Authors: Marisa Mackle
Afterwards, some of the more mature journalists
headed back to the hotel and the rest of us party animals made our way to an open-air bar with music. Once we had settled at a table and ordered our drinks, Clive took me by the hand and led me onto the open-air dance floor. He wrapped his arms around me and our bodies swayed to the music. I could smell his strong aftershave as I nuzzled my cheek against his chest. His fingers played with my hair as I clung to him. I never wanted to let him go. We slipped off without telling the others where we were going and made our way back barefoot to the hotel beach. Clive and I sat at the water’s edge, not caring whether we got wet from the gentle waves lapping at our
feet
. We kissed each other hungrily and passionately. I don’t think I ever wanted anyone that badly in my whole life. We kissed and we talked and we laughed until sunrise and then we went back to Clive’s hotel room where we made wild, abandoned love with the window open,
listening
to the sound of waves lapping against the seashore.
Our affair lasted for the rest of the week, and
continued after we landed in Dublin. For the next eight months I spent practically every free moment of the day and night with Clive in his bachelor pad in Grand Canal Dock with its magnificent views of the water and the
city-centre
skyline. He cooked for me and rented my favourite DVDs and played my favourite tunes on his iPod. I loved everything about him from his mind to his body. I knew he had the slightly ruthless streak that most newspaper reporters seem to need to survive in the cutthroat world of hacks, but I never thought that ruthlessness would one day be directed at me. He told me he that he loved me over and over and over again. And like a fool, besotted, and in love, I believed him. Eventually (and not before time, I thought) we started to look at houses in order to move in together.
Life with Clive was exciting. We dined in some of the
city’s best restaurants and took impromptu trips to London and Paris. As Clive was very well-connected in the media, we often got complimentary stays in some of the country’s top hotel suites, always with a couple of bottles of champagne thrown in. The managers would always greet Clive by name, seeming to know him well. It was as though he had stayed before, with some other
lucky
lady. I often wondered about Clive’s exes and what had become of them but he never spoke about his past. He didn’t seem to care about any of his exes once they were history. It was that ruthless streak he had about him.
But my heady days of carefree partying and shopping
came to a sudden halt when I discovered the following May that I was late and a single thin blue line confirmed that yes, I was pregnant. Once I found out, and the shock had sunk in a tiny bit, I phoned Clive. I had a feeling he wouldn’t be overjoyed with the news but I was completely flabbergasted by his ice-cold reaction.
“Can you not sort this out?” he said, leaving me in no
uncertainty about how he felt. He didn’t exactly break it off with me there and then but he made it clear that I couldn’t stay with him during my pregnancy. I hoped and prayed that I would be able to win him over, and that he would eventually warm to the idea of us being a little family. He said he needed a bit of space as well as time to get his head around the new situation so I moved all my stuff from my room in Sally’s apartment into my Mum’s house the following week and Sally got a new flatmate up from the country who was super-excited about the dizzy new life she was
going
to embark on in the city, and I started to prepare for the momentous change that was about to take place for me. I thought it would be less stressful living with Mum because I wouldn’t have to be worrying about rent and all that. Also, I didn’t want to be in the city walking around heavily pregnant in case I fell, or somebody bumped into me when they weren’t looking where they were going. Anyway, I didn’t want to be a burden on Sally. Sally was young, free, single and still searching. It might be weird for her to be living with a pregnant flatmate who had to be up flushing the loo every two hours, day and night. And myself and my big bump lying on the couch every night certainly wouldn’t have helped
her
to meet a guy. Imagine if she’d brought someone back and I was sitting there with my slippers and massive hippo-bump sipping cocoa! Sally was lovely, but young and terribly image-conscious. Of course she pretended that she would miss me like hell and that I should think twice about moving out, but I could tell she was secretly relieved when I announced I was going. I think she was actually delighted to have a new flatmate to show the bright lights of Dublin city to. Ah yes, Sally had turned out to be quite the fair-weather friend. Becoming pregnant was one hell of an eye-opener.
So I moved in with Mum to try and save money as I
wasn’t getting maternity pay. Unfortunately my job is only on a contract basis so I don’t have the luxury of paid time off. I have to say living with my mother wasn’t really relaxing at all. Of course she did dutifully make sure I ate well and got enough rest, which was nice, but every now and again when she didn’t have her happy face on, she’d say something nasty like, “It’s just as well
your
dad isn’t still alive to see all this”.
What she really meant was that Dad wouldn’t
approve of me having an illegitimate child. She only used that word only once
.
Illegitimat
e
. It’s a frightful word that should be totally barred from the English language. I don’t think anyone even uses that word anymore. In fact, apart from my mother I’ve never heard anyone say it. But mothers can be desperately cruel sometimes. Mum has an unfortunate temper and threw the ‘illegitimate’ word at me in a fit of rage. She was ranting on about something or other when I was about six months pregnant, and just as I thought I could take no more and began to walk away, she yelled at me, saying that myself and my illegitimate child would find it hard to be accepted by certain members of high society now, and that I should be nice to her.
“Why should I be nice to you?” I asked, aghast.
