I’m exhausted. I was up crazy early to get some crucial admin done on the hen. The WhatsApp group went quiet enough for a while, but Majella’s cousin Joyce has decided she’s going vegan for her health, and trying to explain to her that Ryanair don’t provide meals, let alone vegan meals, is like talking to the wall. I’ve added ‘vegan snacks’ to my ever-growing list. Meanwhile, Pablo’s sister Maria has requested that we all wear traditional costumes one of the nights we’re in Tenerife, and even though group costumes are almost a given when you’re on a hen, I was thinking more along the lines of matching T-shirts – Busty Bernadette, ’Ave a Go Avril, that sort of thing. Majella’s already requested Danielle’s Gone Doggin’ for her cousin Danielle, who was recently spotted leaving a notorious lay-by the other side of Knocknamanagh. She claims she was just stretching her legs and getting her steps in. At eleven o’clock at night while wearing a bandeau dress she borrowed from Maj in 2009 and never gave back? Pull the other one, Danielle. But I’ve reminded Majella that the mams will be on the hen and Aunt Shirley’s blood pressure is at breaking point as it is. And I’ve asked Maria if she could possibly price forty-eight traditional Tenerifian costumes for everyone locally, because I’ve looked them up and the volume of the skirts alone made me feel weak at the thought of the cost of the fabric. The very thought of trying to get Busty Bernadette into the little red traditional waistcoat is giving me the sweats.
Majella sinks into the couch opposite me, looking up from her phone, which is permanently attached to her hand these days. ‘You must be missing him? You spent a good bit of time together.’ She searches my face, concerned, and I sigh and give in. She’s mad for the romance now that her wedding is such a reality.
‘I do miss him. He was lovely.’ I don’t tell her that getting all my time back is the only reason I’m able to be with her here today. Between the café and planning the hen and helping Mammy have alpacas and yurts delivered for the eco farm, it’s just as well James wasn’t Mr Right, but rather Mr Right Now.
‘Did I tell you the yurts arrived?’ I say, eager to change the subject. Majella has been deeply invested in Mammy and Constance’s yurt saga. Gantulga, the Mongolian consultant, made a balls of the paperwork and the yurts were held hostage in Dublin Port for weeks, but now they are safely at the farm and ready to be installed. Mammy rang me earlier and dropped in the news that John is helping out on the team she’s pulling together to get them assembled. John helped out a lot around the farm after Daddy died and Paul went back to Australia. Sometimes you’d nearly swear he was Daddy with the old wax jacket and wellies on him.
‘They’ve arrived! Brilliant news!’ Majella exclaims, and she’s back on the phone, texting like the clappers.
‘Who has you so enthralled?’
‘Nobody. It’s just an email from China. About the wedding dress. It’s been dispatched. Happy days. At this rate the wedding will be planned by Christmas.’
Chinese retailers have been getting big business out of BGB residents ever since Skippy Brennan outed Geraldine live on Solas FM for buying dodgy knock-offs and reselling them as ‘designer’ handbags in her eponymous boutique. There’s been an endless stream of packages arriving into the village every day, each one more disappointing than the last. But the stuff is so cheap people keep going back to it like a dog to its sick. Pat Curran, our notoriously lazy postman, is fuming over the increase in his workload.
Thankfully Majella doesn’t have to pin all of her hopes on this dress. Word has gotten around that she doesn’t have a huge budget and all sorts of offers are coming in. Tessie Daly swore to me the perfect wedding dress had arrived into the charity shop and she’d keep it behind the counter until I could have a look on Maj’s behalf. I downed tools immediately and raced in to check it out, but what she neglected to say was there was the distinct smell of tragedy off it. Like, definitely death. When I pointed this out, Tessie got the hump and told me I’d want to put some hanging baskets or maybe a decorative trough outside the café or she’d set her Tidy Towns cronies on me. As for my own dress, there just aren’t enough hours in the day for me to go boutique-hopping, so I’ve been ordering them online, although not from as far afield as China. I’m worn out trekking to the post office to return the packages because it’s been dud after dud so far. Majella knows I have a complex about my upper arms so she’s said she’s happy for me to pick my own dress, and I don’t want to show her anything until I’m happy with it, so I’ve been doing fashion shows for Sharon instead, pointing out every lump and bump and trying not to despair too much.
