A Perfect Match

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘Now, now,’ said Mum, patting my arm. ‘Of course you’ll get accepted. Sure they only turn away lunatics and paedophiles, not good honest people like James and yourself. Don’t be getting yourself into a state. You’re no good to anyone in a state. I have to admit, I thought you’d get pregnant naturally while you were doing the course. With all the distractions of the meetings, I was sure that you’d get pregnant because you wouldn’t be thinking about it. Still, never mind, sure a little Russian baby is nearly the same.’

  ‘It is the same, Mum,’ I said sternly. ‘It’s exactly the same as having a baby of our own, as far as we’re concerned – it just took a lot longer than a natural pregnancy.’

  ‘Well, Emma, it isn’t quite the same. The child might want to meet its parents in the future and you’ll have to deal with that.’

  ‘Mum,’ I snapped, ‘don’t even think about telling me what I may or may not have to face. I have spent the last six months having the horrors of all the things that can go wrong with adopting a baby shoved down my throat. I really don’t need you sticking your oar in now. If I allow myself to think about all the bad things that could happen, I’ll lose my nerve and back out. Adoption is a huge leap of faith and we need support from everyone. I only want to hear positive things. OK?’

  ‘Lord, Emma, I was only saying …’

  ‘Mum, it’s bad enough having my sister – who I told the adoption people was an extremely responsible adult who would be a great help to me when I brought the baby home – making a fool of herself on TV. I really don’t need you telling me the baby’s going to piss off back to Russia as soon as it can walk.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t have lied to them about Barbara. I’ve told you before about lying to people. No good comes of it.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘But, as I was going to say before you roared at me, I am quite sure that your sister being silly will have no effect on your application and your social worker would hardly be watching daytime television now would she?’

  ‘Suppose not,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Right, well I better go and contact the police or MI5 or whoever it is that I need to get in touch with to get my new identity. Maybe I should go to Russia and you could come to visit me with the baby. Your father suggested Afghanistan because of the big blue sheets the women wear over there. He said even Nuala wouldn’t be able to track me down. He’s a real comedian, I can see where Barbara gets it. Anyway, I’ll say a prayer for the adoption. Let me know. And don’t take your frustrations out on James. It’s bad enough his sister-in-law is making a show of him on television without his wife shouting at him when he comes home. What must he think of us? The English are so much more reserved. Right, well, I’ll go then. Bye now.’

  Three days later, as I was driving down to Wexford to do a wedding party’s make-up, my mobile rang. It was James. A letter had arrived from the Adoption Board. We had been accepted. I pulled over and sobbed.

  30

  Now that we’d been approved by the Adoption and Health Board and added the twenty thousand Euro loan on to our already substantial mortgage – which at least spread the repayments over twenty years – we had to find an agency. According to my research the agency was the most vital part of the process. If you went with some bandit agency you could end up with a very sick child, or else they’d just do a runner with your money and you’d have no child at all. A good agency would not only match you with a baby, but also get all your documents translated for you and authorized by the Ministry of Education and Health in Russia, organize a court date for you and have a facilitator meet you on your arrival in Moscow and guide you through your visit, translating and interpreting for you. Two visits to Russia were required. The first visit is when you go to meet the child you have been matched with, the second is when you go back – once the court date has been set up – to legally adopt your baby and bring him or her home.

  I had heard about an agency called Help Is At Hand run by a man named Alexander. He had been mentioned on a number of the websites I had been browsing, as the best in the business. The agency was based in Georgia in the US, so I emailed him a list of questions that I had compiled from reference books and Internet adoption chat rooms.

  What’s the age range of the children available for adoption? How many children did you place last year? What is the breakdown of costs? What is the average time between submitting a dossier and receiving a referral? How long between accepting the referral and our first trip over? How long between the first and second trips? How long will we get to spend with the child on the first trip? Will we have a translator on hand when we get to Russia? Will you be translating all documents into and out of Russian?

  I sent them off and while I was waiting for a response, set about compiling all our documents – known as our dossier. The paper trail for adoption was a never-ending nightmare. I looked down at the long list of documents required: copies of our birth and marriage certificates and passports; a statement of income provided by our employers, documents certifying ownership of our home, a letter from the adoption agency giving commitment to provide post-placement supervision and post-placement reports to the Russian authorities; a medical letter from our doctor drafted in the format prescribed by the Russian Ministry of Health which includes the need for a HIV test; a letter giving power of attorney to the agency; written statements that we will register the adopted child at the consular office of the Russian Federation in Ireland; photographs of us; Home Study assessment report; Department of Health’s certificate of Eligibility; police reports for both of us and a letter confirming that the application complies with both Irish and Russian adoption laws.

  I sighed as I put the list down on the table. These adoption people really knew how to ruin a girl’s buzz. Just when I thought that things were going to get easier, they were actually becoming even more of a headache. ‘OK, come on, Emma,’ I said to myself. ‘Chop, chop. There is no point sitting around feeling weary, get up off your arse and start sorting out the paperwork.’

