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

by Sinéad Moriarty

‘Congratulations, that’s amazing news,’ I said, trying to muster some enthusiasm and failing miserably.

  Elephant-skinned Imogen, however, was oblivious to this. ‘Yes, it is, rather. Thanks. So, how about you? Any sign of a cousin for Thomas?’

  Sod Thomas, snotty little brat. I didn’t want any child of mine hanging out with him. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, chop-chop, Emma. You need to set to. James would be a maaahvellous father.’

  Oh, yeah, and what did she mean by that? What about me being a maaahvellous mother? God, she got up my nose.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get around to it in our own good time,’ I said, trying desperately not to lose my temper.

  ‘Well, you don’t want to leave it much longer, Emma you’re not getting any younger. You may not feel maternal now, but once you have a baby you will. Everyone does, even the least likely people. Motherhood is such a wonderful thing. The love between a mother and her child is like no other love.’

  Unbelievable. Now she was implying that I had no maternal instinct.

  ‘Yeah, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘You really should try it, Emma, I’m sure even you would take to it. Going to parties and staying out late is all very well, but it becomes a bit hollow after a while, don’t you think?’

  I had to do something drastic. I had to get her off the phone before I lost my temper and told her exactly what I thought of her. I walked out of the kitchen to the front door. I opened the front door as quietly as I could and rang the bell loudly. ‘Oh, sorry, Imogen, have to dash – doorbell. ’Bye now.’

  I was so angry that I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I jumped up and down shouting, ‘Patronizing witch,’ for five minutes until I was out of breath and my feet hurt. Some women swear by slapping on the Marigolds and giving the kitchen floor a good scrub in times of anger, but I think they’re all depraved. Cleaning the kitchen floor definitely would not do it for me.

  After jumping up and down I took out a tub of Haagen Daz vanilla chocolate fudge and ate my way through my anger. But then I felt guilty about the eight thousand calories I’d just consumed so I dragged myself to the gym.

  I hated the gym. There was something so unnatural about a group of women in Spandex thongs jumping around like monkeys to cheesy seventies disco music. So I never went to classes, I just went down and watched TV while ‘power walking’ on the treadmill, or read Hello! on the Stairmaster.

  The Hello! was gone when I got there but there was an old Cosmopolitan left in the stack so I took that. It had an article about masturbation and how men masturbated all the time and the effect this could have on fertility. If men were ‘slapping the salami’ every day – Cosmo’s words, not mine – they might not have much sperm left for reproductive purposes.

  I’d have to tackle James on that later. I had him on the back foot for telling Donal about my handstands so he’d have to listen to me whether he liked it or not . . . and, let’s face it, James was not going to be too thrilled about discussing his masturbation timetable.

  When I got home, I saw the empty ice cream carton. Great, now every time I ate Haagen Daz, it would remind me of Imogen.

  Twins. Lucky her. Maybe if I got James to stop masturbating, we’d have triplets and then I’d never have to get pregnant again. Hurrah. If Henry could produce twins, I didn’t see why James couldn’t manage triplets. I could picture it now. Two girls and a boy – Holly, Sophie and Ben. Two pink Babygros and a blue one. All sleeping sweetly in their cots side by side. Everyone would know the Hamilton triplets. They’d bring a smile to people’s faces as they passed by. The girls looked like Drew Barrymore in ET and the boy looked like the cute little kid in Jerry Maguire. Aww, they were gorgeous.

  As I steamed the vegetables for dinner I imagined little Ben playing rugby for Ireland as his father watched proudly from the sidelines, although James would probably want him to play for England. Mmm, hadn’t thought of that. It might be less complicated if he played tennis. Yes, tennis was better. We could go to Wimbledon and sit in the posh box where the families sit and cheer him on as he wins the tournament. Then, in an emotional acceptance speech, he’ll thank his parents, but especially his wonderful mother for her support and encouragement throughout his formative years. I was clapping and wiping away tears when James walked in.

