by Olivia Ryan
‘It’s OK. I’m not upset. Right now I’m just numb. I’ll have to deal with it when I get home, I suppose.’
‘You’re not angry with her?’
It’s nice of Joyce to be concerned; she’s probably worried that there’s going to be a major family bust-up and no one’s going to be speaking to each other on the wedding day.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I tell her, calmly. ‘I’m not going to freak out. I’m here to have a good time, and that’s what I intend to do.’
‘Good girl,’ she says, squeezing my hand.
I’m just ignoring the wobble in her voice.
Everyone gets a bit emotional on hen weekends, don’t they.
It’s a laugh and a half when we make it back to the bar just before eight-fifteen. We’re the last-but-one pair back; the only ones still missing are Helen and Jude.
‘You haven’t got Number Six – Most Gorgeous Bloke You Could Find,’ says Emily accusingly.
‘Sorry. Ran out of time. Who’s that sitting next to Mum?’ I ask, dropping my voice.
‘The most gorgeous bloke she and Lisa could find, obviously.’
‘Christ. I don’t think much of their taste!’
But then again, what could you expect, considering Rick the Prick?
We’re comparing notes with the others while we wait for Helen and Jude. Everyone seems to have raided the kitchen for carrots, cucumbers and bananas, and we all seem to have managed to get our photos taken with someone young enough to be a real naughty schoolgirl; but it looks as though the only ones to have brought back a sex toy are Karen and Suze. I really don’t want to ask whose it is… they’re sharing a room for God’s sake!
‘It’s not mine!’ says Karen indignantly in response to the look I’m giving her.
‘I only brought it along,’ says Suze, trying her best to look prim and proper about it, ‘because I’ve been to these things before and there’s always a game where someone needs a vibrator.’
I raise my eyebrows at her.
‘And I won it in the raffle at an Ann Summers party,’ she adds, raising her eyebrows back. ‘Before you ask!’
‘What about the phone number?’ says Emily, ignoring us all. ‘Did anyone manage that one? I thought that’d be the hardest.’
‘Phone number of a guy who speaks Irish? Yep! Got one!’ I say, triumphantly. I wave the piece of paper in Emily’s face. ‘Bet no-one else has.’
‘Yes we have,’ retorts Mum. ‘It was easy. Nowadays they all seem to be learning it at school over here.’
‘We’ll check those in a minute,’ says Emily. ‘And: Gorgeous Man – you seem to have cornered the market there, Marge and Lisa. Well done.’
Their Gorgeous Man (who so isn’t) gives them a smarmy grin, showing no sign of wanting to leave. Obviously got nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
‘And where are those other two?’ says Mum, looking a bit anxious. ‘They’re very late…’
Right on cue, in come Jude and Helen, huffing and puffing as if they’ve run all the way back, dragging behind them a tall blond guy who makes everyone in the room (even Mum’s Gorgeous Man, I’m afraid to say), sit up very straight and do all the smoothing of hair, blinking of eyes, crossing of legs and stuff that goes on when you see somebody really, really sexy.
‘Bloody hell,’ whispers Emily in my ear. ‘They’ve won. No contest!’
‘But they’re late!’
‘Who cares?’
‘And what about all the other items?’
‘They don’t count!’
‘Huh!’ I mutter, but to be honest, right at that moment, looking at Mr Totally Sexy, who’s walking across the bar towards me, I have to admit I agree with her.
‘Hi!’ Jesus, his voice is as sexy as he looks. Shouldn’t be allowed! ‘I take it you’re the bride-to-be?’
‘Y..y..yes!’ Haven’t blushed and stuttered like this since I was about thirteen! ‘I’m Katie.’
That’s about all I can manage to say. I so wish I wasn’t wearing a gymslip and holding Joyce’s red thong on my lap. I stuff it down the side of my chair but I think, from the smile in his eyes (gorgeous) and the crinkle of his mouth (breathtaking), he’s already noticed.
