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

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘Not the black one?’

  ‘Emma!’

  The next day, James’s team was playing its big match so I decided to go down and support him. He had only been the Leinster head coach for two months, having been promoted from assistant when Johnnie Mooney resigned over a pay-rise dispute mid-season. I was delighted when Johnnie left as it gave James the opportunity to step out of his shadow. Since then, all the papers had said that James was an excellent coach and so far the team had been doing well under his leadership. He was really nervous about this match, though, so I knew it must be a big one and I wanted to show an interest. He said that if they won this game, they’d be in the quarter-finals of some big European league. I might not know a lot about rugby but I knew this league was important. I was determined to go and cheer them on.

  I had a photo shoot for Spirits, the top hairdressing salon in Dublin, that morning: they had asked me to make up the models for their new ad campaign. The money was good and it’d keep me in ovulation sticks for a while. The shoot dragged on into the late afternoon, but I managed to wrap it up and make it to the match for the second half.

  The big stadium was jammed full of people. I had never seen such a big crowd at any of James’s games before. I managed to squeeze through and stood near James who was running up and down the sideline roaring instructions at the team. He looked really serious and quite sexy in his team tracksuit. I tried to catch his eye to wave at him, but he was far too engrossed in the match to notice me.

  It was a close game and I was swept away with the atmosphere. It was electric. The man beside me told me that this was the best Leinster side he’d seen in years and that English fella coaching them was a genius. My heart swelled with pride. With five minutes to go Leinster was three points behind. We needed a try, my new friend told me. ‘Come on, Leinster,’ I roared.

  One minute to go and Leinster had a lineout on the opposition’s twenty-two-yard line. The hooker threw the ball in; Donal jumped ten feet in the air, caught it and took off like a bullet towards the opposition’s line. He mowed the other players down as he thundered forward and then he scored! Donal scored the winning try! The final whistle blew and the crowd went berserk. James jumped up and down and hugged the players. Then he saw me waving frantically at him and jogged over to hug me too. My new friend looked at me in awe and then I introduced him to the genius coach – my husband, James.

  We had drinks in the clubhouse after the match and I was thrilled to see James basking in his well-deserved glory. He was chuffed that I had been there to cheer him on and I vowed to go to all the matches from then on.

  Later that evening I got a chance to corner Donal and grill him about Lucy.

  ‘So, you big oaf, have you called Lucy yet to apologize?’

  ‘I’ve called her lots if times, but she keeps hanging up on me.’

  ‘Well, do you blame her? You fell asleep, Donal.’

  ‘I know, I know, I feel bad about it. But seeing as how she won’t talk to me, I’ve come up with a plan B.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, what?’

  ‘All will be revealed tomorrow,’ said Donal, and winked at me.

  God, I hoped he wasn’t going to do anything too insane. I quizzed James, but he had no idea.

  Lucy was sitting in work the next day when she got a call from a giddy receptionist to say there was a delivery for her. The girl could hardly speak she was laughing so much.

  ‘Well, just send it up to Sarah,’ said Lucy, annoyed at being interrupted for something so trivial. Her secretary – Sarah – handled that kind of thing.

  A few minutes later she heard squealing and giggling outside her office. Then she heard Sarah asking someone in a very loud voice, to gales of laughter, ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’

  Lucy was walking towards the door to see what the hell was going on when it burst open and Donal marched into her office dressed as a caveman. He was wearing nothing except a leopard-print tunic with Moses sandals and carrying a spear. Colleagues appeared from nowhere to see what was going on. Quite a crowd had gathered.

  For once, Lucy was speechless. What was this nutter doing making a spectacle of himself in her office? Donal began to beat his chest and howl like a werewolf. He got down on bended knee and asked Lucy to forgive him for having behaved like a caveman and to give him another chance.

  Lucy found her voice: ‘Get out, you lunatic. You’re making a holy show of me, not to mind yourself. This is my workplace not a zoo,’ she hissed, as her boss Ross Brophy stormed through the door looking extremely annoyed.

