Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  ‘We don’t normally open till seven,’ I say apologetically, opening the door and flipping the sign around. In for a penny and all that. ‘I’m Aisling, the owner. What can I do for you?’

  ‘This is your place, then? Honey, it’s super-cute. I love it.’

  ‘Thanks a million.’

  We worked hard to make the place ‘Instagram friendly’ on Sadhbh and Elaine’s advice and they were right. People are flat out posting photos of their #kale and #sausagemeat salads, although a fierce number of them seem to think there’s aubergine in it if their emojis are anything to go by.

  Mandy looks down at the leaflet and follows me across to the counter where Carol is walking past with a tray of sausage rolls ready for the oven. My stomach growls at the sight of them, even in their raw state.

  ‘And this is Carol, who runs the kitchen,’ I say, as Carol sort of genuflects and backs into a massive bag of spuds.

  ‘Carol, hello!’ Mandy says cheerfully. I bet she starts the day power-walking in heels on a treadmill while barking into a headset. ‘Your food comes highly recommended,’ she continues. ‘I know I should have called ahead but I was passing and was wondering if there might be any samples available to try for an event I’m putting together?’

  ‘Carol, the canapés,’ I mutter out of the side of my mouth, and Carol immediately goes scurrying off to the back larder where there are evening platters waiting for tonight’s Knock Retired Undertakers/Bowls Club joint Christmas dinner-dance. They didn’t have enough people for their own individual events so they teamed up, and there are actually a few retired undertakers on the bowls team anyway. ‘Where is the event on?’

  ‘I can only give details upon signature of contracts, I’m afraid,’ she says with a huge American smile. ‘There is a degree of confidentiality involved.’ My mind immediately goes to Garbally and the birthday party. Surely not. Although, why else would an American be in here asking about food? We get the very odd USA road tripper passing through, asking about shillelaghs and Barack Obama’s cousins, but BGB’s most famous ancestor is the great-great-great-grandfather of the lad who invented Skips. We’re very proud but he’s no Obama.

  Carol re-emerges with some tiny bits and pieces that I was initially worried might be too small for the large paws of either the undertakers or the bowlers, but she assures me they’re packed with flavour and don’t need to be any bigger. Mini parmesan tarts, the freshly baked sausage rolls in thyme pastry, ham and Cheddar croquettes – people go wild for them. I scoot out from behind the counter and direct Mandy to the closest table while Carol places the plate and a stack of napkins in front of her. We both stand there like spares, and it’s only when she politely asks for some water that I realise we’re gawping at her and we retreat behind the counter and pretend to be busy.

  I hold my breath as Mandy picks up a meatball-and-relish stacker and sniffs it before taking a tiny bird-like bite and sitting there for a second with her eyes closed, seemingly having a religious experience. Then she pulls a small notebook out of her bag and starts scribbling. I steal a look at Carol, who gives me a wink. She’s right to be confident – it looks simple but the marinade is absolute dynamite and she knows it. There’s Guinness of all things in it.

  As soon as she tastes the sausage roll, Mandy takes out one of her phones and punches in a number. ‘Honey!’ she chirps. ‘You were right – it’s absolutely darling. The Instagram photos almost don’t do it justice. And the food is delicious. A contender for sure. I can just imagine the trays circling the orchard.’

  20

  ‘The woman who came to Garbally that time, was her name Mandy? American? A heap of phones?’

  I was up to James’s place like a shot as soon as I saw his jeep coming in.

  We were mad busy between finalising the bits for the dinner-dance and the usual café rushes and lulls, so I didn’t get a chance to ring him after Mandy left BallyGoBrunch. She said she’d be in touch and asked how many people we can cater for in total and what’s our lead-in time and a million and one other questions. The most we’ve done so far is about a hundred but I showboated and said we can adapt to any size. If she’s talking about catering at Garbally, and I suspect she is, we definitely want in, no matter how much of a pain in my stomach it gives me. We’ll figure it out.

  ‘Hello to you too,’ he says, kissing my cheek.

  ‘The woman, James. The woman at Garbally. Was she American?’

  He rubs his stubble and ponders for an interminable moment. ‘She was. And you’re right. She did have a lot of phones.’

