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

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘To be honest, I’d had enough of London. It was fun for a while but it wasn’t for me long-term. Anyway, it’s a well-known fact that redheads are fantastic in bed,’ he added, winking at me. ‘Now, who needs a refill?’

  The doorbell rang, and for the next hour my uncles and aunts and friends of my parents flowed through the door. The men all made a beeline for James to congratulate him on winning the match and to quiz him about his plans for the quarter-final. They huddled in the corner analysing the players, trying to outdo each other with statistics and rugby trivia. Everyone had an opinion on how Leinster should approach the game in Perpignan and they all wanted to voice it.

  Meanwhile, in the other corner, Zara was holding court. She was telling my aunties how wonderful London was, as if they were hillbillies who’d never been further than the local barn dance. ‘. . . The restaurants are so superior to the ones here and the bars are so cool. My agent is always taking me to these new places – he’s really well connected so we get tables at all the top restaurants.’

  ‘Your agent, did you say?’ said my auntie Tara.

  ‘Yes, I’m an actress.’

  ‘Oh, how exciting. What parts have you played?’

  ‘Well, I nearly got a part in EastEnders but they said I was too good-looking,’ said our future Hollywood star.

  ‘So, have you actually acted in anything?’ asked Babs.

  ‘Well, I’m doing auditions at the moment, and if I don’t get a part soon, I’ll probably go to Hollywood. My agent thinks I should go straight into movies. The American market is more open to hiring good-looking women.’

  ‘Would you ever think of coming back to Dublin and trying your luck here?’ I asked, a bit fed up with listening to her pie-eyed fantasies.

  ‘Come back here? Are you mad? The best thing I ever did was getting out of this dump. If you want to be successful you can’t sit around Dublin waiting to be discovered. London and New York are where it’s at.’ ‘What auditions are you going for?’ asked Babs.

  ‘I’m currently preparing for an audition for a part in the new Barclays ad.’

  ‘Barclays Bank?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s a new ad campaign they’re running for their new branding, so it’s a really big deal.’

  OK, come on. She had to be joking. An ad for a bank was a really big deal and involved preparation? Give me a break. It’s not exactly Shakespeare. I decided to try to be open-minded for Sean’s sake. Maybe this ad was going to break the mould and be like a mini-movie or something.’

  ‘So what does it entail?’

  ‘Well, I’m going for the bank manager’s part. I have ten lines of fairly complex dialogue and it has to be delivered in a friendly but professional manner. It’s very difficult to get the tone exactly right, but my acting coach and Sean have been helping me out,’ she said, smiling over at Sean.

  Acting coach? For a Mickey Mouse part in some bank advert?

  ‘So when’s the big audition?’ asked Babs, who I could see was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Next week, so I have a few more days to go over my lines with my coach. My agent says this could be my big break. The coverage would be huge. It will air after every prime-time show on TV and my face will be on all the billboards around London. You can’t buy that kind of publicity. It will make my career.’

  ‘Wow! I had no idea bank ads were such a springboard for success,’ said Babs, still managing somehow to keep a straight face.

  ‘Well, a bank ad here in Ireland obviously wouldn’t be any good, but an English one being watched by millions of people could make you famous overnight.’

  ‘I hope you get the part,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I will, my coach says I’m word-perfect,’ said the shy, retiring Zara.

  I had to get up and move away. This girl was delusional. Granted, she had a lovely face, but she was no movie star in the making, and she talked a lot of hot air. I was pouring myself a large vodka when my auntie Pam came up and dug her bony fingers into my arm. Pam was a real nosy-parker – of the curtain twitching variety – and drove us all mad. She was my father’s youngest sister and even he wasn’t too keen on her.

  ‘Well, Emma, how’s married life?’ she asked.

  ‘Great, thanks, Pam,’ I said

  ‘I see you’ve put on a bit of weight since I saw you last? Have you news for us? Is Dan about to be a granddad?’

  Oh, great. Just what I needed – my interfering aunt telling me I looked fat and reminding me that I wasn’t pregnant.

  ‘No, Pam, he isn’t.’

