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

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘James, Giuliani was speaking to a city under terrorist attack. This is a rugby team you’re talking to. The match tomorrow is hardly an ‘‘ordeal of the most grievous kind’’ – it’s a rugby match. They’re looking for a slap on the back and a few whoops.’

  James looked down at his notes. ‘Well, what about this bit? ‘‘In the bitter and increasingly exacting conflict which lies before us we are resolved to keep nothing back, and not to be outstripped by any in service to the common

  cause.’’’

  ‘James, I just don’t think it’s hitting the right mark. It’s a bit stuffy for a bunch of Irish rugby players.’ I had to make him see this was madness. There was a time and a place for Churchill’s war speeches and it most certainly was not a smelly dressing room.

  ‘You mean to say that you don’t think Donal and the lads would appreciate ‘‘Victory – victory – at all costs, victory, in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be . . .’’?’ he said, smiling despite himself.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What about JFK’s ‘‘Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country’’?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You think I should just say something more straightforward?’

  ‘Yes, use your own words. It’ll be much more effective. Now, come back to bed and try to get some sleep. I want you looking your best for the front-page pictures of the Irish papers when you whip Perpignan’s ass tomorrow.’

  ‘Quick, give me my pen. I must take that eloquent motivational line down.’

  The next morning I kissed James good luck and he headed off with the team to the ground for some warm-up training.

  Meanwhile the wives, girlfriends and families were arriving into the hotel. I had been charged with helping them check in and giving them directions to the stadium. Paddy O’Toole’s wife was first in. She complained about the heat, the flight, the rude taxi drivers . . . I plastered a smile on my face, handed her a pile of photocopies with directions to the stadium and legged it out the door. I wanted to be there early to get a good seat and I had no intention of listening to her moaning in my ear throughout the game.

  By kick-off the stadium was jammed. About a third of the stands were filled with die-hard Leinster supporters who had travelled over for the game. They were all singing ‘Molly Malone’ and waving banners. The atmosphere was electric.

  I don’t know what James said to the team in the locker room that day, but they came out with all guns blazing. From kick-off, Leinster was hungrier, more aggressive in attack and more solid in defence. There was no contest, Perpignan was beaten 23–6 and all hell broke loose. When the final whistle blew the stadium erupted. I sobbed and hugged the two supporters beside me. The fans rushed the pitch and Donal and James were carried shoulder high to the clubhouse where the celebrations kicked in.

  Later that day after copious drinks, toasts and cheers, James and I finally got a moment to ourselves and I spent a good ten minutes telling him how proud I was of him.

  He hugged me and said, ‘I’m proud of you, too, darling.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being so dedicated to having a family. I think you’ll be a wonderful mother and I know it’s frustrating but I also know that you’ll be pregnant soon. It’ll happen, Emma, I promise it will.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ll be a wonderful father too,’ I said, sniffling into his shoulder. ‘I know I’m a bit hyper about it, I don’t mean to be a pain. I’m just finding it all very frustrating.’

  ‘You’re fine.’

  ‘Thanks, but let’s be honest here – I stalked you to France, forced you to have sex with me while injured and two days ago I squatted in a French chemist pretending to pee like a dog. I am definitely losing the plot.’ We both laughed.

  ‘Well, OK, maybe you are a little insane, but I like that you’re passionate about things, it’s who you are.’

  ‘Yeah, well, believe me, passion and obsession are an exhausting combination. I feel about a hundred and forty.’

  ‘Maybe we should forget it for a while and just let nature take its course?’

  ‘I’ve tried to, James, but I can’t – I’m obsessed.’ ‘Well, can we at least cut out the apres-sex gymnastics? I’m worried you’re going to break something and I don’t fancy having to explain it to the doctor in Casualty. ‘‘And how did this happen, Mr Hamilton?’’ ‘‘Well, you see, my wife was cartwheeling around the bed after sex, as she does, to stimulate my sperm . . .’’’

  ‘Ha-ha, well, OK, I’ll keep it to sticking my legs up in the air and shaking them about.’