  I spent the next three weeks galloping around Dublin – with James in tow some of the time – sorting out documents, having Aids tests and stalking Alexander. I was determined to have my dossier completed before going to London with Amanda to film Babs’s cosmetic surgery. Alexander came back to me with answers to all my questions – including a breakdown of the costs. We decided to go with him, because he had been running his agency for over ten years, he seemed very professional and because the pictures of the children on his website were very sweet. They all looked very cute and very happy. The day before we flew to London, I Fed-Exed our paperwork to the US with a large cheque.

  James came with us to London as he was meeting up with one or two players he was hoping to persuade to move to Leinster next season. I was glad to have him with me, because Babs was driving me insane. She seemed to be under some illusion that she was a celebrity and insisted on wearing sunglasses in the airport and on the plane. After we had landed and checked into our hotel, we went to meet Sean and Shadee for dinner. Babs was still wearing the sunglasses when we arrived to the restaurant.

  ‘What’s with the dark glasses, Seabiscuit?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Enjoy your final slag, Sean,’ said Babs, smirking, ‘because in two days’ time you won’t be able to call me that any more.’

  ‘You can take the nose off the girl, but you can’t take the girl off the nose,’ laughed Sean, as Babs whipped off her sunglasses to glare at him.

  While they bickered, I was staring at the enormous rock on Shadee’s finger.

  ‘Wow,’ I exclaimed, ‘it’s stunning.’

  Shadee smiled and lifted her hand so I could get a closer look.

  ‘It’s gorgeous, Sean,’ I said. ‘Congratulations to both of you.’

  ‘What? You’re engaged?’ said our C-celeb. ‘Since when? Have you told Mum and Dad? Come on, let’s call them now, it’ll take the heat off me. They’ll go mad when they hear this,’ she said, subtle as always.

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nbsp; ‘No, they won’t,’ snapped Sean. ‘They’ll be fine about it. We’ve been together for a year, they’re hardly going to be surprised.’

  ‘Want a bet?’ said Babs.

  ‘Have you told your parents?’ I asked Shadee.

  She nodded and sighed. ‘Yes. It was difficult, but they are very fond of Sean and they can see how happy I am, so they’re coming around to the idea.’

  ‘So will our parents,’ I said, reassuring her. ‘They think you’re great.’

  ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s call them now,’ said Babs.

  ‘Shut up, will you,’ said Sean. ‘Big nose, big mouth. We’re going to wait and see if you survive the operation before pouncing our news on them. If you don’t die on the operating table, we’ll tell them this weekend.’

  ‘Well, I think this calls for champagne,’ said James.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Sean. ‘To celebrate our engagement and your adoption.’

  ‘And my new nose,’ shouted Babs, not wanting to be left out.

  ‘And Babs’s new nose. Let’s hope they don’t make it worse,’ I said.

  ‘Or that the knife slips and she ends up with a scar down the side of her face,’ added Sean.

  ‘Fuck off the lot of you. You’re just jealous because you’re both carrot heads and I’m blonde and gorgeous.’

  ‘With a penchant for older rugby players,’ said James, chuckling into his drink as I kicked him under the table. I hadn’t told Sean, because I knew he’d be shocked.

  ‘I can’t help it if men find me irresistible, James.’

  ‘Who are we talking about here?’ asked Sean.

  ‘Me shagging Donal Brady,’ said Babs.

  ‘What? When? I thought he was engaged to Lucy.’

  ‘He was, but he still couldn’t keep his hands off me.’

  ‘Ignore her. They had broken up and he was out of his head drunk and he bumped into Babs and one thing led to another. He got back with Lucy a few days later. No one knows so don’t say a word,’ I said, glaring at Babs.

  ‘You really are the limit,’ said Sean. ‘Why can’t you find someone your own age who isn’t attached? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘That’s rich coming from someone who’s marrying the first girl that he’s ever gone out with that didn’t cheat on him.’

  ‘It’s a far sight better than behaving like a tramp.’ ‘OK, enough,’ I said, jumping in. ‘We’re supposed to be celebrating here.’

  The next day, Babs, Amanda and I went to the clinic where the operation was taking place. I did their makeup while the production team set up the cameras. The surgeon – a Mr Browns-Dent, who had more marbles in his mouth than Prince Charles – arrived to talk Babs through the procedure. I applied some light make-up to his already perfectly tanned face, and we were ready to film.

  ‘With rhinoplasty complications are infrequent and usually minor,’ warbled the surgeon.

  ‘What’s rhinoplasty?’ asked Babs, looking put out. ‘It sounds like something you do to a rhinoceros, not a human.’

  ‘It’s a medical term, my dear,’ said Mr Browns-Dent, talking directly to the camera. ‘As your procedure is relatively straightforward I would imagine we will have completed the operation within an hour.’

  ‘OK, so what exactly happens?’ asked Babs, dying to hear all the gory details.

  ‘During surgery the skin of the nose is separated from its supporting framework of bone and cartilage, which is then sculpted into the desired shape. When this has been completed satisfactorily, the skin will be redraped over the new framework.’

  ‘Cool!’ said Babs, as Amanda and I squirmed. ‘What happens when I wake up? I hope I won’t be too puffy and bruised? How long till I can go out?’

