The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2

by Michelle Vernal

  Yours faithfully,

  Me.

  Chapter 30

  The banging on her bedroom door woke Aisling with a start. She was lying on her side in a tangle of sheets and for one blissful moment she couldn’t understand why her eyes were glued together. She prised them open and it was like peering through the slats in a venetian blind. The realisation she was still in last night’s clothes and the reason her eyes were so swollen was because she’d cried herself to sleep, broke over her. With a small moan she dug around in the trenches recalling how she’d swept in through reception last night, ignoring Nina to take to the stairs. She’d been desperate for the sanctity of her bedroom where she could let her tears out in peace. Poor Nina had received the rough end of the stick from Bronagh, and then later from herself. She owed her an apology.

  Moira had been out and she’d locked her bedroom door before throwing herself down on her bed and sobbing into her pillow. It must have been in the small hours when she’d finally crashed out only to be woken a short while later by the familiar clatter of the rubbish bin in the courtyard below. She’d padded over to the window in time to see Mr Fox making his escape with whatever leftover treat Mrs Flaherty had tossed out. He turned, as he always did, and looked up to where she was a ghostly outline looking down at him. She waved through the frosted glass and he flicked his tail before flattening his back and disappearing under the wall.

  Now the memory of what had transpired with Quinn was like a bucket of cold water being tossed over her. She was no longer engaged. She was right back where she’d been when Marcus left her. A jilted bride-to-be. The difference this time was, she only had herself to blame for the predicament she was in. It was down to her own stupidity and the realisation made her breath feel ragged as it caught in her chest. The banging started up again.

  Maybe it was Quinn! The thought was a spurring jolt. He might have seen, in the cold light of day, that what she’d said last night had an element of truth to it. He had switched off when it came to their wedding. He could’ve come to his senses and be prepared to talk things through. It wasn’t too late. They could sit down together to discuss what was frivolous and what was a necessity. Moira’s voice blew out the tiny flame of hope she’d been fanning. ‘Aisling, what’s going on?’

  ‘Go away, Moira.’

  ‘Paula told Tom you gave your ring back to Quinn and walked out of the bistro last night in tears.’

  She should’ve known it wouldn’t take long for the jungle drums to begin beating. She repeated herself, ‘Go away, Moira. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘What was that? I can’t hear you, Aisling. I need to know you’re okay, open the door.’

  She knew full well her sister had heard her; she was trying to trick her into opening the door.

  When it didn’t work, Moira changed tack. ‘Aisling, if you come out, I cross my heart hope to die promise I’ll waive stair-climbing today and I’ll personally go downstairs to ask Mrs Flaherty to whip you up one of her specials and not say a word to Bronagh about you breaking your diet.’

  Aisling didn’t answer. She’d be sick if she tried to eat and what was the point in dieting and doing the stairs anyway? No point whatsoever now she was no longer getting married. She rolled over on her back and, as she stared up at the ceiling, she felt dead inside.

  ‘I’ll ring Mammy and tell her you won’t come out of your room.’

  ‘Do your worst, Moira,’ Aisling threw back.

  No reply was forthcoming and Aisling shut her eyes, hoping she could sleep forever like Aurora from Sleeping Beauty. It was an ironic thought given she was guessing she was anything but a beauty at the moment. She closed her eyes again but they flicked open of their own accord as she examined what had happened between her and Quinn. In the half light of her bedroom it was becoming clear to her she’d pushed away the person who meant the most to her in the whole world because she hadn’t felt deserving of him. In a roundabout way Marcus McDonagh had reached out from her past, refusing to let her move on and accept Quinn’s love wholeheartedly. She’d subconsciously been sabotaging their relationship by behaving like an extravagant eejit. There she’d been burning up her credit card as though she were some sort of cashed-up celebrity. And what did it matter, any of it? The dress, the carriage, the place settings – in the big picture they didn’t mean a thing. What her wedding should have been about was standing alongside Quinn and turning to look him in the eyes. She should have been focussing on how it would feel to see her love for him reflected back at her in his face as he told God, their family and friends he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  AISLING MUST HAVE DOZED off again because this time when she woke, she could sense the lateness of the morning by the way chunks of filtered light broke through the curtains. She strained her ears listening out for Moira and caught the swish of whispering. So, Moira had made good on her threat and called Mammy. She had a more pressing problem than the fact her mammy was standing outside her bedroom door pow-wowing with her baby sister as to what they should say to lure her out. Aisling knew it wouldn’t be whatever pearls of wisdom they shouted through the door that brought her out. It would be the fact she was desperate for the loo. The days of the chamber pot were long gone unfortunately and she was going to have to visit the bathroom, like it or not.