‘You must be our bride, Majella Moran. Welcome to the Ard Rí, ladies.’ A singsong voice comes from somewhere behind the massive plant and Lisa Gleeson, who was three years ahead of us in school, steps out from the shadow of its fronds. ‘I’m Lisa and I’ll be your wedding coordinator. Please, allow me to show you around.’
She’s wearing a navy skirt suit with a red neckerchief and acting like me and Majella haven’t spent half our lives going to functions in the Ard Rí and that we weren’t all on the same Unihoc team the year our school got to the national championships. We were knocked out in the first round but I had it on my CV until I was at least twenty-five. All three of us were actually only here last month for a Scouts table quiz. We just missed out on first prize too – a four-person inflatable hot tub generously donated by Knock Garden Centre – thanks to a particularly difficult picture round. Sharon was bulling, although it’s really her own fault for mixing up young Pierce Brosnan and young Gerry Adams. There was no telling her – God knows I tried.
This is Majella’s first consultation about the wedding and I was drafted in at the last minute after Pablo got held up servicing a vintage Massey Ferguson in Filan’s Garage. I had to cancel my standing appointment with Sharon. Probably for the best that Pablo isn’t here – his emotions have been getting the best of him at the mere mention of the upcoming nuptials. Majella casually revealed on the way here that John is going to be his best man. I suppose it makes sense – they are great friends. The stag is going to be in February, and they’re staying local in Ballygobbard to keep the cost down for Pablo’s brothers.
‘Will you do the talking, Ais?’ Majella whispers as we follow Lisa into the little office behind reception. ‘People always take you more seriously than me.’
Her phone bings and then bings again and she hurriedly puts it on silent.
‘I didn’t know you’d left the New Aldi, Lisa,’ I say, nodding at Maj and giving her hand a quick squeeze. Much like the New Graveyard, the New Aldi has been in situ between Knock and BGB for more than two years now, but once new, always new around these parts. ‘Did I not see you guarding remote-control lawnmowers in there last week?’
Lisa lowers her voice and loses the fake smile. ‘This is only my second day here, girls,’ she says, closing the door. ‘I didn’t think I’d get it, but apparently no one else applied and they were desperate for a new wedding coordinator. The last one ended up having a nervous breakdown, although the official line is she’s on a sabbatical. You didn’t hear it from me.’ Lisa taps the side of her nose and I immediately remember Lisa Loose Lips was her nickname in school. Clearly not much has changed.
‘Would you have much experience with events?’ I venture, holding my breath and hoping she was just being modest about the job.
‘Not really,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I’m more used to being on the tills and doing crowd control around the middle aisle on a Thursday. People just can’t abide by the two-items-per-person rule. But I’ve seen The Wedding Planner enough times to know it can’t be that hard. And I got married here myself.’
She did, too. I was John’s plus-one – Lisa’s husband, Gareth, used to be the Knock Rangers goalkeeper before Dessie Connolly came along with his giant arm span and usurped him. They ran out of baby potatoes. There was uproar, if I recall.
‘Now, Majella, it says here that we have you down for the Country Chic package for 4 May – is that right? It’s a Saturday.’<
br />
Maj looks over, panic stricken.
‘It’s actually the Effortless Elegance package, Lisa,’ I say evenly.
Lisa starts hammering away at her keyboard while Majella mouths ‘she hasn’t a fucking clue’ at me. ‘It’ll be grand,’ I mouth back. Lisa Gleeson will not make a balls of Majella and Pablo’s Big Day. Not on my watch.
‘Riiight,’ Lisa says eventually. ‘Can someone tell me the difference between Country Chic and Effortless Elegance? I’ve Googled it and our website is not very clear. The packages were just called Platinum and Budget when we booked our Big Day.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Do you remember Liam and Denise Kelly’s do two years ago?’
Lisa narrows her eyes. ‘Was “All of Me” by John Legend their first dance?’
‘No, that was Roisin Rice the previous weekend. Liam and Denise had “When You Say Nothing at All”.’
‘Was that the one where the Ronan Keating impersonator ended up shifting one of the groomsmen?’
‘That’s it,’ I say with a nod. ‘They were Effortless Elegance. Beef or salmon. Trio of desserts. Candy cart. Tayto-sandwich buffet. Bar extension. All the extras.’
