‘Like who?’
‘Like my brother,’ said James. ‘Oh no, it says they can’t be family members.’
‘Exactly,’ I said, pretending I had read the small print. Phew - that totally ruled out Henry and Imogen. Thank God, because I knew that Imogen didn’t like me at all. She was one of those loud, overbearing, horsey types, and every time she rang or saw me she’d demand to know why I wasn’t pregnant. Thankfully I had geography on my side, so I only saw her once a year when we went over to visit James’ parents.
‘All right then, I’ll ask Donal.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s a male chauvinist pig.’
‘This is the man you set your best friend up with.’
‘Yes, because Lucy is well able for him. She gives as good as she gets. He’d frighten the life out of some poor gentle social worker.’
‘Apart from the fact that Donal has been my best friend since we met seven years ago, he’s also bringing up Annie pretty much on his own. He’s the perfect candidate.’
‘As is Lucy as stepmother to Annie, on top of which she spends all day negotiating and dealing with difficult clients. Lucy can be very persuasive, you know, which is exactly what we need. We want the social worker to be convinced that we will be ideal parents.’
‘Having your two best friends as referees is simply not going to work. It has to be balanced, Emma. It says so here,’ said James, tapping his finger on the form. ‘The referees need to know both of us very well. What about Paddy and Sarah? They’ve got kids.’
Paddy was the full-back on James’s team and was a nice guy, but his wife Sarah was the most almighty handbrake you ever met and aggressive to boot. I have actually never seen her with her coat off. When we go out, she sits there with a puss on her face, coat on, handbag in her lap sipping a fizzy water, unless she’s feeling particularly wild in which case it’ll be a pineapple juice. The first time I met her, I had only just started seeing James and was still at the stage where I had to down at least three sneaky drinks at home for Dutch courage before meeting up with him. By the time I met Sarah I had had an additional three drinks on an empty stomach. (That’s the other thing about the early dates – I wouldn’t eat all day in a lame attempt to have a flat stomach.) Anyway, James introduced me to Sarah who was, as usual, sitting down with her coat on. I went to sit down beside her in an attempt to be friendly. I was trying to make all James’s friends like me, so that they’d tell him what a great bird I was.
‘Hi, Sarah, nice to meet you,’ I said in super friendly mode, trying not to slur my words.
She sort of smiled, in that mean way where the person just about raises the ends of their lips, but shows no teeth. I like to see a set of gnashers myself. I find it a lot more genuine.
‘I heard James had a new girlfriend,’ she said, yanking her coat tail from under my bum. ‘So what do you do?’
‘I’ve just given up my job and am training to be a make-up artist. Isn’t that cool?’ I was still on a high from having made the decision. I had agonized over it for three years, so it was a huge relief to have finally made the break and resigned from my mind-numbingly boring job as a recruitment consultant. I was thoroughly enjoying my make-up classes. I had finally found something I was really good at … if I say so myself.
‘Make-up artist?’ said Sarah, not exactly whipping out the pom poms to cheer me on in my new career path.
Thankfully I was so delighted with myself that I didn’t really notice - although that could have had more to do with the drink than the happiness.
‘What do you do?’ I asked politely.
‘I’m one of the directors at Jones Kelly and McDonald. I’m the first woman ever to be made a director,’ she announced, assuming I knew the famous JKM firm. Needless to say, I had never heard of them.
‘Good for you,’ I enthused. ‘What do they do?’
She looked horrified. ‘They are the most prestigious public relations firm in the country – everyone has heard of them. Bernard Jones advises the president.’
‘Well, I’ve never needed publicity so I’m not au fait with the top dogs,’ I said, beginning to wonder how to make a quick escape. I was clearly wasting my time trying to impress this one. Maybe if I had been the CEO of Lancome she wouldn’t be glaring at me as if I was pond scum.
‘So how exactly did you meet James?’
‘I picked him up in a bar, took him home and gave him the best night of his life,’ I whooped as I drained my drink in one long swallow. ‘Oh, will you look at that, I need another drink. Well, cheerio then,’ I said bouncing to my feet.
