‘I know,’ I admit with a sigh, stuffing them into my handbag. ‘But you can’t have a hen without a willy straw. It wouldn’t be right. They’ll understand.’
‘Did you ring your mum yet?’ Sadhbh asks, leaning against the doorframe. Mammy doesn’t know anything about my job. She doesn’t need anything else to worry about at the moment. Paddy Reilly, Daddy’s oldest friend, has been helping out with the outdoor work on the farm and with the accounts, but I have an awful feeling things are falling by the wayside.
‘Not yet.’ I sigh. ‘Sure I’ll be going Down Home tomorrow. I’ll tell her face to face.’
Between the pair of us we drag the rest of the stuff, as well as two cases of Prosecco, down to the basement and cram it all in, Tetris-style. I had been thinking of trading in the Micra for something with a roomier boot, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Daddy helped me pick it out years ago, kicking the tyres and sealing the deal with a handshake. One careful lady owner, or so we were told. It just passed the NCT too. Just as well, since I won’t be changing it any time soon now.
The hen is in the Wilde Building, a new creative space and co-working hub in town overlooking the Liffey. It’s a miracle we snagged it so close to Christmas but Ruby knows the owner so we’re getting the room for free, as well as access to the roof garden with glorious views across the city and on out to the Dublin Mountains. On the drive in from Portobello I’m forced to ask Sadhbh what the blazes a creative space and co-working hub is, but in the time it takes us to get there I’m still not a hundred per cent sure. It sounds fab, though.
The brides are off getting glammed up but, thanks to the heavy traffic getting into town, we don’t actually have much time to get the place decorated. I feel my stress levels rising. We’re only having this do because I insisted on it, and if the girls don’t have a good time I’ll never forgive myself. Personally, I don’t think it’s a real hen party unless there’s a compulsory activity or two – pole dancing, a make-up class, even making flower crowns, for the love of God – but Elaine said she had to draw the line somewhere. So it’s drinks, canapés, some dancing and that’s it. The good news is her dad, who clearly has money to burn, is forking out for caterers so the food and cocktails are all free. I’ve never seen the like of it. I’ll have to be extra vigilant tonight with my glasses of water. It’s easy to get carried away at a free bar, as anyone who works at PensionsPlus knows. I can’t jeopardise the little surprise Sadhbh and I have planned for later.
****
‘Jesus, Aisling, you’ve outdone yourself!’
Majella was supposed to help us decorate but she went Down Home this morning for a funeral and the Timoney’s bus was late getting back into town. It always is on Saturdays because Tony Timoney insists on stopping to do the Lotto on the Naas Road. He swears he’ll split his winnings with whoever is on the bus but I wouldn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him. He doesn’t even do the Euromillions. Majella’s looking well – all glowy and happy – and I know it has nothing to do with the egg salad sandwiches and small talk she probably filled up on earlier.
‘Thanks, Maj. How’s the head after last night? Did the mugs make it home safely?’
‘Don’t talk to me about mugs! I never told you the best part on the phone. Wait until you hear this. A bouquet of red roses arrived into the staff room yesterday morning with a little teddy in the middle of them.’
‘No!’ I gasp, unable to help myself.
‘Yes!’ she squeals. ‘And, Ais, the teddy was holding a little pillow …’
‘Go on!’
‘And the pillow had the words “I Love You” embroidered on it.’
She squeals and I can’t help but be taken up in her excitement. It’s awful cheesy but, to be honest, it’s long been my dream for someone to burst into the office with a bouquet the size of a fridge and a stuffed animal that needs its own passport. The pure romance of it. John is grand with the flowers but this classroom gesture has nearly brought a tear to my eye. The extravagance of it.
I’ve been best friends with Majella since junior infants and in that time I’ve seen her blaze through pretty much all the lads we know Down Home, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind her. Her first boyfriend was Phillip McCarthy, but he was forced to dump her after she followed him behind the sweet shop at indoor soccer and kissed him. They were eight years old at the time and he got an awful fright. That’s Majella for you – she’s pure Samantha, always has been – she gets what she wants. She gets things she doesn’t want too, like chlamydia during her first year in college in Limerick, but it barely slowed her down (although she did have to send a few awkward texts). Mary I nearly lost its ‘Mary Dry’ nickname during Majella’s four years there.
