A Perfect Match Page 9

  Donal arrived to training the next day with two black eyes and his framed photo, which he hung proudly in the locker room. He explained the black eyes by claiming he had fallen over drunk and hit his head. He didn’t want anyone to know Lucy had thumped him – he’d never live it down.

  When Lucy arrived home from work that evening, she couldn’t get through the front door because the chain was on.

  ‘Donal? It’s me. Why have you got the chain on?’ she shouted.

  ‘Just hold on one second, I’m coming now,’ said Donal, looking around to make sure everything was in order. He opened the door wearing an apron and covered in flour.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Cooking you dinner.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a welcome home dinner and an “I’m sorry I forgot to collect you” dinner.’

  Lucy was chuffed. Donal had cooked the odd frozen pizza before and occasionally rusded up a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, but he had never cooked her a proper meal.

  ‘Sit down there and put your feet up while I fix you a drink. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Glass of wine would be lovely,’ Lucy said, as Donal disappeared into the kitchen. She looked around. The room was very tidy, there were fresh flowers in the vase on the table and Ella Fitzgerald was playing on the stereo. Donal hated her Ella Fitzgerald CD. My God, thought Lucy, he must be feeling very guilty.

  Donal came out with a glass of wine and then scurried back into the kitchen. Lucy lay back and enjoyed the pampering.

  ‘Sit down and have a drink with me,’ she called to him.

  ‘Not yet, just putting the finishing touches on the dinner. You just relax and enjoy yourself.’

  Forty minutes and three very large glasses of wine later, Lucy was feeling extremely merry. Donal finally came out of the kitchen minus the apron, carrying two plates laden with food.

  ‘Hey, you made cous cous … and lamb! My favourites,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Well, apart from apologizing, I also wanted to say thanks for the signed picture. You’ll be delighted to hear that Pamela is now the team’s official mascot. I got great kudos from the lads. She has pride of place in the locker room and will be coming to all the away games.’

  ‘As will I,’ said Lucy, slurring her words slightly. ‘I intend to go to all your matches. It’s much better now that I understand how important your position as chief jumper and ball catcher is.’

  ‘I’m delighted to see you’ve such a good grasp of what I do.’

  ‘So what did the guys say about your black eyes? Do they think I’m a total psycho?’

  ‘Well, I decided not to tell them that my girlfriend beats the living shite out of me – it wouldn’t look too good for either of us. So, I told them I fell coming in the other night, drunk, and hit my head off the table.’

  ‘My hero,’ said Lucy, beaming at him. ‘So when’s the next big game?’

  ‘Never mind about that. Eat up, I have your favourite dessert coming,’ said Donal, wolfing down his food.

  ‘Ooooh, lemon cheesecake.’

  ‘That’s not your favourite dessert.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘No it isn’t. Your favourite dessert is tiramisu.’

  ‘Donal, I think I know what my favourite dessert is and it’s lemon cheesecake. Always has been and always will be. I hate tiramisu.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve never liked it, so you’ve obviously got me mixed up with someone else. Maybe your ex-girlfriend, the amazing chef Mary, liked tiramisu,’ said Lucy, waving her fork at Donal as she swayed in her chair.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Donal, looking panic-stricken.

  ‘Look at your face. I’m right, aren’t I? It was Mary’s favourite shagging dessert. I can’t believe you don’t know that mine’s lemon cheesecake!’ Lucy stumbled to her feet. ‘I hate tirami-sodding-su. Where is it?’

  She went into the kitchen and saw the offending dessert sitting innocently on a plate. She picked it up and shook it at Donal.

  ‘I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we put the nasty tiramisu in a box and send it to Mary. Or, we could invite the lovely Mary up to share it with us? Come on, let’s give her a buzz,’ she said, reaching over to grab the phone, but she lost her balance and the tiramisu ended up face down on the floor. ‘Oops, well it looks like Mary won’t be joining us for dessert after all.’

  Donal bent down to scoop up the cake.

