But the woman on the QuikShop counter had said no such thing. ‘Good plan to wait till you have a decent job, love,’ she said shrewdly. ‘Fellas don’t tend to hang around. Better to have a job so when he legs it, you’ve got a few quid coming in.’
‘There is that,’ agreed Sam with a grin, thinking that Ted better not have any plan to leg it or she would nail his kneecaps to the floor. They’d waited so long for this miracle.
In front of the mirror now, Sam twisted a bit and combed her fingers through her dark hair – long, glossy, blow-dried straight in Speed Salon twice a week – and fixed by herself today. Day two of the salon-dried hair used to last perfectly.
But not now the baby was kicking like a soccer superstar and Sam tossed and turned in bed at night, so her dark hair went from a sleek long bob to Little Orphan Annie fright wig overnight. Now, every morning, she had to drag herself out of bed half an hour earlier to wash her hair and get the straightening irons out.
And she was so tired. Growing a human being was so much more tiring than she had imagined possible. How had the human race survived this long?
As for the breastfeeding lark ... she was terrified of it. Other mothers-to-be might decide easily to bottle-feed but Sam had the weight of years of trying for a baby behind her. Breast, as every advert reminded her, was best, and she was scared of messing that up too.
She asked her sister for an opinion:
‘I breastfed for six months with all three girls, but that was just me. There’s enough pressure on women to get everything right. Do what feels right to you,’ said Joanne firmly.
Sam couldn’t explain that the person pressurising her to get everything right was herself.
Their mother, who could certainly spell the word maternal – possibly in Ancient Greek as well – had never worried about such a thing. She’d gone back to work as soon as she possibly could.
Ted stirred in the bed and Sam looked up from the mirror.
In sleep, he looked even more handsome: a cross between a Southern-talkin’ Matthew McConaughey and that guy who did the aftershave ads for Dolce and had an eight-pack. Once, Sam would have been tempted to sinuously insert herself into bed with her husband and indulge in some hot, speedy sex.
Ha! Who was that woman and where had she gone?
Instead of any sex-related activities, she wriggled into insanely expensive black maternity leggings. Who knew that a roundy bit added on in the belly department could increase the price of leggings by 250 per cent?
She added wedge boots and a floaty charcoal shirt that swung around her body. Businesslike and pregnant: result. Her face was still slim, with its firm chin, almond-shaped dark eyes like her father’s, and a mouth that allowed her to wear power red lipsticks when she wore power business suits.
It was nearly seven. She was running late. Sam liked to be in the office by eight.
Ted moaned a little and rolled over, happily.
Sam grinned evilly and contemplated kicking him. It was his baby too. He was not getting fat, sweaty and up four times a night to pee. His hair didn’t look like he’d been electrocuted in the night.
Strange women in QuikShop who had never before spoken to him did not suddenly strike up conversations with him. Pregnancy had not turned him into a commercial property.
No, his friends thumped him triumphantly on the back as if Sam being pregnant was a sign of wild virility and a willy fit for a porn movie.
‘Dat’s my boy!’
‘Whadda man!’
Sam wished she’d gone in for baseball in school so she’d have a bat with which to whack them all over the head.
Sam looked at her reflection in the mirror. She could handle being a mother. Women had been doing it for years, after all. Shehadto stop worrying – that would be bad for the baby.
For most of her working life, Sam had worked in banking, where she got to use her master’s in economics. She’d worked in a major bank for the past ten years until finally, worn out by fertility treatment and office politics, she’d decided to restructure her life.
She did a part-time philanthropic course and, over a year, decided that she’d like to work in the charity sector.
Ted backed her totally, as did her father.
‘You’ve got to follow your heart, love,’ said Ted as they talked about it endlessly and what it might mean for them financially.
‘Yes, but what about the money? Following my heart won’t pay the mortgage, will it?’
He held her close and kissed her on her temple, which was somehow one of the most comforting gestures she’d ever felt. ‘We’ll manage. We can take in lodgers. I vote for good-looking young women from cold countries who can’t cope with Dublin’s wild heat and have to strip off as soon as they get home from work.’