  ‘Oh, now, I know you young ones don’t like to say anything till after the first three months. My Julie was the same. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,’ said the biggest mouth in Ireland, winking at me.

  ‘No, Pam,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m not pregnant. There is no baby on the way.’ I wanted to make it crystal clear so she couldn’t misinterpret it in any way and cause more embarrassment by telling everyone Dad was about to be a grandfather.

  ‘Oh, well, now. You’d want to get on with it. Aren’t you married over a year? Your mother would love a little grandchild. She sees how fond I am of mine and has often said she’d love some of her own. You don’t want to leave it too late, Emma, you’re not a slip of a thing anymore.’

  ‘Yes, thanks for reminding me, Pam.’ God, the woman was maddening. Just because her daughter had sprouted five kids in seven years didn’t mean the rest of us wanted to. Now I felt fat and barren.

  By the end of the night I had been asked by my auntie Tara if I was feeling broody, my auntie Aisling if there was a pitter-patter of tiny feet on the way any time soon, and my auntie Doreen if I was going to bring up my children in the Catholic faith.

  Years ago, at the time of the moving statues in Ireland, Doreen had gone down to stand in a field with thousands of others to stare at a statue of Our Lady that was said to have moved and spoken to one of the local girls. After five hours in the field, Doreen was convinced she saw it move – my father claimed it was because Doreen was swaying from exhaustion after standing still for so long. From that day forth, Doreen had given up drinking and smoking and now attended Mass every single day, without fail. She was always preaching to her wayward relations and was particularly keen to convert James – who, thus far, had managed to dodge her.

  Doreen spent her holidays in Fatima, Lourdes and Medjugorje with all the other pilgrims. She told me she was very concerned that I might bring up my children as Protestants and they would never know the true wonder of Our Lady. ‘The Catholic faith has brought me great joy, Emma. I hope you’ll give your children the chance to be brought up in this wonderful religion.’

  I was a lapsed Catholic who hadn’t been to Mass in ten years, but I was planning on bringing up the children I was trying to conceive as Catholics. Although I might not have seen the inside of a church in a while, all those years spent in the school chapel had rubbed off on me – once a Catholic, always a Catholic. James said that as long as our children didn’t become priests or nuns he was quite happy for them to be brought up Catholic. It made sense as we lived in a predominantly Catholic country, he said, and as he had no ties to the Church of England, he was OK with it.

  Unfortunately Doreen got me towards the end of the evening – I had had enough of the baby torment and was watching James having a great time huddled in the corner, still analysing rugby with the men. I had to get away from Doreen, so I landed James in it. I told her that he was insisting on bringing up our children as Protestants and I needed her to go over and work on bringing him round. She scooted over to him and got him in a headlock.

  Sean came over to me, laughing. ‘Poor old James, should I save him?’

  ‘No, let him sweat it out a bit, I’ve had enough of our aunties for one night. If one more person asks me if I’m pregnant or when I’m going to have kids, I’ll scream.’

  ‘Oh dear, that bad?’

  ‘Yes! Do I look fat in this dress?’

  ‘Yep, huge.
You look like you’re carrying twins.’

  ‘Hilarious, you’re nearly as funny as James.’ ‘

  So – what do you think?’ asked Sean.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Zara?’

  ‘Oh, of course, sorry. She seems lovely and I see what you mean about her being so pretty. You seem very keen.’

  ‘Yeah, I am. I think this could be it for me, Emma. I really do.’

  Oh no, not her! I didn’t want Sean marrying her: she was an idiot. I looked at his face as he caught her eye and called her over. He was besotted – oh, God, he really was keen – I’d have to try again. Maybe she was one of those people who grew on you. I decided to be super-nice.

  ‘Hi, Baby,’ she said, kissing him.

  I looked at Sean – it was the kind of cutesy name he would normally have scorned but he was beaming at her. He was definitely in love.

  ‘So, how have you found tonight? Not too stressful, I hope?’ I said, in super-friendly mode.

