Secret Nanny Club

by Mackle, Marisa

  It was weird but now I looked back on my single life and thought it must have been kind of boring and shallow. I used to feel sorry for people with kids, thinking they had no life. Now I was sure people pitied me. How the tables had turned! Anyway, I didn’t have the mind-space to worry too much about Clive. My beautiful boy was thriving and I was a besotted single mummy. I found myself staring at him for ages when he was asleep and thinking: Is he really mine? I kept expecting some woman, like his real mummy, to come along and take him away, and that I’d go back to my old single life when I thought going out and getting a free glass of sparkling wine was fun. I wasn’t as shattered as I was in the beginning – at least I felt like a normal human being sometimes despite my apartment always being covered in baby clothes that I was trying to dry. Honest to goodness, my washing machine never stopped turning and I thought I should buy shares in washing powder at the rate I was buying it. A box of washing powder used to last me a year before becoming a mum. Now I was flying through it. It seemed that every time I changed John he immediately either soiled himself or puked. Especially when he was wearing white. But I couldn’t be cross for long because he was just so damn cute.

  By the way, the reason I called my boy John was because he was a non-celebrity, and I didn’t think it was fair to call non-celebrity babies after a fruit or a sports star. Also, I didn’t want him to spend his whole life trying to get people to pronounce or spell his name

  properly, which can be rather a tiresome and frustrating experience. My mum called me Kaylah because she thought it was very exotic and she didn’t want me to have the same name as everyone else. Her own name is Ann, you see, and there are quite a lot of Anns about the place. She thinks Ann is rather common so she called me Kaylah. Kaylah with a H to make the name even more unusual. And ever since I could talk, I’ve been pretty much driven around the bend pointing out to people that no my name is not Kylie or Karla or Katia or Kate.

  Honestly, people some people can be very rude sometimes. They seem to think they can call me anything at all as long as it begins with a K. Hmm. Maybe they’re just lazy. Or could care less. I called my son John because it’s simple. I don’t care if it’s boring. Think of the time and energy I’ll save him in the long run. Mind you, you’re not going to believe this, but straight after he was born the nurse asked me his name. “It’s John,” I said proudly, still unable to contain my joy of becoming a mummy for the first time. A real mummy with a real baby. Imagine! Yes, I remember telling her, with tears in my eyes, that my bundle of joy

  was called John. Then I recall the silly woman looking up from her clipboard and smiling back at me. “Is that John with or without a H?” she asked. Oh for God’s sake!

  Anyway, to get back to my story, I guess it’s time to explain how I met Clive and landed myself in my present state of single-mum-dom. Pre-Clive, life was one big party. Myself and my friend Sally both worked (and still do work) in town for a glossy monthly fashion magazine. I was the in-house stylist when we met, and she worked in the sales and

  marketing department, mostly selling ads and running promotions. We bonded almost immediately, became firm friends and I moved into her city-centre apartment. It was a time when everybody was enjoying the roar of the Celtic Tiger and nobody could see the recession coming. Every night of the week there was something exciting happening in town and we were in the thick of it all. We would go to fashion shows, film screenings,

  cocktail parties and after-work drinks, later staggering home from nightclubs without even having to take taxis because we lived in such a centrally located place. On the weekends we could casually walk around Grafton Street which was just a leisurely stroll away, and stop off

  somewhere for coffee. We literally had every amenity right on our doorstep, which was great for convenience if not so fantastic for our credit cards!

  I went on quite a few dates back then. When I was thinner and not pregnant and had no ties, I believe I was fairly attractive. Some of the guys I met were cute, some weren’t. Some of the men had no hair but were funny; other men had hair but no humour. I know I was fussy but I wanted to hold out for Mr Perfect. I didn’t want to just have a boyfriend for the sake of it. I wanted it all. And the night I met Clive – two summers ago – I thought I’d finally found him.

