I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and we went back in.
Two drinks later and I felt really drunk. I was totally light-headed and slurring my words like George Best on a bad day. After three small glasses of red wine it was a bit odd that I was so smashed.
The others thought it was funny and laughed about what a cheap date I was, but I knew it was the drugs because I never normally got drunk so quickly. James decided he’d better bring me home, so we were back in our house at ten o’clock. Him, very slightly merry. Me, very drunk.
I stumbled upstairs, got undressed, put on the new shirt I’d bought him and the high heels, and fished the Rampant Rabbit out of the wardrobe.
I went downstairs, jumped on top of James, who was lying on the couch and stuck the vibrating Rabbit ears up his nose. The look of shock on his face set me off and I fell off the couch laughing, the Rabbit still shaking in my hand.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘It’s the . . . ha-ha . . . it’s the . . . ha-ha . . . best-selling sex toy in the world. Look, it has different speeds,’ I said, howling as I increased the vibration.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘Babs ordered it on the Internet to spice up our sex life.’
‘Why does she think it needs spicing up?’ said James, looking a bit put out.
‘Dunno. ’Cos I’m not pregnant, I guess,’ I said, giggling at the jellyfish thing vibrating.
‘I see. All right, then, up you come,’ said James, lifting me over his shoulder like a fireman, legs buckling under the weight. ‘Bring the Rabbit – I’ve always quite fancied a threesome.’
26
I spent the next two weeks constantly poking my boobs, to see if they were tender, and feeling nauseous – although I didn’t know if that was because of the drugs, stress or the longed-for pregnancy.
As those weeks went by I felt different. I felt a change in my body. I was tired, my breasts were tender and I was convinced I had that funny metal taste in my mouth that pregnant women talk about – although it might have been my fillings. I had never been more sure of anything in my life: I was pregnant. So, when my period was late, I charged out to buy two pregnancy tests.
This time I waited until I was three days overdue and then I did the first test. I waited a few minutes and looked at it – negative. I wasn’t put out. I knew I was pregnant.
I did the second test – negative. It doesn’t matter, I told myself, this often happens. It’s probably too early for the tests. I called Mr Reynolds, told him I was overdue and wanted to check if I was pregnant. He told me to come in for blood and pregnancy tests.
I did. I wasn’t pregnant.
I locked myself in the toilet of the Harwood Clinic and cried myself sick. I had been so sure, so positive . . . and now nothing. Back to square one. I was devastated. I left the clinic, not caring about my blotchy face and red nose, and was about to get into the car when my mobile rang.
Thinking it was James, I answered it. I wanted him to tell me it was going to be all right.
It was Tony.
‘Hey, Emma, just calling to say Jess gave birth to a bouncing boy last night. Eight pounds three. We’re over the moon. I was secretly hoping for a boy, but you know the way you don’t want to say anything. Anyway, we’re going to call him Roy – after Roy Keane.’
I held the phone away from me, as I threw up beside the car.
‘Emma? Are you there?’
‘Sorry, Tony, I dropped the phone. Great news,’ I said, trying not to gag on the chunks of vomit still in my mouth.
‘Yeah, we’re thrilled. Jess said you can come and visit any time. She’s dying to show him off.’
‘OK, yeah, I’ll be in later.’
‘Great. I’d better go, I’ve a list of people to call. See you soon.’
I sat in the car and tried to suppress the wail I could feel just below my chest. I knew that if I let it out I wouldn’t be able to control it. I breathed deeply – in and out, in and out.
As I calmed down, my anguish was replaced with envy. Why did Jess have it so easy? How come she was able to pop out kids like a rabbit? Why did it all go so smoothly for her and Imogen and everyone else in the whole bloody world? Why? Why? Why? Why? I’d have to go to the hospital now and smile and coo and try not to cry when I saw her newborn baby.
Stop it! I shouted at myself. Think of people worse off. Think of women who have had five miscarriages or their baby has died when it was six months old or they were in a car crash and are paralysed.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. This is not the end of the world. Think of the starving people of Africa . . . I didn’t feel better, I felt worse. Now I was beating myself up for being self-pitying and dramatic – so on top of feeling miserable, I now felt guilty about it.