  Obviously feeling bad about the Simone Biles palaver, he had bought me flowers. He saw me in tears and came over to hug me. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  There was no point in trying to explain that I was crying with pride at our son’s nail-biting Wimbledon-final five-set victory, so I said nothing. He handed me the flowers and I put them in a vase. They were lovely but I was going to make him sweat it out for a bit.

  ‘I really am sorry, darling. I promise, no more indiscretions.’

  ‘Well, there’d better not be, James. That’s private stuff, not for the locker room. I don’t want the whole team laughing at me. You know what Dublin’s like, the whole city will know about it. I’ll be a laughing-stock.’

  ‘You won’t. I only said it to Donal and he swore he hadn’t said it to anyone else.’

  ‘Oh, really, and you believe him, do you? I’d hardly describe Donal as the soul of discretion.’

  ‘He is, actually. He plays up the gruff-rugby-player thing, but he’s a really good guy.’

  ‘OK, enough of the eulogy. You’ll be telling me he’s in touch with his feminine side next. Besides, I have something more important to talk to you about.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’ James looked at me warily.

  ‘Masturbation.’

  ‘Emma!’

  ‘I need to know how often you masturbate. There’s no point looking appalled: it’s a well-known fact that men masturbate regularly, I just need to know how regularly.’

  ‘Emma, there are some things that a man needs to keep to himself and that’s one of them.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I don’t want to watch, I just want to know. It’s important.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because apparently if you’re cleaning your pipe – or whatever the expression is – every day there’ll be none left for when we have sex. We need nice full loads of sperm, not the measly leftovers from your earlier activities. So come on, tell me, how often, James? Every day? Twice a day? Couple of times a week?’

  ‘I don’t know. It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On lots of things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking about, if I have an urge, stuff like that,’ said James, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

  ‘Really? What kind of urge?’

  ‘Well, if I woke up excited or saw a steamy film or something. Look, can we please change the subject? I really don’t want to discuss this with you.’

  ‘OK, but where do you do it? In the shower? Down the loo?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, I suppose in the shower mostly.’

  ‘Well, at least it gets washed away there. Anyway, the thing is you have to stop it. I need you to save up all the swimmers for me. Keep them all inside so that when they’re finally let loose they’re champing at the bit and raring to go. That way they’ll charge up and hunt down my eggs. It makes sense if you think about it. The less those sperm get out into the fresh air the more eager they’ll be.’

  ‘Fine. Now can we please talk about something else?’

  ‘Not yet, you haven’t promised to stop masturbating.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘But how can you promise when all men seem to have to do it? It’s like a basic need or something.’

  ‘I’ll manage. I have incredible self-control. Now can we please change the subject?’

  ‘Just one more thing, would you be thinking about me or Irina Shayk in Victoria Secret lingerie when you do it?’

  ‘No comment,’ he grinned

  5

  I went
to meet Lucy for a drink and a moan. I’ve known Lucy since I was six. We moved in together for a few years after college with high hopes of finding fame and fortune. Neither of us found fame. I found James and Lucy found money – she earned shedloads of cash as a management consultant, but worked all the hours in the day.

  ‘Hi, sorry I’m late, last-minute crisis in work,’ said Lucy, as she plonked herself down on the couch beside me.

  As usual she looked really well. She had long, slim legs that went on for ever. She also had long, thick, shiny black hair and green eyes – if I didn’t love her so much I’d hate her. ‘No worries. You look great. New suit?’

  ‘Yeah, I treated myself to it last week. Cost a fortune but what the hell? Us single girls have to look our best at all times. It’s dog-eat-dog out there.’

  Lucy had been single for three years and was becoming increasingly cynical about love and meeting Mr Right.

  ‘How was Saturday night? I’m dying to hear all the gories,’ I asked, hoping it had gone well, though judging by the ‘dog-eat-dog’ comment, it didn’t look too good.

  Lucy had been at a singles party organized by a friend from work. Each of the ten girls invited had to bring a platonic straight single male friend, a bottle of Prosecco and a bottle of spirits.

  Lucy had taken Stephen, a friend of ours from college who had recently been dumped by his girlfriend of five years.