  He was a writer for a national newspaper – bright, quick-witted and attractive. I met him on a last minute press trip to sunny Croatia that my boss Creea had offered to me in a moment of rare kindness because somebody else couldn’t go. At the time I had no ties, so didn’t think twice about jumping on a plane and heading off. I don’t know whether it was the gorgeous climate or the copious amount of cocktails taken while dreamily looking out at the sun going down on the Adriatic Sea, but I fell in love with him the first night of our trip. He was tall, handsome, tanned and brooding, and he fixed his attentions on me from the start like there was no other woman in the room. I didn’t want to fall for him of course. News reporters have reputations and huge egos so I was on my guard and determined not to be just another notch on this handsome man’s bedpost. I played it cool the first evening as we sat on the hotel veranda among the group of Irish journalists and foreign tour guides. I laughed at his jokes and was delighted when he seemed to think mine were funny too. I didn’t even budge when he casually placed his arm over the back of my chair, but I was first to excuse myself to go to bed even though I could have stayed up all night. The next day in the pool he swam up right beside me and I couldn’t help but marvel at his perfect tan even though we’d only been in the country for less than twenty-four hours. He explained that his mother was Italian and that’s where he got his dark skin colouring from. He said he got his green eyes from his dad’s side of the family. He said he liked my freckles but I thought he was probably just being nice.

  That afternoon after lunch where Clive sat beside me charming me with his wit and easy banter, we went on a boat trip down a river. Clive started jokingly taking photos of me on his mobile phone and teasing me. I asked him why he needed so many photos of me and did he not think it would be better to take photos of the stunning scenery all around us?

  “I can buy postcards of the scenery,” he shrugged, “but I want these on my phone so that I never forget this press trip for the rest of my life.”

  Everyone on the trip kept telling me that Clive had the hots for me. I didn’t really need them to point out that rather obvious bit of information because he wasn’t exactly playing hard to get! On several occasions he let his hand rest on my arm as he was talking to me. The touch of his skin on mine felt sensational. The trip was amazing. Croatia is probably the most beautiful place that I have ever visited. We dined in Dubrovnik on the third night of our trip. “Those who wish to visit heaven on earth should come to Dubrovnik,” the famous Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw said of this city, and he was right. It is truly spectacular. We dined down a little side street off the main bustling square. It was very warm and I was wearing a white sundress with a light-blue cotton jumper draped loosely over my shoulders.

  On my feet I wore Swarovski-encrusted flip-flops. We started the evening with Prosecco as the sun went down on the city and the rich aromas from the restaurants filled the warm Mediterranean air. As I sipped my Prosecco the bubbles seemed to swim right up to my

  brain, making me feel light and dizzy. I cannot remember what I ate, or who said what. I just remember gazing into Clive’s green eyes, mesmerised. He looked out of this world in his black linen suit and open white shirt. His sandy wavy hair was pushed back from his face with a pair of tortoise-coloured sunglasses. People were chatting amiably, eating, drinking and smoking cigars. As it grew dark the street lights came on and candles were placed on the white tablecloths of the tables outside the restaurants. I remember thinking that tonight was the night. I would no longer hold back. When Clive made his move, I would succumb to his advances. If I could have leaned over the table there and then and kissed his lips I would have.

  I think there were abo
ut eight to ten other people sitting at our table, but I can’t remember the exact number or even who many of them were. I was intoxicated with Clive and had eyes only for him. I longed for us to leave the restaurant. But the dessert menus were being passed around and nobody was making any moves to leave. I wondered if we would be able to lose the others and go for a stroll arm in arm around this intoxicating city, just the two of us.

  Afterwards, some of the more mature journalists headed back to the hotel and the rest of us party animals made our way to an open-air bar with music. Once we had settled at a table and ordered our drinks, Clive took me by the hand and led me onto the open-air dance floor. He wrapped his arms around me and our bodies swayed to the music. I could smell his strong aftershave as I nuzzled my cheek against his chest. His fingers played with my hair as I clung to him. I never wanted to let him go. We slipped off without telling the others where we were going and made our way back barefoot to the hotel beach. Clive and I sat at the water’s edge, not caring whether we got wet from the gentle waves lapping at our

  feet. We kissed each other hungrily and passionately. I don’t think I ever wanted anyone that badly in my whole life. We kissed and we talked and we laughed until sunrise and then we went back to Clive’s hotel room where we made wild, abandoned love with the window open,

  listening to the sound of waves lapping against the seashore.

