Thankfully, when I looked up I saw Sean coming towards me. I waved at him. He looked pretty cheesed off himself, which was unusual as he was normally so upbeat and even-tempered.
‘Hi, welcome home,’ I said, hugging him.
‘Yeah, great,’ he said, arms hanging limply by his sides.
‘What’s up?’
‘Just got dumped. Happy bloody Christmas to me.’
‘Oh, Sean, that’s terrible, you poor thing. Come on, let’s get out of here and go for a drink. You can tell me all about it.’
I was a bit disappointed. I’d been hoping to offload on Sean but now it looked as if I’d have to console him. He seemed really down. When we got to the pub, it was jammed with people being cheery and Christmassy, so I brought Sean back home for a few drinks. James was out at some rugby coaches’ get-together so we had the place to ourselves. I poured us both a large glass of wine and sat down beside him. ‘OK, tell me everything. What happened? I want a blow-by-blow.’
‘Zara called me at work four days ago, said she was in love with her agent and she was moving to LA with him. When I got home all her stuff was gone.’
‘Did you see it coming? Were you getting on badly? How could she suddenly be in love with her agent?’
‘How the hell do I know? The guy is married with two kids. I never suspected anything. Besides, I thought everything was fine. She was getting frustrated with the acting because she wasn’t getting any parts, but I never imagined . . . I suppose they did spend a lot of time together and she did seem to have a lot of auditions in Manchester and Birmingham that involved going up the night before to prepare. God, I’m such an idiot. How did I not see the signs?’ said Sean, realizing for the first time that he had been played for a fool. He groaned and covered his face with his hands. I poured him another glass
‘I used to pay for all her hotels when she went away to auditions. I gave her a credit card because I felt sorry for her having no money. She said she hated taking hand-outs from me. She put all her expenses on the card. She was sleeping with him on my money.’
As Sean pieced it all together, he grew increasingly despondent. He berated himself for having been so naive and blind: she had taken him for a complete ride, she had used him for the fool he was—
I jumped in: ‘Hold on. Stop saying you’re a fool. You met a gorgeous girl and fell for her. What’s so terrible about that? OK, it ended badly and she’s a stupid cow, but come on, it’s not as if the relationship was a complete write-off – or was it?’
Personally I wanted to slate Zara, but I was trying desperately to boost his non-existent ego.
As I was trying to think of something positive to say, someone started banging on the front door. I presumed it was James, who must have lost his keys, but when I opened the door Babs was swaying on the step in a Santa hat, holding a bottle of vodka and beaming at me. ‘Ho ho ho, merry Christmas. Don’t worry, I’ve brought my own booze. After the last time I called in and was served that green muck I was taking no chances.’
‘Come on in, you nutter. Sean’s here and we have loads of vodka. He got dumped so be tactful.’
Babs stormed into the room like a whirlwind. ‘Hey, bro, merry Christmas. I hear you got dumped by that loser you brought to Dad’s party. You’re much better off without her.’
‘Hey, Babs, sweet and sensitive as ever,’ he said, hugging her.
‘Come on, Sean, anyone that calls you ‘‘Baby’’ has got to go. She was an absolute loser. Too good-looking for EastEnders – give me a break. Are you blind or what? The only pity is that you didn’t dump her first.’
‘Thanks for that, Babs. I’m sure Sean feels much better now,’ I said, handing her a glass of wine and glaring at her.
‘And the way she went on about having to get acting lessons for an ad for Barclays Bank! She was a total phoney. So what happened, anyway? When did you get dumped?’
‘Barbara, can you please stop slagging her off? Don’t I get a few weeks’ grace? It’s only been off four days,’ snapped Sean.
Babs rolled her eyes. ‘God, it’s like depressed and depresseder in here. Come on, it’s Christmas, the season to be jolly.’
Sean and I shrugged and sighed, neither of us feeling remotely cheerful.
‘Right, there’s only one thing for it,’ said Babs, cracking open the bottle of vodka. ‘Shots’
‘There is no way I’m doing shots. I’m supposed to be taking it easy on alcohol to try and get pregnant.’
