A Perfect Match (11 page)

‘Hit me. Go on, give me a belt, I deserve it. Let your anger out. Come on, thump me,’ said Donal, obliging her by bending down.

‘I’m not going to hit you. Just go away.’

‘Come on, hit me. It’ll make you feel better and it’ll make me feel better. Come on, go for it,’ he said, lifting her arm.

‘No.’

‘Go on, just do it, will you.’

‘OK then,’ said Lucy, swinging a punch that landed right in the middle of Donal’s nose.

‘Jesus Christ! I said hit me, not break my bloody nose,’ said Donal, staggering backwards.

‘You told me to punch you,’ said Lucy, feeling guilty as blood began to trickle down Donal’s chin.

‘Yes, because I thought you were a girl, not Mike feckin Tyson in drag. Jesus, I think you’ve broken it.’

‘Sorry, but you shouldn’t have wound me up. I’ll get some ice.’

‘Where the hell did you learn to swing a punch like that?’ asked Donal, following her into the kitchen.

‘They had these self-defence classes at work last year, so I went along,’ said Lucy, fumbling around in the freezer.

‘I pity the poor fecker that ever tries to attack you – he’ll end up in traction. Did you ever think about taking anger management classes? It might be safer for the rest of us.’

‘Shut up and hold this to your nose.’

‘I’ve missed you, Rocky,’ said Donal, grinning from under the packet of frozen peas, pressed to his nose.

‘Me too. It’s a pity you’re injured, you should see the underwear I’ve got on.’

‘I’m a quick healer,’ said Donal, chucking the peas to one side and throwing Lucy over his shoulder, as he charged into the bedroom.

When Lucy woke up later that afternoon, she saw Donal examining his nose in the mirror.

‘Is it bad?’ she asked.

‘The good news is that despite your best efforts, you didn’t break it. The bad news is that I’m going to look like this for a few days,’ he said, turning around to show her two black eyes.

‘Oh shit, Donal, I’m sorry,’ said Lucy.

‘You’re forgiven. One look at that underwear and I forgot all about my nose. Besides, I’m well used to being battered about on the rugby pitch.’

Lucy winced as she looked at his swollen eyes. ‘I have something for you that might make up for the punch. It’s a little something I picked up in New York. I think you’ll like it.’

‘More sexy underwear from the amazing Victoria Secret? That woman should be knighted for her services to the male species.’

‘No. Hang on,’ said Lucy, fishing about in her bag. ‘Here it is.’

She handed him a parcel.

He opened it. It was a framed picture of Pamela Anderson. It said, ‘
To Donal, good luck in the Cup this year, captain. Love Pamela x x
’.

Donal looked up, mouth open.

‘She was staying in my hotel, and I know what a fan you are, so I told her you were this superstar sportsman in Ireland and asked her to sign a picture for me. She was really nice about it,’ said Lucy, grinning at him.

Donal came over and kissed her.

‘This is the best present I’ve ever been given. Wait’ll I show the lads. So come on, tell me, how did she look?’

‘I have to admit – stunning.’

‘Lucy Hogan, you never cease to amaze me,’ said Donal, shaking his head. ‘Some guys come home to a girl in an apron, baking apple pies. I come home to Mike Tyson, wielding autographs
of Playboy
centrefolds. Where have you been all my life?’

Donal arrived to training the next day with two black eyes and his framed photo, which he hung proudly in the locker room. He explained the black eyes by claiming he had fallen over drunk and hit his head. He didn’t want anyone to know Lucy had thumped him – he’d never live it down.

When Lucy arrived home from work that evening, she couldn’t get through the front door because the chain was on.

‘Donal? It’s me. Why have you got the chain on?’ she shouted.

‘Just hold on one second, I’m coming now,’ said Donal, looking around to make sure everything was in order. He opened the door wearing an apron and covered in flour.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Cooking you dinner.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. It’s a welcome home dinner and an “I’m sorry I forgot to collect you” dinner.’

Lucy was chuffed. Donal had cooked the odd frozen pizza before and occasionally rusded up a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, but he had never cooked her a proper meal.

‘Sit down there and put your feet up while I fix you a drink. What’ll you have?’

‘Glass of wine would be lovely,’ Lucy said, as Donal disappeared into the kitchen. She looked around. The room was very tidy, there were fresh flowers in the vase on the table and Ella Fitzgerald was playing on the stereo. Donal hated her Ella Fitzgerald CD. My God, thought Lucy, he must be feeling very guilty.

