The Importance of Being Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  Sadhbh interrupts my train of thought and drags me onto the dancefloor like her life depends on it, and to be fair I do love a bit of a ‘Single Ladies’ boogie. I feel just like Beyoncé, flipping my hand around the way she does. Six years of Irish dancing lessons and I always felt like I had spot-on natural rhythm. Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-OOOHHHH! Suddenly, Des crashes into us sending me flying and Sadhbh’s red wine all over her cream – I suppose you’d call it a dress. Something from Cos, no doubt. Or one of those shops with no names and just a few dots or a picture of a fox where their sign should be and rail after rail of deconstructed ‘garments’. If you wanted something with the threads hanging out of it would you not just go back to fourth-year Home Ec. and whip something up from a pattern? I don’t know how Sadhbh pays good money for some of the yokes she wears but she always looks lovely and stylish, and her mad jewellery helps I suppose. She even looks elegant now with the red wine dripping off the sleeve of her cream flour sack and Des nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Come on and we’ll give it a rinse,’ I roar, dragging her in the direction of the bathroom.

  The ‘Single Ladies’ effect means that almost every woman in the place is on the dancefloor, so we get to a sink with relative ease. ‘It’s grand, Ais,’ Sadhbh insists. ‘It’ll wash out I’m sure.’ She’s so cool about it. I’d be at home already, elbow deep in a vat of Persil, cursing the tag on the dress which no doubt gives little information about washing instructions but tells you about the yurt in Mongolia where they sourced the fabric. She’s probably right, though – dabbing at it with two-ply bright-blue toilet roll isn’t going to improve it much. And anyway, the red wine splash looks like it could almost be part of the dress. ‘Maybe I’ll sling a blue WKD at you too, Sadhbh, make the whole thing a bit more colourful!’ She laughs, turning to the mirror to apply a slick of deep red lipstick. I’d put a bit of Rimmel Heather Shimmer on earlier but it’s all gone now, lost to the turkey dinner and the multiple glasses of wine.

  I always feel like a bit of a heifer beside Sadhbh, although I’d take my light-brown hair over the grey any day, even if the natural kink does get out of hand in the drizzle. She was in fits laughing when I first told her I’ve never dyed it. Why would I, when the sun gives it lovely blonde streaks in the summer? You’d be mad to jeopardise that with chemicals. I smooth my dress down over my hips in the mirror. It’s very flattering, I must say. I’ve been semi-successfully doing Weight Watchers for the past six years but these last seven pounds are being very stubborn. According to my leader, Maura, I’ve ‘plateaued’ and she’s insisting I swap the Kerrygold for one of those spreads. Jesus, Daddy would turn in his grave.

  I’ve been doing my best to alternate the glasses of water and wine but after the stress of the Secret Santa and with the party successfully underway I’m letting my hair down. Work tomorrow should be interesting. There’s been no mention of being allowed to come in late. In fact, there’s been very little communication on anything from the powers that be in the past few weeks. Not a sniff of an email about Christmas bonuses. Maybe it will come tomorrow. I need four new tyres and I have the bonus earmarked for the third-dearest ones. ‘Never scrimp on tyres or towels and your journey will be safe and your arse will be dry.’ One of Daddy’s pearls of wisdom.

  I smooth my hair in the mirror too. I never got the curly blow-dry so I’ve had to let the natural kink speak for itself this evening. ‘You’ve loads of hair,’ hairdressers are always telling me as they battle through it. ‘I know,’ says I, proud as punch. No higher praise from a hairdresser than having loads of hair.

  ‘Will we go?’ Sadhbh turns on her heel ready to head back to the ballroom, where the unmistakable strains of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ are sure to send Escalations into new heights of frenzy. Hopefully Des is having a sit down somewhere. Just as we exit, Maureen, one of the executive PAs, pushes past us, calling, ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘Hear what?’ says Sadhbh. Her HR hat is never too far off and she’s all ears. ‘There’s something big happening tomorrow,’ breathes Maureen to the half-dozen women she’s dragged into the bathroom with her. ‘Shermer is making some kind of announcement. I had to patch through the call and then pass the memo on to the other partners.’