When I got home Lucy rang. ‘Hi, Tony just called.’
‘Yeah, it’s great news,’ I said, failing miserably to sound cheerful.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I had a moment of feeling sorry for myself but
I’m fine now,’ I lied. ‘I’m going to pop in later to see her.’
‘I was going to go after work, about seven. Do you want to meet me for a drink first? Bit of Dutch courage?’
‘Thanks, but after the last reaction I had to drink, I think I’d better stay off it. I’ll meet you in the reception area at seven.’
By the time seven o’clock came I had got my tardy period and was feeling even worse. I was going to call off the visit, but I felt that it would look like sour grapes. Jess knew I was trying to get pregnant. We had never discussed it, but she knew me well and my erratic behaviour wasn’t exactly subtle.
Besides, she had said it to Lucy, who had said it to me. So I knew she knew, and she knew I knew she knew, but nothing had been said. I preferred it that way. What was there to discuss? She was fertile, I wasn’t, end of story. I didn’t want her to feel bad about having a baby and she didn’t want me to feel bad about not being pregnant.
Lucy arrived at the hospital with a big pot of Clarins body-shaping cream, while I had brought a bunch of flowers.
‘Body-shaping cream?’ I asked.
‘It’s practical. She’ll want to get back into shape quickly after this baby, considering the last time it took them eight months to have sex. It’s supposed to be fabulous for reducing fat and puffiness in the waist and hips.’
‘Good thinking. Tony will be pleased anyway,’ I said, smiling.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked, squeezing my hand.
‘Yeah, let’s go.’
As we walked through the maternity ward I began to understand why desperate women snatched babies. All around me tiny newborns were swaddled in blankets. Some were being held by their mothers, some were being fed, others just lay quietly in their cots, ready and waiting to be swiped as their exhausted mothers slept beside them.
It would be so easy to stroll over, pretend I was a friend or relation and walk out the door with a baby of my own. I could tell James that it had been left on our doorstep in a basket with a note saying, ‘Please love me.’ I would persuade him to move back to England – away from the Irish police – and we would live happily ever after in a pretty cottage by the sea in Cornwall.
‘Emma,’ said Lucy, tapping my shoulder, ‘it’s this way.’
I followed her into a room with two beds. In the far corner Jess was looking tired but happy. She was breastfeeding her little bundle of joy, staring down at him with her face full of unconditional love. I felt my stomach twist. I took a deep breath and plastered on a smile.
‘Hey, there. Congratulations. Oh, look, isn’t he gorgeous? How are you feeling?’
‘Fine. Thanks for coming in. The flowers are beautiful.’
‘I think Lucy’s cream will probably come in more handy,’ I said, as Lucy handed it to her.
‘Thanks, Lucy, I’ll need this badly.’
‘Well, it’s for Ton
y too,’ said Lucy, winking at Jess as Tony walked in carrying fresh Babygros for his son.
‘What’s for me?’
‘Nothing,’ we all said, laughing.
‘Women!’ said Tony, shrugging. ‘James not with you?’ he asked me.
‘No, he’s training tonight.’
‘Pity. I’d murder a pint.’
‘Who said pint?’ said Mr Curran, Jess’s father, as he arrived in with her mother. ‘Jeepers, Jessica, do you have to do that in front of me?’ he said, putting his hand over his eyes when he saw his daughter breastfeeding.
‘What’s she supposed to do, Dessie?’ asked Mrs Curran. ‘Starve the child so you feel more comfortable? Honestly . . .’
‘Right, Tony, about that pint,’ said Mr Curran.
‘Thanks a lot, Dad, you’ve only just arrived. Would you like to see your grandson before you bolt out the door?’ said Jess.
‘I can see him from here. Sure he’s a grand little fellow. We’ll be back in an hour when you’ve finished all that and I’ll have a squeeze of him then.’
With that, Mr Curran legged it out of the ward before anyone could stop him, Tony hot on his heels.