  ‘When the surgery is complete, a splint will be applied to help your nose maintain its new shape,’ said the surgeon, smiling into the camera. Babs was irrelevant to him, the audience was key. He was pitching to all those potential clients in Ireland. ‘After surgery – particularly during the first twenty-four hours – your face will feel puffy and your nose may feel a little uncomfortable. But, don’t worry; we can control any discomfort you may experience with pain medication. I recommend a day’s rest and then you can go home. Applying cold compresses to the area will help reduce the swelling. I can assure you that all my patients have been extremely satisfied with the results and amazed by the lack of pain they suffer at my expert hands.’

  ‘Great, when can we start?’ asked Seabiscuit, chomping at the bit.

  ‘You’re scheduled in for five o’clock today. I will see you then,’ he said, giving the audience a dazzling smile as he strode out of the room, head to toe Saville Row.

  I was feeling a bit nervous for Babs after hearing the details of what went on during the operation. She, on the other hand, was on a high. She was recording her solo piece for the show.

  ‘Well, it’s eleven o’clock now, so I’ve only got six more hours until I get my new nose. I would recommend this to anyone. My life is about to change dramatically. I’m going to look amazing. I just wish I hadn’t waited so long. I’ll see you all after the operation.’

  Later that day, as Babs was waiting for the orderlies to come and wheel her down to theatre, she suddenly looked very young and vulnerable. She was fidgeting nervously with the hat that was holding her hair back.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve just never had an operation before, so I don’t know what to expect.’ She shrugged.

  ‘You know you don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to. It’s not too late to back out.’

  ‘No way. I want to get a new nose.’

  ‘The one you have really isn’t so bad.’

  ‘Yeah, right. That’s why even’ guy I’ve ever gone out with said I’d be gorgeous if it wasn’t for my nose.’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if they’ve stopped queuing up.’

  ‘Look, Emma, I appreciate the concern, but I’m not doing it for them, I’m doing this for me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Thanks, though. I’m glad you’re here. I’d be a bit freaked out on my own.’

  Just as Babs and I shared the only Little House on the Prairie moment we’d ever had, the producers came in to set up the camera to film her being wheeled down to theatre. The minute the camera was switched on, Babs went from young and scared to confident and smiling. They followed her through the anaesthetic and then filmed the hour-long operation. I paced nervously up and down the corridor waiting for her to come out. I prayed nothing would go wrong. God knows, she drove us all mad, but life would be very dull without her. At exactly six o’clock, an immaculate Mr Browns-Dent came out of theatre to tell the cameras that the operation had been

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  successful and that Babs was now in recovery. I went in and sat beside her until she woke up.

  ‘How did it go?’ she slurred, still groggy from the anaesthetic.

  ‘Fine. Everything went really well according to your posh surgeon. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fan-fucking-tastic. These drugs are great, I feel as if I’m floating.’

  ‘OK, well get some sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.’

  The next morning we arrived back in to film the post-operation section, to find Babs sitting up, staring into a mirror and looking a sorry sight. Her eyes were puffy and black and blue. As far as her nose was concerned I could see no difference because of the swelling. She didn’t look too pleased.

  ‘I look a state. Do something,’ she hissed at me.

  ‘What exactly am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Make me look better, it’s your bloody job. I can’t go on TV looking like this.’

  ‘There is nothing I can do about the puffiness and I can’t mask your black eyes. Besides, the surgeon said you were to avoid touching the area at all for a few days.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Babs, looking in the mirror as she tried to pull her hair down over her face. ‘I look like a bloody panda bear a
nd my nose is killing me. What does it look like? Can you see it under the swelling?’

  ‘It looks dreadful,’ I said, honestly.

  ‘Well, it may not look great now, but it will be fab. The doctor said so and I trust him. He does all the celebrity noses,’ she said, trying to convince herself that the big lump in the middle of her face was not the finished product.

  Amanda sat on the side of the bed to do the post-op interview.

  ‘I’m here with Barbara Burke, who has woken up this morning from last night’s surgery to see her new nose for the first time. Can you tell us how you’re feeling?’

  ‘Shite, actually. My head’s throbbing, and I’ve just seen my new nose in the mirror. I look like an English bulldog with two black eyes.’

  ‘Well, of course the surgeon did say that there would be swelling for a few days, but he seems pleased with the operation.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s not his nose, is it? I can’t say what I think until the swelling has gone down. I’ll comment then. It better be nice, because otherwise I’m going to sue you all.’

  Amanda looked taken aback. Sometimes controversial guests were more of a headache than a ratings earner.

  31

  A week later, the swelling had gone down and Babs’s nose was definitely smaller. But to me it looked odd. I was so used to her face with the big schnozz that this button nose looked out of place. She, however, was delighted, and spent all day staring at herself in the mirror.

  As Mum recovered from the shame and worry of her youngest daughter being operated on in front of the whole country, Sean picked his moment to tell her about his engagement. He took the coward’s way out and told her over the phone, saying he was too tied up in work to come home, but he’d see her at Lucy’s wedding in six weeks’ time where Shadee could show her the ring and discuss wedding details then. Mum called me straight away.