  ‘What the hell is going on here, Lucy? I have important clients in my office who are asking me what the howling noises coming from next door are.’

  Donal stood up. ‘Sorry, it’s my fault. I’m trying to get Lucy to go out with me.’

  ‘Well, can you please do it somewhere . . . Donal? Donal Brady?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘My God, I was at the match this weekend – that was some try you pulled off,’ said Ross, shaking Donal’s hand, suddenly oblivious to the fact that Donal was naked but for an animal-print rug. ‘What a game.’

  ‘They were tough opponents, all right, but we felt we had the edge on them up front and we just kept plugging away,’ said Fred Flintstone.

  ‘That drive at the end to score the try was spectacular,’ said Ross. ‘Listen, my clients next door are big rugby fans, you wouldn’t come in and say hello, would you?’

  ‘Only if Lucy here agrees to go on a date with me,’ said Donal, grinning at Lucy.

  ‘Lucy, if you don’t go out with Donal you’re fired,’ said Ross.

  Lucy shrugged. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Well, OK, then, but I choose the venue this time.’

  9

  I spent the next day with my mother in Lillie’s boutique while she tried on every stitch in the shop, finally opting for a beige dress with chocolate brown velvet trimming. She looked lovely in it but I said I thought Dad would have a heart-attack when he saw the bill. Big mistake. Huge.

  My mother launched into a dramatic monologue – was it too much to ask for a little treat after thirty-five years of marriage? Hadn’t she supported and encouraged my father throughout his career, entertaining all his boring accountancy colleagues, and look at him now, partner in the firm? She had stood by him through thick and thin and all she wanted was to look nice for his birthday and now I was making her feel guilty about it. Could she not buy a frock without a big song and dance being made of it?

  I had to stop her before she moved on to the ‘no one appreciates me’ speech so I distracted her by pointing out that she now needed matching bag and shoes, and she should get really nice ones as she deserved it, and it was important that she look her best as she was hosting the party. This sent her into a frenzy and we spent another two hours trudging from shop to shop to find the perfect match. Thankfully the shoes were procured before my patience ran out and I strangled her.

  As we were driving home she turned to me and asked,

  ‘Now, what are you going to wear?’

  ‘No idea, I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Well, don’t wear anything too racy and, whatever you do, do not attempt to wear that black dress with the plunging neckline. It makes you look cheap. And no animal prints either – they’re so common. Wear a nice trouser suit with a nice crisp white shirt or a nice long skirt or –’

  ‘Mum! I’m thirty-three. I think I know how to dress. Now, go home, put your feet up, have a nice long bath and relax. I’ll call you later,’ I said, pulling up in front of the house.

  ‘Well, all right, but promise me you won’t wear that black dress,’ she said, hauling the shopping bags out of the back of the car.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘And you’ll come over early to do my makeup?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘OK, well, I’ll see you on Saturday. Be here by five so we have plenty of time.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘O
K – you don’t think the shoes are too high?’

  ‘No, they’re perfect.’

  ‘Because I’ll be standing all night and I don’t want to be uncomfortable. I’m not used to such high heels. Maybe I should change them for the lower ones with the straps in that other shop.’

  ‘Mum, the shoes are lovely. Stop fussing.’

  ‘Well, it’s all very well but I’m not as young as I used to be and I can’t wear such high shoes any more. Maybe I should change them.’

  ‘Mum! The shoes are fine.’

  ‘I don’t want to look like mutton dressed up as lamb. I think I’ll change them. You shouldn’t have let me buy them, Emma, they’re too high.’

  ‘Fine, change them. Wear wellington boots and a housecoat. I don’t care anymore. I’ll see you on Saturday,’ I muttered, and drove off at top speed before I hit her with the shoe box.

  When I got home James was finishing a telephone interview with the Irish Times. ‘Yes, I’m confident that we’ll beat Perpignan next week . . . No, I’m not daunted by playing them on their home turf, we’re looking forward to the challenge . . . I think our front row is the best in Europe . . . Donal Brady is a great asset to the team and an excellent captain. He’s a great motivator . . . Well, let’s win this match first before we start talking about the semi-final . . . OK, Gary, see you in France next week.’

