‘Emma, come on out, you’re being silly.’
‘No,’ I said, sobbing extra loudly so he’d be sure to hear me.
But instead of talking to me and comforting me, he walked off and went to bed. I unlocked the door an hour later and found James fast asleep in the guest bedroom that Mrs Hamilton had put us in. I couldn’t sleep in another room and announce to the whole house that we were arguing, so I climbed in beside him and spent a fitful night tossing and turning. James, meanwhile, slept like a log, stinking of beer and snoring.
I got up early the next morning and went out for a long walk. My head was throbbing from lack of sleep and my eyes were stinging from crying. I was still really upset. James and I had fought before, but only silly fights, never ones where we said really horrible things to each other. I felt that he had overdone it last night – I knew he had been drinking, but he wasn’t drunk. He had meant what he said and it had really hurt.
I knew a lot of it was true, which was worse: I was obsessed, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t control it. I thought about having a baby all the time. And everyone around me seemed to be getting pregnant on their honeymoon, or after their first attempt, like Imogen. What if I never got pregnant? What if there was something wrong with me that the doctors had missed?
When I saw our friends with their children my heart ached. I wanted that for us. We’d be good parents, so why was it so bloody difficult? Well, one thing was for sure: I had to try to relax. In this state, not only would I never get pregnant but I’d end up alone.
I stayed out all morning, only reappearing at lunch-time to get changed for the christening. When I got back, James was waiting for me. ‘Look, Emma, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. It was the beer talking. I’m sorry I upset you.’
I shook my head sadly. ‘It wasn’t the beer, James, it was the truth. I’ve been a pain and I’ve begun to get paranoid and a bit self-obsessed about it all. I just didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.’
‘I don’t. Emma, look, I want a baby as much as you, and I know it’s harder for you as the woman. I’m just worried that it’s taking over your life completely. I hate seeing you so unhappy.’
‘I know. I’m going to try really hard to chill out about it all,’ I said. ‘Oh, my God.’ I’d just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: I looked like a hag. Thank God I was a makeup artist: at least I could do something about my blotchy face. ‘Look at the state of me. Come on, help me get ready. I need to look sensational so Imogen can be jealous of me for a change.’
Half an hour and layer upon layer of makeup later, I was ready. I looked at myself in the mirror – not bad: I scrubbed up well. I came downstairs and James whistled.
He leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘And by the way, I have no intention of running off with any bimbo, particularly when my wife looks this hot.’
The christening passed without a hitch. Having vented my frustration the night before, by the time we got to the church I was feeling calm and serene – I know it’s hard to believe but I was, honestly!
My love affair with my goddaughter Sophie was complete when I saw her all dressed up in her christening gown. She looked like a tiny angel. Her other godmother, Gemma – an old school pal of Imogen’s who was hugely pregnant and, thankfully, seemed happy to take a back seat – didn’t get a look in. I was the one who proudly held Sophie as the vicar wetted her head, and she made my day by not uttering a sound. The other twin’s godmother – Imogen’s horsy friend Annabelle – struggled with a howling Luisa when the water hit her forehead.
My dress went down a treat, and as Henry’s friends got stuck into the wine, they kept staring down my top and telling me that I was a ‘fine bit of totty’. As I was the only woman there who hadn’t given birth, the male attention was a welcome relief from the constant round of:
Wives: ‘So, how long have you been married?’
Me: ‘Nearly two years.’
Them: ‘Any children?’
Me: ‘No, none.’
They nod. I nod. We smile awkwardly.
Them: ‘Ah, well, no need to rush into it.’
Me: ‘No . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . no . . . no need to rush.’
Them – desperately looking to get away from me: ‘Oh, look, there’s Victoria and Charles, I must go over and say hello, do excuse me.’
Me – delighted to see the back of them: ‘Sure, no problem.’
