Designer Genes
Designer Genes
Emma Hannigan
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009, Emma Hannigan
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emma Hannigan lives in Bray, County Wicklow, with her husband Cian and two children Sacha and Kim. She is a self-confessed chocoholic, with a flair and passion for shopping. This is her first novel and, although she has had similar surgery to one of the characters, she’d like to stress that this is most definitely not an autobiography. Apart from the part about the designer jeans, which is alarmingly close to the truth.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
From the moment I knew my book was going to be published, I had a small demon lurking in the back of my mind: the “thank you” page. What if I leave someone out and they’re so upset they never speak to me again? So knowing this could cause mortal offence, here I go . . .
Firstly, thank you to Poolbeg, especially Paula Campbell, Kieran Devlin, Niamh Fitzgerald and my wonderful editor Gaye Shortland. You’ve taken a chance on me and I hope I can make you all glad you did. Thanks to Tony Higgins for the photos and to Aisling Ayre for attempting to make me look decent, with your large black trolley of make-up. Am still wildly impressed and would secretly love to play with it all when you’re not looking.
Thank you to Cathy Kelly. Not only are you the most amazing friend, confidante and a light in my life, but you have been the most encouraging, patient and brilliant teacher. Without you, I would never have turned my story into a novel. Thank you also to John Sheehan, for all your kindness and sharp advice.
I have dedicated this book to my husband Cian McGrath, and my parents Denise and Philip Hannigan. Cian, you have stood by me and paid more money in hospital car-park fees, coming to visit me, than a lot of people spend on a mortgage. Most men would have run a mile at this stage. Thank you for staying and for loving me, especially the bald and scarred version of me with a broken nose. Now that’s dedication.
Mum and Dad, your steady, balanced and loving upbringing has given me the strength and determination to be the person I am today. I couldn’t have been luckier. You can’t choose your parents but, if I’d been allowed to, I would have picked you both.
I cannot express my gratitude to my two children, my son Sacha and my daughter Kim. Any time I have one of those can’t-do-this-any-more moments, all I have to do is look at both of you. You inspire me, love me, humble me and give me the best reason in the world to keep fighting.
Thank you to my parents-in-law Orlaith and Seán McGrath. You are always there when I need you.
Thanks to Tim, AKA Mr Spring, for being my big brother, and to your partner Hilary. Thanks to my cousins Steffy and Robyn Macken for being my sisters! Thanks to Aideen Shepherd, Mitzi Seavers, Kristin O’Callaghan, Ruth Barker, Cathy Whelan, Anneliese O’Callaghan, Jackie and Neil O’Callaghan. To my cousin Fionn Seavers, I’m still sorry I cut off every strand of your hair when we were three. You are all a wonderful support.
Thanks to my sister-in-law Mary McGrath, my niece Molly O’Bric, and my brother-in-law Eanna McGrath, for your support.
Thanks to Paul Hannigan for always having “magic stars” for the kids! Thank you to our au pair Jana Volckova, for always being here to help out and keep the house going.
This is where it gets messy. I have so many wonderful, caring and awe-inspiring friends, I’m terrified of forgetting someone and leaving them mortally wounded for life. If that’s you, I apologise.
My heartfelt gratitude to all the parents and teachers in St Gerard’s School, Bray. With you I found an outreach and flurry of love and help which overwhelmed me. There are a few people I have to thank by name: the unpaid entertainers, who collected, fed, watered and played with my children, before driving them back home, at a time when I was on my knees and unable to be “fun mum”. In alphabetical order, so don’t scratch each other’s eyes out (blame your parents for not calling you AA, otherwise you might have been first on the list): Amanda Cahill, Amanda Ferguson, Bernie Kinsella, Claire O’Donovan, Corina Tormey and Brigid Whitehead. All your names feature constantly in my diary, with a note, “Sacha and Kim going to play” beside them. You are all my unsung heroes. Words cannot thank you for all the times you went that extra mile. I will always appreciate you.
Thank you to my beloved Cork crew: Dervilla O’Flynn, Glena O’Reilly, Helen Eck, Nikki Walsh, Rachel Allen and Rowena Walsh.
Gratitude and love to my wonderful network of “girls”, for the river of coffee and wine we must have consumed over the years – I can’t believe the world still has any problems. Anne Lawlor, Elaine Flynn, Emer Shaw, Eva Durkan, Eve Keogh, Fiona Cullen, Fiona Costigan, Imelda Drumm, Jill Lyons, Josephine Power, Julie Magill, Kathryn Dicker, Marian Corson, Rufina Kissane, Sarah Gleeson, Siobhan Whelan, Suzanne Mackey, Patte O’Reilly and Tarja Owens.