Because, she told me, when all my friends disappeared as they inevitably would when the baby came along, she would be the only person in the world to stand by me. I remember walking out of her house in a daze with my hand on my bump and my head held high, vowing never to darken the woman’s doorstep again. I mean, what era did she think she was living in? Did she honestly think people were that narrow-minded in this day and age? Sure even a priest wouldn’t have spoken to me like that. In fact I had always been quite friendly with the parish priest when I lived with Mum. Father Francis was a good old soul and had worked in Africa as a missionary for many years. I kind of felt sorry for him when all the abuse stories came out about the priests in the Catholic Church. Father Francis wouldn’t harm a fly. Even when I told him what my mother had said to me, he said not to take any notice of her and that I was to rise above her and forgive her.
But I wasn’t ready for forgiveness yet and I moved
myself, my bump and all our stuff into a two-bed ground floor apartment in Bray which I found through an ad in th
e
Evening Heral
d
. So myself and Baby John are now living in that apartment in Bray, Co Wicklow, which is just outside of Dublin and near the sea. It sounds like it’s a very nice place to live, especially in the summer, but it isn’t as glamorous as you might think. I suppose it’s okay but to describe it as any way exciting or upmarket would be terribly misleading. I mean, it’s hardly Monte Carlo – no yachts or fancy cocktail bars or anything like that. Having said that, it’s a very popular spot with un-sporty types who like to wear tracksuits (vest top underneath: optional). The area tends to get very crowded on hot sunny days (not that we have them here in abundance, I might add!) because half of Dublin takes the train to Bray and they spend all day on the beach and then go home leaving their rubbish, including empty beer cans and soiled nappies behind them. So even though it’s cold and rainy in the winter, at least all the blow-ins are gone and it’s nice and quiet in Bray. I prefer it like that.
Our home is in a small modern-
ish, safe complex, not too far from the sea or the main street of Bray. The main bedroom is big enough for a double bed and a cot, and the spare room is just a little bigger than a box-room. It doesn’t have as much storage space as I would like because John’s stuff takes up so much room but it has a bath which I love. You can take away all my comforts but I would be lost without my daily bath. I just love to lock the door, fill the tub with bubbles and relax with a book, some candles and a nice glass of wine. When I put John down every night it is the one thing I look forward to. Baths are the cheapest form of relaxation in my opinion and I make sure every night is spa night. Complete with bath oil and nice-smelling body lotion for afterwards. Showers, although quick and easy, are not the same at all. I could never live in a place without a bath. Mind you, when I was pregnant, baths weren’t as much fun at all. The bath water was never enough to cover my bump and although I’d be nice and warm underneath the water, my poor bump would feel the cold! And of course when John was smaller it was no fun at all to lie there constantly on edge, an ear cocked to hear him cry, and then have to leap out causing a tidal wave to swamp the bathroom. Now that I live alone with my baby I feel kind of isolated. He is six months old and I am back working part-time but I work from home. So I am in contact with my colleagues by phone and email and so on, but I don’t actually meet them in the flesh. Then, apart from some ladies in a local book club that I joined while I was expecting John, I don’t really know anybody locally and the neighbours in my complex keep very much to
themselves
. I don’t know many other single mums to hang out with.
Single mu
m
. Those two words are two words that I don’t like. It’s like a stigma. Those two words give an unwanted image of a greasy-haired woman with a fag hanging out of her mouth and a baby hanging out of her arms, somebody that wears her pyjamas to the post office. Or is that just me being ridiculous? In the children’s story books nobody grows up to become a single mother.
Everyone finds the perfect partner, gets married and lives
happily ever after. The frog turns into a prince, Sleeping Beauty wakes up, and the Ugly Sisters get their marching orders. Real-life isn’t like that, however. Apart from Kate Middleton, the rest of us must come to terms with the fact that we’re never going to marry a prince. Or, in some cases, even get married.
CHAPTER THREE
Nobody teaches you how to become a mum. And
what’s more, nobody teaches you how to cope as a single mummy. The baby doesn’t come with a rule book! As a single mummy you constantly worry. Am I doing right? Or am I totally useless? Can somebody please help me get some sleep! You are also bombarded with advice (most of it unwanted!) by well-meaning friends and family. Friends offer to help out but then find every excuse not to.
It’s lonely, but it’s also fun. It’s exhausting but so rewarding.
The only person who has been consistently nice throughout all of this is Father Francis. He has a heart of gold. I bumped into him the other day and he offered to christen John whenever I felt the time was right. I felt so grateful I almost cried. He is so kind. Now that I live in Bray, I don’t go to Mass any more. I suppose I should really, but it’s a lot of hassle getting the baby up and washed and dressed, and myself up washed and dressed too. I can’t bear the thought of us sitting in a draughty church for almost an hour with people coughing and sneezing all around us. I do say my prayers though and I bless myself every time I pass a church, an ambulance or
a
hearse so I’m not anti-religious at all. I’m just kind of taking a break at the moment.
At the moment I am so broke it isn’t even funny. It’s so
true what they say about single mummies having no money. Babies cost so much. It’s mad because they’re so small and don’t smoke or drink, drive fancy cars or want to go on holidays and wear designer clothes, so you’d wonder how on earth they whittle away all the money, but they do. The
frigging
nappies are the worst. Like I said, they cost an absolute arm and a leg. Even the own-brand ones don’t come cheap. At this stage I’m considering towelling
nappies
. No, I’m joking. How did they do it in the old days? How did they spend half their lives hand-washing nappies and still get their husbands to fancy them? It must
have
been a nightmare . . . all that scrubbing . .
.
e
w
!