‘We’re never going to make it on time,’ I whine, panicking.
‘Will you ever give it a rest, Aisling? I don’t want us to end up in a ditch.’ John speaks quietly but I can tell his teeth are gritted. Wish the same could be said for the roads.
‘You’re like the youngest old married couple I’ve ever heard,’ Paul jokes from the backseat. I look at him in the rear-view mirror to give him a filthy glare and catch John’s eye instead but he looks away. I really don’t want to have a row today. I’ve enough to be worrying about.
‘We’ll have to drop you off in town, head,’ John says, looking back at Paul. ‘We won’t have time to go to Drumcondra and then back over to the southside.’
So at half six we barely slow down the car to let Paul out in the city centre. He has to shout after us to get his bags out of the boot. ‘See you in the morning before you go,’ I roar at him as we screech away. ‘Go, go, go!’ I shout at John, whose shoulders are hunched up around his ears in concentration. The roads are mercifully much clearer in town – a godsend after hours of slush and ice. It’s 6.51 by the time we pull into the car park of The Grainstore, a warehouse in Ringsend. People are already parking and milling around, heading into the main door of the venue.
‘How am I going to do this?’ I groan, leaping out of the passenger seat and opening the back door.
‘Get in, and I’ll cover you.’ John opens his arms out wide, spreading the flaps of his jacket as far as they’ll go. I clamber into the backseat and pull the zip down on the garment bag. I reach out for the dress, exposed to the world in my bra and sucky-in pants. Nearly there. I did my make-up in the car – the old favourites of a base of BB cream, a slick of brown mascara and a touch of Clinique blusher I got free with a set. Mammy got me a new eyeshadow trio for Christmas so I stuck some of that on too, going for that smoky-eye look people are so fond of. I’ve tried it before and I usually end up looking like I’ve been in a fight, but I think it looks okay, given the circumstances. Right. Dress, American tan tights, sandals, one last blast of hairspray and I’ll be good to go. Kneeling on the backseat, I pull the dress over my head and manoeuvre it to minimise the up-do damage. I wrench up the zip and peer into the rear-view mirror – not a hair out of place. It really was worth splashing out on that industrial-sized tin of Elnett.
****
I suppose I didn’t know what to expect from a lesbian wedding, apart from the fact that a priest would be definitely off the cards. No great loss, if you ask me. They can be very hit and miss. The ceremony was beautiful, and at one stage I caught John’s eye. The number of weddings we’ve been to together over the years must be in double digits at this stage. And yet … here we are, the two of us, no different than when we were twenty-one. If we were ever going to get married, I’m starting to realise that we’d have done it by now, and I think he knows it too.
My so-called reading turned out to be the lyrics of a Tegan and Sara song but you’d never know – it’s all in the delivery. I even said ‘this is the word of the Lord’ accidentally at the end, but one of the tag rugby girls roared ‘thanks be to God’ and everyone laughed so I think I styled it out. I’ve done more than my fair share of readings at weddings so I can usually tell if I’ve bombed.
The one thing I couldn’t understand is why the girls insisted on this DIY look, especially since we all know full well that Elaine could probably have had Franc himself minding her bouquet or getting people to sign the guest book. There wasn’t even a hint of a white tablecloth or chair cover to be found, and the flowers were all in jam jars. If you could call them flowers – they were quite obviously weeds. Candles as far as the eye could see too, but I had the fire exits figured out within minutes. Once a health and safety officer, always a health and safety officer. And I suppose none of it matters once the bride and bride are happy, and there was no denying that. They were glowing, the pair of them, despite the polar temperatures outside. And the speeches! The parents didn’t say a word and no pint glass to throw a fiver into either. But Elaine and Ruby said the loveliest things about each other and their hopes and plans for the future. I texted Mammy and told her she should have come and I meant it; she would have been dining out on this for months.
While Elaine and Ruby were having their first dance to ‘Cheek to Cheek’ – Lady Gaga singing it apparently – John asked me out of the blue if I’d given any more thought to where I was going to be living in the New Year.
