The Baby Trail

by Sinéad Moriarty

  I nearly choked on my own drink. In the last six months I had paid all his bills as well as his rent. He was really beginning to bug me. I’d have to get rid of him. Lucy was right. He was not boyfriend material.

  When Ronan turned round to bore one of my more tolerant friends about his book, I moaned to Lucy about my job. It was simple: I hated what I did. I was a senior recruitment consultant in Parson, Mason and Jackson and, due to the Celtic Tiger, was earning good money – although the Ronan fund was putting a serious dent in my salary. The hefty commissions I was bringing in were the main reason I had stayed there so long. But I was bored senseless and really wanted to try something else – namely makeup.

  I had always been obsessed with makeup – trying every new brand on the market as soon as it hit the shops – and I was fascinated by the way makeup artists transformed models for photo shoots. I had done various short makeup courses and often made up my friends if they were going to weddings or balls. I really believed I had a flair for it, but I was afraid of taking the first step. For the first few months I’d have to work free of charge to gain experience and the thought of not having any income terrified me. God forbid I’d turn into a sponger like Ronan!

  Poor Lucy had been listening to me moan about my job for years. ‘Do you really want to leave?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I swear, Lucy, this time I really mean it.’

  ‘So you’re not just saying it because you’re going to be thirty in ten days’ time?’

  ‘Well, that does have something to do with it, but only because I can’t bear the thought of being in this job at thirty, when I swore to myself that I’d be gone by twenty-eight.’

  ‘OK. Well, then, if you really want out, you’re going to have to stop spending money on losers like Ronan, and take the plunge. So what if you’re broke for a while? At least you’ll be happy. You’ve been giving out about your job for years, so you should do something about it.’

  ‘You’re right. I have been moaning for years. You know what, Lucy? I’m going to do it this time, I really am. I’m going to hand in my notice.’

  I was feeling very brave, largely due to the four vodkas I’d just consumed, but also because, as Lucy had pointed out, my thirtieth birthday was looming and the thought of waking up on that day in the same job terrified me. Thirty was a milestone – a sign. It was time for me to change my life and stop drifting along. Ronan would have to go too: I no longer liked him, never mind fancied him, and he was too expensive. I’d tell him later and on Monday I’d resign. Hurrah, I was finally taking control.

  I went to the bar to order a bottle of champagne to celebrate my new life. When I had fished my money out of my purse I looked up to see a tall, dark, handsome guy standing beside me ordering drinks. ‘What are you celebrating?’ he asked, in a posh English accent – smiling at me. He had a great smile.

  Cute and English. I liked that, no baggage. Irish guys always had baggage – somehow you always knew someone who knew someone who had gone out with them, shagged them, snogged them or fancied them – and at some stage that baggage would inevitably turn up to haunt you. At least with an English guy all his exes would be tucked away in England – out of sight, out of mind.

  ‘I’m celebrating my decision to get out of the rat-race and follow my true desire to be a makeup artist.’ I beamed at him. ‘By the way, I’m Emma.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, Emma. I’m James. Good luck with your new career. I did the same thing two years ago and it was the best decision I ever made.’

  ‘Really? What did you do?’

  James told me he used to work in corporate banking but found it deadly dull. What he wanted to do was be a top rugby trainer – well, he admitted that what he had really wanted to do was play rugby for England, but when that didn’t work out he opted for the more realistic goal of being a rugby trainer. On his thirtieth birthday, he’d handed in his notice, sold his Porsche and his loft apartment overlooking the Thames and taken a job as assistant coach to the Titans. A year later when the Titans’ captain, Donal Brady, decided he wanted to move back to Dublin and play for Leinster, he persuaded James to come with him. So now James was the assistant head coach of the Leinster team.

  A kindred spirit! It must be fate. It had to be. How could I possibly have just bumped into this gorgeous guy at this turning-point in my life if it wasn’t meant to be? Just as I was imagining what our children would look like, Ronan staggered over. ‘I’m dying of thirst. What are you doing? Brewing the stuff?’