  She sat up, vaguely aware her eyes were still hot and heavy. Her hand smoothed her hair but it had matted itself into a frenzy of knots, thanks to her tossing and turning. It would take more than running her fingers through it. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, surprised to feel the floor firm beneath her feet. She’d almost thought she might fall through it like Alice going down the rabbit hole because that was how she felt, as if she’d fallen through into some strange world she no longer recognised.

  She moved toward the door and flung it open, stepping back as Mammy and Moira staggered forward nearly falling on top of her. ‘That will teach you for pressing your ears to my door. Now, get out of my way because I need to go to the loo.’ Aisling pushed past them and through to the lavatory, locking yet another door behind her. She rested her head against it for a moment and then yelled out, ‘And don’t stand outside the door. That always gives me stage fright. I’ll talk to you when I come out.’

  She heard a gratifying creak as they moved away. It was with trepidation she opened the door after flushing but the coast was clear and she slipped into the bathroom next door. A hot shower and a change of clothes was in order if she had to deal with Mammy and she knew without looking, she and Moira would have taken up camp on the sofa and neither would be leaving until they’d got to the bottom of what had gone on between her and Quinn.

  A STEAMING MUG OF SWEETENED tea was placed on the table in front of her along with a plate of thickly buttered toast. Aisling stared at it, watching the golden puddles pool and melt into the toast.

  ‘You’re no good on an empty stomach, Aisling.’ Maureen fussed around her. ‘You’ve never been able to make rational decisions when you’re hungry. Personally, I’m pointing the finger for all this bother at...’ She flapped her hand in Moira’s direction.

  Moira dropped the piece of toast she’d been chewing on down on the plate and straightened from where she’d been slouched over the kitchen worktop. ‘That’s not fair, Mammy. I was trying to help. Aisling was the one who wanted to lose a few pounds for the wedding.’

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full. And did she want the spotty, red face too? Look at her, I mean look at her. People will be giving her a wide berth thinking she’s contagious. What were you thinking?’

  The hives were clinging on stubbornly. Aisling was blaming stress but there was no need for Mammy to point them out quite so emphatically. It wasn’t the spots that had caused all this trouble.

  ‘I didn’t know she’d react to the pack I used,’ Moira pouted.

  ‘You know full well your sister has always had sensitive skin, young lady. Sure, she spent half her childhood slathered
in the E45 because of some rash or other.’

  Aisling didn’t have the energy to protest this exaggeration. From memory she’d only had a nasty rash once. It was from eating too many strawberries. There was no point mentioning this to Mammy though. She’d twist the story around so instead of being a greedy girl with a penchant for strawberries it would morph into Aisling’s first foray into stress eating. She’d blame it on the falling out she and Leila had had. The falling out part was true; they’d had a stand-off over who was the best looking member of Duran Duran. She was with John and Leila was backing Simon and ne’er the twain do meet. The point of this silent debate she was having was, the only reason she got a rash from strawberries was because she ate too many of the fecking things.

  ‘Be quiet the pair of you.’ She slapped the table to distract herself as much as Mammy and Moira. They blinked at her and then both spoke over the top of one another. ‘Tom said Paula said you threw your ring back at Quinn.’ ‘Moira’s after telling me you’ve called the wedding off.’

  Aisling shook her head. ‘Do you want to know what happened?’ It was a stupid question and her answer lay in their frenetic nodding.

  She took a gulp of her milky tea and then began to talk, ‘Quinn wanted us to buy a house on the Crumlin Road as a rental investment. We’d been to the bank and had a verbal agreement with the manager as to what sum we could borrow based on the deposit we had.’

