Bloody hell, this was daylight robbery. I’d be broke if I had to pee on these stupid sticks every day. I looked at the stick. There was only one purple line. What on earth did that mean?
I looked down at the instructions.
If only one purple reference line appears, you have not reached your LH surge. You should continue with daily testing.
Yes, but what if I’d passed it? What if I’d missed the ovulation day? Then I’d just be peeing on the sticks every day for two weeks for no good reason.
Straightforward – my arse.
I wondered if there was another way of finding out when you ovulated – an easier way. I decided to check it out on the Internet.
I logged on and typed in ‘ovulation’. It came up with 331,000 matches. I needed to narrow it down. I typed in ‘ovulation testing’ – aha, only 39,900 matches, that was more like it. I found a site that offered a fact sheet on natural methods of testing for ovulation. It said the key was to check the elasticity of your mucus. I wasn’t sure what mucus was, but I had a horrible feeling it might be related to vaginal discharge – gross. It was simply not fair: women should not have to go through this. I sighed and looked at the suggestions:
Be prepared to check your cervical mucus (CM) consistency several times every day during each cycle. Using white tissue paper, wipe vaginal opening to obtain CM specimen, or insert one clean finger into vagina as far up as the cervix, and then remove finger.
Hold on a minute. How the hell was I supposed to know when I was as far up as my cervix? I should have paid more attention in biology classes. I racked my brains. The nuns probably omitted the chapter on reproduction in case we got any ideas. So where the hell did my cervix begin? I decided to read on and maybe I’d have a poke around later. Hopefully I’d find it.
CM should be observable on fingertip. If using tissue, apply a fingertip to collected CM and then pull gently away to test elasticity. If using finger, test CM elasticity by closing and again opening finger with thumb. Note the following: elasticity of CM: (a) sticky and breaks easily or (b) slippery and stretches like raw egg white.
Oh, my God, this was unbelievable. It was horrendous. I’d never be able to eat meringues again. Egg whites would never have the same appeal.
As fertility approaches, CM should gradually change from dry to wet, from sticky to slippery, and from white to transparent. The most fertile CM is very thin and very slippery, often referred to as EW CM (egg white cervical mucus). If you observe several different types of CM during one day, record the observation with the more fertile characteristics.
How the hell were you supposed to tell the difference between slippery and sticky? Why, in God’s name, was I supposed to write it all down in some sort of diary? What for? To read about in my old age?
The last day on which fertile CM (EW CM) is observed is considered peak fertility day. Also note days on which sexual intercourse occurs and any bodily discomforts such as cramping, twinges, etc. These are important indicators if you see a specialist.
Jesus Christ, at this rate I’d never get pregnant. The choice was to pee on my hand or fiddle about with my elusive cervical goo … AAARGH!
8
The next day I called Sean. He was a typical brother and never rang. I was lucky to get the odd email as he worked forty thousand hours a week. He lived in London, where he had moved ten years ago after graduating from university, to work as a junior lawyer in Brown and Hodder. It was a prestigious law firm and we were all terribly proud when he was made a partner a week after his thirtieth birthday. There were only eighteen months between us and we had always been close.
‘Hello, it’s your sister, remember me?’
‘Hey, sis.’
‘Hello, stranger. Thanks for all the emails, I’m worn out reading them.’
‘Ha-ha. Sorry, I’ve just been –’
‘Up to your eyes, I know, I know. How’s it all going?’
‘Very well, actually. There are some great perks to being a partner, the best one being your own space to park your Porsche Boxter.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘I certainly did.’
‘Coooool. I’d say the birds are throwing themselves at you. Flash car, loaded, successful, gorgeous.’
‘I may be successful but I still look the same.’
Sean was ginger too. We were both suspicious of Babs’s true parentage because she had long blonde hair. Granted, it had got darker over the years before it got lighter again with the help of copious highlights, but there was no ginger at all. She was also eleven years younger than Sean … I’m not accusing my mother of any wrong-doing, you understand, I’m just saying it was a little strange and the ginger definitely came from my father’s side.
Anyway, Sean had also got lumbered with the grey-blue skin and the big orange freckles – which thankfully I’d managed to avoid – so he had never been very confident about his looks. He also had the misfortune – or maybe stupidity (he should have picked a guy with buck teeth and a hunchback) – to have a best friend, Jack, who looked like Brad Pitt. Girls were always befriending Sean to get to Jack, which didn’t help his self-confidence. Sean is such a nice guy – I know I’m biased but he really is – that I knew he’d meet someone fantastic eventually.