James told me later that night that Sarah had said I was a live wire. James in his innocence and goodness took it as a compliment. Having grown up with one brother and then gone to an all-male boarding school, James didn’t really get it when women were being subtly bitchy and Sarah was always super-nice to him so he thought she was fine, which really got up my goat. Anyway, suffice to say that Sarah was not my favourite person and, although we were civil to each other, hell would freeze over before she was a referee for this adoption.
‘Over my dead body,’ I said, looking at James with my ‘don’t even think about it’ face on.
‘Well, then it’s going to be Donal. We’ll have Jess and Tony from your side and Donal from mine.’
‘OK, but you better warn him to be on his best behaviour. I’ll get Lucy to pick him out some decent clothes for the interview and check the form before he sends it off. At least she’ll be there to keep an eye on him.’
‘Right then, it’s sorted. Now let’s have a look at these information books,’ said James, picking up the Understanding the Assessment Process book.
I looked at the clock. Sex and the City had just started. Sod the leaflets, I thought, I’d let James read them and give me a synopsis.
4
The following Saturday was my sister Babs’ graduation dinner. None of us could believe she had actually graduated. All she had done for three years in college was swan around in teeny-weeny mini skirts, flicking her long blonde hair and batting her eyelids at everything in a pair of trousers. Babs was a real head turner, but she had a very large nose – from the Barry Manilow stable of noses – that prevented her from being completely in love with herself. Having spent three years studying Social Science she was now taking some time out to decide what to do with the rest of her life and trying to persuade Dad to buy her a nose job as a graduation present.
My brother Sean flew home from London for the weekend to come to the family dinner. I went to the airport to pick him up. He bounded over and bear hugged me.
‘Hey, sis, good to see you. How’s things?’
‘OK, what’s going on?’
‘What?’
‘You practically skipped off the plane, so I know something’s up. Come on, spill the beans.’
‘Well, I’ve met this girl …’
Sean was ginger like me – but more of the carrot and big orange freckles variety – and hadn’t had much luck with women. Personally, I always felt he shot too high. I know it sounds awful, but he had a terrible habit of falling in love with stunning model-types who were never going to go for him. You have to know your limits and, unless you’re a ginger rock star like Mick Hucknall, models are just not going to fall at your feet. Sean was extremely successful. He was a partner in the highbrow law firm of Brown and Hodder and earned ridiculous amounts of money, working a mere nineteen hours a day. He was also the nicest person in the world and I adored him. There was only eighteen months between us and we were very close.
‘Oooooh, what’s she like?’ I said, silently praying that she was not a model or an actress like the last girl he had brought home, who turned out to be having an affair with her manager.
‘She’s lovely, Emma. She’s a teacher.’
Great, I liked the sound of that. A teacher was perfect. A teacher wouldn’t be flighty or hard-nosed or selfish. A teacher would be ni
ce and normal and down to earth and sweet-natured.
‘She’s very pretty. Her name’s Shadee.’
‘Cherie? Like Tony Blair’s wife?’
‘No, Shadee like Shadee,’ said Sean, just a little defensively.
‘Unusual name,’ I said, prying without prying.
‘She’s Persian.’
Persian? What was Persian? I knew about Persian cats, they were the big furry ones, but I had no idea where Persia was. It sounded exotic and very far removed from Ireland.
‘Sorry, Sean, I’ve no idea where Persia is.’
‘It’s Iran.’
Oh my God! Alarm bells started ringing in my head. Iran! Iran where all the women had to be covered from head to toe in black with only a slit for their eyes. Iran where all the men were total religious zealots. I had seen Sally Field in the movie Not Without My Daughter where she was held captive by her mad – but very attractive – Iranian husband. What on earth was Sean doing? Had his confidence dropped so low that he was now going out with a woman whose face he had never seen?
As breezily as I could, I asked if she had been living in England long.
Sean looked at me and smiled. ‘She is English, Emma. Her parents are Iranian but she was born and bred in the UK so she’s a mixture of both cultures.’