‘I’m going to move home,’ I told him, looking into the bottom of my wine glass and not into his eyes.
‘Right so. That’s great that you’ve decided.’ He sounded relieved. And when I looked at him he looked relieved. ‘You and Majella will be thick as thieves up and down BGB Main Street.’
Him saying it out loud suddenly made it feel very real. I’d spent the bulk of my early twenties fairly obsessed with moving back home. I wanted the little job. The little car. The big wedding. The big house. It all hinged on John. I was desperate for him to propose – I got a French manicure every time we went on so much as a Groupon weekend away – but it never happened and I eventually realised none of that stuff really mattered to me, not when I actually thought about it. It seems mad now that I’ll be moving home without him.
At ten to twelve we were all given our coats and glasses of bubbly and herded outside to the courtyard for the big countdown. It was magical in the snow, even though I nearly lost the big toe on my left foot to frostbite. When the clock struck twelve I looked up at John and he looked down at me and we kissed because, well, what else are you supposed to do at midnight on New Year’s Eve when you’ve been together for eight years? There was nothing there, though – affection, yeah, of course, but no … passion. And certainly nothing compared to what Pablo was doing to Majella across the courtyard. It was like kissing a friend and I was grateful when the fireworks started going off and Elaine’s granny began belting out ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
****
When the banging downstairs wakes me up it feels like I’ve only been asleep for ten minutes. I reach for my phone – 6.42 a.m. It was after four when we got in, John speaking in tongues about needing meat and me clutching the bouquet that I really wasn’t trying to catch. It just sort of … landed in my lap, despite Majella quite literally diving for it. I offered it to her afterwards but she just limped away, too proud. Pablo was Velcro-ed to her all night, and I don’t know if I was just imagining it, but I caught him squinting over at Sadhbh once or twice. And not looking at her like a normal person, looking at her like she was wearing something belonging to him. Very odd.
Paul’s flight is due to leave at twelve, but he’ll naturally insist on being in the airport four hours beforehand, so I suppose it’s finally time to say goodbye. I’ll make him a few sandwiches too, I decide, wrapping my fleecy dressing gown – Penneys, €10 – around me tightly. No point paying inflated airport prices when we have a perfectly good sliced pan and a packet – actually, more likely half a packet – of crumbed ham downstairs.
‘Could you keep it down to a dull roar?’ I whisper in the half-dark, making him jump. He’s jamming the last of his overnight stuff back into the massive holdall, and I notice Mammy has furnished him with several full-sized bottles of Head and Shoulders. He was always her pet. The panic about the weight of the bag rises inside me but I push it down. I won’t always be there to mind him. He has to start figuring this stuff out for himself. ‘Do you have your phone charger?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, patting the bag, which looks fit to burst. We both stand there for a few seconds, suspended in silent understanding. Paul going back to Australia is signalling the next phase of our grief: trying to move on. None of us is ready. Are you ever?
‘I’m having second thoughts about going now.’
‘Don’t,’ I say, after a pause. ‘I’m here to keep an eye on her. Amn’t I always here?’
He just nods.
‘Tea?’
Chapter 13
I was able to sort of distance
myself from the reality of it over Christmas, but on 3 January I’m feeling more unemployed than I ever thought possible. Everyone is back to work. Everyone! Even Sadhbh, who was offered a role in the HR department of a record company, sight unseen, thanks to a recommendation from one of her pals. Flatlay Records. I got excited briefly thinking it was Flatley Records and we were about to score big time with the free Riverdance tickets, but it turns out it’s Flatlay. Something to do with indie and techno. I’ve been to Berlin. I’ve had enough techno to last me a lifetime. Sadhbh is dead excited, though, especially with the lack of dress code. She’ll be able to wear as much of her mad jewellery as she wants, and no doubt they’ll all be dressed head to toe in hay- and stone-coloured get-ups. I thought her outfits at PensionsPlus were ‘directional’, but they were nothing compared to what she headed off in this morning. Clear vinyl boots – I’ll say no more. I don’t know what I’d put on me if I didn’t have ‘business casual’ as a guide. I have a hoodie from my camogie-playing days and a pair of baggy combats from that summer Majella decided we were going to be mad into Blink-182. They’re actually very flattering. I must dig them out again.