  ‘Very sensible young man, your Quinn, one in a million so he is,’ Mammy said.

  ‘He’s not my Quinn, Mammy. Not any more, because I’m not sensible I’m a fecking eejit.’

  Maureen didn’t have the heart to tell her to watch her mouth.

  ‘I spent the best part of the deposit on the wedding without telling him.’

  ‘So, it’s your fault.’

  Moira that’s not helpful,’ Maureen snapped. ‘But Aisling what about what I offered to put towards the wedding.’

  Moira’s gaze whiplashed toward her mammy. ‘You never said you were giving Aisling money, and me a poor student.’

  Maureen gave her youngest child a look that could curdle milk straight from the cow and Moira busied herself with her toast.

  Aisling shrugged. ‘It’s all gotten out of hand, Mammy. The dress, the bridesmaids’ dresses, the photographer, the pumpkin carriage—’

  ‘The pumpkin what?’ Moira snorted. ‘Who do you think you are, Cinderella?’

  Aisling swung around in her seat, her temper fraying. ‘And you didn’t help with your poor student routine. Do you have any idea how much those dresses cost? Did you even look at the price tag?’ Her voice was shrill.

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ Moira shouted back. ‘You offered.’

  Aisling drew breath but Maureen intervened. ‘Moira O’Mara, go to your room right now and don’t come out until you’ve something helpful to say,’ Maureen ordered.

  ‘Mammy, I’m twenty-five. You can’t send me to my room.’

  ‘You’re still my daughter and not too old to feel the back of my hand.’ Maureen stared her daughter down – the Mammy Whisperer – Moira slunk off to her bedroom.

  ‘I don’t know where we got that one from.’ She shook her head watching her go. She let Aisling drain her tea before leaning across the table and smoothing a wisp of hair stuck to her daughter’s cheek. ‘Well, my girl, what are we going to do to fix this? Your Uncle Cormac is somewhere over the Atlantic about now. Great Aunty Noreen telephoned to say she and Great Aunty Rosamunde are riding up together, not to mention the Brothers Grimm will be dusting off their suits about now.’

  Aisling bit back the smile that came unbidden at her mammy’s referencing of her brothers.

  ‘I don’t know how to fix it though, Mammy. What do I do?’

  ‘Aisling, you are a marvel at sorting other people’s lives out but when it comes to your own,’ she shook her head. ‘Talk to him,’ she offered up simply. ‘If you can’t talk to each other then you shouldn’t be getting married. Your daddy and I had an unspoken rule in our marriage.’

  Aisling looked up meeting her mammy’s dark eyes. ‘What was it?’

  ‘We’d never go to sleep on an argument.’

  Aisling sparked at the blatant fib. ‘Mammy, that’s not true! I remember you giving Daddy the silent treatment for nearly a week when we were small.’

  ‘Ah, well now, Aisling, that was different. Your daddy had been very bold.’

  Aisling’s scalp prickled. She never had found out what the week was about where Mammy had communicated through Roisin, ‘Tell your daddy, I said he can cook his own tea tonight.’. Had he been unfaithful? ‘What did he do, Mammy?’ she half whispered, fearful of finding out.

  ‘He spent the money I’d set aside for a new dress to wear to my friend Geraldine’s birthday party on an engine overhaul for the car.’

  Aisling nearly laughed with the relief of it all.

  ‘What I was trying to say, Aisling, before you started nitpicking was, a marriage needs three simple ingredients to thrive. I like to call it the three ‘c’s’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Communication and compromise.’

  ‘That’s only two.’

  ‘I can’t remember the third, it might have been compassion or care for one another. I told you to stop picking holes. You get the idea.’

  ‘Well Quinn and I aren’t doing very well are we, Mammy? We haven’t even gotten to the church and we can’t find a way to compromise.’

  ‘Ah, but you will, Aisling, because you and Quinn are like me and your daddy. You’re meant to be together.’

  A voice bellowed, ‘Can I come out now?!’

  Aisling and Maureen looked at one another and exchanged complicit smiles. ‘No, you can’t!’