‘Katie,’ he says, as if it’s the name of an exotic foreign holiday destination or a really expensive perfume. ‘Katie, it’s great to meet you. Love the uniform!’ He looks me up and down. I give the mini-gymslip a futile tug in the direction of the knee socks. ‘I’m Harry, by the way. Hope you’re having a good weekend?’
‘Yes! Thank you! Great, really great!’ I gabble, unable to take my eyes off him. I can hardly wait to ask Jude and Helen where the hell they found him. ‘Are you… um… on holiday in Dublin yourself, or do you, like, um, live here?’ Shit, if I can’t manage to utter a proper sentence in a minute I’ll die of embarrassment. ‘Only you don’t sound very… er…’
‘Irish?’ he says, with another smile. ‘No, I’m not; I’m over here for my friend Rob’s stag do. They’re all going wild down at O’Grady’s, just round the corner. I’d probably better be getting back there or they’ll think you lot have kidnapped me!’
‘We have, actually,’ smirks Helen, coming up behind me. ‘And I do believe you’ve won us the treasure hunt.’
‘That is so unfair,’ says Lisa, who’s still hanging on to her own trophy male as if he was anything to be proud of. ‘We’ve got Ernest.’
Ernest?
‘ And we’ve got Number Three, a pair of men’s underwear, preferably warm.’
‘Which no-one else seems to have managed,’ joins in Mum.
I’m just thinking please don’t let them be Ernest’s when Harry, without saying a word, strolls into the centre of the group and, quick as a… well, quick as a flash is quite appropriate, really… unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans, drops them to the floor and does a twirl on the spot, exhibiting a snug-fitting pair of black shorts that don’t leave a lot to the imagination. Laughing out loud at the shocked silence and sea of stunned expressions, he whips his jeans straight back up again, zips and buckles and saunters off.
‘Nice,’ says Karen breathlessly in my ear.
‘Very nice!’ I agree.
‘Catch you later, girls!’ he calls back over his shoulder. ‘Have a great evening!’
‘Jude and Helen win,’ announces Emily. Her voice is slightly hoarse. ‘Absolutely no contest!’
Hardly surprisingly, nobody argues.
ABOUT O’GRADY’S
‘Up to you two to decide where we go for dinner, then,’ Emily reminds Helen and Jude as we make our way out of the hotel.
‘Oh! Well, now, that’s a difficult one, isn’t it, Jude?’ says Helen, standing still and putting her finger to her chin as if she’s pondering the situation.
‘Difficult in me arse!’ snorts Jude, marching out of the door without looking to see if any of us are following. ‘Sure I’m heading over to O’Grady’s for the craic, and it’s got nothing to do with yer one that just walked out the door, there, if you’re thinking, so!’
‘Yeah, right!’ says Emily, nudging me, and imitating Jude. ‘In yer arse is it not, so!’
‘So, to be sure, will we go?’ I say in the same lousy accent, and we follow Jude out of the door, giggling together.
‘What’s all this about crack?’ says Mum, complainingly, tagging along behind.
‘Don’t worry, Marge,’ says Joyce, linking arms with her. ‘We’ll come home if there’s any drugs going on.’
‘I’m not altogether sure about getting involved in drugs,’ calls out a worried voice from the back of the group.
Shit. Ernest is still with us.
‘This is a hen party, Ernest,’ Emily tries to tell him kindly as we find a table for dinner. ‘It means girls only.’
‘But I was invited!’ he says, genuinely taken aback.
‘Only for the bloody treasure hunt,’ mutters Mum, who’s apparently washed her hands of him now the game’s over, and who can blame her?
&
nbsp; He stands, stricken, at the end of the table, looking around at us all uncertainly. We’re being a lot of bitches, really, I suppose. He was probably looking forward to a nice meal. But it’s no good – it just won’t do. I can’t spend the Saturday night of my hen weekend with a bloody Ernest in tow.
‘Sorry, Ernest,’ I tell him, trying to sound as if I mean it. ‘But – you’re not dressed appropriately. This is a school reunion.’