  Sadhbh turns and runs from the bathroom, no doubt in search of her team to find out what the hell is going on. One of the other girls speaks up. ‘What do you think it is?’

  Maureen shrugs. ‘I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s not good.’

  Chapter 2

  I’m practically vibrating with nerves by the time I arrive at the office the next morning. I was awake half the night worrying about what this announcement might be. My greatest fear is that PensionsPlus is after being bought out by one of those big conglomerates and we’re going to have to start standing at our desks like they do at Google. There’s another few varicose veins for me.

  The other half of the night I spent dreaming I was in the queue to drive out of the Dundrum Town Centre car park but I couldn’t for the life of me find my ticket. This is one of my worst fears. I was tearing apart my good handbag and all the yummy mummies in their Beemers and Range Rovers were honking at me. My flannel pyjamas were soaked with sweat when I eventually woke up, clawing for my alarm clock, full sure I’d slept in. I hadn’t, of course. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve slept in. I was actually awake early; a mixture of The Fear and the Red Bull I ingested at the end of the night. Usually I’d avoid Jägerbombs like the plague, but I complimented Declan Ryan one too many times on his Christmas tie and he twigged that it was from me and insisted on buying me a drink. At that stage everyone had thrown all caution to the wind and were throwing shots down their necks like they were Rennies on St Stephenses Day. I walked to work in the end. I considered treating myself and driving in, but between the Jägerbomb and losing track of the wine with the dinner, I could easily have miscalculated the number of units I’d drunk and not given myself enough hours to get over them. I’ve seen the ads. I definitely couldn’t live with the shame.

  The bang of drink hits me like a sledgehammer when I arrive on the second floor, even though only a handful of people are in. Sadhbh was gone before I’d even left my bedroom. Not a good sign, but I’d say she might have her work cut out for her today if what Maureen said was true. I must remember to drop her up a slice of toast and two paracetamol from the stash in my drawer later. She’s the type that forgets to eat, if you can imagine that.

  I’m not feeling too fresh myself, truth be told, but I know something beige at elevenses will sort me right out. A croissant would be my personal preference, but they’re considered a holy sin in Weight Watchers. Elaine has almost convinced me that I’m wasting my life counting Points and says she can’t watch me doling out ‘ten sad little almonds’ into my hand in the kitchen any more. ‘You’re not fat, Aisling!’ she yelps at me regularly, demonstrating that I fit into at least half of her mad tops. That’s easy for her to say, though. She’s another one who floats around like she might wobble off course if someone blows her a kiss, wilfully eating egg whites and whatever grass and weeds she whizzes up in the fancy blender – when she’s not horsing into her hangover pizza (vegan, of course). My physique is more … sturdy. I’m sure my weight plateau has something to do with my lapses in judgement in the chipper after Thursday nights in Coppers, but the less I tell Weight Watchers Maura the less she’ll look at me with her big disappointed eyes. I hate letting her down.

  Elaine, meanwhile, is pure mad about that Nutribullet. A blender is only good for two things in my book: making breadcrumbs and the odd bit of soup. I’m getting soup for my lunch today, I’ve decided. Dempsey’s around the corner from the office does a decent miscellaneous vegetable that’s just the right shade of orange and salty enough that you need two pints of MiWadi with it. Just what the doctor ordered.

  I check my watch – 8.58 a.m. – and crane my head around the side of my cubicle. The office is still more than half-empty. Turning on my PC, I scan the
room and note that nobody is making eye contact with anyone else, but I’m not sure who knows what. In the good old days we used to have desk-decorating competitions at Christmas, but last year decorations were deemed a fire hazard and outlawed entirely. As the health and safety officer, I had to publicly enforce the rule but inside I was bulling. The place used to look grand spruced up with a bit of tinsel but this morning it just looks pathetic. I can actually feel the fear oozing out of the cubicles around me. You wouldn’t wish the day after the work Christmas party on your worst enemy, and now we have this announcement hanging over our heads.