‘The kids were nearly hopping out the windows asking me questions about my boyfriend and asking me if I’m getting married. I think he’s The One. Can you believe it?’
I can’t, to be quite honest. I really thought Maj would end up with one of John’s friends – since I’m a Knocknamanagh Rangers WAG we pal around a lot with that crowd – or maybe even one of the Ballygobbard Rovers, although it would make the wedding a bit awkward for me. Team politics are tricky – it’s a miracle me and John ever got together in the first place.
But no, she’s in love with Pablo, the baby-faced taxi driver John befriended when we were in Tenerife for some winter sun earlier this year. Months later Pablo arrived in Ballygobbard, rucksack on his back, ready to embrace all Ireland has to offer – John is some man to talk the place up, to be fair – and when himself and Majella clapped eyes on each other it became apparent that he wasn’t going back any time soon. But he’s been going through a huge bout of homesickness recently and has taken to wearing shorts in December despite the Baltic temperatures. No doubt he’ll have a kidney infection come Christmas Day. He’s a great man for the lifts because he misses being a taxi driver, which is handy for Maj seeing as she can’t drive, and the closest thing BGB has to a Luas is Constance Swinford’s horse box. Pablo’s also proven himself to be dynamite with a hurl, and John has his eye on him for a full-back position. He even had him convinced for a while that BGB stands for BallyGoBackwards, a Knocknamanagh joke that never seems to get old.
‘That is so romantic, Majella. You must be delighted. I’m delighted for you, so I am.’ I am delighted for her. Those early days in a relationship when you’re shifting non-stop and dying to spend every minute together – you can’t beat it. It reminds me of when John and I started going out and he’d send me a good-morning message first thing and God knows how many more throughout the day. Nothing exciting, just this and that, letting me know he was thinking of me. It was nice. When we got back together we were back at it like teenagers, with the miss yous and the love yous coming out our ears. Then last week he texted me making sure I was bringing toilet roll over to his house because Cillian was making an attempt at refried beans. Still, though, it’s nice to be wanted, I suppose.
‘I finally get what the fuss is about. I’m in love, Aisling.’ She’s beaming now and I think it’s fair to say I’ve never seen her happier.
‘Here, make yourself useful,’ I say, throwing a bag of penis-shaped confetti in her direction. It was left over from Martina Cloghessy’s hen last month. Waste not want not. ‘Scatter a bit of that on the tables, will you? The brides will be here any minute.’
Half an hour later the place is looking stunning, if I do say so myself. The room has filled up nicely and Sadhbh has done a lovely job with what she tells me are minimalist Scandinavian Christmas decorations. The balloons are saving it, to be quite honest. There are waiters weaving around with trays of mad little vegan things, per Ruby’s request. I really can’t believe this is my life, out in Dublin at a lesbian hen party on a Saturday night. It’s all very cosmopolitan. I’m in full Aisling-at-a-hen mode and commence chatting to the mothers of the brides and all the various aunties, sisters and cousins – and, Jesus, there are loads of them. Double the usual amount of relations, I suppose. R
uby and Elaine arrived a while ago in a cacophony of shrieks and hugs and I’m delighted that it all came together in the end. Sadhbh is doling out the props and I can see the tag-rugby girls making the most of the willy straws. I should never have doubted them. Nothing as gas as a willy straw, even if it’s not your cup of tea, sexually speaking.
One person I don’t see, though, is Maj, and it’s unusual. She’d normally be going hell for leather on the dancefloor, swinging furry handcuffs over her head, at this point in the night. I check the bar: no sign; the toilet: no sign; then head up onto the roof. It’s freezing – even for December – and the icy wind bites at the one bare shoulder my dress reveals (it was grand without a wash in the end). I spot her at a corner table, her good winter coat wrapped tightly around her. She’s looking down at her phone, beaming away like a mad thing, and I know she’s texting him. She’s always texting him these days. I leave her to it and head back inside.
Taking a deep gulp of my cosmopolitan – I’ve never felt more like Carrie Bradshaw, although I suppose I’m more of a Charlotte – I tap the microphone. Immediately, everyone in the room turns to stare at me, and I can see Elaine nudge Ruby like, oh no, what’s going on?