  Chapter 31

  Cormac O’Mara stood in the guesthouse lobby, larger than life for a little man, his Louis Vuitton luggage abandoned on either side of him as he waited for Maureen to bring the last case in. He’d been unable to carry it all himself because he was a man who believed in packing for all occasions, except it would seem he thought, shaking off the cold, the inclement Irish weather. He was making a statement in his trademark crumpled linen suit which was highly unsuitable for flying and for the country he found himself back in. He refused to kow-tow to the norm though, or to be sensible. He’d had far too many years doing so as a younger man in Dublin and it had nearly quashed his spirit. A quick check was in order next, to ensure the infernal wind gusting down the street outside hadn’t dislodged his hair. He patted the top of his head, yes, yes, all was as it should be.

  The woman who’d worked here since time began and whose name he tried to conjure, Breda or Brenda, something like that was staring over at him. He bared the perfectly aligned teeth he’d spent a small fortune on in her direction.

  Bronagh blinked, feeling warmed by the glow of his neon smile. Cormac was the first of the wedding guests to arrive at O’Mara’s. The guesthouse was at the sole disposal of family and friends for the next four nights. It had been no mean feat to ensure the window of time had been kept clear and it had all been for nothing. Sparks were sure to fly when he learned he’d had a wasted journey she thought, frantically swiping the telltale biscuit crumbs off her lap and getting to her feet. Her calves were sore from this morning’s stair climb. She’d tried to get out of it, telling Moira all bets were off until Aisling made an appearance in reception and confirmed she was still in the running. Moira was having none of it and had warned Bronagh, given Aisling’s lovesick state the odds were against her. Bronagh’s competitive streak had reared and bucked and she’d taken to those stairs as though she were entering into the Olympic stair climbing race. She’d earned herself a biscuit or two, she reassured herself, turning her attention to Cormac O’Mara.

  She’d only met him a handful of times and each time she’d been struck by yer man’s resemblance, not to his late brother, God rest his soul, but to Elton John. She’d have loved to ask him if he could give her a few lines of Rocketman but had nev
er summoned the nerve. She swept out from behind her desk, her hand extended, ‘Welcome home, Mr O’Mara. It’s grand to see you.’ The consummate professional.

  ‘Please, call me Cormac, Brandy.’ He returned her handshake briefly.

  ‘Bronagh,’ she corrected, wondering whether all those rings on his fingers had left an indentation on her palm. He smelt very nice too, for a man who’d just come off a long-haul flight, and she tried not to sniff too obviously. The scent of pine made a pleasant change from the Arpège and fried bacon. Cormac was too busy looking about the entrance of his childhood home to acknowledge his gaffe. She marvelled over him being short and well- padded where his brother had been tall and lanky. There were similarities too though in certain expressions and she wondered if Maureen felt her loss keenly all over again when she caught sight of them.

  The door opened once more and the woman herself, windswept and hobbling like Quasi Modo, appeared with the last of Cormac’s designer bags. Pooh pranced in alongside her, all sugar and spice and all things nice. Bronagh eyeballed the poodle, she had the measure of him right enough. He was not to be trusted.

  ‘Jaysus wept,’ Maureen muttered, dropping the bag down next to the others. ‘Are you after moving back to Dublin, Cormac?’

  ‘Not a chance, Mo. LA is the land of sunshine. It’s been good to me whereas Ireland is the land of—’

  ‘Rainbows,’ Maureen stated firmly.

  Bronagh raised an eyebrow. Mo indeed.

  Cormac had not been about to say the country where he’d grown up was the land of rainbows but he swallowed his words. There was nothing to be gained by allowing his acerbic tongue to get the better of him and besides he was fond of Mo, a name he’d called her from the get-go. It was for this reason he’d decided to behave himself and as such he changed the subject. ‘The old place is looking good. I hope you’ll be giving me the grand tour.’

  ‘Of course I will, and this,’ Maureen arced her hand in a sweeping movement, ‘could have all been yours, Cormac, if you hadn’t of been so desperate to get on the boat and leave us all behind.’