Ruby and Elaine are tracking endangered gorillas or swinging from vines in Uganda so it’s just me on my lonesome in Chez SEA, faced with the task of packing.
I’ve been reassuring Mammy that everything’s going to be fine. I know nothing would strike fear into Mammy’s – and Daddy’s, if he was here – heart like having no job long-term. I’ve told her that I’m going to be grand and I’ll get a big lump sum and have a new job in no time.
Still, it could be worse: at least I have somewhere to go. Last night Sadhbh confessed that she’s been trawling the usual places online but any room in her price range is gone by the time she rings up about it. I feel awful for her, even though the girl spends about €100 a week on organic avocados and craft gin and hand-reared coffee beans. I’ve seen her hoover up 1 and 2 cent coins too rather than just bend over and pick them up. Still, I know there’s decent money in HR so I’m outraged. It’s a ridiculous state of affairs that a young professional like herself is priced out of the city, especially since she’s been so good to the economy with all the clothes shopping. The newlyweds will be away for another few weeks so the good news is there’s no immediate pressure on her to move out.
Beep! Beep! Blibbbbb! Beep!
Christ, my alarm. It’s time to head to this bloody public forum PensionsPlus is hosting about the redundancies. I’d rather just be going to work. In a few hours I’ll know my fate, and Sadhbh will know hers too. She won’t make it now, but I’ve promised to keep her up to speed. Suzanne sent me some kind of garbled text earlier which I think meant she’d be there. One of the kids probably got their hands on her phone and fired off a load of nonsense.
The 747 towards the airport is heaving but I manage to wedge myself between two Aer Lingus cabin crew at the back of the lower deck. How glamorous it must be, jetting around the world for work, telling people to put their tray tables in an upright position and deciding who gets two little cans of Diet Coke instead of the miserable single one. They always smell lovely too, probably because they have all that access to Duty Free. No paying high-street prices when you’re cabin crew. Maybe I need to forget about the pensions industry and try something completely different? I make a mental note to read my horoscope later.
I can see the Travelodge coming into view, and as the bus slows to a stop I fight my way up to the front, even though the driver opens the side door as soon as he spots me. I couldn’t just sneak out that way without shouting thank you, especially with so many tourists on board. They’d think Irish people were dragged up. No, I always make it my business to put my best foot forward for our foreign visitors. I’ve even been known to lurk around O’Connell Bridge and Temple Bar in case I spot anyone with a map who looks like they might need directions. It’s just good manners as far as I’m concerned.
A sign in the hotel lobby informs me that the PPH Public Forum is taking place in the Anna Livia Suite. Down the seemingly endless corridor I tip until I notice a sort of low rumble getting louder and louder. I check my phone – I’m five minutes late! It’s not like me, but this hotel is about the size of Croke Park and I didn’t factor in the two-kilometre walk. Good for getting my steps in, though, so I can’t complain. Think of the Activity Points, Aisling.
My phone beeps: three question marks from Sadhbh, but I have nothing to report yet. When I round the next corner it becomes clear that the rumble isn’t a stray Boeing 747 or even a helicopter touching down to drop off a sheik or a celebrity to pick up a few bits in the sales – it’s three hundred angry individuals roaring at a panel of men – and one woman – sitting stony-faced on a stage. I’ve found the PPH Public Forum and it doesn’t look good.
My eyes are on stalks looking for anyone I recognise in the room, which I suppose is par for the course when you realise PPH was the umbrella company for something like twelve other businesses. Still, I’m suddenly not so confident about getting much of a payout. It seems like I’m in quite a queue and nobody’s happy.
I slink down the side of the room and slip into an empty chair. Kevin Shermer is standing centre stage at the podium trying to get everyone to calm down but people keep shouting at him and, I swear, the language is borderline obscene. And I say that as someone who was on the line in 2011 when Rangers beat BGB by a single point in the county final.