  I glared at him. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

  ‘Well, hurry up, you’ve been gone for ages and I want to get another few in before closing time,’ said Ronan, looking huffy.

  A normal boyfriend would have been jealous because I had been talking to James – well, flirting outrageously would be closer to the truth – for ages. But not Ronan: all he wanted was his drink. If I had been having sex with James at the bar Ronan wouldn’t have cared, as long as he had his pint.

  ‘Fine. I’ll bring them over,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Well, hurry up. Lucy’s giving me the third degree about my book,’ he said, and then, spotting James’s cigarettes on the bar, his eyes lit up. ‘Can I borrow one?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you planning on returning it?’ said James.

  ‘Ha-ha, I suppose not. Do you mind?’ said Ronan, who was already pulling open the box.

  ‘Help yourself,’ said James drily.

  God, I wished he’d just piss off and disappear – Ronan, not James.

  ‘Mind if I take two – one for the road?’

  Christ, he had no shame. I was mortified.

  ‘Take three,’ said James. ‘That way you won’t have to come back.’

  The sarcasm went over Ronan’s head as he pulled another cigarette from the pack. Turning to me as he left, he said, ‘At this rate you’d better get me two drinks. If you need a hand carrying them, give me a shout.’

  James looked at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Interesting. What does he think of your new career move?’

  ‘I haven’t told him yet, because he’s going to be one of the casualties of my planned manoeuvres, along with the job I’m in now,’ I said, giving him my flirtiest smile. I know it was mean to denounce Ronan but, come on, the guy was a prat and James was gorgeous.

  ‘I see. And when exactly are you planning on telling him?’ he asked, grinning back.

  ‘No time like the present,’ I said, looking over at him as he gulped half of Lucy’s drink while she was talking to someone else.

  ‘How do you think he’ll take the news?’

  ‘He’ll miss the cash-flow, but I don’t think I’m “deep” enough for him.’

  ‘What attracted you to him in the beginning?’

  ‘He was the exact opposite to anyone else I had ever gone out with. I thought I’d give the sensitive poetic type a chance for a change. It turns out the poetic types are broke, self-obsessed and really dull.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a poetry reading,’ I said, beginning to laugh. ‘He gave a very dramatic reading of Patrick Kavanagh’s “Canal Bank Walk”.’

  ‘Poetry reading?’

  ‘I was trying to inject some culture into my life.’ I shrugged.

  ‘Well, I’m not big on poetry, but if you fancy a drink some night …’

  ‘Order me a white wine, I’ll be back in a second,’ I said, throwing all the how-to-get-your-man – play hard to get, never show him you like him early on, make him wait, always say you need to check your diary, blah-blah-blah – advice out the window.

  I charged over to Ronan, threw a pint and a whiskey chaser in front of him, told him I didn’t think it was working out, and that the two traits I deplored most in a man were scabbiness and laziness, both of which he had in abundance. I wished him well with his novel, sprinted back to James, knocking people and drinks aside in my eagerness … and we’ve
been together ever since.

  3

  Couldn’t believe it, I wasn’t pregnant! I’d been sure my swollen stomach was a little baby growing inside me. Instead it was all those muffins I’d been eating. Very disappointing, as I now had the double whammy of not being pregnant with the guilt of having eaten the muffins in some self-indulgent fantasy that it was a craving. Damn, now I’d have to go to the gym to de-swell my non-pregnant stomach.

  I decided it was time to take control and focus on being healthier to help my fertility along. Apparently there’s a lot you can do to ‘aid the process’, as I found out when I came across Winifred Conkling’s Getting Pregnant Naturally: Healthy Choices to Boost Your Chances of Conceiving Without Fertility Drugs on the Internet.

  Winifred said that diet was key, and suggested that men should avoid cottonseed oil and cycling, while both partners should enjoy good orgasms, biofeedback, meditation, visualization and massage, as well as quitting smoking and recreational drugs, and limiting computer use.

  Right. Well, I had no idea what cottonseed oil was – it sounded like something they used to eat down in the Deep South in the days of slavery – but enjoying good orgasms sounded fine to me, and I’d get James to stop cycling and smoking.