Lisa is nodding now.
‘Aoibheann Laffan’s wedding last August. The summer punch reception and dry chicken Kievs?’ I say, testing Lisa again.
‘Was I at that one, girls?’
‘Of course you were, Lisa,’ Maj chimes in. ‘Go on, you remember. Mad Tom caught the bouquet and one of the bridesmaids ended up knocking out his front tooth. That’s why he has the gap.’
A flash of recognition crosses Lisa’s face. ‘Was the dessert apple tart and vanilla ice cream?’
‘Yes!’ I half-shout. ‘That’s Country Chic. See the difference?’
‘I do,’ Lisa says, nodding furiously. ‘Right so, you’re Country Chic, Majella.’
‘Effortless Elegance,’ I roar, slapping her desk with my open palm.
‘Yes, of course. Sorry, Aisling!’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maj’s shoulders drop about two inches. It’ll be fine. I’m here and it’ll all be fine. She knows that. Ais to the rescue, as always, and I feel my mouth go dry under the pressure of it.
‘Can you just remind us again what’s included, Lisa?’ I say at a more normal volume. Of course, Majella has read the brochure so many times she’s nearly memorised it at this stage, but it’ll be nice hearing it straight from the horse’s mouth – no offence to Lisa.
‘Of course! You’ll have a Hollywood-style red carpet on arrival …’ Maj actually squeals. ‘Prosecco reception for guests, or tea and coffee for the older crowd. Floral centrepieces. Six-tier cake. Personalised table plans and menus. Band and DJ for afterwards. Late-night nibbles. A five-course meal. Three glasses of wine per guest at dinner –’
‘Will the bottles be left on the table?’ Majella asks, her voice high with concern.
‘Unfortunately not,’ Lisa says, looking at the screen. ‘It’s a new rule. Apparently they’ve … I mean, we’ve, had too many issues recently with things getting out of hand before dessert is even served. Sure you know yourself.’
Majella starts studiously picking threads out of the rips in the knees of her jeans. She knows better than any of us.
‘What if she supplied her own wine?’ I say, to break the tension more than anything.
Lisa shrugs and picks up her mobile. ‘I’m sure that’d be grand. Your wine, your business.’
‘And what corkage do you charge?’
‘What’s corkage?’
‘A fee to open the bottles,’ I say, again worried that Lisa Gleeson has bitten off more than she can chew here. I’ll be the first to admit she was the fastest scanner at the tills in the New Aldi, but planning someone’s wedding is a bit more high stakes than making piles of fruit and veg while customers scramble to fire them into their trolleys.
‘Ah, I don’t think the Ard Rí, I mean, we, would do that now.’
‘Should you check?’ I say.
‘Nah. Trust me. No corkage here. This isn’t the Mountrath, girls.’
We all have a little laugh then because the Mountrath, the other local hotel, is definitely a bit of a kip in comparison. Although it is home to the Vortex, the nightclub where I spent every Saturday night from the age of sixteen to twenty-two, so it’ll always hold a place in my heart.
‘Maybe we’ll just go with the waiters serving the wine, will we, Ais?’ Majella says. ‘You’ve enough to be doing.’
‘It’s no problem at all,’ I say.
‘No, you know, I think it’s quite a classy look, actually,’ she replies and I must say I feel a bit relieved.
‘Anything else you need from me, Lisa?’ Majella asks.
‘Not really since it’s all paid for in full. You’re happy with Love Hurts to do the music, aren’t you? And then The Truck on the decks from eleven till two before the usual session in the residents’ bar?’
I always thought Love Hurts was an odd name for a wedding band but I can’t fault any outfit that can segue so seamlessly from ‘Mr Brightside’ to ‘Riverdance’, and they supply their own inflatable props. Nothing funnier than a pair of novelty sunglasses or a blow-up saxophone at a wedding.
Majella’s eyes glint as she pipes up and nudges me. ‘Actually, we might make a change to the musical line-up if that’s okay, Lisa. I’m sure we’ll be able to confirm soon.’
Oh God. The Peigs at the wedding. I haven’t said a screed to Sadhbh about it yet.
‘What’s this now?’ Lisa is all ears at the first hint of gossip.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I interject.
‘We just might have another band lined up to do a few songs is all,’ Majella says coyly. ‘No one interesting. Definitely tell The Truck we want him, though.’
