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

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘What?’

  ‘What are you doing in there? You’ve been in there for fifteen minutes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I want to know if you’re masturbating. I thought we had an agreement. No more pipe-cleaning in the shower.’

  The shower door opened and a very red-faced James glared out at me. Shampoo was dripping into his eyes and he looked really cheesed off. ‘What I do and how long I spend in the shower is my own business. Jesus Christ, a man needs some privacy. I will not have you standing over me like some psychotic sergeant major, accusing me of masturbating every time I take a shower. It’s eight o’clock in the bloody morning, get out of this bathroom now.’

  Yikes! James very rarely lost his temper, but when he did he was a bit scary. I’d have to trust him not to jerk off in the shower and not give him the third degree. I decided to cook him breakfast and apologize. He said it was fine, but that I needed to calm down about the whole masturbation issue and he didn’t want it mentioned again.

  Some things were sacred.

  6

  I rang Lucy to tell her that Donal was keen for the date. She said she had seen a recent picture of him online scoring a try and was having second thoughts. ‘He’s desperate looking, Emma.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. That’s a bad photo and, come on, he was covered in mud and sweat. No one looks good when they are all mucky.’

  ‘Yeah, nice try. He’s a fierce-looking yoke, but I said I’d go out with him so I will. OK, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Well, he said he’d pick you up after the game this Saturday to go out for dinner.’

  ‘Where’s he taking me? What’ll I wear?’

  ‘Uhm, I’m not sure, actually, but I’m sure he’ll bring you somewhere nice. The little black dress should do the trick.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not too dressy and not too casual. I’ll wear it with my new Jimmy’s.’

  ‘Oooh, did you get Jimmy Choos?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re to die for. Black with really pointy toes and killer six-inch heels.’

  ‘Wow! Poor old Donal won’t be able to keep his hands off you.’

  ‘Mmm, on second thoughts,’ she said, giggling, ‘after seeing that photo, maybe I should wear a tracksuit and runners.’

  I had no idea where Donal was taking her. He wasn’t the most sophisticated guy in the world, but I was hoping he’d pull out the stops. I had told James to tell him that Lucy was a bit of a high-flyer and was used to going to nice places. I hoped he wouldn’t blow it.

  When James came in I quizzed him as he made himself some toast. ‘You know the date with Donal?’

  ‘What date?’ he said, stuffing a slice of bread in his mouth.

  ‘James! The date with Lucy.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. What about it?’

  ‘Where’s he taking her?’

  ‘No idea. Why?’

  ‘Because she wants to know what to wear.’

  ‘Women!’

  ‘It’s perfectly reasonable to want to know where you’re going on a blind date. Where do you think he’ll take her?’

  ‘Knowing Donal, probably Burger King and the Black Crow,’ said James, finding himself very amusing.

  ‘Hilarious. Look, I want you to tell him to take her somewhere nice. Blind dates are bad enough without being taken to some grotty pub.’

  ‘OK, I’ll mention it.’

  ‘You won’t forget now, will you?’

  ‘Remind me tomorrow.’

  ‘James!’

  ‘I’m joking. I’ll tell him tomorrow.’

  Suffice it to say that things didn’t go according to plan. On the day of the date, Donal got a kick in the head in the last five minutes of the game and was stretchered off with his face covered in blood. When they’d cleaned him up on the sideline, it was clear that he needed quite a few stitches and might have a slight concussion, so the physiotherapist took him to hospital.

  Three hours later he emerged with six stitches down the side of his now very swollen right eye. Being Donal, he decided not to call Lucy, explain what had happened and go home and get cleaned up. Instead he threw on an old rugby jersey, and tracksuit bottoms he found in the boot of his car and turned up at her apartment half an hour late with one side of his face covered in stitches and dried blood. He rang the bell.

  Lucy opened the door, screamed and slammed it shut.

  ‘Hello? Lucy?’