‘Oh shut up and drink,” Babs handed me a glass.
Sean reached over and took a shot. ‘What the hell, I could do with a buzz’
He knocked it back as did Babs. I didn’t want to be a party pooper, so I knocked mine back too.
After a few more shots, Sean and Babs started to rearrange the furniture in the room to give us space for the dancing. I was a bit worried when they pushed everything up against the wall. What type of leaping was going to take place? Babs connected her phone to our speakers and we were off.
I danced like no one was watching. I danced like I hadn’t done in ages – arm waving, air punching, shaking your booty type dancing, I felt like Beyonce.
For the next four hours we danced, did more vodka shots, hugged each other, told each other we loved each other and then we danced some more.
The unsuspecting James came stumbling in after a night with the boys, expecting an earful from me for being so drunk and so late on Christmas Eve when we had to be up early next morning to spend Christmas Day with Mum and Dad. Instead he walked in to see his wife throwing herself around the room like something possessed with the stereo on full volume, while his brother- and sister-in-law rolled around on the couch, crying laughing.
‘James,’ I squealed, jumping on top of him, ‘I’m so glad you’re home, I love you so much. You’re wonderful. Come on, let’s make beautiful babies.”
I pulled him upstairs and into bed.
20
I woke up and felt as if the world had ended. My head throbbed like never before.
‘Feeling fresh? Ready for Christmas day with your family?’ James grinned at me from the other side of the bed.
I groaned and pulled the duvet over my head. What was wrong with me. I was far too old to be doing shots. I was supposed to be on a health kick. I wanted to cry. I was an idiot. I’d never get pregnant behaving like this.
We dragged ourselves out of bed and over to Mum and Dad’s house, which looked a bit like Santa’s grotto. To my mother’s great dismay, my father was a huge fan of ‘the Christmas decoration’. Every year he set about decorating the house with great gusto. Rudolphs, Santas and elves hung from the ceilings, surrounded by lots and lots of tinsel. We always had the biggest, bushiest Christmas tree and it always groaned under the weight of the baubles; the piece de resistance was the buxom platinum angel perched on top. Every year my mother would put her foot down at having flashing fairy-lights, much to my father’s disappointment.
‘Over my dead body am I having tacky flashing lights. It’s bad enough with all these ridiculous decorations hanging from every corner and a tree the size of Mount Everest with an angel at the top that looks like a stripper.’
That’s not to say she wasn’t into Christmas, because she was. She loved Christmas, especially as it meant having Sean home for a few days, and she always cooked us a feast fit for kings.
Mum fussed over ‘poor Sean and his stomach upset’. Every time she left the room Dad put a drink in front of Sean and winked at him, saying, ‘Go on, get that into you – the hair of the dog and all that, you’ll feel better if you have a drink,’ and laughed as Sean turned a deeper shade of green.
After dinner we exchanged presents. I opened my present from Mum and Dad. It was a book – The Art of Zen and Meditation: how to de-stress our bodies and minds. I looked up and Mum nodded. ‘I think you’ll find it most useful. The woman in the shop told me her daughter was transformed by it. Not a bit uptight or snappy any more, she said.’
‘I
see – and you think I’m like that woman’s daughter, do you? Uptight and snappy?’ I said, in an uptight and snappy tone.
‘That’s not what I said.’ Mum sighed. ‘Just read it, Emma, it’s supposed to help you. Now, Sean, this is for you,’ she said, and handed him an envelope.
He opened it and grimaced. It was a weekend for two in a luxury hotel in the Cotswolds. He took a deep breath. ‘This is really thoughtful of you, but I’ve split up with `Zara, so I’ll give it to Emma and maybe she can give me her book on the art of Zen. I could probably use it.’
‘Oh, Sean, what happened?’ said my mother, doing a very good impression of someone who wasn’t delighted that their son had just escaped from the claws of a girl to whom she had taken an instant dislike. Mum made all the right noises as Sean explained that it had ended rather abruptly – until she heard the part about Zara running off with the married agent. ‘Nothing but a cheap slut,’ she said. ‘Good riddance to her. You’re far too good for that kind of a girl. Don’t waste your time and energy pining over her, she’s a no-good Jezebel.’