But the best part of the day was when I pulled aside Thomas – who had kicked me again during the meal – while no one was looking, and told him that if he ever kicked me again, I’d rip Tinky Winky’s legs and arms off and feed his torso to a pack of hungry wolves. Thankfully his speech was still basic and all he could muster as he cried in his grandmother’s arms was ‘Emma, mean, Tinky Winky . . . arms . . . hungry,’ but a suspicious Mrs GoreGrimes kept a close eye on me for the rest of the afternoon.
18
A couple of weeks later Lucy, Jess and I went out for dinner. We had been seeing a bit more of Jess in the last few months as Sally was in nursery now two days a week and she was in much better form and less distracted. I had arranged the dinner to celebrate Lucy’s recent promotion and pay-rise. I wanted to make a fuss of her as she was always trotting out to congratulate everyone else on engagements, weddings and babies. It was time to focus on her for a change.
We met for drinks at seven. I ordered a bottle of Prosecco and we toasted Lucy’s new job. She was chuffed with the attention and we settled down to a good night of drinking and laughing – until I went to pour Jess a second glass and she stopped me, shaking her head. ‘Sorry, Emma. No more for me, I’m afraid.’ I looked at her. Her eyes welled up and she began to cry. ‘Yep, I’m pregnant again. I’m thrilled, really, just a bit emotional about it all,’ she said, unconvincingly.
I saw Lucy’s shoulders slump. Her night of fun and celebration was officially over, after fifteen minutes in the limelight. I felt really sorry for her. It wasn’t fair of Jess to come in and start weeping about being pregnant. She wanted kids, and she was clearly having no problem producing them so why the glum face? Besides, if she had suddenly decided after Sally that she didn’t want any more, why hadn’t she gone back on the pill?
‘Well, that’s great, Jess,’ I said. ‘You must be thrilled.
You always said you wanted a couple of kids.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m rea-real-really happy,’ she said, sobbing into her tissue.
Lucy and I looked at each other. Why was she so upset?
‘Jess, it’s perfectly obvious you’re not happy at all. What’s wrong?’ asked Lucy, cutting straight to the point.
‘I’m sorry, guys. I know I shouldn’t complain but I didn’t want this to happen.’
‘Well, then, why didn’t you prevent it?’ said Lucy bluntly.
‘Because I do want kids. I mean, everyone does. Right?’ Lucy shrugged, I nodded.
‘And I don’t want Sally to be an only child, so I suppose I was trying to get pregnant, but I don’t know if I’m cut out for motherhood. I don’t think I’m very good at it. I really don’t like it very much.’
I was shocked. Jess was always talking about Sally’s first smile and Sally’s first tooth. She was obsessed with the child. How could she think she wasn’t good at it?
‘But, Jess,’ I said, ‘you’re always telling me stories about how much you love Sally and how proud you are when she does stuff for the first time. You’re a brilliant mum. You’re so into her and enthusiastic about her, it’s lovely. You’re a natural.’
‘But that’s just it, Emma. I’m not. I say those things because I hear other mothers saying them. Don’t get me wrong – I love Sally to bits and I’m really proud of her, it’s just that I’ve had no life for a year and a half. Now she’s in nursery and I was just getting my life back but I’m pregnant again. I can’t bear it. I want to be myself again.’
‘But you are yourself. Life changes when you have kids, everyone says that. You’ve j
ust got different priorities,’ I said, trying to make her feel better. She looked like she was going to have a nervous breakdown and, to be honest, I only wanted to hear about the nice side of motherhood: I didn’t want to be put off.
‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Lucy. ‘You’ve got a great husband and a healthy child. Come on, Jess, get some perspective, you’re very lucky.’
‘I know I’m lucky,’ said Jess frowning, ‘but you have no idea how bloody hard it is. I’m sorry, Lucy, but until you –’
‘– go through it you can’t understand. Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. Just try being single at thirty-four and see how shit that feels,’ snapped Lucy. ‘I’ll take the nice husband and the kids and you can have my life for a while.’
I have to say, she had a point. Jess was being self-pitying and she had ruined Lucy’s night out.