  12

  Lucy thought long and hard about where to take Donal on their second date. She wanted it to be something memorable for him and when she saw an ad announcing the return of The Vagina Monologues she knew she had found the perfect solution.

  She called Donal, told him they were going to the theatre and he was to pick her up on Friday night – sober, uninjured, wearing normal clothes and on time.

  Donal wasn’t too keen on the theatre: at six foot four he always ended up sitting with his legs wrapped round his neck staring at his watch and praying for it to be over. Movies, he liked – plenty of leg room, popcorn, nachos covered with melted cheese, and usually a skimpily clad starlet to look at. Theatre, he found dull. The last girl he had gone out with, Cathy, had dragged him to Waiting for Godot. It was the longest, most ridiculous load of old rubbish he had ever seen and he fell asleep half-way through.

  When Cathy had poked him in the ribs to wake him up and glared at him he had whispered loudly, ‘That fecker Godot isn’t going to turn up, so can we please just go home?’ much to her embarrassment. The relationship ended shortly after.

  Still, he owed Lucy a decent date after the last fiasco, so he said it sounded like a great idea and made sure he was on time, and looking smart.

  Lucy stared at him. ‘No iron, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The state of your clothes, you look like you slept in them.’

  ‘These are my good clothes, I’ll have you know. I dressed up for tonight – it’s the first time I’ve been out of a tracksuit in weeks. I like your skirt, nice and short. Come on, let’s go before I pull it off you. You shouldn’t look so sexy – I’ll never be able to concentrate on the play now.’

  Lucy smiled. ‘Oh, I think you’ll manage.’

  ‘So what are we going to see?’ Donal asked, praying that it wasn’t another Beckett play or, God forbid, a musical. Who in their right mind wanted to go and watch a bunch of people – old enough to know better – prancing about, swinging their arms in the air and singing about love and death? Maybe he’d be lucky and it’d be a comedy, something nice and light, not some heavy meaning-of-life crap: he liked to be entertained, not depressed.

  ‘It’s a play by a woman called Eve Ensler. It first came out years ago and made a big splash. It’s supposed to be really funny.’

  Great, thought Donal, this sounds OK. Funny was good.

  ‘Thank God – I thought you might drag me to The Miserables or one of those dreadful musicals where they all howl about the injustice of life.’

  ‘No, I think you’ll like this. I hear it’s supposed to be very lively,’ said Lucy, beaming at him.

  They went for a drink first and just as the play was about to start – Lucy had timed it all to perfection – they ran round to the theatre and slid into their seats. Donal hadn’t had a chance to see the billboards outside so he had no idea what the play was called – or about.

  He looked around as the lights went down and was surprised to find that he was the only male in the audience. He turned round to see if all the men were down the back, but no – there was only him. The theatre was very small and they were sitting four rows from the front. He began to feel uncomfortable – where were all the men?

  A woman came out and sat on a stool in the middle of the stage. Donal recognized her from TV. She was an actress in some come
dy show. He began to relax. It was obviously some comedy stand-up thing.

  The actress began to speak – about her vagina. At first, Donal thought he was hearing things, but then he realized that no, this woman was actually talking about her vagina being lonely and needing friends or something. Bloody hell, he thought, had he walked into a madhouse? What was this? Some lesbian arty-farty play? Was Lucy a closet lesbian? Did she swing both ways? He looked over at her: she was staring straight ahead, smiling.

  The actress began to shout now. She was roaring at the top of her voice, telling them all that her vagina was angry. Apparently it was fed up having things shoved up it. When she mentioned tampons, the audience giggled. Donal thought he’d die of embarrassment – he was not one to be sitting around with a bunch of women talking about Tampax. He hated that sort of thing.

  Donal squirmed in his chair while the rest of the audience roared with laughter and whooped along as the actress ranted on about her angry vagina. Lucy had tears running down her face she was laughing so much – all the more amused by Donal’s discomfort. Jeepers, this was awful – shouting about tampons in a fake American accent. He hoped it was a short play.