  James hung up and kissed me. ‘Good day with your mother?’

  ‘Nightmare. She would try the patience of a saint. James, what did you mean there, ‘‘see you in France next week’’?’

  ‘It was Gary Brown from the Times. He’s coming to cover the match next Saturday in Perpignan.’

  ‘I thought your match was here.’

  ‘No, it’s an away match.’

  ‘Well, you can’t go.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You can’t go. It’s day fourteen.’

  ‘Oh, you mean your dad’s party. No, of course I’m here for that. The match is next week.’

  Jeepers, did I have to spell it out? ‘No, James, it’s day fourteen of my cycle. We have to have sex on that day so you can’t be in France.’

  ‘Emma, it’s the quarter-final of the European Cup.’

  ‘I know, but we can’t skip a month. It’s been five months already and nothing. I don’t want to miss one. At this rate I’ll never get pregnant. Can’t you just go for the day?’

  ‘No, I can’t. We’re going for five days. We need to train out there for a few days before the match. I’m sorry, darling, but this is non-negotiable.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could leave some sperm behind and I could use a turkey-baster or something.’ I’d read about the turkey-baster in some old novel. I realize it was a desperate measure but I was beginning to panic. James would be gone from day twelve to day sixteen. It was a disaster. The months were slipping by and my biological clock was ticking away. I’d never get pregnant at this rate.

  ‘Emma, calm down. It’s just one month. It’s no big deal. We’ll focus next month, I promise,’ James said, laughing at the turkey-baster idea. I knew it was silly but I could feel myself getting really hot and bothered. I wanted to do everything I could to get pregnant and those were key days.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to come to France.’

  ‘But, Emma, I won’t have any spare time. I have to be totally focused. This is the biggest match of my career. It’s a really big deal and I can’t be distracted. It’s all about training and team-bonding.’

  ‘I don’t care, I’m coming. I’m sure you can spare me fifteen minutes a day. I know it’s a really important match and I won’t distract you, but I’m coming.’

  ‘It’ll be really boring for you. I won’t have a spare minute.’

  ‘James, I’m only looking for a few minutes of your precious time. Come on, it’s not going to kill you or wear you out, and I promise not to get in your way.’

  The problem with baby-making was that it had pretty much wiped out the spontaneous rip-your-clothes-off sex we were used to. Now it was all about timing and dates, whereas before we had just hopped on each other whenever the mood took us. The focus had changed from pleasure to which-is-the-best-position-to-help-the-spermreach-the-egg-quickly sex. Still, if that was what it took, then that was what we had to do.

  I could see James was not happy about the prospect of me tagging along to France. He was really nervous about the match and he wanted to be there for the team one hundred per cent. But I wasn’t going to distract him. I just needed his sperm once a day.

  ‘I really don’t think it’s a great idea, but if you promise not to get annoyed when you’re left on your own all day and not wake me up in the middle of the night for chats because you can’t sleep then I suppose it’s OK. I’ll allocate you two minutes and twenty-five seconds of my very precious time.’

  ‘Very generous of you to allocate two minutes for foreplay,’ I said, grinning. ‘I promise not to pester you when you’re coaching. In fact, you won’t even know I’m there,’ I said.

  ‘Somehow, Emma, I doubt it.’

  That Saturday I went to my parents’ house at five to do my mother’s makeup. I had organized caterers to serve the food and set up a bar so that Mum and Dad could enjoy the party without having to worry about people’s glasses being empty, or them not having enough to eat.

  When I arrived, Dad was skulking around in his new suit, looking harassed. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Your mother’s like a lunatic. I’m going to hide out in the study. I’ve had to change my tie three times already. Good luck!’ he said, and scampered off.