  I looked up biofeedback: ‘… using safe, battery-operated, electronic instruments, biofeedback techniques measure and feed back subtle changes in cortical brain waves (EEG), cortical blood flow (HEG), muscle tension (EMG)…’ Bloody hell, it sounded like some form of torture. I wouldn’t be having any of that. I’d be sticking to the massages, orgasms, healthy eating, gentle exercise and lots of green tea.

  James came home later and I made dinner. He stared at the plate for a few seconds. ‘What do we have here, then, Emma?’

  ‘Steamed vegetables and tofu.’

  ‘Tofu?’

  ‘Yes, it’s supposed to be really good for you and I was reading all about fertility today on the Internet. We need to change a few things.’

  ‘Oh, really, like what?’

  ‘Like our diet and our lifestyle. We have to give up caffeine, alcohol, fatty foods, processed meat and just stuff with additives in general.’

  ‘So what does that leave?’

  ‘Well, vegetables and fruit, tofu and green tea. Oh, and you also need to stop smoking and cycling. It squishes your balls or something.’

  James winced. ‘And after we’ve finished this delicious feast, what’s for pudding? Sheep’s testicles?’

  ‘No, smart-arse, sex and massages, actually … Oh, yeah, and good orgasms.’

  ‘I see. Well, that part sounds great, but I’m not sure if I’ll have the energy for the sex and orgasms if all I’m eating is rabbit food,’ said James, waving a piece of broccoli in the air.

  He had a point. While he rustled up an enormous plate of pasta, which he chomped with glee, I pushed my dry, tasteless vegetables and even less appetizing tofu around my plate.

  An hour later we were in bed. Well, James was in bed having his post-sex cigarette (he swore it would be the last one he smoked … ever) while I was attempting to do a handstand against the wall.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Handstand,’ I puffed.

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘So the sperm can swim downstream more easily.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ I said. This gymnastics lark was tough going.

  James began to laugh. He thought it was hilarious. I, on the other hand, was not having such a fun time as all the blood was rushing to my head and I was feeling dizzy. I was never the most agile and couldn’t even do a decent forward roll in school, never mind a handstand. My arms were shaking and I collapsed in a heap on the floor, hitting my leg on the bed as I fell. James was doubled up on it, hooting.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at. The sperm will be confused now. They won’t know which way to swim. You should have held my legs up in the air. We need to take this seriously, James. The sperm need all the help they can get.’

  ‘Darling, my boys know which way to swim, trust me.’

  ‘Oh, really? What makes you so sure?’ I said, rubbing my leg grumpily.

  James paused, then said, smiling smugly, ‘Because I inherited them from my father and his obviously knew which way to go. Henry and I are proof of that. Now, get back into bed so I can kiss your leg better.’

  I woke up the next day with a large bruise on my right leg. I was booked to do a wedding. I didn’t really like doing wedding makeup because the brides – but more particularly their mothers – tended to be uptight and demanding. The upside was that weddings paid well, so I found it hard to turn them down.

  I had met the eighteen-year-old bride, Jacinta Foley, two months ago and – how can I put this delicately? – she made Pamela Anderson look posh. Dressed from head to toe in Burberry, with Burberry bag, scarf, wallet, key-ring and shoes to match, six-inch false nails and masses of dark hair extensions, she came in clutching a picture of Posh Spice and told me that she wanted to look like her on her wedding day. She said she didn’t care how much it cost because her father was ‘fuckin’ loaded’. Fine by me.

  We did a trial run, during which she demanded more eyeliner, longer false lashes and darker foundation. ‘I want to look really tanned,’ she said, as I piled on another layer. Eventually, when she looked like a Jamaican cabaret star, she was happy.

  Having met Jacinta, I knew her family were bound to be colourful too. It was going to be an interesting day. Her father had booked out Luttrellstown Castle – the same castle Posh and Becks got married in – and they had invited two hundred of their closest friends.

  When I arrived, I was ushered to the bridal suite by a strung-out wedding planner. ‘They’re all mad,’ she whispered to me. ‘No amount of money is worth the abuse I’ve had to take. No amount.’