  But worse was to come. The mad woman began to describe the smell of her vagina. She said she liked it smelling of fish, just the way God had intended it. Donal was shocked. How did I end up here listening to women talking about the smell of their privates? He looked around for the exit door. He’d never get out without causing a scene. Lucy had made sure he was sitting in the middle of the row – surrounded by laughing women.

  Donal was appalled and he would normally consider himself fairly unshockable. He really didn’t need to hear this. He had no wish to know about this stuff. Had women gone mad? The actress got up and walked off the stage to rapturous applause. Thank God for that, thought Donal. It’s over. He hoped they’d stop clapping – he didn’t want her to come back on for an encore. He just wanted to get the hell out of there.

  He grabbed his jacket but Lucy put her hand on his arm. ‘Not over yet. Lots more to come!’ she said, winking at him.

  ‘Ah come on Lucy, what the hell is this?’ he hissed. ‘It’s like some kind of cult outing.’

  Lucy smiled at him, and before she could respond a small, squat, aggressive-looking actress came onstage to replace the younger one. This one told them all to go out, spread their legs, get a mirror and have a good long look at their vaginas. Donal prayed she didn’t have a box of mirrors with her, because if they all started stripping down he was out of there. After tonight, he never wanted to hear the word vagina again. In fact, he was beginning to think he never wanted to see one again. This play was one sure way of pushing a man towards a life of celibacy.

  ‘Ladies, I recommend that you all go home and examine your vaginas tonight,’ said the actress. ‘When I was offered a part in this play, I decided I’d better look at mine and see what all the fuss was about, and I can tell you, it was an incredibly liberating experience.’ She looked around. ‘Ah, I see we have a brave man among us,’ she said, spotting Donal – he was hard to miss, being the tallest person in the theatre by a good seven inches. ‘Well done, sir. You’re the only man here tonight. Very brave of you to come. I think you should be applauded for it.’

  All the women turned to stare at Donal, who was purple with embarrassment. They clapped and cheered him. It was the longest two minutes of his life. And just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.

  The actress who liked to look at her vagina now told them all to stand up and shout out the word ‘cunt’. She demanded that they stand up and ‘reclaim’ the word. ‘Come on – one, two, three – shout it out,’ she roared.

  The women in the audience started giggling and saying it quietly, then it got louder and louder and soon they were all shouting, ‘CUNT,’ at the top of their voices. Donal looked around the room in horror – they were like a bunch of wild animals. Lucy was doubled over, her shoulders shaking.

  ‘Come on, brave man, you too,’ said the actress, looking at Donal. ‘Don’t be shy, come on now, CUNT.’

  Everyone was looking at Donal and laughing and shouting, ‘cunt’. He gritted his teeth and said it too. God, this was the worst night of his life – shouting, ‘cunt’ in a room full of lunatic women.

  When the play finally ended and the lights went up, Donal grabbed his jacket and shot out the door like a bullet. He didn’t fancy being congratulated by a group of hyped up women for coming along to their ‘vagina show’.

  Lucy found him lurking round the corner by the side of the theatre.

  ‘Drink. I need a stiff drink,’ said Donal, grabbing her arm and diving into the nearest pub. She sat down and he went to the bar.

  ‘Pint of Guinness, white wine spritzer, and give me a stiff whiskey straight away, will you?’

  The barman nodded. ‘Just been to see that vagina show, then?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘God, no, are you mad? You’d never find me in there. But I’ve seen a few lads coming out of it and they all look like you do now. Here you go, get that into you,’ he said, handing Donal the whiskey, which he proceeded to down in one. When he came over with the drinks, Lucy was still laughing.

  ‘Oh, yeah, laugh away. You certainly exacted your revenge. That was, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst night of my life,’ said Donal.

  ‘I’m sorry but the sight of you shouting, ‘cunt’, was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I wish Emma and James could have seen you.’