‘I’m ringing about Dad’s party on the twenty-fourth. We’re just finalizing the numbers and I’m checking to see if you’re planning to bring someone. Mate, girlfriend, girl-you-fancy … whatever.’
‘Actually, I’m going to bring a date.’
‘Oooh, great. Who?’
I was delighted to hear this. In ten years he had never brought anyone home. Whoever she was, he must like her.
‘Her name’s Amy, she’s twenty-two, Irish and absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Wow, Sean, you sound smitten.’
‘Yeah, I am, actually. But let’s keep it to ourselves. I don’t want Mum rushing out and buying a hat just yet.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s between jobs at the moment. She wants to be an actress so she was temping in my firm for a few weeks to keep her ticking over while she went to auditions. She’s really pretty, Emma, a real looker, and she’s really talented.’
Wannabe actress – sounded a bit dodgy to me.
‘So she did study drama?’
‘Well, she travelled for a few years and then she did some drama course over here. She nearly got a part in EastEnders but they said she was too good-looking. That happens a lot, she often gets turned down for dramatic roles because she’s too pretty.’
Well, that’s the best excuse I ever heard: ‘I’m too good-looking to get parts.’ I didn’t like the sound of this girl. She sounded a complete plonker. Why couldn’t she make herself look ugly for the auditions if she was that good an actress?
‘Wow, well, that’s a good problem to have – being too pretty.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m dying for you to meet her. I know you’ll get on really well with her. She reminds me a lot of you. Things she says and does.’
‘Oh, really, like what?’
‘Oh, you know, she gives as good as she gets and doesn’t let me away with anything. And she says it like it is, very direct. I love that about her.’
A bully. Sean was saying his bully girlfriend reminded him of me. Charmed, I’m sure.
‘I’m not direct. I’m very sensitive and subtle.’
‘Ha-ha. Come on, Emma, you’re the most direct person I know. It’s a great trait and it’s the reason I know you and Amy will get on so well.’
I decided to let it go. I knew I wasn’t going to like Amy one bit, but I’d make an effort for Sean’s sake and I’d be subtle and undirect about it.
‘OK, well, I’m looking forward to meeting her. She’ll be thrown in at the deep end – all the uncles and aunties are coming and the Devlins and the O’Connors, so she’ll get to meet everyone.’
‘She’ll be well able for them all. OK, I’d better go, I have a conference call. See you in two
weeks.’
When James came home I asked him if he thought I was direct. He looked at me suspiciously. ‘Is this a trick question?’
‘No. Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘What? No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. But it’s a good kind of direct, not a bad kind.’ James was becoming a real pro at this.
‘In what way am I direct?’
‘You don’t beat around the bush. You just say what’s on your mind.’
‘But not in an aggressive, bullish type of way?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘In what kind of a way?’
‘In a subtle kind of way.’
‘James, how can I be direct and subtle?’
‘Because, darling, you are a very special person with amazing communication skills.’
‘Yeah, right. Anyway, Sean’s bringing his new girlfriend back to Dad’s party. She’s a wannabe actress and apparently a stunner.’
‘Excellent, always nice to have some eye candy at family parties.’
‘Easy, tiger. A wannabe actress, though. She sounds a bit flighty.’
‘Emma, as long as Sean’s happy, what does it matter what job she has?’
‘Or doesn’t have – apparently she can’t get work because she’s too pretty.’
‘Good old Sean. You should be happy for him.’
‘I am. I just want him to be with someone as nice as he is. She sounds a bit hard.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said James, putting on Sky Sports and settling down to watch some football match, ‘why don’t you ring your mum and discuss it with her for a few hours? She’s much better at this than I am.’
‘No, James, I want to analyse it with you.’
‘Emma, I need to relax before the big game tomorrow, and no offence, but talking about some bird neither of us has ever met is not my idea of chilling out.’
‘Fair enough, I’ll leave you alone, but only because of your big match. We can discuss it further after that. So who is this?’ I said, snuggling down beside him, feigning interest in the football.
‘Real Madrid and Chelsea.’
‘Is Beckham playing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oooh, good, I’ll watch it so.’
‘OK, but no talking, watch the game.’
‘OK … Just one thing – do you think I should wear my red dress to Dad’s party?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘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 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 called her in work but she hung 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 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 yesterday – 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.
The Baby Trail Page 6