  ‘What are you doing? Trying to save it for her? Do you want to get back with her? Is that it? You want to dump me because I’m violent and get back with super-chef, apron-wearing Mary. Don’t you forget that I make an excellent tuna melt, not to mention my –’

  ‘Listen, Rocky, will you do me a favour and belt up for a minute so I can ask you something,’ he said, fishing a tiramisu-sodden ring from the middle of the mess on the floor.

  Lucy stared at him. ‘Ask me what?’

  ‘Lucy Hogan, will you marry me?’

  13

  Before we began the preparation course we were sent a list of documentation to provide. Along with our wedding and birth certs, the Adoption Board needed to see: medical reports, consultant consent form (detailing the fertility treatments I had undergone), certificate of earnings, clearance from the police (to say we were normal), photographs and a post-placement consent form – which said it was OK to come to our home and do the home visits. I sprinted around like a lunatic getting these together and when it came to the photos, I insisted on having them done professionally. I occasionally worked with a fashion photographer called Matt Carney – he was the best in the business. As a favour, he came to the house to take our photos. James, of course, thought it was ridiculous and couldn’t understand why we didn’t just go to a photo booth and get a couple of passport photos done.

  ‘James,’ I said, ‘it’s very simple. Ugly photos of us equals ugly baby.’

  ‘Emma!’

  ‘Obviously I don’t care what the baby looks like – I’d take Quasimodo at this stage – but if we look our best then hopefully we’ll get the pick of the crop.’

  I realize it sounded awful, but I wanted the best, healthiest, most bouncing baby they had in that orphanage and if it happened to be attractive too, that would be a bonus.

  I woke up at five a.m. on 25 March. My heart was pound­ing with excitement and apprehension. This was our big day. We needed to make a good impression. I looked over to see if James was awake. He looked asleep, but maybe he was only pretending to be. I leant over.

  ‘James?’ I whispered. ‘James? Are you awake? James?’

  Nothing.

  I put my hand over his nose to stop his breathing and he woke up with a start.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Oh, hi, you’re awake too. Great. I can’t sleep, I’m over-excited. Will we get up and have an early breakfast? Or go for a walk or something?’

  ‘Emma, it’s five o’clock and as you are well aware I was fast asleep before you tried to suffocate me. I am neither hungry nor in the mood for a pre-dawn stroll in zero degrees. Just lie back, close your eyes and keep your hands away from my face.’

  ‘Come on, James, you’re awake now. Let’s chat. Let’s talk about what we think today will be like. Do you think the other couples will be like us, or older or younger? What do you think I should wear? I was thinking my black trousers with the boots I got at Christmas, but they might be a bit high for the daytime. I want to look attractive, but not sexy or racy. Not too conservative either though – not like a granny. What do you think?’

  ‘I think we should have a fashion show. Why don’t you try on all the possibilities now and I’ll mark them out of ten.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No! Now will you please shut up. I’m exhausted and you don’t want me to fall asleep at the meeting, do you?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll leave you alone. But just one thing, do you think the boots are a bit too much?’

  Silence.

  ‘James? Do yo
u?’

  Silence.

  ‘Just a yes or no.’

  A pillow landed on my head.

  Four hours later I was standing at the door shouting at James to hurry up. I had changed six times, cried when I ripped my tights, roared at James when I discovered the shirt I wanted to wear had a stain on it and made him put on a blazer and tie – which he only agreed to wear to shut me up. We were miles ahead of schedule. I was so wound up that I wanted to leave plenty of time for unforeseen circumstances – in case we got stuck in traffic or had a flat tyre or got car-jacked or something. We arrived for the meeting forty minutes early. James wandered off to get the paper, while I sat in the car, trying to breathe slowly in a futile attempt to calm down. I was like a tightly wound spring. I don’t think I have ever felt so nervous.

  James arrived back, brandishing the Daily Telegraph and two coffees.

  ‘James?’