‘So she doesn’t wear the black sheet?’
‘You mean the yashmak? Of course she doesn’t, nor does her mother. One of the reasons they fled Iran was because of the Ayatollah Khomeini and the introduction of new laws that were all based on Islam. They were clever enough to get out before the fundamentalists took over.’
Shadee was obviously a good teacher: Sean knew his stuff and judging by his slight prickliness he was expecting some strong, uninformed reactions – he knew his family all too well. He was clearly planning to educate us all on Persian affairs.
‘Well, good for them,’ I said. ‘So how long have you guys been dating?’
‘Nearly three months.’
‘What? I’ve been on the phone to you loads of times and you never mentioned it.’
‘I wanted to see if it was going anywhere before I said anything. I’m not expecting Mum to react too well to the fact that she’s not Catholic, Irish or even European.’
‘Initially I’d focus on the fact that she’s a teacher and then break the rest of it to her gently. She’ll be fine, she’ll just be delighted to see you so happy,’ I lied.
We drove straight to the restaurant where Mum, Dad, Babs and James were waiting for us. Babs was wearing what can only be described as a belt and a plunging top which left nothing to the imagination. Mum was hissing at her through a fixed smile, which wasn’t very effective. She looked like she had a bad case of lockjaw.
‘You look like a cheap hussy. This is a respectable restaurant, could you not have worn something decent.’
Babs rolled her eyes. ‘You have to flaunt it while you’ve got it.’
‘Hi, Seabiscuit,’ said Sean, leaning down to kiss Babs while the rest of us tried to keep a straight face.
‘What’s a seabiscuit?’ asked Mum, at which point I thought James was going to choke on his drink.
‘It’s a stupid racehorse with a big nose. Sean thinks he’s a fucking comedian,’ said a very grumpy Babs.
Mum threw her head back and roared laughing.
Dad, James and Sean then launched into a detailed discussion about the Leinster rugby team’s chances of winning the European cup under James’s guidance, and dissected every player on the team. Babs then got into a strop because it was her night and they were all talking about rugby. I, on the other hand, was relieved the conversation was about rugby and not Sean’s love life. But eventually Mum interrupted and asked Sean how work and things were going.
‘Good, thanks. I’ve met a great girl actually. She’s a teacher, she teaches maths.’
‘God, I’d say she’s a barrel of laughs,’ said Babs.
‘How lovely,’ said Mum. ‘A teacher, isn’t that wonderful, Dan?’
‘Great news,’ said Dad.
‘Tell us all. What’s her name? How long have you been seeing her?’ asked Mum.
‘I’ve been seeing her for about three months now. Her name’s Shadee.’
‘Shireen?’
‘No, Shadee.’
Welsh?’ asked Dad.
‘No, Scottish I’d say,’ said Mum.
‘Neither,’ said Sean.
‘Sounds more Asian … ouch!’ said James as I kicked him under the table.
‘It is. She’s Persian,’ said Sean, throwing himself in head first.
‘What’s Persian?’ said Mum, looking confused and a little concerned.
‘Persia is Iran,’ said Dad, looking decidedly worried.
‘It’s OK, she doesn’t wear the gear and she was born and bred in England,’ I jumped in, trying to break the tension.
‘You have to go to Iran to find a girlfriend and you’ve the cheek to slag me about my nose,’ said Babs, stirring it up as usual.
‘There was a super bloke in school with me from Iran – Johnny Naser. He was six foot five, but a real gentle giant, great batsman too,’ said James, trying to help ease the tension and failing miserably.
‘She considers herself half English half Iranian,’ said Sean tersely.
‘Is she … ah … religious?’ said Dad, cutting to the chase.
‘No, but her parents are Muslim and she respects the values of the Muslim faith.’
‘Iran,’ said Mum. ‘Did I see a film about Iran?’
I was hoping she hadn’t seen Not Without My Daughter.
