The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2

by Michelle Vernal

  A Wedding at O’Mara’s

  by

  Michelle Vernal

  Chapter 1

  Dublin 2000

  Aisling O’Mara was feeling very grown up as she tottered down Baggot Street all tucked up inside her coat. She didn’t have time to tap the young man on the shoulder who she’d spied spitting on the ground as he waited for the bus. She’d have liked to have told him spitting was a disgusting habit but had she done so, she knew she’d then fret she was morphing into her mammy. Nor did she have time to wonder why on earth that woman with the lank, greasy hair and a cigarette in one hand, a child clutching the other hadn’t seen fit to put a hat on her little one. It was a day that clearly called for a hat. Never mind either the fact she was a woman in her mid-thirties about to be married at long last because Aisling was about to do the most grown up thing of her life. She was off to meet her soon-to-be husband and they had an appointment at the AIB Bank where they were going to open a joint account. It was very exciting!

  Moira had called her a sad arse that morning over her enormous plate of toast which had been smothered in thick, sweet Magiun, plum jam. The jar had come courtesy of the guesthouse’s weekend breakfast cook, Mrs Baiku who hailed from Romania and Aisling was extremely partial to it. Mind you she was partial to most things with copious amounts of sugar in them. Life, she often lamented would have been a lot easier if her secret fantasy wasn’t to roll in a ball pit filled with coconutty, marshmallow Snowballs. At that point in time too, finding herself staring at her paltry boiled egg with NO soldiers to dip because she was frantically trying to lose a few pounds before her big day, it had taken all her strength not to try and divert her sister from her breakfast.

  Diversion tactics had worked a treat when they were younger and had saved her from many a serve of the broad bean or pile of spinach. It was simple, she’d turn to Moira, being the youngest and most gullible of her siblings and exclaim, ‘How did that cat get in here?’ Moira’s head never failed to spin searching for a non-existent cat while Aisling would dump whatever was causing her angst on her plate onto her sister’s. It worked the other way too when it came to snaffling an extra fish finger or the like. She never felt a smidgen of guilt either when she was allowed to leave the table thanks to her clean plate while Moira sat staring mournfully at a mound of something green and, by that time, stone cold while Mammy prattled on about how the starving children in Africa would be grateful for a good meal like Moira’s to be placed in front of them and how she ought to be grateful. Aisling would think it served her right for always helping herself to her stuff. She’d tried the diversion tactics on Patrick once, given Mammy always gave him an extra fish finger because he was the boy, but he’d caught her out and smacked her hard on her knuckles with his fork.

  This morning at the breakfast table, however, Aisling had drawn on her inner willpower, of which there wasn’t much, but what little there was had been enough for her to leave Moira’s toast alone. She’d been tempted to pick it up and flick her in the face with it though as she sneered across the table at the fact her elder sister was about to share her finances wholeheartedly with her fiancé.

  ‘A joint account? What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. Feck that, what’s mine is mine thanks very much,’ she’d stated.

  Given that Moira, a self-proclaimed poor art student these days, didn’t have anything other than a collection of pricey cosmetics and some expensive and very impractical items of clothing in her wardrobe, Aisling had rolled her eyes, cracked the shell on her boiled egg and told her sister in a suitably condescending manner that one day if say Tom, for instance, was to pop the question then she’d understand.

  Now, spying Quinn up ahead, waiting as he’d promised he would be, with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket as he stamped his feet against the cold, she grinned at him waving out. He spotted her through the bobbing heads of people ducking and diving along pavements not designed to cope with the influx their city had seen this last couple of years and strode towards her. She was pleased to note he’d listened to her and dressed in his good jeans – his going out jeans – not that they went out much. There wasn’t much time for that between him running Quinn’s, his busy bistro, and her managing the guesthouse with its unpredictable hours. He’d laughed when she’d told him he needed to look smart and presentable to meet Mr Cleary.