‘What the hell–’ Babs interrupted, staring at her present.
‘It’s called a winter coat, Barbara. It’s to cover you up when you go out half naked. In future you’re not to leave this house without wearing it. Do you hear me? I’ll not have the neighbours saying my youngest child is a wanton hussy,’ said Mum, deflecting on to Babs her anger at Zara for dumping Sean and having an affair behind his back.
I was feeling a bit left out. The coat was lovely and looked very expensive, and Sean’s weekend away was generous too. Why did I only get a book?
‘And this is for you too, Emma. Just something for work,’ said Mum, handing me a beautiful set of handmade makeup brushes that I had been coveting for ages.
I had a lump in my throat as I hugged her. ‘Thanks, Mum, sorry for being an idiot earlier. I promise to read the book from cover to cover.’
We spent the rest of the afternoon stuffing our faces with chocolate. When I went to put the kettle on to make coffees, Dad followed me into the kitchen and began shuffling and clearing his throat. ‘Emma, I wonder if I might have a quick word . . .’
Whenever Dad cleared his throat you knew he was about to enter into areas where he should never go – areas where he felt exceedingly uncomfortable and you could be sure that he was only broaching the awkward subject with you because Mum had prodded and poked him into it. The last time he had cleared his throat before speaking to me was when I moved in with James – unmarried. My mother didn’t approve at all and had badgered Dad into saying something to me. So he had mumbled about rushing into cohabitation without commitment and English boys being a bit fast and the importance of contraception – at which point he was purple in the face and sweating.
This time he looked directly over my shoulder, out the window. ‘I just wanted to see how things are going, you know . . . on the . . . eh . . . ah . . . well . . . baby front. Your mother feels you’re a little uptight and maybe a bit tense, you know, that things might be a bit tense at home and maybe you should try to, you know . . . uhm, relax a bit and be a bit more cheerful with James. These things can take time and best not to get too wound up. OK? Great, right . . . excellent . . . OK, so . . . let’s say no more about it.’
Typical! My mother had blown everything out of proportion and had obviously decided that James and I were heading for a break-up due to my mishandling of my infertility. God, she was annoying sometimes. What did she expect me to be? The Doris Day of wifely perfection? Aaargh. Still, it wasn’t Dad’s fault, so I patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Dad, James and I are fine, everything’s fine. You can tell Mum that we won’t be getting divorced any time soon and I’d greatly appreciate it if she kept her nose out of my marriage.’
‘And pigs will fly, Emma, and pigs will fly. You know your mother. Still, she only interferes out of concern. Anyway, enough about this. Let’s get those coffees made’
When we went back inside, Babs had put on EastEnders and was tormenting poor Sean. ‘Is she good-looking? Yes, I think she is. Is she too good-looking for EastEnders?
No, I don’t believe she is. OK, what about her? Is she not very attractive? Come on, Baby, work with me here –’
Sean threw a cushion at her. ‘Just because you have a nose that makes Barry Manilow’s look positively tiny doesn’t mean you should be jealous of other women.’
‘Jealous of Zara? I don’t think so,’ snapped Babs, who always reacted badly when her big nose was mentioned.
‘It’s such a pity about your nose. You’d be quite good looking if you had a small one like Emma,’ said Sean, turning the screws.
‘Well, at least I’m not a loser who gets cheated on and dumped by his one and only girlfriend,’ shouted Babs.
‘Don’t get angry, Babs, your nostrils flare when you get het up and you draw attention to your schnozz – and let’s face it, that’s the last thing you want. By the way, I’ve always wondered, doesn’t it get in the way when you snog?’ I asked.
‘No, it doesn’t, and I’d rather have a big nose than be barren,’ she roared, and then her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh Emma, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You know how angry I get when you slag off my nose. I’m sorry, honestly, I didn’t mean it. I’m sure you’re not barren, and if you ever were, I’d give you some of my eggs.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Babs, but we don’t want our kids having your considerable nose. If we ever reach that stage I can assure you that the only person allowed to donate her eggs will be Irina Shayk,’ said James, defusing the situation.