‘Lord,’ said Mum, wide-eyed. ‘I did see a film about Iran and poor Sally Field was trapped there with her daughter and the husband was an awful fellow and he seemed very normal at first. Oh yes, in America he was very charming and then once he got home he turned into a monster. Swear to me you’ll never go there, Sean, do you hear me? Never. This girl may seem normal now, but mark my words once she steps foot inside that country she’ll be a different person. No, Sean, you’ll just have to tell her to go and find someone from her own background and you find yourself a nice Irish girl.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mum,’ snapped Sean. ‘That’s like her parents forbidding her to see me because I come from Ireland and I could be a member of the IRA. I really like her, so you better get used to the idea.’
‘Dan, talk to your son,’ said Mum, glaring at Dad.
‘Well, Sean, to be fair, our cultures are very different. It could cause problems down the line.’
‘She’s not the bloody Ayatollah’s henchman for God’s sake. Her father’s a surgeon, her mother’s a teacher and her brother’s an accountant. They’re a normal family, just like us.’
As if on cue, Babs – who had tied her napkin around her head so you could only see her eyes – roared, ‘Hey, guess who I am? I’m Sean’s new girlfriend – Shahreeeeeeee.’
I looked at James whose mouth was twitching and had to look away before I started to laugh. He leant over and whispered in my ear, ‘I’m glad we’re adopting. Imagine if our children inherited Babs’ genes!’
‘Or her schnozz,’ I said giggling.
5
I spent the next two weeks standing in long queues waiting to get my birth certificate and our marriage one – neither of which I could find at home. When I called James’s mother to send me his birth certificate, she had it to hand, which didn’t surprise me. Mrs Hamilton was one of those super-organized women who always knew where everything was. Whenever we visited, I was always amazed by the neatness of the house. There didn’t seem to be any ‘stuff’ hanging around. No unopened mail, old newspapers and books, tennis rackets in the hall, coats hanging on the end of the stairs, shoes kicked off in the kitchen, crumbs on the bread board, out of date cheese in the fridge … The house was immaculate and every time we came home from a visit, I’d try to emulate her tidiness. It usually lasted a day. James had not inherited his mother’s genes and neatness was certainly not my fo
rte, so by day two we were back to our untidy but familiar surroundings.
I completed the adoption form, filling in our referees’ names and at the last minute decided to write a covering letter to send in with the application, although it didn’t ask for one. I thought that a bleeding heart letter might help our chances of jumping up the queue.
Dear Sir/Madam,
I am writing to apply for an Intercountry adoption. See enclosed a completed application form and the necessary documents.
My English husband, James, and I have been trying to have a baby for two years now, with no success. We are dying to have a family and give a child a happy and loving home. We are not fussy at all and are open to children from any country of any colour or creed. If the child has sisters, brothers, cousins or even very close friends, we’d be happy to accommodate them too. We are prepared to do anything that will help speed up the process. As we have an intercountry marriage, we feel we are particularly well suited to an intercountry adoption.
I look forward to hearing from you soon,
Yours sincerely
Emma Hamilton
I checked it for spelling mistakes, and sealed the envelope. I felt the fact that James was English might give us a more international feel and make us stand out. Granted he wasn’t from deepest darkest Africa and we weren’t exactly being stoned on the street for our inter-racial union, but nonetheless it was an intercountry union. I also thought that stressing our openness to children of different creeds and cultures would help and if there were siblings to hand, sure, we might as well take them too and do it all in one go. I hadn’t discussed the possibility of a one-off, multiple adoption with James, but I’d cross that bridge if and when I needed to. There was no point in telling him about it yet.
When James came home later, I hid the magazine I was reading and pretended to be studying the Intercountry information booklet, which had almost put me into a coma. I had been doing well until I got to page three which went into detail about The Hague Convention on the Protection of Children and Co-operation in respect of Intercountry Adoption. At that point I found my eyes being drawn towards this month’s Vogue which had been delivered that morning – I was a lifelong subscriber – and had spent a very pleasant hour reading about Botox and gaining the vital knowledge that this year’s black was grey. Still, I wanted James to think I was doing as much research as he was, so I stuffed the magazine under my chair.
A Perfect Match Page 3