‘Men!’ said Mrs Curran, raising her eyes to heaven. ‘Well, Jessica, he’s a little dote, so he is. How are you feeling, pet?’
‘Not too bad, Mum,’ said Jess, smiling at her mother.
‘It was easier this time.’ Mrs Curran nodded knowingly.
I had always loved Mrs Curran. When we were growing up she was the mother who was always at home in the kitchen baking bread or cakes. I used to like going back to Jess’s house after school because we’d always have hot scones fresh from the Aga or homemade brown bread. It was heaven.
Because Babs was so much younger than me, Mum was always busy looking after her and didn’t have time to bake. But Jess was the youngest in her family and Mrs Curran was married to that Aga. It was a big red one and you had to shovel the coal into the little door on the left-hand side. You could see the fire burning away when you opened it. Mrs Curran said that the Aga was the only way to cook real food. She thought microwaves were the curse of our generation.
‘Emma, it’s been ages since I saw you. You look wonderful. How’s life treating you?’
‘Well, thanks, Mrs Curran.’
‘I hear you married a lovely Englishman. Isn’t that great?’
‘Yeah. I don’t know how James puts up with me sometimes.’
‘I’m sure he’s delighted with you. Any kids of your own?’
‘No, not yet . . . you know . . . just sort of . . .’
‘Mum!’ snapped Jess. ‘Don’t annoy Emma with stupid
questions.’
It was a conversation stopper if ever there was one. We all looked at the floor.
‘I think I’ll go and get us some coffee,’ said Mrs Curran, breaking the silence. ‘Emma, will you give me a hand?’
We left the room and, when we were out of earshot, Mrs Curran said, ‘I’m sorry, Emma, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I can tell I hit a nerve. It’s not easy, is it? It’s not always as straightforward as we hope. It took me a long time to have Jessica’s brother. I had three miscarriages before I had him and I remember how hard it was to be around babies.’
I nodded. I was afraid to speak. I could feel a lump forming in my throat. It would have been better if she had been horrible and insensitive. Being nice to me was dangerous territory.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, pet. I know how hard it can be. But don’t worry, it will happen for you. It will.’
I had begun to cry. I knew that I had to get out of there before I really broke down. I managed to blurt out, ‘Have to go,’ and ran down the corridor, bumping into ecstatic fathers and mothers as I went.
I couldn’t breathe. I felt as if I was drowning. I made it to the car and tore out of the car park down the road. I was crying so much I couldn’t see a thing. I just needed to get home before I completely fell apart. I needed the safety of my house. I jammed my foot down on the accelerator. Faster, I had to go faster.
It was only when the police car drove up beside me, siren blaring, and almost ran me off the road that I realized it was me it was after. A very angry policeman stormed over to my car and thumped on the window. I rolled it down.
‘In a hurry, are we, madam? Step out of the car, please. Have you been drinking?’
I climbed out of the car and shook my head. ‘No. I was visiting a friend in hospital.’ The shock of being arrested had dried up my tears.
‘Breathe in here, please,’ he said, pointing to a little tube attached to a bag.
The result was negative, but the policeman was still furious.
‘I’ve been chasing you down for the last two miles. Did you think you were going to get away from me by driving faster? Do you know you were going at ninety miles an hour in a fifty-mile speed limit? Think you can make up your own rules, do you? I’m going to charge you with reckless driving.’
‘But I didn’t mean to . . . I just—’
‘There’s no excuse for driving like a maniac and endangering people’s lives.’
I couldn’t control it. It had been coming all day. A wail of anguish escaped from my throat. I sat down on the side of the road and sobbed uncontrollably. The policeman was taken aback. He clearly hadn’t dealt with a hysterical woman before.
‘You don’t understand . . . This has been the worst day of my life . . . seventeen months and nothing . . . no baby. . . and I went to see my friend and her new baby . . . and it was just so hard . . . so many mothers and babies . . . all so happy . . . the love in their eyes . . . so I had to leave . . . and I was crying and driving . . . I couldn’t see ’cos of the crying . . . I have nothing . . . no baby . . . just horrible tests and drugs that make me go mad . . . and my husband hates me . . . well, he doesn’t hate me but I’m driving him mad . . . I’m driving myself mad . . . it’s just so hard . . . Why is it so hard to have a baby?’