‘Mince pie anyone?,’ said Mum, popping her head round the door.
21
I woke up on New Year’s Day, and all I could think about was that it had been a year. A full calendar year and not a baby in sight. Lots of sex, copious amounts of peeing on sticks and temperature-taking and no sodding baby. I was sick and tired of the natural methods and of being patient. It was time for action.
I went to see my gynaecologist, Dr Philips. He told me once again that I was not to worry about it, that I was young and healthy and it would all happen soon if I just tried not to focus so much on getting pregnant . . . Sure a year was nothing, it took six months for your body to adjust from being on the pill, so it was really only six months that we’d been trying and that was no time at all . . . I just needed to relax and it would all come together . . .
Relax! Do they not teach them in med school how annoying it is for a patient to be told to relax when they are wound up like a tightly sprung coil?
‘The thing is, Dr Philips, I can’t relax. It’s just impossible. Please stop telling me that relaxing will make it all happen because it’s not something I’m capable of doing. Believe me, I’ve tried.’
‘Ah, now, Emma. All going well, you will be pregnant in no time. You just need a little patience. Babies don’t happen overnight. Go out and enjoy yourself and don’t be wearing yourself out worrying.’
Overnight! What was this? Could the man not see I was going out of my mind? I gripped my bag and willed myself to be calm and not cry. My voice shaking, I said, ‘Doctor, I realize that I seem a bit impatient to you, but I have now been trying for over a year. I’m thirty-four – which may seem young to you, but does not seem young to me. I want to go on fertility drugs or do IVF or whatever it takes to get pregnant. Please understand that I’m not leaving this office until you refer me to a fertility specialist. I’ll go mad if I don’t do something.’
Dr Philips looked at me and sighed. He could see he had a lunatic on his hands. ‘Well, now, Emma, you don’t want to be jumping into fertility treatments. Have you tried yoga? Apparently it works wonders. Only the other day I had a patient who had been trying to conceive for three years and then she took up the old yoga and a month later she was pregnant. Your mindset has a lot to do with it. A positive frame of mind works wonders.’
I ground my teeth. ‘I have tried yoga and found it to be a modern form of tor
ture. It’s just not for me, Doctor. I’m a doer. I can’t sit around waiting for things to happen. I need to move forward on this. I don’t want to spend another year trying with no results. Please, Doctor, I want the fertility drugs.’
Dr Philips shook his head. ‘I can see there’s no persuading you to wait another few months, so I’ll make an appointment with Mr Reynolds at the Harwood Clinic. He’s considered the best fertility consultant in the country.’
A week later when I arrived to the Harwood Clinic I was impressed. My feet sank into the plush cream carpet in Reception and they had proper magazines to read – Vogue, Elle and In Style – not the usual outdated medical journals that talked about ingrown toenails and hernia operations. I sank back into the soft red sofa and opened Vogue.
I was drooling over an outrageously expensive Louis Vuitton bag when a heavily pregnant woman and her doting husband walked in. What? I had presumed that only women who couldn’t get pregnant came here. The last thing I expected was to have to sit with expectant couples. I tried not to look at them as he placed his hand on her stomach and they giggled in amazement as the baby kicked or farted or sang or whatever it was doing in there.
I hated them. I hated them for their happiness and excitement. The man caught my eye and smiled at me. I scowled and hid behind my magazine. He might have had lots to be cheery about but I didn’t. They should have separate waiting rooms for women who are pregnant and women who are not, I thought, because we live in two very different worlds. And us barren gals don’t want to have to deal with glowing pregnant couples.
After a thirty-minute wait, pretending to read Vogue and trying not to have a nervous breakdown as two more happy pregnant couples arrived in to the waiting room, I was asked to follow a glamorous nurse to Mr Reynolds’s rooms. I trotted down the corridor after her, feeling confident that this man was going to cure me and save me from spiralling into insanity.
The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1) Page 14
