The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1)

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘I don’t understand how you think a book about a guy who speaks only in rhyming couplets could be commercial,’ she argued.

  ‘But it’s not supposed to be commercial. I would never sell my soul for financial gain. It’s aimed at poetry lovers, particularly admirers of Patrick Kavanagh.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to make any money out of it, how do you plan to support yourself?’

  ‘A true artist never worries about where his next meal comes from. Besides, I have my freelance work to pay the bills,’ said the smug would-be author, as he threw back yet another pint he hadn’t paid for.

  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 upturn in the economy, 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 Prosecco 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 sod off and disappear – Ronan, not James.

  ‘Mind if I take two – one for the road?’ 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 down 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 down on the table 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 says that diet is key, and suggests 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 put on their salads in Deep South – 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 feedback 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 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.

  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.’

  4

  Damn it! Not pregnant again. I was sure I would be. We had sex on days twelve, thirteen, fourteen and fifteen to be on the safe side. What the hell was wrong with me? I rang James to tell him, but Donal answered his phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘No, Donal here, is that Simone?’

  ‘No, it’s Emma, who the hell is Simone?’

  ‘I know it’s you, Simone Biles, Olympic gold medallist.

  Come on, now, don’t be shy.’

  ‘Donal, put me on to James.’

  ‘Lookit, Simone, I’m a huge fan. I love the way you somersault around on that beam and don’t even get me started on the parallel bars. I hear you do a very good handstand too.’

  ‘Hilarious, Donal. You’re a real comedian, now put James on to me.’

  I willed myself to sound calm. I was furious. How dare James tell Donal about my post sex handstands? That was private information. I could hear Donal shouting to James that Simone Biles was on the phone.

  ‘Hi, what’s up?’ said James, trying to sound nonchalant as Donal roared laughing in the background. He knew he was in trouble.

  ‘Judas!’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Judas, your thirty pieces of silver will be waiting for you when you get home. I suppose you think it’s funny telling the lads about my handstands.’

  ‘Hold on, Emma –’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I’m sure you all just sat around the locker room and had a good old laugh at my expense. Well, that is just charming. Thanks a lot, James. Some husband you are.’

  ‘Emma, relax, it’s not that big a deal. I didn’t tell them all about it. Donal was asking me if we were going to have kids and I said we hoped to and then he said that his cousin had gone a bit mad when she was trying to get pregnant and had ended up going to India to see some healer and then I may have mentioned the handstands but only in passing.’

  ‘Oh, well, if it was only in passing sure that’s fine. I feel so much better now. Don’t give it another thought. Any other private information you’d like to divulge in passing is fine by me. Well, I won’t keep you because I’m sure you have a few more gems to mention, in passing, to Donal. ’Bye for now.’

  I slammed down the phone. I was mortified. How could he be so insensitive and disloyal? I pictured them all having a right old laugh at my expense. The mad wife. I hate all that macho locker-room talk. Each guy trying to outdo the other guy with his my-bird’s-madder-than-yours stories.

  You hear them going on – ‘My bird’s taken up kick boxing. . .’, ‘My bird’s making me do tango lessons . . .’, and on and on they go in some weird competitive ritual.

  But my pet hate is the ‘I have to go home or my bird will kill me’ routine. The guy is out with his friends after work, he looks at his watch, it’s nine, he’s tired, hungry, has had enough and wants to go home. So you’d think he’d say, ‘See you, guys, I’m off. I don’t fancy a late night.’ Don’t be ridiculous: he can’t do that, it wouldn’t look good, so he says, ‘I’d better phone the missus to tell her I’ll be late.’

  Then he calls you
and before you’ve even had the chance to say hello, he starts this strange monologue with himself. ‘I’m staying out with the lads. What’s that? Ah, I know I said I’d be back early but we’re having a laugh here. What? You made dinner? Oh, right, well, then, I suppose. Yeah. OK. Well, I’ll just finish this one and come home, then. Relax, don’t get your knickers in a twist, I won’t be long, I’m on my way.’

  Before you can tell him that you’re going out to the cinema with a friend, there’s no dinner of any description in any oven and he can stay out as long as he wants, you couldn’t care less what time he comes home – he hangs up.

  As I was standing in the kitchen thinking how annoying the phrase ‘don’t get your knickers in a twist’ is, and still fuming at James, the phone rang.

  ‘What?’ I shouted, expecting it to be James grovelling. ‘Emma?’

  Oh, great. Fanbloodytastic. It was Imogen. I was going to pretend I was a Russian housekeeper with no English, but while I was trying to get the accent right in my head, she said, ‘Emma, hello, are you there? It’s Imogen.’ Damn, too late now.

  ‘Oh, hello, Imogen, sorry about that, I was just in the middle of something. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, actually. Bit of news to tell you. I’m preggers again. Yep, Henry and I are expecting. And it’s twins this time. Fancy that, and we weren’t even trying, it just happened. Bit sorry that I won’t be able to ride for a few months but there you go. Still it’ll be maaahvellous to have some company for Thomas.’

  I felt physically sick. Lucky thing. Twins. That would be so perfect. What was wrong with me? I was useless. I must have no eggs, or only little shrivelled city ones. Bloody Imogen and her big, horsy, fertile, country eggs.