  The church in Perpignan was cool inside and very quiet. I felt calmer instantly. I had spent so much time in churches growing up that there was always a feeling of familiarity when I entered one, wherever I was. I went over to the side, lit a candle and wished for a baby. ‘Dear God,’ I prayed, ‘please make me pregnant soon.’

  I then spent a leisurely afternoon checking out the makeup counters in Perpignan looking for new products and drinking cups of frothy café au lait on sun-drenched terraces, trying to order in my rusty school French as the garçons glared at me impatiently.

  By eight o’clock that evening, I was worried. James was still not back and I’d left five messages on his mobile, which was switched off. Eventually at half past eight he staggered in the door, assisted by two players.

  ‘Oh, my God, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Ow, ouch, ow,’ cried James dramatically, collapsing on the bed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I demanded.

  ‘Groin strain,’ grunted Paddy O’Toole, the number three on the team.

  ‘What?’ I wasn’t sure what a groin strain was, but I was pretty sure it was not conducive to having lots of sex.

  The two players backed out the door and I was left with the patient, who was writhing in pain on the bed. ‘James, what exactly is going on?’

  ‘Oh, God, Emma, I’m in agony. Can you get me some ice, please? The physio said I needed to put ice on it.’

  ‘I’ll get you ice in a minute. What happened?’

  ‘I was showing Donal how to jump higher in the line-outs and I landed badly and – oh, God, the pain …’

  I was trying to stay calm. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he was making out – James was not a good patient. ‘So what’s wrong exactly? Where does it hurt?’

  ‘I’m in agony.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but where exactly?’

  ‘My upper thigh – for Christ’s sake, Emma, what does it matter? Will you please get me some ice? I’m dying here.’

  I stormed out of the room counting to ten, then twenty, and by the time I got to fifty, I was no calmer. I got a bucket full of i
ce from the bar and came back in.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ said James, when he saw the ice. ‘Can you wrap some in a towel and hand it to me?’

  ‘How bad is it?’ I asked, fetching a towel from the bathroom and filling it with ice.

  ‘Well, we won’t know until tomorrow for sure. If the swelling is bad, I’ll be in pain for weeks. But hopefully the ice will help,’ he said, taking it from me and placing it against his inner thigh.

  ‘Can you have sex?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Jesus, Emma, I’m in agony, I can barely walk and all you can think about is sex.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, was I bothering you there? How selfish of me, thinking only of myself and the baby I want and you obviously have no interest in or you wouldn’t have gone out and behaved like some stupid irresponsible teenager and ended up in this ridiculous state, thus rendering my journey here completely futile!’

  ‘Would you please keep your voice down,’ James hissed from the bed, shaking his home-made ice pack at me. ‘This is not about selfishness, this is about me trying to make my team better so we can win on Saturday. Do you really think I did this on purpose? Do you think I enjoy pain?’

  ‘No, James, I am well aware of your extremely low pain threshold.’

  ‘Believe me, Emma, if you had this injury you wouldn’t be so flippant.’

  ‘Fine. So, is sex out of the question? I mean, it’s not your penis you injured, is it?’

  ‘No, but it’s right beside it. Sex would be excruciating.’

  ‘How do you know? If you have a black eye, would that stop you snogging? No, and that’s right next to your mouth.’ I was clutching at straws, but I didn’t want to waste any time and James was prone to being delicate about his health.

  ‘Emma, this is not a black eye. It is a very severe groin injury.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘James, let me see it.’ I pulled away the ice-pack and could see nothing. No swelling, no bruising – nothing. ‘There’s nothing there.’