A Perfect Match (17 page)

‘Ouch. No need to be so aggressive. Most guys would be delighted if their wives came home and begged them for sex.’

‘Darling, if Jennifer Lopez was standing naked in front of me right now, I’d say no. I’m too tense about the game. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my sausage roll, or rather my hot dog and I, are going to try and get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.’

*

I woke up the next day feeling very groggy. James was striding about the room muttering to himself. He looked very tired and very nervous. I kissed him and wished him luck. ‘Don’t worry, James, whatever happens I’m really proud of you. Go Leinster.’

He didn’t even smile. The man was a wreck.

Biarritz came out guns blazing. By half time they were up ten points.

‘Shit,’ said Lucy. ‘How bad is ten points?’

‘Not good,’ said the die-hard Leinster supporter beside us. ‘Not good at all. That coach had better come up with some new tactics. They’re killing us up front and we’ve the bigger pack.’

‘Pack of what?’

‘The pack is number one to eight. When they all huddle together they’re called the pack,’ I explained.

‘So would you say Donal Brady’s having a good game?’ Lucy asked our new friend.

‘Brutal. That’s three line-outs in a row he’s lost. He’s too old.’

‘He is not too old, and he’s doing his best, don’t knock him. I’m sure he’ll jump higher after the interval,’ said Lucy.

‘And I can assure you that the coach has plenty of other tactics to choose from, our house is a treasure trove of tactical options,’ I said defensively.

‘Birds,’ snorted the die-hard fan.

Thankfully, James did come up with some new plays – namely not to let the other team have the ball at all. And Donal did jump higher in the second half – a lot higher and he scored the winning try with a great break from the line-out.

‘Did you see that? Did you see him?’ shouted Lucy. ‘Too old, my arse.’

19

As James had so eagerly volunteered himself to cook a Russian meal, I decided to let him do the work. My contribution was a bottle of Russian vodka from the local off-licence. I busied myself with researching our family trees. We each had to do a detailed family tree, noting who died of what, when and where. I was a bit hazy about the exact causes of my grandparents’ deaths, so I called Mum.

‘Hi.’

‘Hello, love, how are you?’

‘Fine, thanks. I need to ask you a few questions for the course.’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘No, I do not regret smacking you on the bottom when you were bold. I think children today would be a lot better behaved if they got a few smacks on the backsides. All this mumbo jumbo about reasoning with them is poppycock. If a child is roaring in the middle of a supermarket because you won’t buy it jellies that’ll rot its teeth, you’re hardly going to start up a debate. A quick smack will sort it out for you. I’m sure the social workers say it’s the wrong thing to do, but I stand by it. Besides, it never did you any harm.’

‘Right, OK. Well, thanks for that, but actually I need to ask vou about the family medical history.’

‘Oh.’

‘What did Granny and Grandad die of?’

‘My poor mother – God rest her soul – died of kidney failure and my father died of a heart attack.’

‘What about Dad’s parents?’

‘His mother died of Alzheimer’s and his father died of lung cancer.’

‘OK, thanks,’ I said, scribbling down the details.

‘How’s it all going anyway?’

‘All right, it’s tough going. They seem to be intent on freaking us out by showing us videos of horrible orphanages and children who’ve been adopted and have had really big problems coming to terms with it.’

‘Those bloody social workers are a scourge on society. Interfering in decent people’s lives and claiming that everyone’s a child molester …’

My mother had no time for social workers. She had a friend who had a friend whose sister’s cousin had been accused of abusing her daughter because she had gone to school with bruises on her legs. The parents had been investigated and put through hell until it was established that the daughter had got the bruises while playing hockey. Ever since then, Mum had been and all social workers. It was a good thing your family couldn’t be your adoption referees, there was no way I’d want Mum let loose on them.

‘– it’s just plain ridiculous. Any child would be blessed to end up in a nice home with two good parents.’

‘Do you think I’ll be a good mother?’ I asked, fishing for compliments.

‘I think you’re going to get a shock,’ said Mum.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Having children isn’t easy. It’s a full-time job. You won’t have any time for yourself. Your life as you know it will be turned upside down.’