Donal came out with a glass of wine and then scurried back into the kitchen. Lucy lay back and enjoyed the pampering.

‘Sit down and have a drink with me,’ she called to him.

‘Not yet, just putting the finishing touches on the dinner. You just relax and enjoy yourself.’

Forty minutes and three very large glasses of wine later, Lucy was feeling extremely merry. Donal finally came out of the kitchen minus the apron, carrying two plates laden with food.

‘Hey, you made cous cous … and lamb! My favourites,’ said Lucy.

‘Well, apart from apologizing, I also wanted to say thanks for the signed picture. You’ll be delighted to hear that Pamela is now the team’s official mascot. I got great kudos from the lads. She has pride of place in the locker room and will be coming to all the away games.’

‘As will I,’ said Lucy, slurring her words slightly. ‘I intend to go to all your matches. It’s much better now that I understand how important your position as chief jumper and ball catcher is.’

‘I’m delighted to see you’ve such a good grasp of what I do.’

‘So what did the guys say about your black eyes? Do they think I’m a total psycho?’

‘Well, I decided not to tell them that my girlfriend beats the living shite out of me – it wouldn’t look too good for either of us. So, I told them I fell coming in the other night, drunk, and hit my head off the table.’

‘My hero,’ said Lucy, beaming at him. ‘So when’s the next big game?’

‘Never mind about that. Eat up, I have your favourite dessert coming,’ said Donal, wolfing down his food.

‘Ooooh, lemon cheesecake.’

‘That’s not your favourite dessert.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘No it isn’t. Your favourite dessert is tiramisu.’

‘Donal, I think I know what my favourite dessert is and it’s lemon cheesecake. Always has been and always will be. I hate tiramisu.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never liked it, so you’ve obviously got me mixed up with someone else. Maybe your ex-girlfriend, the amazing chef Mary, liked tiramisu,’ said Lucy, waving her fork at Donal as she swayed in her chair.

‘Bollocks,’ said Donal, looking panic-stricken.

‘Look at your face. I’m right, aren’t I? It was Mary’s favourite shagging dessert. I can’t believe you don’t know that mine’s lemon cheesecake!’ Lucy stumbled to her feet. ‘I hate tirami-sodding-su. Where is it?’

She went into the kitchen and saw the offending dessert sitting innocently on a plate. She picked it up and shook it at Donal.

‘I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we put the nasty tiramisu in a box and send it to Mary. Or, we could invite the lovely Mary up to share it with us? Come on, let’s give her a buzz,’ she said, reaching over to grab the phone, but she lost her balance and the tiramisu ended up face down on the floor. ‘Oops, well it looks like Mary won’t be joining us for dessert after all.’

Donal bent down to scoop up the cake.

‘What are you doing? Trying to save it for her? Do you want to get back with her? Is that it? You want to dump me because I’m violent and get back with super-chef, apron-wearing Mary. Don’t you forget that I make an excellent tuna melt, not to mention my –’

‘Listen, Rocky, will you do me a favour and belt up for a minute so I can ask you something,’ he said, fishing a tiramisu-sodden ring from the middle of the mess on the floor.

Lucy stared at him. ‘Ask me what?’

‘Lucy Hogan, will you marry me?’

13

Before we began the preparation course we were sent a list of documentation to provide. Along with our wedding and birth certs, the Adoption Board needed to see: medical reports, consultant consent form (detailing the fertility treatments I had undergone), certificate of earnings, clearance from the police (to say we were normal), photographs and a post-placement consent form – which said it was OK to come to our home and do the home visits. I sprinted around like a lunatic getting these together and when it came to the photos, I insisted on having them done professionally. I occasionally worked with a fashion photographer called Matt Carney – he was the best in the business. As a favour, he came to the house to take our photos. James, of course, thought it was ridiculous and couldn’t understand why we didn’t just go to a photo booth and get a couple of passport photos done.

‘James,’ I said, ‘it’s very simple. Ugly photos of us equals ugly baby.’

‘Emma!’

‘Obviously I don’t care what the baby looks like – I’d take Quasimodo at this stage – but if we look our best then hopefully we’ll get the pick of the crop.’