Jess was angry now. ‘It must be difficult having a successful career, being respected and looked up to by your colleagues. Having a big fat salary with no one to spend it on but yourself. Buying designer clothes, going for facials at the drop of a hat. Travelling to New York on business and being chased round Dublin by a rugby star. Gee, Lucy, it must be really tough.’
Lucy looked flushed, and angry too. ‘So that’s how you see my life? Well, have you ever thought how your life seems to me? You sit around on your arse watching daytime TV or having lunches and coffees with other mothers. You spend time with a daughter you adore . . . you’ve got a great husband – there’s always someone to cuddle up to at night. You’ve got someone to talk to after you’ve had a shit day. When I get home after a crappy day, all I have to keep me company are the four walls of the apartment I worked my ass off to pay for. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and have panic attacks because I’m terrified of growing old alone, but that’s a reality I have to accept and deal with. I watch my friends move on with their lives while I stay stuck in my single rut. I often have to force myself to go out when I’m so tired and depressed I just want to curl into a ball and scream. Why? Because I know if I stay in, there’s no hope of meeting Mr Right. God! You smug married people make me sick.’
I was stunned. I had never heard Lucy talk so honestly about being single. Obviously I knew it got her down and that she was scared of ending up on her own, but I never grasped how awful that fear must be.
Jess shook her head. ‘Lucy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. It must be really difficult for you. All I’m trying to say is that it’s not always sunny on this side either. I think I’m just overwhelmed by how hard being a mother is. No one tells you that during childbirth you might get stitches so that you can’t sit down properly for weeks. The only respite you get is by cutting a hole in a cushion so that it’s like sitting on a doughnut. No one tells you that going to the loo will be like weeing nails. If you even think about not breast-feeding, you’re considered a freak of nature. The pressure is unbelievable, so you give in and walk around with cracked nipples and leaky boobs for months.’
Mother of God, this was desperate stuff. Every orifice seemed to have been a no-go area for Jess post-birth. I wondered if she had a low pain threshold or was it really that bad.
‘And as for the adoring husband,’ continued Jess, ‘he slopes off to the spare room every night because he has to work in the morning, leaving you with the baby to feed, and you don’t have a clue what you’re doing. You’re just winging it. When Sally wakes up in the middle of the night I sometimes want to shout at her to stop crying. The sleep deprivation is really what gets me down. The first time I bathed Sally, I was so tired I dropped her in the water and thought I’d drowned her. I didn’t stop shaking for days.’
I had to interrupt her. I really didn’t want to hear all this negativity. ‘But after a while you get used to it, don’t you?’ I asked, praying she would say yes.
‘Yes, you do get into a kind of a routine, but you’re exhausted all the time. I sat around for months in my pyjamas because there was no time to get dressed. By the time I’d fed, burped and dressed her, it was time for the next feed. When Tony got home, I was sitting on the couch with greasy hair in my pyjamas. I’d say hello, hand Sally to him, go straight to bed and pass out. We didn’t have sex for six months.’
‘Six months!’ I didn’t mean to make her feel worse but I couldn’t help it. This was awful – there was no way it could be as bad as she was making out. She obviously just didn’t cope very well with it. I’d be different. I had loads of energy. I’d bounce back quicker. Mind you, I spent a fair amount of time on the couch in my pyjamas as it was. I’d have to get out of that habit and back into a regular routine at the gym.
‘Yes, Emma, no sex for six months. During those months I was a fat, miserable, greasy-haired blob with a sore vagina, leaky boobs and the energy levels of a ninety-year-old.’
‘My longest stretch without sex was three months, so I do feel sorry for you there,’ said Lucy, thawing out.
‘But, Jess, once you got back into it, it was OK, wasn’t it?’ I asked, determined to extract a positive response.
