Baby Trap

  The Baby Trap

  Based on her own experiences with infertility and two attempts at IVF, Sibel Hodge’s new novel The Baby Trap will have you laughing and crying at the ups and downs of modern baby-making…

  When Gina turns thirty-three her body clock unexpectedly begins clanging in her ear with annoying persistence. The only problem is, having a baby isn’t as easy as she thought. Whether she’s feng shui-ing the house to death with fertility symbols, throwing out her husband’s tight boxers in favour of baggies, swapping wine and chocolate for green tea and yams, popping fertility drugs like M&M’s, or having sex so precision-timed it makes international warfare manoeuvres look unorganized, her life is turned upside down. And when nothing seems to be working, her quest for the B-word turns into an obsession.

  Can Gina stay sane, get pregnant, and keep her marriage together? Or will her baby trail become a baby trap?

  Praise for Sibel Hodge

  "Yet another winner by Sibel who is fast becoming my favourite 'chick-lit' author" -- Wistful Kimmie's Book Reviews

  "Sibel Hodge has perfect comedic timing" -- Lisa Lim, author of Confessions of a Call Centre Gal

  “Ms. Hodge is rapidly becoming a favorite of mine" -- Coffee Time Romance & More

  “Sibel Hodge does it again!” -- Geeky Girl Books

  “Sibel Hodge has a way of writing that really makes the characters come to life” -- Can’t Put It Down Review Blog

  Also by Sibel Hodge

  Fourteen Days Later

  The Fashion Police

  My Perfect Wedding

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  Voodoo Deadly

  How to Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room (and other short stories)

  Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave

  About the author

  Sibel Hodge has dual British/Turkish Cypriot nationality and divides her time between Hertfordshire and North Cyprus. Her debut romantic-comedy novel, Fourteen Days Later, was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by the Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. My Perfect Wedding is the sequel to Fourteen Days Later, although it can be read as a standalone novel.

  The Fashion Police is a chicklit comedy-mystery novel, the first in the series featuring feisty, larger-than-life, Amber Fox. It was runner-up in the Chapter One Promotions Novel Competition 2010 and nominated Best Novel with Romantic Elements 2010 by The Romance Reviews. Other Amber Fox mysteries include Be Careful What You Wish For and Voodoo Deadly.

  Her novella Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave has been listed as one of the Top 40 Books About Human Rights by Accredited Online Colleges.

  For more information, please visit http://www.sibelhodge.com/

  The Baby Trap

  Sibel Hodge

  Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2011

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition, License notes

  The ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. And today? Today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.” -- Babatunde Olatunji

  Prologue

  Why is it that you spend most of your young adult life trying not to get pregnant, and yet when you actually want to get pregnant, you can’t? How annoying is that? Not to mention frustrating, depressing, soul-destroying, and numerous other feelings that I’ve experienced at one time or another in the last two years. I know I’m in danger of losing myself in a never-ending round of fertility treatment, wishing this time it’s going to magically work. No, that’s wrong. I’ve lost myself already. I’ve become a neurotic nutcase who’s bored with life, boring, unsociable, and turning into a frump. What happened to the happy, carefree woman I used to be? The woman who used to enjoy life, have a laugh, appreciate her lot, and drink one too many bottles of wine at the weekends? Obsessed. Yes, that’s what I am, but it’s not my fault. It’s this feeling that I can’t explain. This desperate need inside me to have a baby. This urge that has completely turned my brain to single-train thoughts: Baby, baby, baby.

  And as the years have gone on, I’m morphing into the ghost of myself. Someone who can’t enjoy life because I’m too busy worrying and wondering when and if it’s going to happen for me. I don’t even recognize myself most of the time anymore. I’m constantly wishing for the end of my cycle to hurry up and arrive to see if I’ve hit the jackpot this time, and when it doesn’t work, I’m constantly wishing for the middle of my cycle so I can ovulate and try again. I’m unable to feel whole and complete unless I have a son or daughter to hold.

  So this year I have to take drastic action before I get sucked into a giant abyss of despair and can never get back. I’m going to give it six more months of trying, and if I still can’t get pregnant…well, that’s it. I’m giving up. This is the last year I’m going through it. I’ve absolutely, definitely, positively made my mind up. I know I said that the last time, and the time before that, oh, and the time before that, but I really mean it this time.

  Really.

  Maybe really.

  Nope. Really and truly, this year is going to be my year to give up trying for a baby.

  I’m sick of people looking up my lady garden, prodding me, poking me. Doctors and nurses at the Assisted Conception Unit and friends looking at me with sympathy. I’m also sick of the following:

  1) Having no spontaneous sex. It’s not the same when you have to have precision-timed nookie. I’m also having to give precision-timed wanks to Karl in aid of sperm tests.

  2) Leaving my legs hanging in the air after sex for ten minutes – although have been known to do it for up to forty as there are varying opinions on the length of time necessary.

  3) Being obsessed about babies all the time.

  4) Not having time for Karl and me anymore as always obsessing about babies. I’m worried we’re drifting apart.

