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

by Sinéad Moriarty

  The next day, Babs called over after college. She only ever called over when she wanted to get her makeup done before going to a party or if she needed to borrow money that she never paid back

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi, how are you?’

  ‘Exhausted. College life is tough going. There’s always some party to go to and you can’t not go in case you miss a good night,’ said Babs, yawning. ‘I’m also broke. Dad’s allowance would be all right if we were living in the seventies, but it doesn’t stretch very far this century.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a part-time job?’

  Babs looked at me as if I was mad. ‘A job? How the hell am I supposed to fit a job into my life? I haven’t got the time. Speaking of money, any chance you could lend me a few quid?’

  ‘Lend?’

  ‘OK – give.’

  ‘I had a funny feeling that was why you called in,’ I said, sighing.

  ‘It isn’t, actually, you big martyr. Mum told me to. She said you’ve gone a bit psycho about the kid thing. She told me to pop in and cheer you up.’

  ‘Did she say psycho?’

  ‘No, she said ‘‘uptight’’ – same difference, as far as I’m concerned,’ said the ever-helpful Babs, throwing her bag on the floor and flopping down on the couch.

  ‘Well, thanks for being so blunt, I feel much better now. You can go, your work here is done.’

  ‘Oh, relax, you know what she’s like. If she isn’t worried about something she’s not happy. So, how are you,

  anyway?’

  ‘Not great. It’s been ten months and still nothing.’

  ‘Are you having loads of sex?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, what are you complaining about, then? Sounds good to me. Unless James is rubbish in bed. Is he?’

  ‘No, he isn’t, he’s great. It’s just different when you’re having sex to get pregnant. It’s all a bit planned, it’s not very spontaneous.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, maybe you should get some sex toys to spice it up a bit. There’s an amazing new vibrator you can get on the Internet – it’s supposed to be incredible.

  I can order you one if you like.’

  ‘Thanks but no thanks. I really don’t need one.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’m getting one for myself so I’ll tell you if it really is as good as they claim.’

  ‘Yeah. OK. Whatever. Do you want tea?’

  ‘Any chance of a beer?’

  ‘No, sorry, don’t have any.’

  ‘What? James always has beer in the fridge.’

  ‘Yeah, well, not any more. We’re on a health drive.’

  ‘OMG bad sex and no alcohol – no wonder you’re a psycho.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yeah, if that’s the strongest thing you have.’

  I went into the kitchen, took some deep breaths and counted to a hundred and twenty. Babs could be a real handful at times. When I brought the tea in, she stared into her mug and made a face. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s green tea.’

  ‘Well, it’s revolting. Since when do you drink this muck?’

  ‘Since I read that green tea is incredibly good for you.’

  ‘Does it make you pregnant?’

  ‘No, but it prevents cancer and is an anti-oxidant, which is brilliant for eliminating toxins and so it’s really good for your skin.’

  ‘You don’t have cancer and you couldn’t have any toxins in you ’cos you’ve no alcohol in the house. So why are we drinking the muck?’

  ‘Look, just drink it and shut up. You’re a pain in the arse sometimes.’

  ‘Do you make James drink this as well?’

  ‘He really likes it, actually,’ I lied. James thought the green tea was revolting and refused to touch it.

  ‘Yeah, right . . . and Dolly Parton sleeps on her stomach.

  Well, can I at least have a biscuit to help me drink this?’

  ‘No biscuits.’

  ‘What? No biccies? What’s wrong with them? Do they attack sperm or something?’

  ‘No, we’ve just decided to be more healthy. Eat less rubbish and more fruit and veg. I threw all the sugary food out last night. I have prunes, if you want.’

  ‘No, thanks, I’d rather eat cow dung. You really need to lighten up, Emma. This living-like-those-Amish-people lark isn’t doing you any good. Go out and have a few glasses of wine and a large Mac and fries – it’ll make you feel better. This monk stuff won’t last.’

  ‘Well, thanks for coming over and cheering me up. I feel a lot better now. You should think about a career in counselling, you’ve a real talent for it.’