  ‘You look lovely, the boots are perfect, the shirt does match the trousers, we’re on time, they will like us, we won’t get thrown off the course, everything will be fine,’ he said, opening the paper.

  ‘Actually, what I was going to say is – thanks. Thanks for putting up with my psychosis this morning and sorry for being so tetchy.’

  He put down the paper. ‘At five a.m. I contemplated divorcing you, at half eight, killing you, and just when I’d decided on my murder weapon you go and disarm me with an apology.’

  ‘How were you planning on killing me?’

  ‘Suffocation with a pillow.’

  ‘But think how boring life would be if you didn’t have me around to pinch your nose in the wee hours.’

  ‘Emma, (a) I’m English and (b) I’m a man. English men like a quiet life. We have five of these meetings to attend and, while I love your passion for life, I could do without being woken up for footwear analysis or shouted at because your shirt is dirty. If you ever wake me up at five again, it had better be for sex,’ said James, trying to suppress a grin.

  ‘Well, then, you better not suffocate me.’

  As we walked into the room, we were joined by five other couples. Four of them looked very nervous, but one couple were striding about as if they owned the place. We smiled and nodded and sat down. Two social workers then came in and introduced themselves. Yvonne O’Connor and Dervla Egan. I liked Yvonne instantly. She had a sweet, kind face and looked as if she’d go out of her way to help you. Dervla, on the other hand, was a bit scary. She had that ‘I’ve seen it all – don’t even go there’ expression on her face. I prayed she wouldn’t be doing our home visits. She was the type who’d know instantly if you were lying or exaggerating. There’d be no room for slip-ups with Dervla. She’d nip you into next year if you stepped out of line or made a mistake. I couldn’t picture her at Yuri’s second birthday party, singing ‘for he’s a jolly good fellow’ with Mum and Dad. I decided to focus my attention on Yvonne. If I could get her to like me then maybe she’d ask to be our home visit social worker. It was worth a shot. I smiled at her as she introduced herself and welcomed us all.

  After the initial pleasantries, we were paired off with new partners and asked to introduce ourselves to each other for a few minutes and then we would introduce the other person to the group. I was lumped with Mr Confident, strider of the room – Brendan. Before I had a chance to open my mouth, Brendan jumped in and told me his life story. He was the managing director of DFG Advertising – the most successful advertising company in Ireland. He played golf off six and had recently shot seventy-three in the Western Club. He was here because his wife had problems; his sperm were fine and healthy. Nothing wrong with them at all – he said over and over again.

  When we came to introducing each other, I was chosen to go first. Although Brendan had bored me rigid, I decided to be super-nice as I wanted to start on the best of terms with everyone. I was nervous about speaking in front of the group. I took a deep breath and launched.

  ‘This is Brendan, he is very successful and runs the advertising agency GFD. He loves golf and plays to seventy-three and hit six the other day in a top golf club (my mind went blank and I couldn’t remember the club). He also plays squash and he wants to make it very clear that he isn’t here because he’s shooting blanks.’

  I could see James trying his best not to crack up; his face was turning purple with effort. Dervla looked appalled, but Yvonne was smiling. Brendan then got up to introduce me.

  ‘Emma here’s a beautician and doesn’t have a very good memory,’ he said. ‘My ad agency is called DFG, I play off six and shot a round of seventy-three in the Western Club on Saturday.’

  Before I could defend myself from this slander, Yvonne piped up, ‘Thank you, Brendan. Now, James, will you introduce Joy to us.’

  James stood up, looking utterly relaxed and at home and proceeded to introduce Joy in an articulate and calm fashion. I was very proud of him. It soon became clear why Joy and Brendan were married –they were cut from the same cloth.

  ‘Joy recently sold the recruitment agency she founded ten years ago, to focus her energies on the adoption process and devote more time to her many other interests. She plays off twelve and recently shot eighty-two in the Western Club. She is also an accomplished pianist and chef. She speaks fluent French and German. Since applying to adopt a year ago, she has spent over six weeks in Moscow perfecting her Russian, which she now speaks like a native.’