‘God, I’m so sick of people saying that. All I keep hearing is how when you have children your life changes so much and it’s so hard and you never get time alone, blah blah blah. I’m ready for change. I’m so ready it’s a joke. Not having kids is bloody hard work too. My life as I knew it hasn’t been the same since I started trying to have children. I’ve been in limbo hell for nearly three years. Believe me, I am ready for the next stage. It’s so patronizing to be told how hard it is all the time. I don’t go around telling people what a nightmare it is to be infertile,’ I fumed.

‘Lord, I hope you haven’t been ranting like that in front of the social workers. They’ll be sending you to anger management classes instead of adoption ones. You need to calm down. It’s not good for you to be so stressed.’

‘I know, it just gets up my nose sometimes,’ I grumbled.

‘How’s James after his big win?’ asked Mum, changing the subject.

‘He was thrilled for about a day and now he’s totally uptight about the semi-final against Ulster. It’s like living with someone with an obsessive disorder. I can’t have a proper conversation with him, because he can’t concentrate on anything for more than five minutes. He keeps jumping up and making notes or drawing diagrams of new moves.’

‘Well, I hope you’re being supportive. His career is very important to him. Are you cooking him nice meals when he comes in and listening to him? You need to mind your man, Emma. There are plenty of young blondes out there only dying to run off with him.’

‘Fantastic. Thanks, Mum. I knew I could count on you to make me feel better. On the one hand you tell me that I need to relax and then in the same breath you tell me that my husband’s going to leave me – in the middle of the adoption process – for a young blonde. Well, I better go and get the cookery books out so I can make James something really special tonight to try and keep him from leaving me.’

When James came home that night, I greeted him at the front door wielding a saucepan in one hand and Jamie Oliver’s cook book in the other.

‘If you want to run off with a young one then just sod off and go. I haven’t time to be cooking you feasts, I have to learn Russian, finish my family tree, fill out my workbook, hold down my job …’

James came over and gently removed the saucepan and cook book. ‘I take it you’ve been on to your mother?’

‘Yes, and she told me that I’m far too stressed out and that I should be nicer to you so you won’t run off with a young blonde.’

‘Did she have any particular blonde in mind?’

‘She wasn’t specific.’

‘Pity, now I’ll have to eye them all up.’

‘Not funny.’

‘Doesn’t your mother know I’m a sucker for redheads?’

‘It doesn’t appear to have registered. Sit down, I need to know what your grandparents died of.’

‘From affairs to death – never a dull moment. As far as I know, my mother’s mother died of breast cancer and her father died of a stroke. My father’s mother was run down by a car and died of internal injuries and my grandfather died three months later of a broken heart.’

‘Oh, that’s so sad. D’you think if I died you’d die of a broken heart?’

‘Not if I had a young blonde to cheer me up.’

On the eve of our final adoption group session, I called James to remind him that he had promised to cook for everyone. I even offered to go and get the ingredients on my way home from work, but he assured me that it was all under control. When I got home he was glued to the TV, analysing Ulster’s previous win with Donal.

‘Howrya,’ said Donal, waving at me from the couch.

‘Hi, Donal. How’s things?’

‘Good. You?’

‘Fine, thanks. By the way, did you get the referee form from the adoption people yet?’

‘Sure, I filled that out ages ago. Did I not tell you?’

‘What?’

‘The form – I sent it back to the adoption people a few weeks back.’

‘But you didn’t show it to me. I specifically asked you to show it to me before you sent it back,’ I said, panic rising in my throat.

‘I know, but it said on the form that I wasn’t to show it to you because you might influence my comments. So I jotted down a few things and stuck it in the post.’

‘Did Lucy see it?’

‘No.’

I tried to remain calm. ‘What did you say?’

‘Ah, I just said that you were a good pair and that although you fought a fair bit, you always seemed to make up, and that you liked to go out and have a few drinks, but you weren’t alcoholics. I said you hated your nephew, but I was sure you liked children in general – although I’d never actually seen you interacting with any …’

Just as I was about to lie down on the floor and wail, I heard a snort from James.

‘You bastard,’ I said, hitting Donal as he roared laughing. ‘I do not need to be wound up. I nearly had a heart attack.’

‘Don’t worry, Emma. I have the form, but I won’t fill it out until you tell me exactly what you want me to say. You can come over and dictate the answers to me.’

‘I need a drink. Beer?’ I asked.

‘I’ll have one, but Donal won’t.’

‘How come?’ I asked.