‘Well, eventually. But it took a long time. After six months I decided to go into town to get some sexy underwear and some new clothes to make myself feel better. I still couldn’t fit into pre-pregnancy clothes and I needed to get out of the tracksuit I was living in. Between getting Sally ready, having a shower myself and packing all her nappies and baby wipes into the bag and all that stuff, it took two hours. We were just about to set off when she threw up all over herself, so I had to take her out of the car, change her and feed her again. Instead of leaving the house at ten as I had planned, we left at twelve. The traffic was so bad that it took an hour to get into town. Then we spent another hour stuck in a car-park queue. By the time I’d parked it was nearly two and I knew she’d be hollering for food again soon. So I just turned round and drove straight home. I didn’t even get to one shop. I cried all the way home, then just put on the same saggy tracksuit and had another sexless night. When I eventually made it into town, I blew a fortune on sexy lingerie and attacked Tony when he came in from work. I had to do something before his penis shrivelled up and fell off from lack of activity,’ said Jess, laughing.
‘Why didn’t you call me? I could have picked some stuff up for you, or babysat,’ I said.
‘I was ashamed and embarrassed. I didn’t want to admit what a disaster I was to anyone – not even myself. When my baby-group mothers came over for coffee they’d all crash on about how much sex they were having and how the orgasms were better now. So I lied as well and said
Tony and I were at it like rabbits.’
‘Well, it’s obviously better on the sex front now, as you’re pregnant again . . .’ I said, smiling at her.
‘That’s just it, everything’s better now,’ she said gloomily. ‘We’re just getting into a nice routine, we have regular babysitters, go out every weekend and have fun together, and now I’m bloody pregnant again and it’s all going to stop and before you know it I’ll be back sitting on that bloody doughnut.’
‘Why don’t you opt for a Caesarean? Lots of people do nowadays,’ said Lucy, always the practical one.
‘And don’t breastfeed, just go straight to bottles,’ I added helpfully.
‘To be honest, my vagina’s so stretched after giving birth to Sally that I reckon this one will just slide out,’ said Jess.
That was it. I’d heard quite enough. I decided to nip it in the bud and refocus the attention on Lucy – after all, it was the reason we’d met up, and it was a lot less gruesome. ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ I announced. ‘To Jess’s new baby and to Lucy’s new promotion – which she totally deserves because she lives in that office.’
19
A month later I was at the airport waiting for my brother’s plane to land. I was feeling pretty low. I’d got my period the day before. It had been three days late and I had gone through the oh-my-God-I’m-pregnant euphoria, only to be disappointed yet again. Christmas was normally m
y favourite time of year. I loved the buzz around town as people rushed about in the cold buying presents for loved ones, meeting for drinks and wishing each other well. It was the only time of year when strangers actually risked eye-contact and spoke to you – to wish you a merry Christmas.
I always collected Sean from the airport on Christmas Eve. It was our little ritual. We’d been doing it for years. I had always loved seeing all the Christmas decorations at the airport twinkling at me as I drove in. The arrivals lounge was like a carnival as people shouted and cried when their family and friends came through the sliding doors and ran to hug them.
By the time Sean came over to me, I was always tearful – having witnessed numerous emotional family reunions. He found it very entertaining and usually had a tissue on hand for me.
This year was different. I stood at the back of the arrivals hall, watched the travellers coming out and envied them. I watched as grandparents saw their grand-children for the first time. I wanted to go over to them and shout, ‘Do you know how lucky you are? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to produce grandchildren?’
A man dressed as Santa came over to me. ‘Ho ho ho, young lady, and a merry Christmas to you. Come on, give Santa a smile.’
I wanted to pull Santa’s beard off and punch him in the nose. Instead I opted for glaring at him, but he was not to be deterred: ‘Come on, I bet you have a beautiful smile. If you smile all your wishes may come true. Come on, Santa isn’t going to leave until he makes you smile. In fact he’s going to sing – come on, join in. ‘‘Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer . . .’’’
The airport was packed and the people standing beside me were staring. I grabbed his arm and whispered under my breath. ‘Look, Santa, you’re barking up the wrong tree here. Now, will you please just sod off and torment someone else?’
Poor old Santa nearly fell over with shock. I’m sure he’d never been spoken to like that before or since. I felt guilty for being so rude, but he was doing my head in and I really didn’t feel like singing ‘Rudolph the Shagging Reindeer’.
The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1) Page 13