  5) Being hormonal and moody from all the fertility drugs, and sometimes wanting to kill perfectly innocent people for no reason.

  6) Bawling my eyes out every time I have my period (and countless other times, too).

  7) Eating healthy organic food and giving up alcohol and smoking.

  8) Constantly texting tarot card hotlines to find out if and when I will get pregnant (my mobile phone bill is the same as a small country’s debt!).

  9) Trying every alternative fertility treatment under the sun.

  10) Isn’t that enough reasons?

  I always said I’d never write down my infertility journey, but I’ve changed my mind now. Actually, it was Poppy, whom I met online at the Fertility Friends website, who suggested it. We’ve got to know each other pretty well through emails and phone calls in the last two years. How can I describe Poppy? Hmm…if I’d met her in any normal circumstances she wouldn’t have been my type of friend. She’s a floaty, New Age, holistic type, who says she can see auras and talks about cosmic energy, Karma, and projecting positive thoughts to the Universe. Now, normally I’d burst into uncontrollab
le laughter if someone told me I had to imagine a bright white light of happiness radiating through my body to my ovaries, but I’ve done some pretty bizarre things in my quest to get pregnant, so maybe it’s time I started listening to her and took her advice. What the hell, why not? What have I got to lose? I mean, the drugs and IVF don’t seem to be working, so if I can finally have my little bundle of joy by chanting a few words and hugging a tree, why not give it a go? Although Karl will probably freak and think I’ve lost my mind completely after all the “ridiculous ideas” (as he calls them) I’ve come up with so far. I’ve gone from being someone totally unsuperstitious to someone who looks for signs everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Not to mention the fertility symbols and spells.

  Anyway, Poppy told me that writing my story down is the first step to cosmic enlightenment (not entirely sure what that is, but it sounds nice). She explained that if I keep this journal, I’ll be letting the Universe know exactly what I want and she (or he, not entirely what sex the Universe represents, although I think it’s a she and will name her Zelda, which is a Universe-ish kind of name) will help me get rid of any negative energies surrounding me, unblock my chakras (whatever they are), and help me let go of my grief about being unable to get pregnant. OK, in a tiny little way it makes sense, but, of course, I can’t tell that to Karl. He doesn’t understand. And I can’t help thinking that if all this stuff she talks about could really work, then why isn’t she pregnant yet, either?

  But I’m game, and this is the last sliver of hope I can cling to. So on the first day of a brand new year, which Poppy said is the perfect time for cosmic alignment, you, my little pink diary with the silver clasp, will be my new friend. And if you can find time to poke the Universe and get her to grant my wish, then I’ll be eternally grateful. Because if I can’t get pregnant this time, I’ll need to do something radical to fill this gaping hole in my life, and I’m scared of what that radical thing might be.

  My Body Clock

  It all started when I turned thirty-three. I woke up one Sunday morning and I could’ve sworn I heard a clock ticking. I prised open one sleepy eyelid, stuck together with caked mascara that I’d forgotten to take off again after another mad party. Maybe it was my head banging with a humongous hangover that was making the noise. I turned towards my husband Karl, snoring softly beside me with his mouth open, and groaned. Oops, big mistake! My head felt like someone was repeatedly hitting it with a sledgehammer. Probably not a good idea to actually move. Maybe I should just stay in bed all day. Yep, good idea.

  Except the bloody ticking wouldn’t shut up.

  I knew it couldn’t be the alarm clock on my bedside table because that had run out of batteries months ago. And it couldn’t have been Karl’s because he had a digital clock next to the bed. So what was it?

  God, how much had I drunk last night? Was I hallucinating sounds? Whoa, I really needed to slow down on the wine next time.

  I rolled out of bed, clutching my head in my hands, and wandered downstairs into the kitchen that overlooked the garden. Pouring a hefty glass of water to combat brain dehydration, I glugged it down in one go as I stared through hangover-induced blurry eyes at an oak tree outside.

  What was that out there?

  Instantly alert, my monster headache disappeared. I narrowed my eyes at a peculiar site in the garden. It was…what the hell was it? No, it couldn’t be.

  I unlocked the back door and tentatively crept towards the vision.

  As I got closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  It was a baby! Complete with a pink babygro and a pink dummy, sucking on it with glee as it stared up at me with chubby cheeks and huge blue eyes.

  What had I been drinking last night? Has someone spiked my drink at Amelia’s party?

  What kind of person could abandon a baby in someone’s garden? This was unbelievable!

  ‘You poor thing.’ I reached out to pick it up and bring it inside the house and it disappeared.

  Pfffft! Just like that. Vanished.

  Karl found me two hours later, sitting at the farmhouse kitchen table, still in my fluffy pink pyjamas and giant slippers that looked like cows’ faces, staring blankly at the garden.

  ‘God, what a great night!’ He kissed the top of my head and yawned. ‘Want a coffee? I feel like I’ve swallowed a Brillo Pad.’