  ‘Lucy, if this gets out I’ll never be able to show my head in the dressing room again. You have to keep this to yourself. I’d be the laughing stock of the team – don’t do it to me. God, I can see it now – ‘‘Donal Brady, vagina man’’,’ he said, beginning to see the funny side, after sinking his second drink. ‘What exactly was that? I mean, a play about vaginas talking! Is it a lesbian thing or what?’

  ‘Typical,’ said Lucy. ‘Typical male response. Just because a group of women go to watch a play that talks openly about vaginas, suddenly we’re all lesbians. If a group of guys went to see a play that talked about penises, would they be gay?’

  ‘If they were all standing up, shouting, ‘‘Cock cock cock,’’ then, yeah, they probably would be. It’s not very macho.’

  ‘Well, I bet you that most of the women there were heterosexual. It’s nice to go out and talk about subjects that are taboo in day-to-day life. It’s funny and liberating.’

  ‘Did she have to go into such detail, though? Some of it was a bit over the top.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t enjoy the bit about the Tampax, and not washing you vagina with shower gel – letting the fishy smell flow,’ said Lucy, grinning at him. ‘That was my favourite part.’

  ‘Please, stop, no more. Can we talk about something else? Too much information can be a bad thing. I’d like to keep a little mystery going when it comes to women’s privates.’

  ‘Come on, Donal, you can say it – cunt!’ laughed Lucy.

  ‘Stop. Enough. What do you want to drink? Same again?’

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks, I’m going to head home. I need to get my mirror out and examine my vagina. I want some of that ‘‘vaginal wonder’’ she was talking about. I’ll give you a call and let you know what I find!’

  13

  After Perpignan, I was convinced I was pregnant. I felt tired all the time and my boobs hurt – mind you, that could have had something to do with the fact that I was constantly poking them to see if they were tender. Also, when I went to M&S to buy food and stood by the fish counter, I definitely felt a little queasy.

  I began to get excited. We’d have to give the baby a French name as it was conceived in France. A little Jacques or Delphine. We’d take them to France on holiday and they’d grow up bilingual. It was July now, so I’d be giving birth in March. Maybe I’d give birth on St Patrick’s Day and we’d have to call him or her Patrick or Patricia. I’d take the summer off and spend warm sunny days
bonding with the baby. I’d be able to take it on long walks to get fit again. We’d stroll by the sea and chat to other mothers and their infants; it would be fantastic.

  As the due date of my period grew closer, I poked my boobs regularly, just to make sure they were still sore. I also stuck my nose into a plate of smoked salmon and definitely felt a twinge of nausea. I took naps between makeup jobs – after all, I needed my rest. Two days to go, one day, due day . . . nothing. Hurrah, I was pregnant. I rushed down to Boots to get a pregnancy test, and on my way back I felt it. My period had arrived. I was devastated.

  When James came in that evening I greeted him from the couch, blotchy-faced and surrounded by tissues. He said all the right things, then went out and got me my favourite takeaway Thai dinner and watched Love Story with me – even though I had subjected him to it already and he thought it was a load of rubbish.

  ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry,’ I mouthed along with Ali McGraw, as I sniffled into my Kleenex and James stifled a yawn.

  Two days later, James told me that he had made an appointment with our GP Dr Murphy to talk to him about fertility and see if there was anything we should be doing that we weren’t. ‘I hate seeing you so upset, so I think we should talk to the professionals and sort this out,’ he said.

  I felt a bit strange going to Dr Murphy about fertility. He had been my doctor throughout my childhood, but when I had needed prescriptions for the pill and smears, I had gone to the Well Woman Centre. I was too embarrassed to go to Dr Murphy and ruin his nice innocent view of me. Dr Murphy was there for when you had the flu, or tonsillitis or the measles, not for anything that implied you might be having sex. Still, it was nice that James was making an effort, and he was right, we did need medical advice, so we went along.

  Dr Murphy greeted me like a long-lost friend and sat us both down. ‘Now, my dears, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, Doctor,’ said James, and cleared his throat, ‘Emma and I have decided to try for a family. We are now in our mid-thirties and feel that it’s time we began to look at the possibility of conceiving . . .’