The policeman’s face softened. He sat down beside me and patted my shoulder. ‘There, there, now. My wife went through the same thing. Three years of tests only to be told at the end of it that she couldn’t have kids. So we adopted a little girl from Russia four years ago. A gorgeous little thing, she is. My wife went through hell. I know how hard it can be.’
‘Really? You adopted?’
‘We were told we’d never have children naturally, so it was the only option for us. I’m sure you’ll have some of your own. You’re a lot younger than my wife was.’
‘I don’t feel young, I feel about a zillion years old,’ I said, sighing.
‘You’re only a slip of a thing with your whole life ahead of you. It’ll work itself out, these things always do. Come on now, we can’t sit here all night, I’ve criminals to catch,’ he said, standing up.
I stood up too. ‘Are you going to arrest me? Am I going to have to go to prison and become a lesbian so I don’t get killed?’
He laughed. ‘No, you aren’t going to prison. I’m letting you off with a warning. Come on, I’ll escort you home.’
‘Will you put on your siren? I’ve always wanted to have a police escort.’
When James heard the siren he came rushing out of the house thinking I’d been in an accident.
Policeman Kieran Mooney escorted me to the front door and told James he had a wonderful wife and he was to look after me because I had had a very stressful day. Then he warned me never to drive when I was upset. Cry first, drive later.
27
A few weeks later I was sitting in the kitchen reading a book that taught you ways to remain calm. James had bought it for me after the police-escort incident. I was reading a page a day and some days I have to say it annoyed me more than calmed me down.
The day before, I had read a piece on slowing down. The book recommended speaking at a more relaxed pace and slowing down your breathing to become instantly calmer. I had tried it on James when he came home, but he said I sounded like a stroke victim and it was
far more scary than calm.
On this particular day the book was telling me how to relax my facial tension. I was following the instructions: ‘Slightly raise the eyebrows –this relaxes the brow muscles. Place your tongue against the roof of your mouth – this relaxes the jaw muscles, and then smile to relax the cheek muscles.’
As I sat there grinning like a Cheshire cat with my tongue stuck up in the air, the doorbell rang. It was Babs sitting on an enormous pink suitcase, looking decidedly grumpy.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Mum and Dad have thrown me out of the house with only the shirt on my back.’
‘Big shirt,’ I said, nodding at the suitcase.
‘A few personal effects, that’s all. You can’t begin a new life without clothes or a hair-straightener. I didn’t bother bringing makeup ’cos I figured you’d be able to give me loads.’
‘Are you planning on staying for a while?’
‘Only until I can get enough money together to buy my own place. By the way, can you lend me a tenner to pay for the taxi?’
I sighed and gave her the money. She came back beaming. ‘So, what’ll we have for dinner? I fancy Indian.’
‘What did you do?’ I asked, intrigued to know how far she had gone. It must be pretty bad if they had kicked her out.
‘Nothing.’
‘Liar.’
‘OK, well, it’s all your stupid fault, anyway.’
‘What?’
Babs told me that Mum had decided to try to help me with my fertility issues so she had been looking up the Encyclopaedia Britannica for information on fertility drugs. Mum had refused to embrace technology.
‘But sure those books she has date back to the dinosaurs, so she couldn’t find anything helpful. Then she starts asking me about the Internet and how it works and how you get information and all that. I tried to explain it to her, but it was impossible . . .’
Every time Babs showed Mum how to do something she was shouted at for going too quickly and not respecting her elders. Mum kept reminding her that when she was teaching Babs to read, she had spent hours sitting patiently with her as she struggled with each letter, and now her ungrateful pup of a daughter didn’t have the decency to give her mother a few computer lessons. She accused Babs of deliberately using technical terminology to throw her off-guard.
The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1) Page 19