‘Er, one two? Hello, everyone,’ I say in a slightly shaky voice. I was never one for public speaking but this really has to be done. ‘Now, I know the girls said that they didn’t want a big fuss and I tried, I really did.’ There’s tittering and Ruby puts her head in her hands but I can see she’s smiling. ‘But I think everyone would agree that a hen isn’t a hen without a slideshow. Roll it there, Róisín!’
A screen lowers behind me and Sadhbh hits Play on her phone as the first picture – side by side baby photos of Ruby and Elaine – bursts into view while ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ booms out of the fancy speakers that seem to be everywhere.
The brides are in tears by the fourth slide, which is a new personal best for me. The trick is to include video messages from friends and family abroad who couldn’t make it. Nothing like a sister in Melbourne with a poem or a best friend in Toronto to really get the waterworks going. Of course, I was bawling away myself. How could you not?
By midnight the party is in full swing and the dancefloor is absolutely heaving, even though I’m not mad on the music myself. One of Ruby’s pals is DJing and I haven’t recognised a single song yet; when I requested anything by Ed Sheeran she looked at me like I had two heads. Still, me and Maj are giving it serious welly and I make a mental note to add a few Activity Points into my Weight Watchers tracker. Maura will be delighted. After my fifth or sixth cosmopolitan I’m feeling a bit worse for wear so I stagger out to the roof for a bit of fresh air. Sadhbh is there with some of her and Elaine’s college pals, but as soon as she cops me she breaks away from the group.
‘Okay, Ais?’ she says, gesturing at my bare feet. Well, bare save for my black 100 denier tights. It’s December after all. I go down to forty denier in the summer months.
‘I forgot about drinking the water, again.’ I shrug, and she steers me over to a quiet corner under a patio heater.
‘Why don’t you go home? It’s been a crazy couple of days. You must be wrecked.’
Well, she’s not wrong there. To think, forty-eight hours ago I thought my biggest problem was two miserable fecks not handing in their Secret Santa presents. Now I’m … unemployed. I’ve always had a job. When I was in college I worked in a deli for two years and a restaurant for another two. The unlimited supplies of coleslaw did nothing for my waistline.
‘Maybe I will call it a night,’ I concede. ‘It’s all over now bar the shouting. You’re looking a bit chirpier?’
‘I’m feeling better about the whole thing,’ Sadhbh replies, lighting one of her complicated rollies. You’d think there would be an easier way to increase your chances of getting cancer. ‘Worst case scenario, I’ll just look for a new job. Best case is a nice juicy payout.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it like that.’
‘Ah, fuck it, it was a shithole anyway,’ she goes, and I realise she’s three sheets to the wind too. ‘And I was thinking, Ais, it could be a good chance for you to spend more time with your mum. I know you’ve been worrying about her. It might be serendipity.’
Serendipity. Now there’s a classic film I haven’t thought about in a while. Kate Beckinsale has a lovely head of hair – you can tell she minds it properly with leave-in conditioner and probably a weekly masque. Very shiny altogether. And maybe Sadhbh is right: being out of work will give me a chance to spend more time with Mammy. Silver linings and all that. Sadhbh catches me in a swaying embrace. ‘But I’ll miss living and working with you something rotten.’
Before I have a chance to tell her I feel exactly the same, Elaine totters over, arms out wide, her blonde bob looking a little dishevelled. ‘There’s my girls,’ she sings, clearly more worse for wear than any of us. Job done. It’s not a proper hen if the bride isn’t slaughtered. ‘What’s going on?’ Elaine has us both in an affectionate headlock.
‘We’re just being saps about work and everything. We’ll miss each other.’ Sadhbh gives Elaine’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘And … we’ll miss you too,’ she says hesitantly. Elaine clamps her lips together and looks from Sadhbh’s face to mine and back to Sadhbh, who continues, ‘We know Chez SEA will soon be no more.’ I didn’t know she was going to bring it up but I suppose someone has to.
Elaine looks genuinely gutted. ‘I didn’t know how to say it. I know this has all been so quick, with the speedy wedding, but we just really wanted to get a move on, you know? We’ve waited long enough to be allowed to get bloody married.’