‘Ah!’ he says, looking relieved. ‘I see! No problem!’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ says Emily thoughtfully as she watches him toddle off out of the door. ‘I’ve got a horrible feeling he might be going back to his hotel to get changed…’
The conversation, over dinner, is pretty predictable. We don’t only talk about Harry, you understand. We’re not that sad. There’s a clash of opinion amongst us about whether he’s too full of himself, a show-off, probably a bastard, someone best avoided at any time and certainly on a hen weekend – or whether he’s as gorgeous as he looks, has a terrific sense of humour, is up for a laugh and would be great to get to know better… if only we weren’t on a hen weekend. I’m inclined to think the latter. He seemed like a nice guy. Nothing to do with how he looked.
‘So where is he?’ is the constant theme.
‘Sure, he’ll be upstairs with all the lads,’ Jude keeps reassuring us.
Upstairs is the nightclub, and we’ll be heading up there just as soon as we get this last mouthful down. Indigestion is a small price to pay, trust me.
‘I hope you’re not displaying a bit too much interest in some other guy, so close to your wedding, little sister?’ says Lisa teasingly, after Mum and Auntie Joyce have decided to call it a day and head back to the hotel, and the rest of us finally make for the entrance of the club.
‘Course not!’ I smile back at her. ‘Just joshing.’
I might have said more, but the music hits us as we walk through the doors, and I think that’s it for the night, unless we shout through a megaphone.
We’re attracting quite a lot of attention. Not that we’re the only hen party in here; there’s another group dressed as Red Indians and some girls wearing green tops with bunnies’ ears on their heads, which I can’t quite fathom. But the men are really going for the schoolgirl outfits. Funny how it never seemed to cause such a stir when I was legitimately dressing like this every day. Well, maybe not quite like this. I’m conscious of showing the navy blue knickers almost every time I move.
‘Does yer mammy know you’re out, love?’ breathes a nasty beery slimeball, trying to touch my arse as I weave my way back to our table from the bar. ‘Will I take ya home, an’ we can do our homework together in me room?’
‘Feck off,’ I growl, making all his mates roar with laughter. Easily amused!
We’re several drinks into the evening, and quite a few numbers onto the dance
floor, when we finally spot our stag party. They’re not exactly in fancy dress but it’s easy to pick out the prospective bridegroom, who’s got condoms hanging all the way round his belt, his pockets and even the back of his collar. He’s also got a very glazed look in his eyes and is having trouble co-ordinating his limited dance movements. In fact he might very well fall over pretty soon, and it’s not even eleven o’clock yet.
‘This is my mate Rob!’ shouts a familiar voice close to my ear.
‘I guessed!’ I shout back.
‘This is Katie!’ he bellows at Rob. ‘She’s getting married too!’
‘What?’ slurs Rob, holding onto Harry’s shoulders and squinting at me. ‘Getting married? I’m getting married.’
‘We know you are, mate. So’s Katie!’
‘No! Not Katie!’ Rob looks at me anxiously. ‘No – it’s Anna. I’m getting married to Anna. She’s… where is she?’ He tries to turn round to survey the dance floor but ends up almost falling into Harry’s arms.
‘Anna’s at home, Rob. Katie’s marrying someone else. She’s… oh, fuck it, never mind,’ he finishes as Rob staggers off, possibly in search of Anna, possibly in search of another drink. ‘How you doing?’ he adds, leaning closer to me to make himself heard above the bass beat.
We’re both trying to dance at the same time as we’re talking. You know what it’s like. Not easy. I’m trying to reply, trying to tell him that I’m doing fine, thank you very much – but he can’t really hear me. That’s the only reason he takes hold of my arm and pulls me closer to him. Obviously. For a couple of minutes we dance like that – close together, but holding each other only very lightly. It’s just so we can finish the conversation, you understand. But I’m tingling all over like I’ve had an electric shock and I feel kind of weak and shaky by the time the music finishes and we step apart from each other. I’m wondering if I’m going down with a dose of flu. That’d be bloody typical, wouldn’t it.
The girls are all on the dance floor with me and I’m getting a few looks – particularly from Helen. I know what she’s thinking.