Thank you to all the staff of Tallaght Hospital for getting me through the mastectomy surgery. Thank you most recently to Dr David Fennelly, Dr Francis Stafford, Dr Cal Condon, Dr Jenny Westrup and all the nurses, especially Mechelle, Lisa and all the staff in Blackrock Clinic. Without you all, I wouldn’t be alive. No words can thank you all for what you do every single day.
To Regina Quinn, at Cunninghams’ pharmacy in Bray: you go above and beyond the call of duty with me and all your customers. Thank you for always ringing to make sure I have my prescriptions. You are a shining star.
I hope that you, dear reader, have not died of boredom. Some people hate this page and skip over it. I, on the other hand, am very nosey and love to see if there’s anyone I recognise.
Last, but by no means least, I want to thank anybody who is giving me a chance and buying this book. If one person enjoys reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it – then I’ll have achieved something major personally.
I will leave a little space just here:
* * *
Just in case I’ve forgotten someone – yes, I am still paranoid about it – please fill in your name with black biro. Nobody will notice it wasn’t there in the first place.
I dedicate this book to my husband Cian for meaning what he said on our wedding day. You have indeed loved me in sickness and in health.
And to my parents Denise and Philip Hannigan, who epitomise the practice of unconditional love.
Not a day goes by that I don’t thank my lucky stars I have the three of you in my life.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
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sp; Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Emily
Nobody likes to say goodbye. Especially when you’re a mum saying goodbye to your two small children.
This occasion was no different. I knew I had to hold it together just long enough to make it outside. The lump in my throat felt like a basketball. But in the next five minutes I needed to appear positive, nonchalant and above all else, normal.
It was almost impossible.
My son Louis, daughter Tia, and my mum and dad were all in the sitting room of my parents’ house. The fire was lit, the heating was on and the freezing sleet outside was obliterated. Cocooned by both the temperature and love, the children were relaxed. I had to make sure that everything was as run of the mill as possible for a Sunday afternoon. Disney movies, Sunday treats – all the things I normally did with them.
It had been my thirtieth birthday the day before. Under the circumstances, I’d chosen to have a small family party, with cake and plenty of sweets. My head was elsewhere, and if it hadn’t been for the children, I would have gladly ignored the day entirely.
“Mum, will you come and sit here with us? A movie is starting and it’s going to be great fun,” Louis pleaded.
Louis was six, with big blue eyes, blond hair that falls endearingly over his eyes and a smile that cuts through to your heart.
“Please, Mum!” He patted a bit of couch between himself and Tia who was five and straight from Central Casting as a cherub, even if I say so myself.
They knew I was going, but young children forget things.
“Please, Mum?”
The pleading in my son’s eyes hurt so much I had to grab hold of the back of a chair and steady myself. I closed my eyes and concentrated on blocking out the overwhelming fear, then swooped down on the couch.
“Big kiss for Mummy!” I launched myself at Louis. Don’t let me cry.
“One from you too!” I grabbed Tia, fragile in one of her favourite outfits – a pink gaudy fairy dress with hard, itchy netting, purple patterned tights and an old gold-lamé evening top of my mother’s, which Tia had sniffed out in a long-forgotten wardrobe upstairs. She had hideous dress sense, which I hoped would improve by the time she reached her teens. I felt winded at the thought of her teenage years: would I be around for them?
On the TV, some poor git was trying to present a report on penguins. His obvious struggle with the live creatures delighted the children and in an instant they were transfixed.
Thank God for the invention of children’s programmes. In times of need, they can be a mother’s best friend.
“Mum and Dad . . . bye.”
Woodenly and hurriedly, I hugged and kissed my parents. We didn’t speak. Us adults were trying to hold it all in.
“Bye,” muttered Dad. For the first time in his life he looked beaten by a situation. He was always very controlled and upbeat. I could tell this was killing him.
Mum, who was my rock and knew what to say in any situation, was like a robot on automatic pilot. There was nothing she could say at that moment and she just stared at me.
Mum and I look very alike. She has European parentage, is very striking with sallow skin against white-blonde hair, and she seems to get more beautiful as the years go by. By contrast, Dad has dark hair and pale, almost translucent skin. I’m a mixture of the two of them with Mum’s blonde hair and my father’s milk-bottle complexion. My darling daughter Tia is sallow-skinned while my little Louis is almost blue he’s so pale. The baby factory clicked on the skin-tone button and made him a shade lighter than me. His skin is flawless, like a porcelain doll’s.
Both kids were engrossed in the television as I took a last look at them. They love their grandparents’ house, which meant I was spared the trauma of them not wanting to stay while I walked out. I couldn’t have coped with “Mummy, don’t go!”
Holding back from running, I left the room.