  ‘She was in this morning.’ I beam. ‘At the crack of dawn, actually. I think she’s going to hire us to do some catering. She seemed impressed with Carol’s canapés anyway.’

  James looks confused. ‘But the first event isn’t scheduled until early summer. Final snags aren’t due until the beginning of April.’

  This is the most I’ve been able to get out of him about Garbally since he started. For a man who can be so flush with the compliments – I’ve managed to get him down to calling me stunning about twice a day, thanks be to Jesus – he can be difficult to glean information from. In the two months since my birthday, I’ve struggled to learn much more about him than I knew going into this relationship. He gives me only monosyllabic answers about his family or his friends back at home, as if he doesn’t want to share his life with me at all. But then other times he’s so loving and kind – and still a bit over the top, if I’m honest. I stayed at home in Mammy’s last night and when I got up at the crack of dawn there were five texts about how much he’d missed me. We’re off-balance, somehow. I need to find a way to address it with him. ‘Communication is to a relationship what oxygen is to life. Without it it dies.’ I took a screenshot of that one off Facebook and sent it to Maj, who was still complaining about Pablo being shy in the bedroom. Maybe I need to take some of my own screenshotted advice.

  To be fair to James, though, he’s more about the building and the craftsmanship when it comes to Garbally, not the parties and canapés.

  ‘Four months is nothing to an event planner. We got an order in for a communion yesterday that’s not on till next year. Nothing wrong with being organised.’

  Suddenly there’s a knock on the door. We both stare at each other. James doesn’t often get visitors here at the apartment, especially ones that get past the intercom on the outside door.

  ‘We know yis are in there,’ roars Shem Moran after a second. ‘Open up!’

  ‘Daddy, stop!’ I hear Majella hiss, and then another thud. Probably a swift kick to his ankle.

  I smile at James apologetically and he opens the door. Straight in front of me are Shem and Majella alright, and between them is an absolutely massive noble fir. I’d say nine foot at least.

  ‘To say thanks for keeping us off the streets these past few months,’ Shem says to James, who looks understandably horrified. Although the Morans plus Pablo have been model tenants, James has only been charging them about half what he could be getting for the apartment. A sound gesture, no doubt about it.

  ‘It’s very big, Shem,’ I say nervously. ‘You didn’t …?’

  ‘Oh, you know he did, Aisling,’ Maj pipes up. ‘What Coillte doesn’t know won’t hurt them. He got one for us too.’

  ‘They’re charging €55 for them this year in Knock Garden Centre,’ Shem says, shaking his head furiously and pushing the massive tree through the door towards me. ‘It’s daylight robbery. Happy Christmas now.’ And off they go down the hall, bickering away.

  ‘I suppose this means I’m decorating for Christmas, although I hadn’t planned on it,’ James says a little glumly, closing the door. We haven’t talked about Christmas plans. I assume he’s going home but I’m nearly afraid to ask. Instead, I embrace the festive spirit.

  ‘Ah God, you have to throw up a few lights – sure isn’t that what Christmas is about? Twinkly lights and too many Pringles and fighting over Trivial Pursuit? I can give you a hand later if you like. I have
a rake of baubles left over from the tree downstairs.’

  ‘Okay, yeah, that’d be nice. Make the place a bit more homey,’ he says with a smile. ‘I’ll buy a bottle of wine. We can make a night of it.’

  There are no less than five emails from Mandy Blumenthal in my inbox when I get a blessed few minutes to slip into the office the next day. According to her signature she’s a ‘party consultant and event engineer’ based out of New York City, and they were sent at all hours of the day and night, even taking the time difference into consideration.