I realize it sounded awful, but I wanted the best, healthiest, most bouncing baby they had in that orphanage and if it happened to be attractive too, that would be a bonus.

I woke up at five a.m. on 25 March. My heart was pounding with excitement and apprehension. This was our big day. We needed to make a good impression. I looked over to see if James was awake. He looked asleep, but maybe he was only pretending to be. I leant over.

‘James?’ I whispered. ‘James? Are you awake? James?’

Nothing.

I put my hand over his nose to stop his breathing and he woke up with a start.

‘What the hell?’

‘Oh, hi, you’re awake too. Great. I can’t sleep, I’m over-excited. Will we get up and have an early breakfast? Or go for a walk or something?’

‘Emma, it’s five o’clock and as you are well aware I was fast asleep before you tried to suffocate me. I am neither hungry nor in the mood for a pre-dawn stroll in zero degrees. Just lie back, close your eyes and keep your hands away from my face.’

‘Come on, James, you’re awake now. Let’s chat. Let’s talk about what we think today will be like. Do you think the other couples will be like us, or older or younger? What do you think I should wear? I was thinking my black trousers with the boots I got at Christmas, but they might be a bit high for the daytime. I want to look attractive, but not sexy or racy. Not too conservative either though – not like a granny. What do you think?’

‘I think we should have a fashion show. Why don’t you try on all the possibilities now and I’ll mark them out of ten.’

‘Really?’

‘No! Now will you please shut up. I’m exhausted and you don’t want me to fall asleep at the meeting, do you?’

‘Fine, I’ll leave you alone. But just one thing, do you think the boots are a bit too much?’

Silence.

‘James? Do you?’

Silence.

‘Just a yes or no.’

A pillow landed on my head.

Four hours later I was standing at the door shouting at James to hurry up. I had changed six times, cried when I ripped my tights, roared at James when I discovered the shirt I wanted to wear had a stain on it and made him put on a blazer and tie – which he only agreed to wear to shut me up. We were miles ahead of schedule. I was so wound up that I wanted to leave plenty of time for unforeseen circumstances – in case we got stuck in traffic or had a flat tyre or got car-jacked or something. We arrived for the meeting forty minutes early. James wandered off to get the paper, while I sat in the car, trying to breathe slowly in a futile attempt to calm down. I was like a tightly wound spring. I don’t think I have ever felt so nervous.

James arrived back, brandishing the
Daily Telegraph
and two coffees.

‘James?’

‘You look lovely, the boots are perfect, the shirt does match the trousers, we’re on time, they will like us, we won’t get thrown off the course, everything will be fine,’ he said, opening the paper.

‘Actually, what I was going to say is – thanks. Thanks for putting up with my psychosis this morning and sorry for being so tetchy.’

He put down the paper. ‘At five a.m. I contemplated divorcing you, at half eight, killing you, and just when I’d decided on my murder weapon you go and disarm me with an apology.’

‘How were you planning on killing me?’

‘Suffocation with a pillow.’

‘But think how boring life would be if you didn’t have me around to pinch your nose in the wee hours.’

‘Emma, (a) I’m English and (b) I’m a man. English men like a quiet life. We have five of these meetings to attend and, while I love your passion for life, I could do without being woken up for footwear analysis or shouted at because your shirt is dirty. If you ever wake me up at five again, it had better be for sex,’ said James, trying to suppress a grin.

‘Well, then, you better not suffocate me.’

As we walked into the room, we were joined by five other couples. Four of them looked very nervous, but one couple were striding about as if they owned the place. We smiled and nodded and sat down. Two social workers then came in and introduced themselves. Yvonne O’Connor and Dervla Egan. I liked Yvonne instantly. She had a sweet, kind face and looked as if she’d go out of her way to help you. Dervla, on the other hand, was a bit scary. She had that ‘I’ve seen it all – don’t even go there’ expression on her face. I prayed she wouldn’t be doing our home visits. She was the type who’d know instantly if you were lying or exaggerating. There’d be no room for slip-ups with Dervla. She’d nip you into next year if you stepped out of line or made a mistake. I couldn’t picture her at Yuri’s second birthday party, singing ‘for he’s a jolly good fellow’ with Mum and Dad. I decided to focus my attention on Yvonne. If I could get her to like me then maybe she’d ask to be our home visit social worker. It was worth a shot. I smiled at her as she introduced herself and welcomed us all.