Majella sounded so certain. I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to mention it to Don and Sadhbh, but it gives me a small pain in the pit of my stomach thinking about it. The same sharp barbs I used to get in school when there was a maths test looming and the dread made me consider throwing myself down the stairs because a non-fatal injury seemed better than admitting I just didn’t get trigonometry. Now, Sadhbh isn’t scary at all and Sister Helen was a menace, but the feeling is the same. A bit of dread. Growing and growing. I can’t put it off much longer. I’ll have to ask her soon.
Luckily the band chat doesn’t hold Majella’s interest for too long because she’s back on the phone smiling away to herself. Pablo, I’m sure. I once witnessed him sending her a text and he actually kissed the phone and whispered, ‘Take my words and go to her, little friend.’ They’re next level.
We plough on, booking Maj and Pablo in for their menu tasting, and are just about to hit the road when Lisa puts a hand on my shoulder and leans in to my ear. ‘Your fella, that English lad with the jeep, he doesn’t know anything about the Garbally Stud renovation, does he? I heard a rumour they’re going to be doing weddings. Bit of competition for us here if that’s the case.’
Well, this is awkward. ‘Eh … he’s not my fella, Lisa. He’s actually gone back to England. So I, eh, don’t know anything about Garbally, I’m afraid.’
She’s not in the least bit fazed. ‘No way! I thought you two were dead serious. He was some ride, wasn’t he? And such a dote, by all accounts.’
I feel a pang for James. I wasn’t lying to Majella when I said I missed him but I’m working on putting it all behind me. I need my summer and my winter to pass and all that. Onwards and upwards. I paste on a smile for Lisa. ‘He’s a lovely fella, alright, but it was nothing serious. And like I said, I’m no use to you on Garbally.’
‘Ah, okay. I was just wondering what you knew. And, sure, aren’t your mother and Constance Swinford inseparable since she offloaded the stud? Well, let me know if you hear anything. I’ll give you a discount off a photobooth, Maj.’
I don’t have the heart to tell her that the photobooth is included.
10
‘Will I cut these into eights o
r twelves?’
‘Eights, good girl. I don’t want anyone saying we’re mean.’
Carol Boland’s sausage rolls are rapidly becoming the cornerstone of BallyGoBrunch’s catering wing. We got leaflets done up a couple of weeks ago and did a bit of a social-media push and even more orders have been flying in. The sausages are the big draw at BallyGoBrunch, of course, but the sausage rolls travel so well. She bakes them as one big log and then cuts the flaky pastry into just about bite-sized pieces. The smell of them would drive you bananas. I could eat my fist and here I am with my face twelve inches from a huge batch of them. After my blow-dry with Sharon I had a meeting with Patrick, the accountant, about the possibility of hiring another kitchen porter and bumping Noel up to be more of a sous-chef under Carol. Thank God it was quiet for a Saturday. Then I had to fly out home to meet the lads delivering the polytunnel for the farm. Mammy and Constance are off finalising the soft furnishings for the yurts and they needed me to oversee its arrival. It’s a good job too because the chancers were trying to assemble it in the front yard, and I could sense the curtains twitching in surrounding houses and the words ‘planning permission’ being spoken in tongues.
If there’s one thing people in BGB care about, it’s planning permission. Maj’s father once tried to get away with an extension on the family’s old bungalow and claim it was just a tree-house ‘for the kids’. Majella was twenty-seven at the time. Shem should have known the planning permission police would have been out in force. I can’t say I blame them. Auntie Sheila’s neighbour got away with new dormer windows and she swears he can see her in the bath and claims he did it on purpose. Auntie Sheila’s been known to put out the washing in her underwear, so I’d say if he wanted an eyeful he didn’t need to go to the bother of major construction.
Anyway, the tunnel is where it should be and the place is really starting to take shape. William Foley took on the task of laying all the paths and walkways and has done a marvellous job, I must say. Mammy and Constance have secured all their stockists for the farm shop – Carol Boland Sausages front and centre, of course. I told Patrick to get on to them about his pottery too. And they’ve hired four new staff members – one of them is Lisa Gleeson’s sister Grainne. She’s going to be doing tours and I hope to God she knows more about that than Lisa knows about wedding planning.
Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling Page 8