  I scan the first one fast, half-afraid of what it’s going to say. ‘Farm to table’, ‘cocktail hour hors d’oeuvres’ and ‘250 guests’ all immediately jump out at me. Apparently she’s ‘obsessed’ with our ‘whole vibe’! ‘We’d love to secure your services, honey,’ she says. ‘I was worried you were a small-time operation so I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear you could cater to a big crowd. Looking forward to working with you.’ Yes! I punch the air. If me and Carol can pull this off, BallyGoBrunch catering could properly break into the high-end events market. This would be a massive deal and all in under a year since my little café first opened its doors. I’m delighted, I really am. Well, I’m 70 per cent delighted. The other 30 per cent feels a lot like dread. And nausea. How are we supposed to cater a cocktail hour? Especially one that involves a big crowd and requires an event engineer from New York? I’m already feeling a bit stretched with the hen to organise. Would it be taking on too much? But I can’t turn this down. At least Paul will be at home now to help Mammy when she needs it. Yes, this is a good thing. This is definitely a good thing. But what if I commit to it and somehow mess it up? The business might never recover. I decide not to think about that.

  The second email is a list of Mandy’s favourite canapés – the sausage rolls came out on top, naturally – and a pretty thorough questionnaire about ingredients and allergens. I’ll forward that on to Carol. The third is a list of suggestions to keep vegans, coeliacs and the lactose intolerant happy, and she’s gone to the trouble of copying and pasting ideas from our online menu. Very thorough. This Mandy Blumenthal is obviously at the top of her game.

  The fourth email was meant for her dog walker, called Aimee. I see what happened there. She’s wondering if Aimee could bring Salt and Pepa to the groomer after their doggy yoga on Wednesday morning. And the fifth email is to tell me that she’ll have a contract to me by Christmas and a heads-up that I’ll be expected to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

  James is thrilled when I fill him in later in Maguire’s.

  ‘Did you say yes? Do I need to order some Romanian plonk?’

  ‘I did,’ I reply hesitantly. ‘How could I not? It’s a brilliant opportunity.’

  ‘You don’t sound too happy about it?’

  ‘It’s just such a huge commitment – 250 people, she said! My nerves were gone totting up how much the ingredients alone are going to cost me. This has to go off without a hitch.’

  ‘You have months to plan, and you and Carol together are unstoppable. You’ll absolutely nail it!’

  And Majella’s hen to execute in the meantime, and her wedding to make sure Lisa Gleeson doesn’t make a hames of. And the café to run. And Paul to worry about. And Mammy.

  ‘Do you not get nervous taking on a big job, James?’

  ‘No.’ Oh. ‘Stop worrying. And, hey, we’ll practically be working together. Power couple or what?’

  He glances up at the telly, which is showing BBC News. This is what happens when the place is empty and Felipe lets him take control of the remote. If anyone walked in and saw we were cheating on Six One I’d be turfed out of BGB, but James is far enough away from home without taking the Downing Street cat and whatnot away from him too. The news has something on about high-street sales figures ahead of Christmas. I broke the habit of a lifetime and did most of my shopping online this time round. God forgive me, if another Dublin institution closes down because of my disloyalty I’ll never forgive myself, but there’s only so many hours in the day. I’m still not over the loss of A Wear and it’s been years. I’ll probably get a few more bits in Knock Garden Centre – there’s a Le Creuset teapot in there I think Mammy would love. ‘Oh, lovely, another teapot,’ she said when I gave her the blue one for her last birthday so at least I know she likes them. I don’t know what to get James. I’m at a complete loss. He doesn’t seem to want for very much, and he’s got plenty of fancy aftershaves and shirts. I’m usually top notch at choosing presents but this is a tricky one.

  ‘What do you want for Christmas?’ I nudge him.

  He furrows his brow for a second, thinking, and then smiles. ‘I have everything I need right beside me.’

  I swear, I’m not able for his romantic lines sometimes. I’d be mortified only there’s nobody looking at me. Yesterday he suggested getting a couple’s massage sometime. I had to explain that it was far from couple’s massages I was reared, and anyway I get very awkward in spa-type places. I never know if I’m supposed to be in the nip or wearing my good knickers or my togs or what.

  ‘Speaking of Christmas,’ James sits up and turns around to me, ‘I’ve decided I’m going to fly home. I’ll go on the twenty-third.’

  ‘Oh, lovely. The airport will be magic,’ I say, delighted he’s offered up this information at least. I hadn’t really considered that he might not go home. Who doesn’t go home, like? Imagine James Matthews sitting with us in our pyjamas eating selection boxes at half nine and trying to keep That Bloody Cat away from the sausagemeat stuffing.