  Jacinta was on the phone when I walked in. ‘I don’t give a toss about your fat fuck of a sister. She is not singin’ in the church and that’s tha’.’ She hung up and sighed. ‘Sorry about tha’. It was me fella. His stupid sister wants to sing “Careless Whispers” in the church. I don’t fuckin’ tink so. It’s so tacky.’

  Jacinta had obviously been a bit heavy handed with the St Tropez. She was a dark shade of tangerine. Her sister came out of the bathroom and Jacinta introduced us. ‘Anita, this is me makeup girl. She’s going to make us into supermodels.’

  ‘Howzit going?’

  Anita was small, very thin, had peroxide hair with the mandatory extensions and must have had shares in St Tropez because she was even darker than her sister. She was wearing a tiger-print dressing-gown. ‘Will you have a glass of champagne?’ she asked.

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll wait till I’ve finished the makeup.’

  ‘Wha’? Are you mad? Get it into you. It’s the real ting. It’s fuckin’ lovely.’

  ‘OK, maybe just half a glass.’ There was no way I was going to get into an argument with this lot. I’d end up in traction.

  I had just begun to do Jacinta’s makeup when her father came storming into the room. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Wha’?’

  ‘I’ve just had a call from me credit-card company to check if I’d spent ten fuckin’ grand on a holiday in Barbados. I could buy the fuckin’ country for ten grand. Is that useless fucker not payin’ for anyting?’

  Ten thousand euro. My God, where was she staying? She must be flying first class. I was dying to know what her father did for a living.

  ‘Don’t call Spike a useless fucker. He’s just a bit skint at the minute, so I said you’d pay for the honeymoon,’ said the orange bride-to-be.

  ‘A bit skint? He has so far paid for sweet fuck-all – and he ran up a bar bill of three hundred euro last night.’

  ‘Look, if you’re too scabby to pay for me honeymoon, fine, we’ll cancel the fuckin’ ting. I’ll be the only girl to have ever got married and not go on honeymoon because her father was too fuckin’ tig
ht to pay for it.’

  ‘Ah, now, don’t be like tha’. I don’t mind helpin’ yiz out, but I’m not a fuckin’ Banklink machine. He needs to get a proper job and support you.’

  ‘He has got a proper job. He’s a musician. It takes time to be discovered, you know.’

  ‘Musician my arse. Did it ever occur to you tha’ he might be no shaggin’ good? Tha’ he and his band are shite? I’m givin’ him six more months and then he’s comin’ to work for me.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, comin’ in here upsettin’ me on me fuckin’ weddin’ day. Some father you are. Me mother’s probably turnin’ in her grave at you roarin’ at me,’ shouted Jacinta.

  ‘Ah, now, Jacinta, don’t start cryin’. I’ll say no more about it for today and I’ll pay for the honeymoon. But I’m warnin’ you, tha’ fella is to get a real job soon. Go on now, get ready and enjoy yourself. I’ll see you later. We’ll have a great day. Order another bottle of champagne.’

  As a significantly poorer Mr Foley closed the door, Anita shook her head in disbelief. ‘You chancer! I can’t believe you got him to fork out ten grand for the honeymoon. There’ll be no fuckin’ money left for me at this rate.’

  My sentiments exactly, Anita. Between Jacinta and the useless, talentless Spike, it seemed to me that Mr Foley was being bled dry. I was dying to know what he did for a crust.

  ‘So what does your dad do?’ I asked, trying to sound casual rather than nosy.

  ‘He owns SuperBurger and Tits ’R’ Us,’ said Jacinta, pouring herself another glass of champagne.

  Well, that explained it. SuperBurger was the most popular fast-food chain in Ireland and Tits ’R’ Us was the most popular strip club in Dublin. They were queuing round the block to get into it, and rumour had it that when the police went in to check that there was no ‘funny business’ going on in the back rooms, they were shown such a good time that they were now the best customers.

  ‘Oh, my God, Jacinta, look at this!’ gasped Anita, who was staring out the window.