  Our affair lasted for the rest of the week, and continued after we landed in Dublin. For the next eight months I spent practically every free moment of the day and night with Clive in his bachelor pad in Grand Canal Dock with its magnificent views of the water and the

  city-centre skyline. He cooked for me and rented my favourite DVDs and played my favourite tunes on his iPod. I loved everything about him from his mind to his body. I knew he had the slightly ruthless streak that most newspaper reporters seem to need to survive in the cutthroat world of hacks, but I never thought that ruthlessness would one day be directed at me. He told me he that he loved me over and over and over again. And like a fool, besotted, and in love, I believed him. Eventually (and not before time, I thought) we started to look at houses in order to move in together.

  Life with Clive was exciting. We dined in some of the city’s best restaurants and took impromptu trips to London and Paris. As Clive was very well-connected in the media, we often got complimentary stays in some of the country’s top hotel suites, always with a couple of bottles of champagne thrown in. The managers would always greet Clive by name, seeming to know him well. It was as though he had stayed before, with some other

  lucky lady. I often wondered about Clive’s exes and what had become of them but he never spoke about his past. He didn’t seem to care about any of his exes once they were history. It was that ruthless streak he had about him.

  But my heady days of carefree partying and shopping came to a sudden halt when I discovered the following May that I was late and a single thin blue line confirmed that yes, I was pregnant. Once I found out, and the shock had sunk in a tiny bit, I phoned Clive. I had a feeling he wouldn’t be overjoyed with the news but I was completely flabbergasted by his ice-cold reaction.

  “Can you not sort this out?” he said, leaving me in no uncertainty about how he felt. He didn’t exactly break it off with me there and then but he made it clear that I couldn’t stay with him during my pregnancy. I hoped and prayed that I would be able to win him over, and that he would eventually warm to the idea of us being a little family. He said he needed a bit of space as well as time to get his head around the new situation so I moved all my stuff from my room in Sally’s apartment into my Mum’s house the following week and Sally got a new flatmate up from the country who was super-excited about the dizzy new life she was

  going to embark on in the city, and I started to prepare for the momentous change that was about to take place for me. I thought it would be less stressful living with Mum because I wouldn’t have to be worrying about rent and all that. Also, I didn’t want to be in the city walking around heavily pregnant in case I fell, or somebody bumped into me when they weren’t looking where they were going. Anyway, I didn’t want to be a burden on Sally. Sally was young, free, single and still searching. It might be weird for her to be living with a pregnant flatmate who had to be up flushing the loo every two hours, day and night. And myself and my big bump lying on the couch every night certainly wouldn’t have helped

  her to meet a guy. Imagine if she’d brought someone back and I was sitting there with my slippers and massive hippo-bump sipping cocoa! Sally was lovely, but young and terribly image-conscious. Of course she pretended that she would miss me like hell and that I should think twice about moving out, but I could tell she was secretly relieved when I announced I was going. I think she was actually delighted to have a new flatmate to show the bright lights of Dublin city to. Ah yes, Sally had turned out to be quite the fair-weather friend. Becoming pregnant was one hell of an eye-opener.

  So I moved in with Mum to try and save money as I wasn’t getting maternity pay. Unfortunately my job is only on a contract basis so I don’t have the luxury of paid time off. I have to say living with my mother wasn’t really relaxing at all. Of course she did dutifully make sure I ate well and got enough rest, which was nice, but every now and again when she didn’t have her happy face on, she’d say something nasty like, “It’s just as well

  your dad isn’t still alive to see all this”.