  I refresh my email. Nothing – yet, anyway. Sadhbh swore she’d be on to me as soon as she heard anything upstairs. Desperate for a cuppa to settle my nerves, I tip into the kitchen only to find Des retching into the bin. And not even the normal bin: the recycling bin. Honest to God, you’d think he’d know better at his age. He goes running out the door with his hand over his mouth before I can give him the old ‘ho, how’s the head?’ nudge-nudge treatment.

  I’m drumming my fingers on the Formica counter – I always do it when I’m nervous – when my new desk neighbour, Suzanne, bursts in carrying her breast pump in a black backpack. I know it’s her breast pump because she talks about it constantly and will tell anyone who’ll listen that according to EU law she’s entitled to a room with a lockable door to do her pumping once a day. She has poor Sadhbh’s heart broken reeling off her rights, so every day, for half an hour, she marches off to the conference room swinging her backpack and daring anyone to so much as look twice at her.

  She’s very nice but has three children, and in the few weeks I’ve known her I have learned more about them than I know about my own family. I love kids and am very good for firing up the ‘suits yous’ under a picture on Facebook as soon as any coupled-up friend of child-bearing age appears holding a baby – people love that – but even I have to draw the line somewhere. Suzanne often careens in at ten past nine with tales of temperatures and puke and not being able to find shoes.

  Of course, she wasn’t out last night because one of them – Chloe? – has chicken pox or foot and mouth disease, and I suddenly realise she won’t have a notion about the announcement.

  ‘Oh God, you’re a sight for sore eyes, Aisling. You’re not going to ask me to bring you to the toilet or to wipe your arse, are you?’

  ‘No! Hahahaha.’ Should I tell her her top is on inside out, I wonder? She opens the dishwasher and takes out a freshly washed mug. Just the one. For herself. I don’t say anything, though, because I know she sees the office as a bit of a holiday camp.

  ‘I saw every hour of the clock last night. Is there no decaf Nescafé?’ Suzanne is convinced Chloe will go mad hopping herself off the cot and what have you if there’s even a trace of caffeine in her breast milk. I could write a book about Chloe now, to be quite honest with you.

  ‘They know I can’t drink the regular stuff,’ she groans, grabbing a tea-bag and helping herself to the water in the kettle I’d just boiled as I empty the dishwasher. ‘I’m going to have to get on to HR, it’s just –’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother them today – they have enough going on upstairs,’ I blurt out, desperate to cut her off and fighting the feeling of rising panic in my throat. I’m not able for all the breast milk chat on top of everything.

  She puts down the kettle and swings around, nearly taking out her own eye with her ponytail.

  ‘Why? What’s happening?’

  I immediately regret saying anything. Loose lips sink ships – isn’t that what Mammy says? But she also says a problem shared is a problem halved, and if I don’t talk to someone I’ll do something mad like kick a door. I’ll never forget when Miss Weightman kicked a door in third-year English after Helen Donohoe said Shakespeare talked a load of shite. Afterwards, Sister Anne sat us all down and explained that she was going through ‘the change,’ which explained a lot about Miss Weightman’s general demeanour that year.

  ‘I don’t really know, to tell you the truth,’ I whisper, doing my best to sort out the cutlery drawer while I’m restocking it. Low on teaspoons again – I’ll have to make another sign pleading for them to be returned. ‘Last night Maureen said there’s going to be an announcement. I hardly slept a wink thinking about it.’ I decide not to mention the Jägerbombs. I don’t want to set her off on how much she craves a glass of wine but she says she might as well pour poison directly into Chloe’s veins if she has even one drink.

  Suzanne doesn’t seem too concerned, though, and sighs with relief and waves a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, I’d take anything Maureen says with a pinch of salt,’ she says, heading for the door. ‘She can’t hold her drink for the life of her. She was probably just looking for attention.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ I pick up ‘my’ mug – I won it along with tickets to see Brian McFadden on Today FM and am very protective of it – and follow her back to our adjoining cubicles, feeling hopeful. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Maureen just wanted to have some toilet chats and was trying to drum up, I don’t know, something to start the conversation. Suzanne used to work on reception herself, so she knows her well.