  ‘Aisling, the days of going cap in hand to see the bank manager are long gone. Sure, they’re desperate for our business,’ he’d said. Quinn had plans of them putting a down payment on a house. Not for them to live in – he was going to move into O’Mara’s with her and Moira after they were married – but as a rental property. ‘Property prices are high, but rental property is in high demand. It’s as good a time as any for us to get our feet on the property ladder,’ he’d said. He’d gone so far as to get the calculator out and bang out figures based on his and her savings and had been confident that after the wedding, ‘and the honeymoon,’ she’d added, they could start looking around to get an idea of what was on the market.

  His nose was red from the chill air, Aisling saw as he drew nearer. The reason he’d been standing about outside his restaurant instead of waiting inside in the toasty warmth was because she’d told him she had to be back at O’Mara’s for two o’clock as she had a Canadian tour party arriving. She liked to be on hand to meet their guests arriving, priding herself on the personal touch when it came to her role managing the family’s guesthouse. She also knew her fiancé well enough to know if she arranged to meet him inside his bistro, he’d find something last minute that he had to do, that couldn’t possibly wait. For his part he knew his intended well enough not to argue, not when she seemed to be walking a tight rope of nervous energy as their wedding drew nearer.

  He reached her and wrapped her in a hello hug followed by a kiss and Aisling inhaled the familiar scent of cooking that clung to him along with the aftershave she’d bought him for his birthday. It was a warm and spicy scent that did peculiar things to her, things that were not suitable to be thinking about when one had a threesome with the bank manager planned.

  ‘All set?’ Quinn asked, releasing her and offering her his arm.

  ‘All set,’ she said, linking her arm through his and putting her best foot forward.

  THE QUEUE, GIVEN PEOPLE were on their lunch breaks, was to the door and Aisling was glad they had an appointment. She hated queuing; it seemed like such a complete waste of time, especially with her impending nuptials which meant she had one hundred and one other things she could be doing at any given time along with all her ordinary day to day tasks. They were led through to a tiny waiting room and told by a bored looking woman that Mr Cleary shouldn’t be long.’

  No tea or coffee was on offer then, Aisling thought, glancing around before sitting down.

  Quinn perched next to her muttering, ‘It’s a power play thing. ‘He’s letting us know his time’s more precious than ours.’ He was working his hands, and Aisling realised he was anxious. She took hold of them and gave them a reassuring squeeze before looking about for a magazine to flick through. You never knew your luck, there might be a Bridal Today lurking or the like. There were none, only a rack of pamphlets pertaining to banking with smiley, happy people who were all saving hard on the glossy covers.

  A lonely water cooler gurgled away like a hungry tummy in the corner of the closet-like space. They were a tight old lot these bankers, she thought, trying to picture Mr Cleary. ‘I bet yer man in there,’ she said, pointing to the closed door with its gold nameplate, ‘is small and yappy like a Jack Russell.’

  Her comment made Quinn smile. It was then she remembered the brochure she’d tucked in her bag. Now was as good a time to mention what she had a feeling was going to be a hard sell. It was time to talk honeymoon and given she’d worked in resort management for years, she had her heart set on something completely out of the box to the sunshine playgrounds she’d spent so much time in. She retrieved the brochure and passed
it over to him asking, ‘What do you think of this then?’

  Quinn stared at it, frowning, before stating the obvious. ‘It’s a hotel made of ice.’

  ‘I know that,’ Aisling laughed. ‘It’s the Ice Hotel, you eejit. You know the one that’s carved every year from blocks of the stuff up the top of Sweden. It’s been on the tele.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why do they do it?’

  ‘Because it’s beautiful and it’s unique, that’s why. Every single thing right down to the glasses used in the hotel bar is carved from ice. Imagine it, Quinn.’ Her smile was dreamy as she pictured the winter wonderland of Narnia. She’d lost herself in there many times as a child when she’d hidden away at the back of her wardrobe trying to find a secret doorway.

  ‘Okay, it’s erm, very creative but why are you showing me this?’ Quinn had a feeling he knew where this conversation was headed.

  ‘I think we should have our honeymoon there. That’s why.’

  He’d guessed right and shivered at the very thought of it. ‘Won’t it be a tad chilly though?’