Robbie was supposed to be waiting for me in the hall but he was busy trying to find the batteries for a radio he thought I might use.
Robbie is my ever-supportive husband. He has naturally spray-on-tan-coloured skin, caramel hair and a contagious smile. He runs his own public relations company, is chatty and sociable and yet always in control, which can be bloody irritating. The whole world can be on the verge of ending and Robbie will sit and remain annoyingly calm. Except for today.
I could hear him banging around in the kitchen, talking to the drawers as if they were going to suddenly change from inanimate objects into biddable working beings.
“I know you’re hiding the batteries, I saw them the other day,” I heard him growl. “So why don’t you just make it easier for us all and spit them out?”
Normally when he’s angry I sort it out. Right now, I could barely sort myself out.
I reckoned I had a space of about five minutes where I could let rip, so I stepped out the front door whereupon the wind whipped into my face and made my eyes water. Now nobody was watching me try to keep it all together, the way I had been since I’d heard the news.
“Me? I’m fine, totally fine. Honestly. Not a bit worried. I’ll be fine.”
I wasn’t fine, though.
The sobs came from deep inside me. Frightened, grief-stricken, from-the-depths-of-my-soul sobs.
I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, really – I was just terrified that this was going to be the last time I would see my parents and my precious children. Louis and Tia, my babies. Oh my God.
Tears dripped down onto my pink fake-fur coat and I stroked the front of it for comfort. But the comfort dissolved instantly because Tia loved it. My baby, Tia. “You look like a pink furry fairy, Mummy!” I could hear her tinkling voice running through my head.
More tears streamed down my face.
As a parent, I wasn’t ready to die. I wanted to be there to see my children grow up. I wanted to know how they turned out. What they looked like and who their friends were.
I wanted to bake their birthday cakes. Superman for Louis. Sparkles-to-the-Tonsils Barbie for Tia. I wanted to see them stretch and gain confidence and knowledge. I wanted to be there if they needed someone to talk to. I even wanted to be in the firing line when they became teenagers and hated me. I had a right to be the one they hated. I had given birth to them, wanting to and intending on being their mother for as much of their lives as possible, and more importantly for all of mine.
But the journey I was on might change all that. I might not be there.
Emily, get a grip, right? Hold it together. You’re wasting your make-up. You can’t look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards. What would the neighbours say? Think of . . . uh, think of the angels!
I had never been religious. At all. I’m three-quarters Catholic (well, in so far as I wore the dress with the veil when I made my First Communion and the day I got married) and one-quarter Jewish (I have a Star of David on my charm bracelet). I believed in Shopping and the Right to Earn as Much as a Man, but as for the God stuff . . . well, I wasn’t so sure.
Yet in the past while – since what my friends were anxiously calling “my news” – a wide variety of people had raised my awareness of angels. And I was converted. I’d always been an admirer of all things pink, fluffy and sparkly, so this whole angel theory fitted into my world beautifully.
Laura, a friend I’d been to fashion-design college with, gave me a box set of CDs all about angels.
“We are surrounded by angels,” she said earnestly that day as we sat in the
coffee shop and she held my hand, snuffling back the tears.
She’d never had to hold my hand before. I was the more balanced and together one in our friendship. During our college days, Laura was always stoned in the corner talking about the colours of our auras.
“You call and they come,” said Laura. “In times of need, we can call on specific angels to help us. If in doubt, Archangel Michael is the main man. He’s Mr Fix It, Bob the Builder, Superman, James Bond, Mother Theresa, Luke Skywalker and every superhero rolled into one.” She beamed at me. “You should try it, Emily.”
She was so convincing that I totally believed her.
Standing outside my parents’ house, waiting for my husband, having just said goodbye to my family, I realised that desperate times call for desperate measures. I yelled: “Archangel Michael, please help me to get through these next few hours without falling apart!”
Nobody answered.
The tears kept coming. Big, fat, hot blobs plopping down my cheeks, burning my skin against the freezing air. I kept telling myself to stop crying. But I couldn’t.
I hadn’t cried at all during this whole process so far. Now, it felt like I couldn’t stop.
Think of Robbie – you don’t want to let him see you crying. Come on, Emily, stop being a wuss. Get a grip for Christ’s sake – now is not the time to fall apart.
“Mummy, are you going to get dead?” Tia had asked the day I’d told her I had to go into hospital. She had climbed onto my knee and started “fixing” my hair, while poking the mole on my neck.
I’d touched her soft cheek, wishing fiercely that this wasn’t happening to us, because it was wrong for my little girl to have to even think about her mum being dead.
“No, darling, I’m not going to get dead,” I said, in the voice I used for discussions on Barbie, Dora the Explorer and why we couldn’t buy any more sparkly dust because the bedroom carpet was already full of it.