  What? How did this lunatic with the mad eye know her name? Was he some kind of stalker? Or axe murderer? Lucy looked out the peephole. He didn’t seem to have any weapons, but then again his tracksuit was quite baggy so he might be harbouring a knife or a gun. There was something strangely familiar about him. She had definitely seen him before. Maybe he’d been stalking her for a while.

  ‘Go away, I’m calling the police!’ she roared through the letterbox.

  ‘Are you Lucy Hogan?’

  ‘How the hell do you know my name?’ said Lucy, trying to sound brave as she dialled, her hands shaking.

  ‘It’s Donal. Donal Brady. Are you all right?’

  What? Donal? Lucy looked out the peephole again. Oh my goodness, it was him. She opened the door. ‘What the hell –’

  ‘Howrya. What’s going on? Are you OK?’

  ‘Your face!’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Donal, reaching up to his eye. ‘I forgot. I must look a right state. I got a kick in the head in the game today. No permanent damage done. Did I give you a fright?’

  ‘Well, yes, you did. I thought you were some kind of crazy hobo or something.’

  ‘Sorry about that. Come on, we both need a drink. Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Uhm, yeah, I suppose so,’ said Lucy, looking from her tight little black dress and Jimmy Choos to his tracksuit and runners. ‘Where are we off to?’

  ‘I know a great pub so why don’t we go there for a few and see how we go?’ said Donal, as cool as you like.

  Lucy was a bit taken aback. ‘See how we go’ – what the hell did that mean? Was this pub some kind of initiation ceremony where, if he didn’t like her after a few pints, he’d cancel the dinner and save himself a few quid?

  As she sat fuming in the car, Donal howled along to the song on the radio, turning every few minutes to wink at her with his one good eye. They drove to a run-down part of town and Donal rammed the car up on the kerb outside a pub called the Black Crow. Lucy had never heard of it and had only ever been in this part of town once before, when she got lost on her way to the airport.

  ‘Is this it?’ she asked, in shock.

  ‘Yep. The best pint of Guinness in Dublin. It’s owned by a fella from my home town. It’s a great spot. Come on.’

  Donal marched in ahead of her, greeted the barman with a roar and a slap on the back and ordered a pint of Guinness. The pub was a dingy dump with no windows, sawdust on the floor and Christy Moore’s greatest hits belting out from the speakers. When her eyes got used to the dark, Lucy could make out four other people. The barman, and three customers sitting up at the bar. An old guy, an older guy and a guy who was so old he should have been dead. They all turned to stare at her.

  When she asked for a glass of prosecco, Donal and the barman laughed for five minutes and she ended up with a pint of Harp. Lucy hadn’t had Harp since she was fifteen and drinking it from cans outside the local disco.

  Donal chatted to the barman while Lucy sat down at a grubby table and wiped the sawdust off her Jimmy Choos. A few minutes later Donal strolled over with her pint and four packets of dry roasted peanuts. ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ said Sir Galahad.

  ‘I am actually. I thought we were going out for dinner.’

  ‘Ah, sure we’ll see how we go. I’m in need of a drink after that kick in the head.’

  Over the next hour, Donal bored Lucy rigid with a blow-by-blow account of his rugby career to date, while Hoovering up four pints of Guinness. Lucy, meanwhile, sat and listened while she munched her way through three packets of dry roasted peanuts (about a zillion cal
ories in each pack, but she was too hungry to care) and tried to drink her Harp. She decided to give him an hour to prove he wasn’t as much of an oaf as he appeared.

  With five minutes left to prove himself, the blissfully thick-skinned Donal passed out at the table. The pints of Guinness combined with the kick in the head had proven too much even for him. Lucy couldn’t believe it. This had to be a set-up, she thought. Come on, someone’s having me on. Punk’d, You’ve Been Framed! . . . something?