  ‘God, it was awful. I should never have brought Stephen. Initially it was fine, everyone was a bit nervous so the drinks were going down like rockets. You’d swear we’d never seen alcohol before. Anyway, I was chatting to this cute doctor when Stephen came over and pulled me outside. He said some girl had just tried to kiss him and he realized that it was a bad idea to have come because it was too soon and he was too raw and blah-blah-blah. I mean, he even squeezed out a few tears!’

  ‘Poor Stephen.’

  ‘To hell with Stephen! Poor me. I got stuck counselling him for an hour and by the time we finally went back inside my cute doctor was rolling around on the couch with some brain-dead blonde Aussie. Stephen, having offloaded all his woes, bounced over to the girl who’d tried to snog him and shoved his tongue down her throat. The bloody Comeback Kid wasn’t in it. By that stage I was freezing from standing outside for so long, sober and extremely cheesed off. So I left, went home and ate a full tube of Pringles.’

  ‘Oh, God, Lucy, what a nightmare. I can’t believe you spent your night comforting Stephen.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I give up. I’m so sick of trying to meet someone. I spent ages getting ready, I looked about as well as I’m going to look, I clicked with a cute doctor, and then it all went horribly wrong. Story of my bloody life.’

  ‘Come on, Lucy, you’re stunning and loads of guys fancy you.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like all the guys we were in college with.’

  ‘They’re all married, Emma! They all ended up marrying the square-bear girls who never got drunk and made fools of themselves. It’s the tinsel versus the calm scenario. They all married the calm ones.’

  She had a point: they did all marry the calm ones. Lucy and I had this theory – Tinsel and Calm. It was based on a Christmas party we had gone to in college when neither of us had snogged the guys we fancied and they had gone off with two boring girls. The problem – we discovered after hours of analysis – was that we had spent far too much time wrapping the decorations and tinsel from the Christmas tree around ourselves and leaping about the dance-floor like maniacs while throwing back shots. We were much too busy having a laugh, and had lost focus. Meanwhile the calm girls, who wouldn’t dream of wearing tinsel as it didn’t match their outfits, looked on from the edge of the dance-floor, sipping their red wine, smiling and shaking their heads at us as though we were the hired entertainment.

  The guys we fancied joined in our fun and laughed and leaped with us until about midnight, when they – never ones to lose focus for too long – went in search of Calm. They’d had their fun and now they wanted to score with minimal effort.

  Tinsel girls were too much trouble. A guy would need buckets of energy to keep up with one, excellent negotiation skills, and a rugby tackle or two to tear her away from the Christmas-tree decorations for a kiss. Tinsel girls won’t laugh at a guy’s joke if it isn’t funny. Calm is by far the easier option: she will titter at all his crappy jokes, tell him that all his boring lads-on-tour stories are interesting and say she wishes she could drink more but she’s so petite that alcohol goes straight to her head.

  Tinsel wakes up the next day fully clothed, tongue stuck to roof of mouth, eyes moulded shut with mascara, Santa decorations hanging from her ears and layers of tinsel wrapped around her. She is, unsurprisingly, alone. Meanwhile Calm is up, showered, dressed in her smart-casual day clothes – neatly ironed jeans and a baby pink cashmere jumper – cooking breakfast for her new man.

  Lucy sighed and took a slug of wine. I decided to help her out. That’s what best friends are for. So I suggested a blind date.

  ‘With who? I know all your male friends,’ Lucy said suspiciously.

  ‘With Donal from James’s rugby team.’ I knew Donal wasn’t quite her type, but opposites often attract. Besides, the guys she usually went for never worked out, so it was probably time she tried something new.

  ‘Is he the big ugly-looking yoke from the country?’

  ‘Well, yeah – he’s tall, but he’s not ugly. He’s actually very attractive and he has a brilliant personality. He’s hilarious company. I’m telling you, loads of girls fancy him. You should see them after the matches, they’re all over him.’