  ‘Well, you don’t get around in your swimming trunks. You have to have the proper winter gear but sure, look,’ she took the brochure from him and flicked through to a picture of a couple looking deliriously happy as they snuggled together under reindeer skins despite lying on a bed carved of ice.

  ‘They’ve got hats on.’ Quinn pointed out. ‘And I bet they’ve got socks on too. I didn’t picture myself wearing a hat and socks to bed on my honeymoon or freezing my arse off on a bed made of ice for that matter.’

  ‘There’s such a thing as body heat.’ Aisling waggled her eyebrows at him.

  ‘There is that.’ He grinned.

  Sensing weakness she warmed to her theme. ‘And, it’s not just a hotel.’

  ‘I can see that. It’s a fecking igloo too.’

  She elbowed him. ‘It’s a living breathing ice art gallery.’ She’d stolen that bit from the small print in the brochure. ‘Imagine telling our children that’s where we spent our honeymoon.’

  ‘What children? My little swimmers will be frozen forever if you make me go there.’

  ‘We could sip schnapps that would warm them back up and watch the Northern Lights.’

  ‘Isn’t it the Germans who drink schnapps?’

  ‘The Swedes do too, I looked it up, but alright then, we’ll have a hot toddy of Swedish glogg if it makes you happy.’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘It’s like mulled wine.’

  ‘Ah.’ He liked the mulled wine and the body heat side of things but he was still having a hard time with the hats and socks.

  ‘We could go for a sled ride through the pine forest too.’

  ‘And will Rudolph be there, Aisling?’

  ‘Ha ha, it’s huskies that pull the sleds not reindeer.’

  Quinn could see he was fighting a losing battle. It wasn’t looking likely she’d agree to the B&B in Kerry he’d been going to suggest and he wanted to keep his bride happy. He played his last card even though he knew he’d lost. ‘It looks expensive.’

  Aisling laid down her hand and it was a blinder. ‘It’s not that bad when you think of what an experience it will be. What price do you put on a memory that will last us a lifetime, Quinn?’

  ‘Feck it, Aisling, you’d better by me some thermal socks, then. And if they do a budget ice suite that’s the one you’re too book, alright?’

  ‘Yay!’ Aisling gave a little cheer before planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she said, giving his thigh a meaningful squeeze ‘I’ll make sure you have a good time, big boy. You won’t feel the cold on my bedtime watch.’

  Quinn coughed, ‘Er, Ash.’

  She looked over to see Mr Cleary, not quite a snappy Jack Russell more of a droopy eyed bloodhound, standing in the doorway of his office.

  ‘If you’d like to come in, when you’re ready,’ he said, giving a little cough.

  Chapter 2

  Two days had passed since Quinn and Aisling’s successful visit to the bank. Despite the less than auspicious start, Mr Cleary, who had insisted they call him Michael, had been quite accommodating in the end and they’d left with the promise of sizable loan when the time came and a brand spanking new account in both their names. Now though, the good mood Aisling had been floating about in at the thought of stargazing near the North Pole was dissipating. To be blunt, Aisling O’Mara was in foul humour. She could hear Mammy’s voice in her head telling her, ‘You always are a moody madam when you’re hungry.’ And, Aisling was hungry.

  She eyed Bronagh’s drawer, the guesthouse’s receptionist had nipped to the loo and the custard creams she knew Bronagh had tucked away in there called to her. Eat me, eat me, eat me, Aisling, they whispered. It was like a scene from the Little Shop of Horrors, so it was. She glanced toward the bathroom and saw the door still closed. Her hand reached forward and grasped the knob of the drawer but the sudden glint of blue light saw her snatch it back as though burned.

  A diamond solitaire engagement ring, oval cut set in white gold no less, was better than any Weight Watchers meeting or Slimmer’s Club get together. The most beautiful thing she’d ever been given in her life was right there on her ring finger reminding her that in a few weeks, she, Aisling Elizabeth O’Mara would become Mrs Aisling O’Mara-Moran. How many times had she practiced introducing herself like that these last few weeks? Yes, hello there I’m Mrs O’Mara-Moran. Mrs O’Mara-Moran is the name. Aisling, Aisling O’Mara-Moran pleased to make your acquaintance. For some reason when she said it in her head, she sounded posh, plummy like Joanna Lumley. She thought it might be because she was going to be the proud owner of a double-barrelled surname.