  ‘OK, fair enough. I can see I’m wasting my time here. Besides, I need to go and get ready for tonight. I’m going to a fancy dress. Pimps and tarts. Should be a good laugh. Remember that, Emma? Going to parties and having fun? For God’s sake, you’re not ninety, stop being such a granny.’

  As I watched her stroll down the road I started to cry. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was a sad cow. Were the green tea and boring lifestyle really making any difference? I was bored, boring, and absolutely gagging for some chocolate and a bottle of wine. But I wanted a baby more. For once in my life I wanted to do things by the book. Not to take the easy way out. To be totally focused and do everything in my power to make it happen. I was always reading about how if you really want something you have to do everything in your power to make it happen. But I was miserable and I was probably making James miserable. OK, I was making James miserable.

  I decided to call him.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, what’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this whole health drive I’ve been on.’

  ‘Yes,’ said James, sounding suspicious.

  ‘Well, I’m calling you to tell you that I’ve decided the clean-living stuff is a load of old rubbish and it clearly isn’t working. So, I think we should go out tonight, drink wine and have some good old-fashioned sex for no reason.’

  ‘You mean I can go out and not be badgered into drinking tomato juice and green tea? I dunno, Emma, I was kind of getting into it.’

  ‘Very funny. Just make sure you’re home early. And no fertility talk, I promise.’

  ‘What? But we’ll have nothing to say to each other. It’s our only topic of conversation.’

  ‘Am I that bad?’

  ‘Just a tad obsessed and the healthy-lifestyle drive was becoming a real bore.’

  ‘God, I’ve been like a broken record, haven’t I? Sorry, James, I promise not to mention it once tonight.’

  ‘This calls for a celebration. I’ll book a table in La Poule. Alcohol, steak and normal sex. Whoo-hoo, I’ll be home early, all right.’

  We got all dressed up and had a great time, eating fabulous French food and drinking gorgeous red wine. It was lovely. We giggled about the first time we met, talked about our families, schooldays, friends and, for once, did not mention babies. I was tempted at one point to bring it up, but I bit my tongue – I know, miracles do happen! It was just like old times, the two of us getting tipsy together and having a laugh. But the time we stumbled home the red wine had gone to our heads and we passed out fully clothed on the bed – so much for the casual sex.

  17

  Three days later James and I arrived in Sussex for the christening. I had spent a fortune on a sexy black dress and shoes with killer heels. I was determined to look my best. I might be barren but I was going to look hot.

  We were staying with James’s parents, Mr and Mrs Hamilton. Imogen’s mother – the dreaded Mrs Gore-Grimes – was staying with Henry and Imogen. I had met the woman once and she was awful – really overbearing and tactless.

  We had dinner with James’s parents, who raved about the twins. It was really touching to see them so excited about their new grandchildren. I started to think about how excited my parents would be if we had a baby, and had to excuse myself from the table: tears
were welling in my eyes as I imagined Dad cooing over a cot, looking all proud and chuffed.

  It was ridiculous. I’d only been in the house an hour and I was crying already. I told my reflection in the mirror to get a grip, dabbed my eyes and took some deep breaths. When I came back into the room, they were talking about the Leinster semi-final and Mr Hamilton was saying how he had read all the Irish papers on the Internet praising James. He was congratulating his son on his new contract and his great success in his first year as coach.

  As I looked at Mr Hamilton’s face, so full of pride at his son’s achievements, I thought of how wonderful it would be for James to have that with his own son. I began to well up again and had to excuse myself. I pinched and cursed myself for being so pathetic. I knew I had to control my emotions or I would make a show of myself at the christening. A few deep breaths later and I went back in to sit down. James was busy describing the second half of the match to his father and Mrs Hamilton was in the kitchen preparing supper.

  The rest of the evening went smoothly. I managed to get a handle on my emotions and there was no more baby chat so it was fine. That is, until James got up and said, ‘Come on, Emma. We’d better go and see the twins now before it gets too late.’

  I had hoped that we’d just see them in the church. I hadn’t planned on calling over the night before to coo at them and I knew, feeling the way I did that evening, it would be dangerous for me to be around children. But there was no getting out of it. I plastered a smile on my face and got into the car.