  My relief is short lived when I see an email notification from Sadhbh. The subject reads: ‘check your phone!!!’ so I do. Jesus, the Chez SEA WhatsApp group, named after the apartment the three of us share, is hopping. Twelve notifications! Chez SEA stands for Sadhbh, Elaine, Aisling, and the group picture is a snap of us all piled into the bath. Don’t ask. I came up with the name and Sadhbh ordered dressing gowns with it printed on the back for us. Majella was a bit sniffy when she saw them but got over it fairly lively when Sadhbh produced a ‘Mad Jella’ one for her too, even though she’s only a regular guest rather than a Chez SEA resident.

  I scan the messages from Sadhbh: ‘It’s major’, ‘meeting soon’, ‘redundancies’. Redundancies? It’s worse than I thought! Elaine is desperate for information too. She works in sales for a tech start-up and spends a lot of her time hot-desking at home in our kitchen and putting on tops over her pyjamas to sit in Skype meetings – hence her vested interested in the comings and goings at PensionsPlus. She gets very lonely at home by herself all day when she’s not catching up on the soaps.

  I look over at Suzanne typing away, oblivious to it all. What if she’s one of the unlucky ones? She cracked and had a Harp shandy in Dempsey’s with her lunch one day and confided in me that she would go demented if she was stuck at home with the terrible three 24/7, so my heart really goes out to her.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  I nearly jump out of my seat with the fright. Standing at the top of the room is Martin Shermer, the elusive MD of PensionsPlus Ireland, looking white as a ghost, tie loose around his neck, shirt sleeves rolled up and no jacket anywhere to be found. Behind him are two of the partners – Bill Cullen with a Beard (I’m not sure of his name) and The Woman. They don’t look great, despite none of them showing up at the party last night after RSVPing that they’d be there.

  ‘Sorry for the short notice, but we’ll need to see everyone in the big boardroom. Now.’ Oh, this is definitely it. ‘Seats are first come first served so expect …’ I turn to look at Suzanne but she’s gone, elbows flying.

  ****

  We all pile into the boardroom, which smells like a brewery even with all the windows open. There must be eighty of us in there, leaning against the walls, arms folded like sullen schoolchildren, ready to hear our fate. The rest are probably asleep at home in pools of their own vomit or still wandering the streets clutching kebabs. Despite the number of bodies, the room is completely silent save for Eilish, one of the older receptionists, sniffling. There are fancy pastries on the table, untouched, practically waving at me. I don’t think Weight Watchers Maura would begrudge me one on a day like this. Isn’t sugar supposed to be good for shock?

  ‘Look, you’re probably wondering what’s happening, and I’m sorry to do this so abruptly,’ Shermer begins. ‘I would wait until everyone is in but … I wanted to
get this out to you before it hits the headlines.’ Someone at the back mutters ‘You bollix’ and the atmosphere grows even more tense. Eilish emits a little sob. ‘Long story short, PPH, our parent company, is closing down Irish operations and we’re all being made redundant as of right now, myself and the partners included. Everyone.’

  We’re all being made redundant? Even me? The room erupts. Suddenly everyone is shouting. ‘Are we still getting paid before Christmas? What about the bonus?’ Natalie, one of the fund managers, calls. My tyres!

  ‘How much will we be entitled to?’ Des stammers, looking green about the face.

  ‘What about the holidays I’ve been saving up to carry over to next year?’ I say to nobody in particular.

  ‘Please! Please! Settle down, everyone,’ Shermer bellows above the din, flapping his arms and looking like he wishes the ground would swallow him up. The two behind him just stare at the floor. ‘PPH is holding a public forum on 3 January in the Airport Travelodge. I’ve told you everything I know – they will have all the details for us then.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, through the glass partition, I notice a group of big burly types in uniform standing in the foyer. When did they arrive? Alan from IT has obviously copped them too and shouts, ‘Who are the heavies?’

  Everyone turns to look and one of them, his neck about the size of one of my thighs, and that’s saying something, gives us a little wave and they all start creasing themselves laughing.