‘It’s grand, it’s grand,’ Sadhbh cries into Elaine’s face. ‘You deserve it, my love.’
‘Please don’t feel like you have to move anytime soon.’ Elaine pulls the three of us down onto the nearby wicker outdoor couch. Damp as anything. My kidneys! ‘We’re going on honeymoon for three weeks after the wedding – Uganda and then on to some other cool locations in Sudan and Kenya.’
Sudan? Uganda? Mother of God, what did the Maldives ever do to them? Is it not the law that you have to go on the all-inclusive honeymoon?
‘Please don’t worry,’ I reassure Elaine.
‘Yeah, don’t worry,’ echoes Sadhbh. ‘We’ll find something.’ She pulls the two of us into a vice-like hug and then says, ‘Will we go? Let’s go home and get on the couch and watch Mean Girls. While we still can.’
It seems like a crime to leave a free bar, but pyjamas sounds lovely and we have limited couch nights left, me, Elaine and Sadhbh. ‘I’ll get our coats,’ I announce. The cloakroom was free too. A lovely touch.
Chapter 5
The next day, after leaving some presents under the Chez SEA Christmas tree (we have Twink on top in lieu of an angel – not my idea) and hugging Sadhbh and Elaine goodbye, I head off to collect Majella for our annual drive Down Home for Christmas. John is already on his way to Knocknamanagh after ringing me this morning to complain about Pablo’s new habit of texting gushing declarations of his feelings for Maj to him, making him deeply uncomfortable. Pablo has an island passion that has never quite travelled to Knock or BGB.
It’s handiest to pick Majella up at the Park and Ride at the Red Cow, but it’s so manic I have to bip an old man while trying to pull in. God knows I don’t dole out bips unless I’m pushed to my limit, but he was taking up three spaces and even I have a breaking point. I mentally promise to put a euro in the next poor box to cancel it out.
Maj is perched on a stack of suitcases and wearing her ‘Santa, Define Good?’ jumper with the flashing lights. I told her there wasn’t much room in the car but she’s taken to wearing something new every time she goes out with Pablo so it looks like her days of travelling light are over. If it wasn’t for Penneys she’d be bankrupt.
‘Howiya, Ais,’ she roars, opening the boot and firing her small wheelie case on top of the foot spa, aka Mammy’s big present. ‘Will I just throw the rest on the back seat?’
‘
Go on so,’ I say, as she commences jamming everything in around my carefully wrapped presents. I can hear my brother Paul’s Lynx Africa gift set giving way under the weight of her make-up bag. Majella has gone mad into make-up the past few months. It’s her obsession with Colette Green, Ireland’s premier fashion and beauty blogger. First it was the palette, then the brushes, then the deo-scents. But now Colette has her own lip glosses, fake eyelashes, even fake tan, and Maj can’t buy them fast enough. I saw on Xposé the other day that she has scented phone covers now too, so I suppose I can guess what I’ll be getting for Christmas.
Beeep. Beep. Beep. Dublin drivers just don’t give you a minute, do they? Honestly, you’d think people would have more patience considering it’s Christmas.
‘Are you in?’ I say, as Majella slides dramatically into the passenger seat brandishing a plastic bag full of taytos and sweets as is our tradition.
‘I’m in,’ she goes, fastening her seatbelt. ‘On Dasher, on Dancer, on Aisling!’
And off we go, inching our way down the N7, a bit giddy, despite the fact that my life is quite literally falling apart. Majella had her official work party weeks ago (teachers are always a step ahead of the game), but there was a whole heap of drama after two of the staff were caught shifting in the disabled toilet in Supermac’s on O’Connell Street, and the latest is that the deputy principal has handed in her notice. Not that she’ll be missed – she was a tyrant by all accounts.
‘You could cut the tension in the place with a knife,’ Maj says, tearing open a bag of wine gums and rooting around for a black one to press into my hand. A true friend. Everyone knows they try and do you out of black ones because they’re the nicest. ‘I’ve had to stop going into the staff room to watch Home and Away. I just sit in the junior infants toilets and watch it on my phone instead. My calves are in shite from it.’
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 4