  Once the doors were closed, I turned to James. ‘Look, I’m feeling a bit sensitive tonight. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep wanting to cry. Can we make this a really quick visit?’

  ‘Emma, I haven’t seen Henry in ten months. I’m not going to charge out of his house after five minutes. Just relax, it’ll be fine.’

  When we got there, Imogen was holding court in the drawing room, surrounded by her brood. Her dreadful mother was there, as was little Thomas. I smiled and kissed Imogen, Henry and the twins, and bent down to kiss Thomas, but he started to cry and scream, ‘No, get away, don’t like you,’ which was just a tad embarrassing.

  ‘Now, Thomas, don’t be rude to your auntie Emma. She’s trying to be nice,’ said Mrs Gore-Grimes. ‘Go and give her a kiss.’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ howled Thomas.

  ‘Go on, a little kissy-wissy for Emma,’ said Granny Gore-Grimes, as I prayed for the floor to open up and swallow me.

  ‘No!’ he yelled, running away from me.

  ‘Thomas, come back . . .’

  ‘Mrs Gore-Grimes, really, it’s quite all right,’ I said, as firmly as I could, hoping that someone would shove a soother in Thomas’s mouth to shut him up.

  Henry and James snuck out into the kitchen under the pretence of getting us all drinks and never came back. I was left with the incredible baby-making machine that was Imogen and her ‘delightful’ mother.

  ‘So,’ I said, as brightly as I could, ‘how are you feeling, Imogen? I must say you look great.’

  That was a lie. The only consoling thing in that room was Imogen’s weight. She had whacked on a good two stone and looked very chunky. I know it was bitchy of me, but it made me feel just a tiny bit better about my barren self.

  ‘Yah, well, I feel great. Having children is such a wonderful experience. I just love my two little princesses and Henry is totally besotted. It’s true what they say about fathers and daughters. As for Thomas, well, he just loves his sisters, don’t you, Tom-Tom?’

  Thomas was glaring at his sisters with a look of pure hatred. He didn’t look too enamoured to me.

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, then, Emma, come and hold Sophie. She’s your goddaughter, after all,’ said Mrs Gore-Grimes, thrusting Sophie into my arms.

  I looked down at the tiny bundle. She opened her eyes and stared at me. My heart melted. She was beautiful. She was perfect and had that lovely baby smell – a mixture of talcum powder and baby lotion. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She sighed and then yawned, her little rosebud mouth making a perfect O. I was in a world of my own when I heard, ‘Well, well, Imogen, I think someone’s getting broody.’

  I looked up and saw mother and daughter nodding and winking at each other.

  ‘You can’t have Sophie, I’m afraid, you’ll have to have one of your own,’ added the old witch, taking Sophie from me to give her a bottle.

  ‘You really should have a baby, Emma,’ said Imogen, joining in to torment me further. ‘I know James is keen to have children, he said as much to Henry.’

  ‘You don’t want to leave it too late,’ said Imogen’s mother. ‘You modern gals are far too busy partying and focusing on your careers when you should be having children and staying at home to look after them. Mark my words, children and grandchildren are what it’s all about,’ she said, beaming at her daughter. ‘Chop-chop, Emma. Give that nice husband of yours a child.’

  I was speechless. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so insensitive. My shirt was stuck to my back with sweat. I had to get out of there. As I went to stand up, Thomas came hurtling across the room, beaker of orange juice in hand. He tripped over my foot, drenching me and hitting his chin on the floor. He opened his big gob and screamed.

  ‘Oh, poor Tom-Tom,’ said his grandmother, rushing over. ‘Did Auntie Emma trip you up? Mean Emma! Look,’ we’ll smack her,’ she said, smacking me rather hard on the leg. ‘Mean, nasty Emma. Come on, Tom-Tom, we’ll smack her again.’

  Thomas – who, I now realized, had inherited his violent streak from his grandmother – smacked my leg, then kicked me hard in the shin. Meanwhile, I was trying to wipe orange juice off my very expensive Joseph trousers. Henry, who had popped his head round the door to see who was torturing poor Thomas, saw him kick me.