‘No alcohol allowed until after the game,’ said James, in his serious coach voice.

‘He’s a slave driver,’ groaned Donal. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea, please. Normal tea though, not that green muck you have Lucy drinking.’

‘By the way, James, what are you cooking for tomorrow?’ I asked.

‘It’s a surprise.’

Later that evening, after Donal had gone, I found James in the kitchen making sandwiches – lots of them.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Lunch for tomorrow,’ he said, grinning at me.

‘You can’t make sandwiches,’ I said, horrified. ‘You promised you’d bring Russian food. James, we have to make a good impression.’

‘This is Russian food,’ he said, waving a page at me. ‘I looked up the Internet to find a recipe and I came across this one.’

I looked at the page. It was from the
www.ruscuisine.com
website. The recipe was called: Sandwich with Red Caviar. The ingredients consisted of – bread, butter, red caviar and greens. The instructions noted that the bread should be finely sliced with the crusts removed. It should then be buttered and the red caviar placed on top and decorated with greens.

‘You chancer!’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I thought you were going to do something proper like chicken Kiev. I hope the others aren’t hungry. These wouldn’t fill a mouse.’

‘Russian food is Russian food, whether it’s to Dervla’s taste or not is not my concern.’

We arrived to the last session with our bottle of vodka and our small plate of posh sandwiches. Brendan and Joy arrived wheeling a heated hostess trolley. The smells wafting from it made our mouths water. Why oh why were they not adopting from Vietnam or China or somewhere else? They were showing us up. Brendan and Joy sat beside their moveable oven, smiling smugly as the rest of us put our plates on the table. When Yvonne walked in, she asked what the lovely smell was. Brendan was up like a shot.

‘As you are, I’m sure, aware – beef Stroganoff originates from Russia. The name of this dish comes from the Russian Count Grigory Stroganove. Born in 1770, he died in 1857…’

And more’s the pity you didn’t croak with him, I thought as Brendan waffled on.

‘The Count was one of the richest noblemen in Russia and enjoyed gourmet food. He hired the best chefs available and one of these invented an original dish that the Count loved. The dish was christened Stroganoff – atter the Count, not the cook.’

While Brendan droned on, Joy served us plates or steaming hot – and I have to admit – delicious beef Stroganoff. But the lecture wasn’t over. The class swot had brought wine. I hid my bottle of Stoli vodka under my chair.

‘I’d like you all to taste this wonderful wine from Georgia – “Old Tbilisi” Alazani,’ he announced in an exaggerated Russian accent.

‘Is it just me, or is he a class-A wanker?’ grumbled James under his breath.

‘The wines from Russia and the former Soviet states tend to be sweeter than European wines. The name Alazani comes from one of the major river systems of Georgia, which borders Georgia with Azerbaijan. The climate is slightly warmer than the rest of the Georgian wine-growing regions and gives rise to much sweeter grapes than those found elsewhere.
Za Vas!
’ said Brendan, raising his glass.

I didn’t know what it meant. I was supposed to be learning Russian and I didn’t even know what a simple Russian toast meant. They had gone to so much trouble with their food and wine. We had made a few sandwiches and bought a bottle of vodka – total time allocated to research and assembly about twenty minutes. James and I were pathetic. We had really been shown up. We were obviously not dedicated enough. I felt completely deflated. Brendan and Joy were going to get the best baby in the orphanage and we’d be left with a dud. The one that no one wanted. The one with all the diseases that we wouldn’t be able to recognize, because we hadn’t done enough research. Then we’d make a balls of telling the child they were adopted and they’d piss off back to Russia, find their birth mother and never contact us again. I sipped my wine and sighed.

‘Well done, Brendan and Joy,’ said Dervla, beaming at them. So the old witch was capable of smiling, I thought bitterly. ‘Now what has everyone else brought in?’

Much to my relief, the others weren’t as well prepared as the golden couple. Gary and his wife had brought a couple of bottles of Tiger beer and a Chinese take-away. Carole and her husband had made Vietnamese spring rolls and the other couple had brought Green Tea and chocolate chopsticks. The red caviar sandwiches were absolutely revolting and were largely left untouched, but the vodka went down well and everyone ended up getting quite merry. Emboldened by alcohol, I decided to approach Yvonne and ask if she was going to be our home study social worker.