‘Please, everyone, if you could just give me a minute,’ Shermer hisses into the microphone, and the noise finally dies down just enough to hear someone shout ‘You’re nothing but a pox!’ Des from Escalations! He’s het up, but sure who could blame him. I spy Suzanne in the front row.
‘As I was saying before you all kicked off, this will only take a few minutes. Can I please get some quiet so I can fill you all in? Come on, lads, I don’t want to be here either.’ He’s sweating now, wiping his brow with a scrunched-up little hanky, and I feel sorry for him. The crowd of shitehawks behind him aren’t offering anything by way of support and I’m not surprised. If you’re the type to RSVP to a party and then not show up, well, you’ve lost my respect and that’s the truth.
‘The news is good,’ Shermer continues. ‘The news is great, actually. PPH is definitely closing its Irish operations but –’ and there’s a pause like he’s about to tell us who won Ireland’s Got Talent, ‘everyone who is entitled to redundancy is getting it …’ He continues talking but the cheer from the crowd – myself included, to be fair – drowns him out. I feel a weight lifting off my shoulders. I was half-worried they might say we’re getting nothing, but sure we’re protected by law. Sadhbh is blue in the face repeating it.
I whip out my phone to text Sadhbh the good news as a few down the back start singing ‘Olé Olé Olé’. There’s a text from Suzanne.
‘Well fuk it anyway. I told the kids we were going 2 Disney.’
What is she on about? We’re getting the redundancy – Shermer just said it. My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s her again.
‘Mayb could stretch 2 a trampoline. A sml one.’
‘Did you not hear right? We’re getting payout!’ I fire back.
Shermer is still talking from the stage, and I can barely hear what he’s saying, but he’s pointing to a bank of tables at the side of the room manned by a group of serious-looking types in suits. Accountants, by the looks of it. They have boxes of envelopes laid out in front of them and are beckoning people over.
I rise up and automatically join the closest queue. It’s an instinct of mine – if you see a queue, join it. You might get a free yoghurt or something. Standing on my tippy-toes, I scan the room again and spot Suzanne in the distance, talking to Eilish, the receptionist, but there are about a hundred people between us and I can’t risk moving in case I lose my place. The queue is bombing along and that doesn’t happen very often.
‘I’ll be lucky to get a grand or two.’
I’m trying not to eavesdrop but the lad behind me is shoutin
g into his phone. He’s tall but looks young – maybe twenty-one or twenty-two.
‘What an epic fucking waste of my time, Mum,’ he’s braying. ‘I never even wanted to go into pensions and I fucking hated it but now it’s all I have on my CV.’
I’d never get away with saying fuck in front of Mammy, even at my age. Bloody or feckin’ would be my max, unless it was a life or death situation. Oh, it’s a different story in the Morans’, though. When Majella and Shane were younger they used to get into blazing fights and call each other every name under the sun. She even told Shem to go fuck himself one day when he complained that she was watching Wimbledon instead of earning her pocket money picking stones. He didn’t even flinch. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. The things we did for Lleyton Hewitt.
‘Name?’
I’m at the top of the queue and there’s not so much as a by-your-leave from the woman in front of me. That’s when I see it – the envelope with my name on it at the front of the pile. I just point to it mutely and she hands it over shouting, ‘Next?’ to the fella behind me, who looks fit to kill someone.
What is everyone so annoyed about, I wonder to myself, sliding my finger under the flap of the envelope to open it. To my left, I catch sight of Suzanne walking towards me, waving, and as I go to wave back a single piece of paper slips out of the envelope and glides slowly to the floor.
‘Ais! Ais! Hang on there!’ she’s shouting as I bend down to pick up what turns out to be a cheque. Flipping it over, the room starts to spin and I realise I’m struggling to focus – €9,499. €9,499? How could it be only €9,499? I’ve worked at PensionsPlus for six years. I have to be entitled to more than that? What about Sadhbh’s conservative estimate of €20K?
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 10