  But when Ashton Kutcher didn’t appear she leaned over and shook Donal. Nothing. He was snoring. She shook him again, a little harder this time. Nothing. So she poured her pint of Harp over his head.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Oh, hello. Nice of you to wake up. I think I’m the one who should be asleep – did you manage to bore yourself into a coma? Well, much as I’d love to stay and listen to some more of your mind-numbing rugby stories, I have to go home and stick a red-hot poker into my eye. This has been a real eye-opener for me. I actually believed that man had come a long way from the cave and you, Donal, in one evening have proved me wrong. Well, I must dash, the poker awaits me.’

  ‘Ah, come on, now, relax. We’ll go and get some food.

  The kick in the head must have knocked me out.’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m leaving.’

  ‘Don’t be so uptight,’ said Donal, stumbling to his feet.

  ‘How dare you call me uptight? You don’t know anything about me. All you’ve done is ramble on all night about your boring rugby career.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t saying anything so I had to talk. You’ve had a look on your face all night as if you’d smelt something nasty. Like you had dog poo on your stupid-looking shoes,’ said Donal, pointing unsteadily at them. ‘You’re like some spoilt princess who was brought up with a silver spoon in her mouth. I’m obviously not good enough for you because I don’t drive a flash car and wear suits.’

  ‘You arrogant jerk. I don’t give a damn what car you drive. I do, however, object to being collected by somebody with blood all over his face in a filthy tracksuit. I would have been quite happy to wait an extra half an hour for you if you had called and explained. As for your choice of venue! No, I don’t like smelly, dingy pubs, I never have and I never will. I drank Harp when I was fifteen and have spent the last eighteen years of my life working my ass off to make damn sure I never have to drink that crap again. And in my world, a conversation is an activity that necessitates the participation of two people. Not a coma inducing monologue about your prowess on the rugby pitch. Maybe in your backward little town men behave like pigs and women find it attractive, but in my world a pig is a pig,’ said Lucy, standing up and grabbing her coat.

  ‘I’d say you’re fantastic in bed,’ Donal said, grinning at her. ‘I like my women feisty.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, how’s this for feisty?’ said Lucy. She slapped him across the good side of his face and stormed out.

  The next morning I spent two hours on the phone to her. She ranted and raved about what a dreadful night it had been, how awful Donal was, how she was never going on a blind date again, how all men were bastards, even the ugly ones, and how she’d rather spend the rest of her life alone than have to go through another date like that. She thought the city guys she dated were bad, but this guy was pure caveman. How could James be friendly with someone like him? He was awful.

  ‘Look, I know Donal can be a bit rugby-guyish, but he’s really nice underneath it. In fairness to him the kick in the head and the alcohol must have made him behave out of character.’

  ‘How do you know he’s such a nice guy? What has he ever done that’s so nice?’

  ‘Well, you know James met Donal when he was still living in England playing for the Titans and then Donal decided he wanted to move home to Ireland and play for Leinster and persuaded James to come with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, the reason Donal suddenly decided to move back is because his sister Paula and her husband were killed in a car crash and they had named him as his niece Annie’s legal guardian. His parents are old and not in good health so he had to bring her up. He came back to look after her shortly after the crash.’

  ‘Oh, my gosh.’

  ‘I know. Paula and her husband were killed outright and Annie was really traumatized. She was only ten at the time. She’s thirteen now and she’s in boarding-school. Donal goes to all her hockey matches and to her parent teacher meetings and all that stuff. James said he’s brilliant to her and she worships him.’

  ‘My God, Emma, why didn’t you tell me this before the date?’

  ‘Because I wanted you to like him without the sympathy vote.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t really change anything, anyway. He may be a great uncle and I’m sorry about his sister dying, but it still doesn’t take away from the fact that he was an ape last night.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be mortified today. Honestly, I’ve never seen him behave that badly.’

  ‘Well, I have Harp and sawdust all over my Jimmy Choos to prove it. Anyway, I think I’ve chewed your ear off sufficiently for the time being. Let me know what he says to James about the date. Let’s see if he has any remorse!’

  ‘Will do. I’ll call you when I find out.’

