water from the kitchen tap and kicking off my shoes. ‘How do you work that one out?’
Our flat comprised of an open living room-cum-kitchen diner, two cramped bedrooms and a bathroom with a leaky shower in which you could not swing a cat.
‘I was drinking for two!’ Dympna giggled. ‘One for me and one for you.’
‘Here.’ I thrust the water into her hand.
‘I don’t want water, I want curried chips. Be a love and pop next door . . .’
‘I will in my backside! I just spent my last five euros on the cab. Now drink. Then off to bed.’ Morning sickness had not hit me too hard, but my sense of smell had taken on superhero proportions. The thought of walking into the greasy caff downstairs made my stomach churn.
‘Where’s my phone?’ Dympna slurped her water. ‘I wanna ring Shheamus and tell him how much I luurve him.’
I rolled my eyes. Seamus would hardly appreciate such slurred declarations of love. Normally on our nights out I would be equally hammered and collapse in a giggling heap on the floor. Being the sensible one was no fun at all. I undid my earrings and hair clips, dropping them into an unused ornamental ashtray so they wouldn’t get lost.
After finally getting my flatmate to bed, I went to the loo for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Already, the baby was making itself known as pregnancy hormones sent my kidneys into overdrive. A fresh pang of fear struck as I washed my hands in the sink. There was no backing out now. In a few months my stomach would be huge, my pregnancy plain for all to see. The father would guess the baby was his. What sort of life would the poor mite have, being born into such drama? At school, I felt the stigma of coming from what the nuns called a ‘broken home’. Single-parent families were accepted now, but I could have done with someone pointing that out to the bold Sister Agatha in the convent school where I spent my teens. I shuddered as the tap water turned cold. The boiler was playing up again.
After warming some milk in the microwave, I took a seat at the wobbly piece of furniture we optimistically referred to as a kitchen table. Beneath one of the legs was a folded-up beer mat – Dympna’s idea of DIY. Opening up my laptop, I wondered if I should have heated the milk in a saucepan instead. Calcium was good for the baby, wasn’t it? Or had I zapped all the nutrients? I glanced at my watch. It was three in the morning and there was no way I’d get to sleep without checking the adoption site first. I sighed, gently plucking my false eyelashes off and depositing them in the ashtray with my other bits. I’d never felt so torn in all my life. A part of me – the tiniest spark – considered keeping the baby after it was born. I’d muddle through, I told myself. Didn’t everyone? But I only needed to look around our flat to know what was best for my child. I was broke, just like my mother had been after Dad walked out on us both. I still remembered the poverty suppers – heels of stale bread drizzled with milk, a sprinkle of sugar on top. Being dressed in second-hand clothes that always smelled of damp. Once, the bullies nicknamed me ‘Vinny’, after the charity shop St Vincent de Paul, but Dympna put an end to that after giving them all what for.
My eyes danced over the website as I emerged from painful memories of my past. It whispered promises of a better life for my child. One day I would have a family of my own – when I was married and financially secure. I’d push my baby around in a Silver Cross pram and live in a clean, warm house with a fridge stocked full of food. But right now, this was my best opportunity to give this baby what I’d never had.
All that, though, depended on if I could find the right home. I clicked through the site, masking my yawn with the back of my hand. I could feel my attention waning, but the sight of twenty emails in my inbox made me blink my watery eyes in disbelief. Twenty enquiries already! My profile must have finally gone live. Another ding told me three more emails had just landed. Of