  I went upstairs to my mother who was sitting in her bathrobe, hair in curlers, on the phone to my auntie Pam. ‘No, I’m just wearing an old dress I have from years ago. Nothing fancy at all. OK, well, Emma has just arrived so I’ll go. I’ll see you later, Pam. ’Bye now.’

  ‘An old dress from years ago?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘What are you like?’

  ‘Emma, people don’t need to know your business. As I’ve said to you before, keep yourself to yourself. Now, what’s this about Sean bringing a girl? He called me this morning to say he’s bringing someone and that he told you last week, and you never said a word to me. What’s going on? Who is she? Is it serious?’

  ‘Well, Mum, I was just keeping myself to myself.’

  ‘Stop that nonsense. Now, who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Zara, she’s Irish, and he seems to like her, but it’s early days so don’t be getting too excited.’

  ‘Oh, lovely, an Irish girl. What does she do?’

  ‘She’s an actress.’

  ‘An actress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ My mother was suddenly less enthusiastic. ‘What does she act in?’

  ‘Who?’ said Babs, strolling in mid-conversation and throwing herself on to the bed.

  ‘Sean’s new girlfriend. He’s bringing her to the party tonight,’ I said, filling her in. ‘Apparently she has been having great difficulty getting parts because she’s too pretty.’

  ‘What?’ they both said.

  ‘Too good-looking? What a load of horse shit,’ said Babs.

  ‘Barbara, there is no need for foul language. What do you mean she’s too pretty? I thought that would be an advantage.’

  ‘I agree. Look, I’m just telling you what Sean told me. We can ask her ourselves when we meet her. Sean said she’s a stunner.’

  ‘Compared to who? Gwen McKenna, that horse he was snogging at Christmas?’ Babs sniggered, flicking her blonde hair back over her shoulder. She was a real head turner – tall, thin and blonde – and she knew it. She had inherited Dad’s rather large nose and square jaw, but she had nice blue eyes and lovely long, thick, very blonde (bleached) hair and a knock-out figure. She ate like a pig and was stick thin, but she was only twenty – in a few years she’d have to work at it, everyone did. I was looking forward to the day when she’d have to
go to the gym like the rest of us mere mortals to keep the blubber at bay.

  ‘Babs, don’t be so mean. Gwen is attractive in her own way.’ Babs was far too dismissive of people for her own good.

  ‘Oh, get over yourself, Mother Teresa. She’s a minger. Anyway, I’m off to have my shower.’

  ‘Barbara?’ said my mother, looking very serious all of a sudden. ‘I’m warning you now. You are to wear something respectable this evening. It’s your father’s sixtieth birthday, not a nightclub. I’m not having you showing us up in front of the relations. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Relax, I’ll dress like a nun.’

  Two hours later – having made up my mother, who complained that I was being heavy-handed, and Babs, who complained I was putting on far too little – we were ready. I was wearing a red wraparound dress – which, surprisingly, didn’t clash with my hair. Thankfully, it had got darker as I got older so it was now more auburn than ginger. Babs was wearing skin-tight, very low-cut (of the almost-exposing-her-pubic-hair variety) snakeskin trousers and a beige boob tube. She only came down after Sean had arrived with Zara so Mum couldn’t cause a scene.

  Zara was very pretty – stunning face, beautiful porcelain skin, great smile – and had short, blonde hair. She was small and curvy with a very generous chest.

  She was wearing a tight backless silver dress and her neck was covered in a silver choker, with GUCCI emblazoned across the front – handy for those who wanted to know where she had bought it but were too shy to ask.

  Sean was standing with his arm round her looking like the cat that got the cream. He was delighted with her and, in fairness, I could see why. She was by far the best-looking girl he had ever been with. James was clearly impressed too. ‘Very nice to meet you, Zara. Great dress,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, I got it in Harrods. That’s the great thing about London – the choice of shops is so good. Dublin’s such a backwater when it comes to fashion. And the social life in London is so much better, there’s no comparison. Why on earth did you come to live here?’ asked Zara, turning up her delicate little nose at the thought.