  I told James what had happened and he found it all hilarious. Especially the part where Donal fell asleep at the table, he loved that bit. He promised he’d get the low-down from Donal at training.

  When James called later that day he was laughing so much he could hardly speak.

  ‘Well, what did he say?’

  ‘He said . . . ha-ha . . . he said . . . ha-ha-ha . . . he said, ha-ha-ha –’

  ‘James! What did he say?’ I said, beginning to giggle myself.

  ‘He said he thinks she’s fantastic and he’s mad about her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said he thought she was very good-looking but a complete pain in the neck for most of the date, but when she poured the pint over his head and read him the Riot Act he totally fell for her. He’s going to call her and ask her out.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness’ I said, laughing, ‘is he insane? Does he not realize that she thinks he’s the devil himself?’

  ‘Donal reckons she’s mad about him. He said she got far too hot and bothered for someone who wasn’t into him and he reckons she’s gagging for it,’ said James.

  The man was certifiable.

  7

  I decided it was time for some medical aids to this pregnancy lark. I didn’t want to waste another month guessing when I was ovulating. I had heard someone talk about an ovulation test at a dinner party James and I had gone to at my friends Jess and Tony’s house a few weeks earlier.

  Of the five couples invited, we were the only ones who didn’t have kids. As we were just a few months into trying, it didn’t bother me too much, but I was surprised by how boring the women were and how one-dimensional. The conversation was all about babies, and if you didn’t have one – tough.

  Jess had met them at her ante-natal classes so they all had eight-month-old babies. The conversation revolved around cracked nipples – lots of winking, wincing, laughing and in-jokes about cracked nipples. I didn’t see anything remotely funny about it, it sounded awful.

  After the ‘hilarious’ cracked-nipple chat, they then had a competition over who’d had the most stitches. Some weirdo called Alison was delighted to announce that she had undergone such a dreadful birth and ended up with so many internal and external stitches (internal – this was news to me!) that her doctor refused to tell her the number for fear of upsetting her, so she won. Judy who had been in the lead with ten stitches, was not happy at being relegated to second place.

  But the piece de resistance was the conversation about who was having post-baby sex and who wasn’t. They all said they were, but I reckoned Judy was lying because she still seemed to be having trouble sitting down comfortably and her husband spent the night leering at my boobs – even James noticed –
so I don’t think he was getting any action at home.

  Meanwhile the men were having a whale of a time discussing the latest political scandal to hit the papers: the leader of the opposition had been outed in a kiss-and-tell scoop by his mistress, Amanda Nolan, the feisty host of a popular daytime chat show. I was particularly interested in the story because I had done her makeup for Afternoon with Amanda a number of times and had a great laugh with her. I was hoping to get a regular slot on the show as I was sick of doing weddings and dealing with crazy brides and their monster mothers. Amanda was a real character and always regaled me with juicy gossip about well-known Irish figures.

  James called me over to tell the others about Amanda, and I had a great time with the men gossiping and arguing about the affair and its consequences for John Bradley’s political career, not to mention his twenty-five-year marriage. I could see that the mothers were none too happy for me to be laughing and joking with their husbands. I was a ‘traitor’ of sorts. But having escaped from the ‘which nursery is best?’ conversation, I had no intention of going back.

  On the way home I said to James that when we had kids, if I ever turned into someone who talked about cracked nipples on a Saturday night, he was to shoot me on the spot.

  When I rang Jess to thank her the next day, she said she could see I’d found all the baby talk a bit boring but that once I had my own I’d understand.

  ‘Do you always talk about that stuff when you meet up or do you talk about other things as well?’ I had to ask. I refused to believe that Jess found it as interesting as she was making out.

  ‘Well, we met at ante-natal classes, Emma, so obviously our common bond is our children,’ said Jess defensively.

  ‘Of course, I understand. It’s just that you never really talk about that stuff with me, so I just wondered if I was being selfish by not asking you about it. I just never really thought of it, to be honest.’