  As James turned to sit down he winked at me and we tried not to laugh. Joy and Brendan were a formidable duo. The other pairs introduced each other and they all seemed very nice and normal. Some had children already, some, like us, had none. Some were older than us, some were younger. But we all had one thing in common –we all desperately wanted a baby.

  Yvonne and Dervla then talked us through the subjects we would be covering over the next five sessions. Every session would last half a day. We would be covering all the angles of the adoption process. Each person was then given a big A4 size workbook which contained essays and exercises which would help us reflect on issues between sessions and highlight areas that we may need more time to resolve or that we’d like to come back to at the home study stage.

  The issues we’d be dealing with were going to include: Exploring the adoption family tree; adoption bereavement – the impact of loss and separation; child development and medical matters; identity, difference and belonging; talking about adoption – telling the adoption story and the adoption life cycle … They also told us that media-watching is key.

  ‘You need to become very aware of everything to do with adoption. If you see anything in the papers about adoption or racism, cut it out and bring it to the next session for discussion. It is vital that you keep your ears and eyes open to all media coverage. The more aware you are of the frustrations and difficulties that go hand in hand with adopting a child from a foreign country, the better chances you have of being accepted. Racism is the scourge of our society. You must be aware of it – your child may face it on a daily basis,’ ranted Dervla.

  She seemed very wound up about it for someone who was white, Irish and living in Ireland. It’s not as if she’d spent twenty-nine years in captivity with Nelson and the gang on Robben Island. Yvonne then told us – in a calm and normal fashion – that we were now going to be shown a video called All about Betty.

  The film turned out to be just about the most depressing thing I have ever seen. We all sat around in shock when it ended. It was basically the story of a baby called Betty who was about sixteen months old. Betty’s mother fell ill and her father couldn’t cope with looking after her, so he put her in a home. She was only in there for ten days but in those ten days the fun-loving, outgoing Betty became introverted and depressed.

  What were they trying to do to us? The children we were going to adopt will have been in homes for months, years even. And this documentary was telling us that in ten days a child completely changed personality! For God’s sake, give a prospective parent a break. Was this how they separated the men from the
mice? I glanced over at James – he looked a bit stunned. Sod them; they weren’t going to scare us that easily. I was not going to let this nasty film frighten me off my path to motherhood. Maybe Betty was just weak and soft and, besides, our little orphans probably never had a happy home to start with, so they had nothing to compare the orphanage to and therefore they wouldn’t be all miserable and unhappy. They’d be delighted to see us coming – thrilled that we were going to save them. They’d bounce on to the plane with us to Ireland and a new life. Stuff Betty and her attachment deficit disorder, I wasn’t budging.

  We were split up into two groups and asked to talk about ‘How the video made you feel’. Brendan was in my group and immediately took on the role of team leader. He told us all that he thought Betty just needed a good dose of love and she’d be grand. Denis disagreed – he felt that the damage could be irreversible. Nonsense, said Brendan, everything can be changed, it just takes the know-how. Carole said she was very disturbed by the video and was wondering if she’d be able to cope with a child that had problems like that. It would break her heart to see such sadness.

  ‘Every problem is really an opportunity in disguise, Carole,’ said Brendan, using his advertising spiel to try to impress us. ‘You just need to look into the problem and get to the root of it. Then you seek professional advice and send the child to therapy. It’s all about your attitude. If you’re going to let a twenty-minute documen­tary put you off adopting, then maybe this is not for you. You need to be strong and confident in your parenting skills to become an adoptive parent, clearly it’s not for everyone.’

  ‘Just hold on a minute there,’ I snapped. ‘First of all Carole is entitled to her opinion and I agree with her that it was extremely distressing to watch. A problem is a problem and not an opportunity and whoever made up that ridiculous phrase is a gobshite. Second of all, I’m a make-up artist not a beautician and I have an extremely good memory, I just tend to switch off when I’m being bored to death.’