  What she really meant was that Dad wouldn’t approve of me having an illegitimate child. She only used that word only once.Illegitimate. It’s a frightful word that should be totally barred from the English language. I don’t think anyone even uses that word anymore. In fact, apart from my mother I’ve never heard anyone say it. But mothers can be desperately cruel sometimes. Mum has an unfortunate temper and threw the ‘illegitimate’ word at me in a fit of rage. She was ranting on about something or other when I was about six months pregnant, and just as I thought I could take no more and began to walk away, she yelled at me, saying that myself and my illegitimate child would find it hard to be accepted by certain members of high society now, and that I should be nice to her.

  “Why should I be nice to you?” I asked, aghast.

  Because, she told me, when all my friends disappeared as they inevitably would when the baby came along, she would be the only person in the world to stand by me. I remember walking out of her house in a daze with my hand on my bump and my head held high, vowing never to darken the woman’s doorstep again. I mean, what era did she think she was living in? Did she honestly think people were that narrow-minded in this day and age? Sure even a priest wouldn’t have spoken to me like that. In fact I had always been quite friendly with the parish priest when I lived with Mum. Father Francis was a good old soul and had worked in Africa as a missionary for many years. I kind of felt sorry for him when all the abuse stories came out about the priests in the Catholic Church. Father Francis wouldn’t harm a fly. Even when I told him what my mother had said to me, he said not to take any notice of her and that I was to rise above her and forgive her.

  But I wasn’t ready for forgiveness yet and I moved myself, my bump and all our stuff into a two-bed ground floor apartment in Bray which I found through an ad in theEvening Herald. So myself and Baby John are now living in that apartment in Bray, Co Wicklow, which is just outside of Dublin and near the sea. It sounds like it’s a very nice place to live, especially in the summer, but it isn’t as glamorous as you might think. I suppose it’s okay but to describe it as any way exciting or upmarket would be terribly misleading. I mean, it’s hardly Monte Carlo – no yachts or fancy cocktail bars or anything like that. Having said that, it’s a very popular spot with un-sporty types who like to wear tracksuits (vest top underneath: optional). The area tends to get very crowded on hot sunny days (not that we have them here in abundance, I might add!) because half of Dublin takes the train to Bray and they spend all day on the beach and then go home leaving their rubbish, including empty bee
r cans and soiled nappies behind them. So even though it’s cold and rainy in the winter, at least all the blow-ins are gone and it’s nice and quiet in Bray. I prefer it like that.

  Our home is in a small modern-ish, safe complex, not too far from the sea or the main street of Bray. The main bedroom is big enough for a double bed and a cot, and the spare room is just a little bigger than a box-room. It doesn’t have as much storage space as I would like because John’s stuff takes up so much room but it has a bath which I love. You can take away all my comforts but I would be lost without my daily bath. I just love to lock the door, fill the tub with bubbles and relax with a book, some candles and a nice glass of wine. When I put John down every night it is the one thing I look forward to. Baths are the cheapest form of relaxation in my opinion and I make sure every night is spa night. Complete with bath oil and nice-smelling body lotion for afterwards. Showers, although quick and easy, are not the same at all. I could never live in a place without a bath. Mind you, when I was pregnant, baths weren’t as much fun at all. The bath water was never enough to cover my bump and although I’d be nice and warm underneath the water, my poor bump would feel the cold! And of course when John was smaller it was no fun at all to lie there constantly on edge, an ear cocked to hear him cry, and then have to leap out causing a tidal wave to swamp the bathroom. Now that I live alone with my baby I feel kind of isolated. He is six months old and I am back working part-time but I work from home. So I am in contact with my colleagues by phone and email and so on, but I don’t actually meet them in the flesh. Then, apart from some ladies in a local book club that I joined while I was expecting John, I don’t really know anybody locally and the neighbours in my complex keep very much to

  themselves. I don’t know many other single mums to hang out with. Single mum. Those two words are two words that I don’t like. It’s like a stigma. Those two words give an unwanted image of a greasy-haired woman with a fag hanging out of her mouth and a baby hanging out of her arms, somebody that wears her pyjamas to the post office. Or is that just me being ridiculous? In the children’s story books nobody grows up to become a single mother.