  ‘Yeah, it’s been fine. I always find coming back to Dublin a bit depressing, though. Everyone’s so parochial. It’s like living in a goldfish bowl. Nothing exciting happens here. I mean, I was in the Ivy recently with my agent and we were sitting two tables down from Rupert Grint. That would never happen here. London is so glamorous. Aren’t you tempted to move there with James?’

  “Who?” I asked

  “OMG Ron from Harry Potter, he’s like super successful.”

  People like Zara drove me nuts. They leave Ireland to live abroad and suddenly think they’re glamorous because they sat two seats down from some B-list celeb in a posh restaurant and everyone back in Ireland is a loser.

  ‘No, I’m not tempted at all. James loves it here too, so we’re happy to stay put,’ I said.

  ‘Well, maybe when you get older and married and have kids and stuff you want a more boring life,’ said Zara, endearing herself to me with every syllable. ‘But I could think of nothing worse, could you, Baby?’

  ‘I think there are pros and cons to both.” Sean tried to be diplomatic. ‘Hey, James, you managed to escape Doreen’s clutches,’ he said, as James joined us.

  ‘Yes, I did, no thanks to my wife,’ he said, glaring at me. ‘She seems to be under the illusion that I’m a staunch Prod who’s demanding to bring up the children, I don’t have, as Protestants. Where did she get this notion, Emma?’

  I began to laugh. ‘Sorry, James, she was doing my head in so I fobbed her off on you.’

  ‘Well, you owe me. The woman had me saying decades of the rosary. It was awful.’

  Sean and I laughed at the thought, but the humourless Zara piped up, ‘Well, James, if you lived in London you wouldn’t have to put up with any of this backward Irish Catholicism. It’s so embarrassing.’

  ‘What’s embarrassing?’ said Babs, barging into the middle of the conversation.

  ‘Doreen’s been trying to convert James,’ said Sean.

  ‘Ha-ha, I was wondering what she was doing with the rosary beads out. That’s not embarrassing, it’s hilarious.’

  ‘Hilarious for you, maybe, not so much fun for me. My conversation went from tactical kicking to the wonder that is the Virgin Mary,’ said James, beginning to laugh too.

  ‘Well, in London people don’t behave like that. I’m so glad we’re going back tomorrow, Baby.’

  ‘What?’ squealed Babs. ‘Did she just call you ‘‘Baby’’, Sean? Now, that’s what I call embarrassing.’

  ‘Barbara, for once in your life shut up,’ snapped Sean.

  ‘OK, Baby, I will. Would Baby like a dwinky-winky?’

  I grabbed my sister by the arm and pulled her into the kitchen – before Sean lost his temper – where we dissolved into fits of giggles.

  ‘We have to get rid of her,’ said Babs.

  ‘Yeah, but he really likes her. It’s going to be difficult.’

  ‘She’s so annoying’

  ‘I know. I wish she’d sod off back to bloody London and leave us and Baby in peace.’

  10

  A few days later I was on the plane with James and the Leinster squad. I was the only woman among thirty men and James had been slagged mercilessly about it. They all wanted to know why I was coming when their respective girlfriends and wives were flying in on the morning of the match. James had banned them from coming out any sooner because they would be a distraction and, in his infinite wisdom, had made up some story about me needing cheering up. I discovered this when Donal slapped me on the back as we were checking into the hotel and said, ‘I hope you’re feeling better. You’re far too young to be depressed.’

  I looked over at James, who was handing out the room keys and studiously ignoring me. When we got to our room I pounced. ‘Why does Donal think I’m depressed?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You have no idea? None at all?’

  James turned round and sighed. ‘OK, well, everyone wanted to know why you were coming with me so I said you needed cheering up – I couldn’t think of anything else on the spot and I was hardly going to tell them that you were coming out for the sex.’

  ‘But what did you tell them I needed cheering up for?’

  ‘I didn’t specify, I just said you were a bit down so I thought it best to bring you with me.’

  ‘In case I stuck my head in the oven?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you just say you wanted me here to support you?’

  ‘Because, Emma, none of the other boys have their partners here, remember? Because I banned them from coming over before the game in case they were a distraction. So it doesn’t look too good that I have you with me.’