  OK, I admit I was exaggerating slightly. But he was tall, he wasn’t traditionally good-looking but you wouldn’t call him ugly, and girls did seem to find his insane sense of humour entertaining. I also knew that if I said other girls fancied him Lucy’s competitive streak would be aroused. I spent the best part of an hour singing Donal’s praises until she finally agreed.

  She stared at his photo on her phone. ‘I dunno. He’s no looker. But I suppose there’s no harm giving him a try-out. I’ve snogged everyone else in Dublin, so I have to look for country-men now. My bloody biological clock is about to pack it in, so go ahead and set it up. I’m game.’

  ‘Great, I’ll get James on the case. Drink?’

  ‘Yeah, vodka soda and lime, please.’

  I ordered the drinks and sat back down. ‘Speaking of biological clocks, bloody Imogen’s pregnant and she’s expecting twins.’

  ‘Oh no, Emma, what a nightmare.’

  ‘Tell me about it. She rang to tell me and started having a go at me for not having babies myself. Stupid, insensitive wench. She even accused me of not being maternal.’

  ‘What? How dare she? You are maternal. What the hell would she know?’

  One of the things I loved most about Lucy was her unswerving loyalty. If someone was mean to you, she’d hate them out of solidarity.

  ‘Don’t let that cow put you down. On the bright side, at least it means you could have twins too. Wouldn’t that be perfect? You’d have a ready-made family in one go!’

  ‘I was thinking that myself, actually,’ I confessed. ‘Triplets would be totally ideal. I’ve always wanted three kids, so that would be perfect.’

  ‘Remember that woman in England who had the sextuplets? That could be you.’

  ‘I’d settle for one. I really hope it happens soon. The thought of having to listen to Imogen for six more months is doing my head in.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Emma, it’ll happen for you. I know it will. And you’ll be a brilliant mum,’ said Lucy, squeezing my hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, choking back tears. She was right: I would be a brilliant mum. Sod Imogen.

  James was a bit dubious when I told him of my great plan to match up Donal and Lucy. In fact, he looked at me as if I was deranged and recently escaped from a mental institution.

  ‘Lucy and Donal? Have you lost your mind?

  They�
�ll kill each other.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why?’

  ‘Donal thinks women should be barefoot and in the kitchen, and somehow I doubt that Lucy would agree. She’s a career woman.’

  ‘Just because she has a good job doesn’t mean she wants to be working fifteen hours a day for the rest of her life, James. That’s the whole point. She wants to meet a guy, settle down and have a family.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but I just don’t think Donal’s the man for her. He’s a great guy, but he’s a man’s man. I don’t think he’s Lucy’s type.’

  ‘Well, what is Lucy’s type?’

  ‘I don’t know, a city-type guy with a college degree, a successful job and a flash car, not a professional rugby player from Ballydrum.’

  ‘You’re wrong. She’s gone out with successful businessmen and it hasn’t worked out. I think it’s time she tried someone completely different, which Donal is.’

  ‘OK, well, I’ll talk to Donal.’

  ‘Call him now.’

  ‘I’ll see him tomorrow and ask him then.’

  ‘No, call him now. Come on, I want to hear you selling Lucy properly. I want you to tell him how gorgeous and fabulous and clever and funny and great she is. Come on, James, call him now,’ I said, handing him the phone.

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll do it now,’ said James, sighing.

  He dialled Donal’s number and I pressed up close to listen in. I wanted to make sure he said the right things about Lucy.

  ‘Hi, Donal. How do you fancy going on a blind date with Emma’s friend Lucy?’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Nothing, she’s a bit of a looker.’

  ‘Would you do her?’

  ‘Yeah, I would, actually, she’s tasty.’

  I gave James a dead arm at this point.

  ‘No limbs missing?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘OK, so.’

  ‘Great. See you tomorrow.’

  Men!

  The next morning, as James was taking his shower, I decided to time him – fifteen minutes. In that time I could shower, moisturize, put on my makeup, get dressed and eat breakfast. What was he doing in there? I opened the door and shouted over the noise of the water: ‘What are you doing in there?’