  ‘Huh?’ I said, not really hearing what he was saying.

  ‘Coffee? Want one?’ He rummaged around in the cupboards, pulling out mugs and a French press.

  ‘Mmm.’ I nodded absentmindedly.

  He flicked the kettle on, lounged on the chair in front of me, and started chuckling. ‘Do you remember dancing on the table last night? That was hilarious! You, Amelia, and Kerry doing a Coyote Ugly impression, flashing your knickers.’

  I didn’t answer. I was too busy worrying I had a brain tumour. That’s what happened, wasn’t it? I’d seen a programme about it once. People started hearing things and seeing things. Freaky things. Things that couldn’t possibly be explained. Omigod, that was it. I was going to die! I was still young. I had my whole life ahead of me. Fun, mad shopping sprees, exotic holidays, lots of alcohol-induced partying (I’m not an alcoholic, honestly!). Except…I was getting this weird feeling. Suddenly all that stuff seemed inconsequential – childish, even. I was thirty-three years old, and now I wanted…

  ‘I want a baby!’ I blurted out, not really knowing where the thought had come from. Maybe we’d been abducted by aliens on the way home last night and one of those sneaky guys had implanted a weird chip in my brain. It could happen. I watched the X Files, you know. Or was reaching thirty-three the new forty? Did you start having a midlife crisis, or, even worse, a nervous breakdown?

  Karl’s dark brown eyes sprang open and his jaw dropped. ‘What?’

  I adjusted myself in the chair, elbows on the table, leaning forward with an excited feeling simmering away beneath the surface. ‘I want a baby.’ A large grin had suddenly implanted itself on my face.

  He ran a hand through his short dark hair. Now it was his turn to do the blank stare bit. ‘Oh, right.’ He rose from the table as if he hadn’t heard me. ‘Well, I need a coffee.’ He poured the boiling water into the French press and brought it to the table with two mugs. As he flopped back down again, he said, ‘Er…did I just hear you right?’ He poked his fingers in his ears, as if someone had suddenly shoved Blu-Tack down them and he couldn’t hear. ‘Either I’m having the most bizarre dream in the world, or you just said you wanted a baby.’ He pressed the plunger, poured out two steaming mugs of strong coffee, and pushed one towards me with a puzzled look.

  I nodded. ‘Yep, that’s what I said.’

  ‘But you said you never wanted kids.’ His eyebrows furrowed together so he looked like he had a unibrow.

  I laughed. A slight chuckle at first. Then it turned into a giggle, then side-splitting, hilarious, uncontrollable laughter. I slammed the table with my hand. ‘I know! How weird is that? I’ve gone through my whole life being adamant I don’t want kids. Not a maternal twinge in my body. Until today.’

  He threw me a who-are-you-and-what-the-fuck-have-you-done-with-my-wife? kind of look.

  ‘Gina, are you ill? Have you got a fever?’ He reached out and touched my forehead.

  ‘No. It’s just the most bizarre thing. All of a sudden, the only thing I know is I want a baby. Your baby.’ I reached forward and grabbed his hand, squeezing it. ‘So, what do you think?’ I jumped up from the chair and leapt onto his knee, wrapping my arms around his neck. ‘It’s a great idea, isn’t it? You’d make a fantastic dad. Look how good you are with Jayne’s kids.’

  ‘Well, yeah. I mean, I guess I’ve always wanted to have kids one day. I just thought it would eventually happen when I was in my thirties.’

  ‘You are in your thirties.’ I grinned.

  ‘Oh, God, you’re right. When did that happen? In my head I’m still twenty-one.’ He grinned back.

  ‘So this is perfect timing,’ I said. ‘I me
an, we can afford a baby now you’re doing so well at work. We’ve got a three-bed house so it’s big enough. I can still do my beauty business from home. And our kids would be adorable.’ I clapped my hands together with excitement. ‘Just think, they’d have your thick, dark hair, my green eyes, your calm-in-a-crisis, gentle nature, and my determination. What a perfect combination!’

  ‘I need some caffeine to let this sink in.’ He took a huge gulp of coffee, swallowing thoughtfully. ‘I suppose they’d also have your dirty laugh, sense of humour, and fun-loving spirit. And they’d have both my practical ability to do DIY, and my business brain.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, what else?’ I grinned, getting into the swing of things. ‘My organizational skills.’

  ‘As long as they don’t get your map-reading skills. They’ll get lost on the way out of your womb if they do.’ He chuckled.

  ‘Or your leave-dirty-socks-around-the-house skills.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘So, what do you think?’ I looked down at him expectantly.

  ‘Does that mean we can start trying now?’ he raised a seductive eyebrow at me.

  I leapt off him and grabbed his hand, pulling him up. ‘Hell, yeah!’

  Sex, Sex, and More Sex

  I’d been taking the pill ever since I was fifteen for heavy periods that felt like Freddy Krueger was trying to rip his way out of me, and since then I’d been as regular as my credit card bills. Every twenty-eight days, voila! I could almost time it down to the correct hour.