  Mammy had been perturbed when Aisling had said she wanted to keep the O’Mara. ‘Aisling that’s the sort of modern thing Moira would do to be different,’ she’d said and Aisling had replied. ‘It’s for Daddy, Mammy. I want to carry on our surname for him.’ She didn’t add that her brother, Patrick was over in America so he was hardly doing his bit for carrying on the O’Mara name in Ireland. Mammy had cried hearing this and said Aisling was a wonderful daughter. Five minutes later she’d accused her of eating the last Snowball she’d been saving and had planned on savouring as she watched Ballykissangel later that evening. Aisling had said she wouldn’t and hadn’t but the coconut flakes on her sweater had given her away.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Bronagh’s waspish voice made her jump.

  ‘Nothing. I was about to go through the diary to see what guests we’ve got arriving today, that’s all.’

  The receptionist’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘I know what was on your mind. I can read you like a book so I can, and you’ll not find any biscuits in there. I’ve hidden them. I’ll not have it on my head when the zip gets stuck halfway up your back on your big day. Nobody will be able to say Bronagh Hanrahan had her own best interests at heart. Or accuse me of sabotaging your chance to lose weight for my own financial gain.’

  Aisling tried to look innocent, hoping the rapid blinking and widening of her eyes would convince Bronagh she’d not been planning a custard cream biscuit heist. ‘I’ve lost three pounds. I’m on track, thank you very much and have no interest in sweets of any sort.’ The Pope himself would be proud of how pious she sounded.

  Bronagh patted her middle; the fabric of her skirt was shiny and stretched tight. ‘I’ve lost three and a half pounds myself and I have to say I’m feeling marvellous for it. And, remember I’ve the menopause to do battle with too.’

  Bronagh must be going through the longest running menopause on record, Aisling thought and her skirt didn’t look any looser than it had done last week. She reckoned it was a tactic and Bronagh was trying to psych her out. They eyed one another. She was very competitive was Bronagh, Aisling thought. This silly competition was all down to her too because as soon as Aisling announced she wanted to lose half a stone for her wedding, Bronagh had been al
l for putting money on who’d reach their target weight first. She said it would keep them motivated if they were dieting for high stakes. Aisling would have been content with sticking a photo of Cindy Crawford in her swimsuit on the fridge but Moira had been lurking in the background and it was her that had egged them both on. Sure, it had been like a scene from a women’s prison with her little sister’s carry-on. She might as well have been yelling, ‘Fight, fight, fight!’

  Aisling was not one to back down from a challenge and in the end, she’d wagered a tenner that it would be her that lost her poundage first. After all, the odds were in her favour given it was her wedding she wanted to be in fine fettle for. Moira having already cleared it with Aisling that she would not be paying for her bridesmaid dress – given she was a poor student, but that in no way meant she’d wear some frothy pink ensemble and look like an eejit either – had seen a way to supplement her income instantly. She was running a book on the great weight loss race. So far, Aisling was the favourite but, Moira had stated over her toast that morning watching as Aisling lovingly caressed the honey jar, it could change, just like that. She’d clicked her fingers for effect and Aisling had shoved the pot back in the cupboard and retrieved the Marmite instead.

  ‘Have you done the stairs this morning?’ Aisling asked Bronagh.

  Moira had also taken it upon herself to be both women’s personal trainer. Neither had asked her to do this and as such when she’d asked for payment for services rendered, they’d both told her to feck off. She’d not given up though and had said she’d do it out of the goodness of her heart. When she’d appeared in reception in joggers with a whistle around her neck both women had told her to feck off once more, but to no avail. In the end, Bronagh had climbed the stairs on the condition Moira hand over the whistle. She’d hidden it like she had the custard creams.