  ‘Thomas,’ he said sternly, catching his son by the arm, ‘we do not kick people. Apologize to Emma.’

  Thank God one of them thought it was out of order for him to kick me. Thomas wriggled out of Henry’s grasp and ran to Imogen, snivelling.

  ‘Thomas,’ said Henry. ‘Apologize at once.’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone, Henry, he didn’t mean anything by it. Emma tripped him up and he was just a bit angry.’

  ‘I’m sure it was an accident Imogen. Thomas is not allowed to kick people. He needs to learn that. Thomas, come over here at once.’

  ‘Honestly, Henry, it’s fine, forget it,’ I said.

  I just wanted to go home. Where the bloody hell was James? I mumbled about getting some tissues for the spill and darted out of the room. I found James sprawled on the couch in the TV room, beer in one hand, watching football.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ I hissed.

  ‘Oh, hi. I’ve just been catching up with Henry,’ he said lamely, trying to hide the beer. I could see by his eyes that he was a little tipsy.

  ‘I’d like to go home now,’ I said, my temper bubbling below the surface.

  ‘We’ll go in two minutes, I just want to see the end of this match,’ he said, turning back to the TV. ‘Go on, shoot – oh, he missed again.’

  I leaned over and grabbed the keys of his father’s car. ‘Well, I’m leaving, so if you want to walk home, by all means stay and watch your match,’ I said, and stalked out the door.

  James followed me out after saying a quick goodbye to the others. He got into the car and slammed the door. I took off like a Formula One specialist, leaving skid-marks on Henry and Imogen’s driveway.

  ‘For goodness sake, slow down. What the hell is wrong with you now? Why did we have to leave in such a hurry? I was enjoying catching up with Henry over a few beers.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, James, did I interrupt your little tete-a-tete with Henry? How selfish of me, especially considering I was having such a jolly time myself.’

  James sighed and crossed his arms. ‘OK, what happened this time? What evil, nasty remarks did they come out with in their continuing conspiracy to make your li
fe hell? Go on, I’m dying to hear.’

  ‘What!’ I shouted, swerving dangerously across the road. ‘While you were having beers with Henry I was left in that room with those witches telling me to get on with it and have a baby soon before I keel over and die of old age, and how selfish I was not to be pregnant already because my husband’s going around telling everyone how desperate he is to have kids and I’m such a selfish cow that I’m holding out because I’m too busy partying. That’s the conversation I was having,’ I said, thumping the steering-wheel with rage.

  ‘Oh, come on, it couldn’t have been that bad. If someone looks at you sideways you think it’s a personal affront these days. Imogen does something really sweet by asking you to be godmother to her baby and all you can do is bitch and moan about it. Everything is about you, these days. Well – newsflash, Emma – the whole world is not out to get you. Will you please just calm down and stop getting so het up about every little thing that happens? It’s really tiresome. Just chill out and stop taking everything so seriously. Where’s your sense of humour gone? You said you wanted to stop obsessing and get back to being the fun Emma you used to be – and for a few great days you were.’

  I felt as if my head was going to explode. My hands shook as I gripped the steering-wheel. ‘Well, I’m so sorry I’ve been such a pain to live with. I must be going mad because I thought we both wanted to have a baby so I was doing crazy stuff like following the doctor’s orders and trying be more healthy. Poor you, having to put up with someone who wants to have a family with you. Why don’t you just divorce me and marry some fun, happy-go-lucky bimbo?’

  ‘If you’re going to be childish about it, there’s no point in having this conversation. I want to have a child as much as you. But I do think you need to calm down and stop being so bloody obsessive. The doctor, whose instructions you’re so eager to follow, said you needed to relax if you wanted to get pregnant. So could you please do us all a favour and try to lighten up? Stop being so grumpy and defensive.’

  I flung the car into the Hamiltons’ driveway, rushed inside and locked myself into the bathroom where I cried myself sick. At one point James knocked on the door.