  ‘Yeah, but why did you have to say I was depressed? Do you think I’m depressed?’

  ‘No, and I didn’t say ‘‘depressed’’. I said ‘‘needed cheering up’’.’

  ‘But why did you say it? Do you think I’m depressed about the baby stuff?’

  ‘No, but maybe a little tense.’

  ‘What do you mean ‘‘tense’’?’

  ‘Emma, you insisted on coming with me because of dates, refusing to wait until next month, putting me in an awkward position with the team, so I said you were a bit down, OK?’

  ‘Well, if one of us doesn’t track my fertile days, we’ll never have a baby. I don’t think that’s uptight, I think that’s being organised. If I could get pregnant on my own, believe me I wouldn’t have trekked out here with you and thirty smelly rugby players. I can think of much better ways to spend my time. And I’m sorry I’m cramping your style, but you’re the coach, so you can do what you want.

  I bet you Alex Ferguson brought Mrs Ferguson on trips to Manchester United matches and didn’t give a toss what the players said.’

  ‘Did you ever seen Lady Ferguson on the sidelines?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted grumpily. ‘But I bet if Mick McCarthy’s wife wanted to go away with him, he wouldn’t tell the whole team she was certifiable.’

  There was a knock on the door. It was Dave Carney, the assistant coach. He was coming to tell James the bus was there to take them to the training ground.

  ‘Now? You’re going already? But we’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘I told you it was going to be non-stop.’

  ‘Well, what time will you be back at?’

  ‘I should be here for a quick shower before dinner at seven,’ James said, grabbing his sports bag and heading out the door as fast as he could.

  ‘Well, if anyone asks, you can tell them your depressed wife is feeling better.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And don’t join in any of the play, just stick to the sidelines. I don’t want you having any injuries.’

  ‘Fine. I have to go now, they’re waiting. I’ll see you later.’

  I sat on the bed and sighed. This baby lark was really getting to me. Did all women go through this? Trail around after their husbands waiting for them to spare them a few minutes so they could procreate? Where was the fun in
having sex on set dates and times? Why did the women have to do all the work? Why did God make the women have the eggs? Why did the onus have to be on us? Why couldn’t it be men who had to check their penile discharge and pee on sticks and drag their wives to bed for unspontaneous sex? It wasn’t fair. I needed to calm down so I decided to go for a walk.

  As I wandered around the pretty town of Perpignan, all I could see were mothers with babies and pregnant women. It was like a Stephen King horror movie – every mother and child in the town must have been out on that sunny Wednesday. They were coming at me with their prams and bumps from every angle. The midday heat wasn’t helping my mood either, so when I passed a church, I decided to pop in, cool down and light a candle.

  Since I had become a lapsed Catholic, the only time I ever went into a church was to light a candle for a special request. The last time had been when I wanted to lose weight for my wedding. The Slim Fast milkshakes just weren’t doing it for me, so I resorted to divine intervention. In the end, Lucy got me twelve sessions with a personal trainer as an early wedding present and it worked a treat.

  I had been religious in the past, though. When I was at school – a good old-fashioned Catholic convent run by slightly barmy nuns – I had gone through a very religious phase. I was twelve and my teacher was a very holy woman called Mrs Butler. We said a decade of the rosary first thing in the morning and then we had a collection for her brother, Father Brian, who was working in Peru as a missionary. After lunch we had another decade of the rosary and then another before we went home.

  I adored Mrs Butler and thought she was absolutely wonderful. That year she went to Jerusalem for Easter week and didn’t her husband drop dead on the way to communion in the holiest church in the Holy Land on the holiest day of the year – Easter Sunday. Well, poor old Mrs Butler was distraught, as was I. In fact, I think I might have cried even more than Mrs Butler at the death of her husband – whom I had never set eyes on.

  Mrs Butler looked to her faith to find solace and I joined her. I prayed every night after school, kneeling down in front of the statue of Our Lady that we had on the table in the hall. I would spend hours on my knees – rosary beads in my hands – praying for Mr Butler’s soul, Father Brian’s mission, the starving children in Africa, peace in Northern Ireland and that my hair would turn blonde