‘It’s OK, don’t worry!’ I shout. ‘I’m only talking to him!’
‘Yes,’ she says.
I don’t like the tone of that yes.
The music hots up from about midnight. We’re getting a lot of numbers played for us – new favourite girlie ones by The Scissor Sisters, Beyonce and Destiny’s Child as well as all the old traditional ones - Ladies’ Night, A Night to Remember, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun! I can’t count how many times I’ve been clubbing, over the years, and joined in the dancing and singing along to these Hen Night favourites – but this time, it’s all about me.
‘It feels really strange!’ I shout to Emily. ‘All this is about me!’
‘Of course it is, you daft cow!’ she laughs. ‘You’re the one getting married!’
By now my school hat is lying somewhere, probably trampled, on the dance floor, my tie has come off, my socks are round my ankles and I seem to have stopped caring about the length of my gymslip. I’m only a little bit drunk – it’s the music, the atmosphere, the party mood that’s really got me going – but the alcohol, as always, has given me the mistaken impression that I’m a great dancer. I’m out in the middle of the dance floor and my mates have formed a ring around me, clapping and cheering me on as, in a state of heightened excitement I’m performing a one-woman show of elaborate and tricky movements that probably bear more resemblance to a chicken laying its eggs than a disco queen going through her routine. Nobody seems to care, though, and when the DJ announces that he’s going to play School’s Out by Alice Cooper for all the naughty schoolgirls on the dance floor we go wild, screaming and whooping as we grab hold of each other and form a kind of rugby-scrum, arms round each other’s waists, swaying and jigging to the music, singing along with the chorus which is all that we can manage between the lot of us.
‘Need another drink!’ I gasp as the music ends.
I push my way through the crowds to the bar, presuming the other girls, or at least some of them, are following me.
‘Shit,’ I mutter to myself when I get there and realise I’m on my own.
Emily’s got the money for the evening in her purse and where the bloody hell is she?
‘What’s up?’
Wouldn’t you just know it. Right now, as I’m leaning on the bar, probably looking at my least attractive ever, with my school shirt sleeves rolled up, collar askew, dripping sweat from everywhere it’s humanly possible to drip it from, is not the time I would choose to be spotted by the most sexy man in Dublin.
‘Dying of thirst,’ I tell him, not wanting to meet his eyes in case he’s looking disgusted at the state of me.
‘Can I get you a drink, then?’
‘No! No, you see, Emily’s got the money. The euros. You know, the drinking money. Emily’s in charge, but I… I think I’ve lost Emily.’
I’m only just about sober enough to make sense. Or am I?
‘Well, not to worry. Let me buy you a drink, ’cos I don’t want you to die of thirst. Not before your wedding!’
/> ‘Wedding. Yes.’ That rings a bell. ‘OK, yes please. I’ll have …’ I’m too thirsty for vodka. ‘I’ll have a Becks, please.’
Harry orders this, and a Guinness for himself.
‘Got to drink it while we’re over here,’ he tells me, taking a great slurp from his glass. ‘It’s beautiful.’
I notice he has trouble with the word beautiful. So he’s not quite as sober as he seems.
‘Have you been drinking that all night?’
‘Yep. ’S beautiful,’ he repeats. ‘Rob ought to have stuck with the Guinness. Then he might not have been sick.’
‘Poor guy. What happened to him?’ I ask, looking around.
‘Had to go back to the hotel. Being sick all over the…’
‘Ugh. What a shame. On his stag weekend!’
‘Been drinking all day. He won’t remember in the morning.’ He gives me a sudden look. ‘What about your boyfriend, then? Is he away on his stag do?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’s he gone, then?’
‘Prague. But I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Fair enough. I like Prague, though. Been there twice. Two different stag weekends.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Sorry,’ he says, looking at me a bit more closely. ‘Sorry, you didn’t want to talk about it. I won’t talk about it, OK?’
‘OK.’
He takes another gulp of his Guinness.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll change the subject, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘I mean, if you’re upset about something, the last thing you want is someone going on and on and on about it, isn’t it.’
