‘C’mon, honey. You can do this,’ Luke says. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
I feel Luke’s hand on my knee, squeezing gently. Jinx barks loudly and suddenly, clearly objecting to Luke’s arm reaching across him.
‘Bloody dog,’ Luke grunts. ‘I swear he thinks no one should touch you except him.’
‘He’s just a puppy,’ I say, rubbing under Jinx’s ear to calm him. ‘Shh. Shh, boy.’
‘I know you don’t want to hear it, Darcy, but we might have to get rid of him once the baby arrives. If he’s this snappy around me if I get too close to you, can you imagine what he’ll be like around the baby?’
I pull a face. ‘Take him, please. I gotta go.’
I pass Jinx over, and after his initial silly protest he snuggles against Luke’s chest.
‘Can we leave the dog here, please?’ the clipboard lady asks. ‘It’s just, we can’t have barking in the background while we’re rolling.’
I look at Luke with a pleading expression.
‘Fine,’ he sighs, rolling his eyes. ‘I’ll wait here with him.’
‘Thank you,’ I mouth as I’m ushered away.
Reaching the set, I’m surprised at how different it seems now to what you see on TV. The area is sparse and overly bright. There’s a single armchair for Lindsay on one side and a couch for her guests opposite. Cameras seem to take up the bulk of the area in front. And people in dark clothing and headsets far outnumber those in front of the camera.
Lindsay totters into position effortlessly in high, spindly heels. Her hair bounces on her shoulders and her make-up is subtle yet flattering. She notices me out of the corner of her eye and turns to beckon me, smiling.
Slowly, I take my seat opposite her on a couch big enough to fit four adults comfortably. I feel a little lost, all alone in the middle. My hair is equally as perfect as Lindsay’s, my make-up flawless, and I’m glad I wore my suit and not that horrible polka-dot dress. I look professional and calm – for now, at least.
Silence descends suddenly and my palms sweat as I realise we’re rolling.
‘Gooooood morning, Ireland,’ Lindsay chirps in the familiar sing-song voice she uses every morning to introduce the show.
I watch as she announces yesterday’s competition winner and reads today’s newspaper headlines with enthusiasm and vigour. And her toothy smile never falters. Finally, she turns away from the camera and towards me.
‘Good morning, Darcy,’ she says. ‘I’m so happy you’re here.’
‘I’m delighted to be here,’ I reply as we repeat the pleasantries from the dressing room, almost word for word.
It isn’t long before I begin to relax, almost forgetting that there is a nation of viewers on the far side of the camera, watching. Lindsay introduces me and my business with ease. She talks up Darcy’s Dishes’ savoury line first before moving on to the desserts, chatting with the vocabulary of an experienced chef. All I need to do is nod and smile. Luke was so right, I think, grinning as I stare into the camera. This interview will be so good for business.
‘And now, moving on to more serious matters,’ Lindsay says, sliding to the edge of her seat so she can reach me and take my hands in hers. ‘Have you heard of Hyperemesis Gravidarum, ladies and gentlemen? Probably not. And that’s because although the condition is estimated to affect point five to two per cent of pregnant women, it is very rarely talked about. Darcy is currently experiencing this serious condition and she is here to tell us all about it in her own words.’ Lindsay squeezes my hand gently. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Darcy, tell us . . . how are you feeling?’
I take a deep breath. I knew this question was coming. It’s the whole reason I’m on the show, but somehow forcing the words I’m struggling to pass my lips is incredibly difficult.
‘It’s been hard,’ I finally say.
‘I can imagine,’ Lindsay says, sympathetically.
I straighten my back and with confidence I say, ‘People think they understand. I’ve had countless women tell me about their pregnancies and their experience with morning sickness. They mean well, I don’t doubt. But comparing Hyperemesis to morning sickness is like comparing a summer breeze to a tropical hurricane.’
‘So, tea and dry crackers aren’t going to help?’ Lindsay jokes.
I laugh. ‘Unfortunately not. I’ve been hospitalised several times over the last seven months. Sometimes the condition eases in the second trimester. And sometimes it doesn’t.’
‘And for you it didn’t?’ Lindsay says.
‘No. No, it didn’t,’ I say.
Lindsay’s lips curl into a sympathetic smile as she nods with her head slightly cocked to one side. ‘And it’s taken a massive toll on your business too, hasn’t it?’
I wince, unsure how to answer. I am the face of Darcy’s Dishes. The vibrant, healthy vegan. My body is my brand. I’ve spent as many years honing my image as I have perfecting my products. And being ill and gaunt is bad for business. No one wants to buy a vegan cheesecake from Dracula’s first cousin. Luke has done his best, taking the reins of the company, but my absence has cost us a couple of huge clients in recent months and we are heading into the red.
‘It’s fair to say this condition has turned your life upside down,’ Lindsay says.
I smile, grateful that Lindsay has sensed my distress and changed direction.
‘Yes.’ I swallow. ‘It has really been very, very hard.’
‘Okay,’ Lindsay chirps, letting go of my hand and sitting up straight. ‘It’s time for a break, but when we come back we’ll be taking some of your calls.’ Lindsay waits for the cue from the director and says, ‘The lines are open now.’
Someone dressed all in black rushes over with a coffee for Lindsay. They ask me if I need water or anything, but I raise my hand and shake my head. The smell wafting from Lindsay’s flask is already making me queasy.
‘You’re doing great,’ Lindsay says between mouthfuls. ‘The calls should be a fabulous way to talk about your product line. Is there anything in particular you’d like us to plug?’
‘Oh.’ I smile, delighted. ‘The lasagne would be great? It’s all meat free, of course, but impossible to tell. And maybe the cheesecake, that’s new.’
‘Super,’ Lindsay says, passing the flask back to the assistant who then quickly touches up Lindsay’s lipstick before dashing away.
‘And we’re back in three . . . two . . . one . . .’ someone announces.
‘Hello, and welcome back,’ Lindsay says, her enthusiasm punctuated with a single clap of her hands and a beaming grin.
I follow her lead and smile too, but my nerves are back to square one after the short repose off air and I find myself fidgeting with a button on my blazer.
Lindsay presses her finger subtly to her ear and says, ‘I think we have our first caller. Good morning, who do we have on the line?’
‘Eh . . . hi . . . hello,’ a nervous voice replies. ‘I’m Sarah.’
‘Hi Sarah, what is your question for Darcy please?’
‘Um . . .’ Sarah gulps and it sounds oddly loud as it echoes around the studio. ‘I love Darcy’s Dishes’ ready meals, but um . . . eh . . . my local supermarket has stopped stocking them and they said there’s a problem with the supplier. Erm, I’m just wondering if you know when they’ll be back in stock.’