  ‘Harry was insistent.’ He pulls a tight smile. ‘He can’t possibly have Christmas without his big brother, or so he says. Actually,’ his eyebrows raise, ‘my dad … my parents wanted to extend an invitation to you, to come with me for Christmas. I’ve told them all about you and they’re really keen to meet you. I suspect they think I’ve made you up.’

  I don’t tell him that I was starting to think the same about them. I don’t even have to think about his offer, though. ‘I couldn’t. I’m sorry – I couldn’t leave Mammy.’

  Mammy would hate to hear me saying that, I know, but it’s true. She’s getting back into the spirit of Christmas this year – our second one since we lost Daddy. She has three boxes of Chocolate Kimberleys hidden in the garage, and it’s a good job I’m out of the house half the time because I’m not able to sleep thinking about them when I’m there. The eco farm has been open for Christmas tours for a week now and they’re absolutely flying. Only one Santa hat has been lost to an alpaca’s gob, and the farm shop has to be restocked every evening.

  ‘Even with Paul coming home?’

  ‘I just … couldn’t.’

  ‘It’s okay. I told Dad you’d probably feel like that.’

  ‘Tell them thanks, though, won’t you? It’s so nice to be asked. And I’d love to meet them. Just not at Christmas.’

  ‘How about New Year’s Eve then?’ he counters, raising an eyebrow and taking a gulp of his pint.

  My first instinct is to say no again. I don’t know why. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to meet them – I really do, half out of nosiness. And parents usually love me. I suppose it’s just a bit nerve-wracking, since they’re English and probably drive a Rolls-Royce or something. I don’t know what to expect. Will Mammy mind? I was at Elaine and Ruby’s wedding last New Year’s Eve but that was only in Dublin and, sure, she was invited herself. But going away feels different. It puts another bit of distance between us and the life we had when Daddy was still with us. New Year’s Eves will be different for Mammy for evermore now. And for all of us.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, surprising myself. Carpe Diem. ‘Sure, I have nothing else on. And the café will be quiet with everyone’s houses being stocked to bursting.’

  ‘Really?’ he says with a wide smile. ‘Great. And Harry and Natasia will be there too.’

  ‘Brilliant. I can’t wait to see how this Buckleton place compares to BGB. How many ATMs do you have?’

  �
�Er, none, I don’t think. There’s just the Pig and Poddle and the village shop.’

  No ATM? Amateurs.

  21

  You could water a desert with the condensation on the windows of Strong Stuff where Sharon is executing curly blow-dries like her life depends on it, heels and all. My head is over the basin and Majella’s decided that Christmas Eve is the day to get serious about Operation Wedding Hair and has a whole roll of tinfoil on her head. Fair play to Sharon, she didn’t blink an eye when Maj pointed to a picture of Rosie Huntington-Whiteley in a magazine and said, ‘That please.’ Majella’s hair has been every colour under the sun, often at her own hand and often with disastrous consequences and more than one scarlet neck. So who knows, maybe Sharon will have her looking like Rosie come May.

  ‘When is Paul home?’ Maj roars at me across Cillian Ruane, who’s letting Caitriona loose on his eyebrows with the thread. He nearly loses one he gives such a lep with the fright. Cillian is definitely an early adopter among the BGB lads when it comes to eyebrows. He went to art school in Dublin and told Deirdre he’s pansexual so he’d be fairly on the ball. Dee told him not to tell their father, but Trevor Ruane spent a summer in San Francisco in the seventies and can’t be scandalised so it all went grand.

  ‘This afternoon,’ I roar back at her, as Cliodhna, the other Ó Súilleabháin twin, scalds my scalp with the water.

  ‘A bit of cold, Cliodhna, good girl,’ I encourage her through gritted teeth. Sharon says they’re great workers but lack an ounce of cop-on. A crisis was narrowly averted the other day when she intercepted Caitriona on her way to apply a peach rinse to Granny Daly’s tight white curls. Imagine the sight of her at mass.

  ‘I’d say your mother is delighted, is she?’ Maj roars again, just as Sharon turns off her hairdryer. Half the salon turns to look at her and she mouths a sheepish ‘sorry’.