Friends. Piotr and I were never friends. He was a distraction. A distraction I don’t need right now. A complication.
‘John and I are … together, Piotr. I’m sorry if that’s – if that’s not what you wanted to hear.’ Am I in some kind of alternate reality? Breaking this big blond ride’s heart? I’ve never broken a heart in my life.
‘Okay, Aisling. You let me know if that ever changes, okay?’
‘Okay.’ I smile and sigh and start to usher him towards the side entrance, trying not to touch his bare skin as my hand hovers at his back. I go first and hold the door open, but just as Piotr is about to walk through it, who comes around the corner in her perfectly starched nurse’s uniform but Fran. As in, John’s mam Fran.
Chapter 18
‘So you just dropped him at the hotel? And that’s that?’
Sadhbh is incredulous. I’m pacing up and down Mammy’s kitchen but there’s still no sign of the woman herself. Poor Sadhbh is having to forage in the fruit bowl for breakfast, but she seems happy enough with her wrinkly kiwi and few easy-peelers. I’m mortified – I don’t think she’s ever gone a Sunday without having brunch – but I don’t fancy her chances at finding any halloumi or avocados in Mammy’s fridge. Plenty of leftover stew, though.
‘I was just checking to see if he was okay and he is. He definitely is. I’ve sent him on his way. I’m more worried about John’s mam seeing me at the hospital with him.’
I’m surprised Fran didn’t turn me into a pillar of salt with the look she gave me when she saw me with Piotr. And him with no top on! I groan and sink into a chair. How am I going to come back from this?
Sadhbh laughs. ‘I’m sorry, Ais, I don’t mean to – I really don’t. But how have you turned into the scarlet woman of BGB?’
‘Sadhbh!’ She has the decency to look ashamed of herself at least. She’s right, though. I was terrified I’d see someone I knew at the Mountrath. I barely slowed down the car before nudging Piotr out with a byebyebyebye, and I was thankful for the pair of mad sunglasses belonging to Elaine I found in the glove compartment. Imagine that got back to John: me, spotted at Piotr’s hotel the morning after, and him practically in the nip. John is hurt enough as it is. I grab my phone and text him again, my third that morning.
‘Will you just ring me? Please?’
I’ve picked up the car keys at least twenty times already to drive to his house in Knock, but after all these years I know John – confronting him like that would be the last thing he’d want. Plus, I don’t particularly want to run into Fran.
I wish more than anything in the world that I could escape back to Chez SEA today with Sadhbh and hide under a blanket, but instead I have to stay here and live with my shame. Although, to be fair, Sadhbh says her new living situation is nowhere near as much craic as Chez SEA. Mairead and Fionnuala actually sound a bit much – one of them made a rota of household jobs and put Sadhbh down for cleaning the bathroom three Wednesdays in a row when she wasn’t there to defend herself. And apparently they have the whole fridge taken up with their individual Slimline milks – even I see the logic in sharing cartons of milk. And they’re both in bed by ten every night so there’s no chats over rosé or takeaway pizzas.
The kitchen door opens suddenly and we both turn around with the fright as Mammy stumbles in, her face scrunched up against the midday sun.
‘And what time do you call this?’ I say automatically. ‘We’ve been up for hours.’
‘Sorry, pet,’ she croaks. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ She looks at the clock above the kitchen window and visibly balks – it’s after twelve now. This is unprecedented. ‘Those drinks last night were very strong – weren’t they, love?’
‘They were, Marian,’ Sadhbh concedes. ‘Here, sit down out of the sun.’
Sadhbh’s always such a lickarse when she’s down in BGB, but I resist the slagging because Mammy is mad about her. I busy myself looking for some painkillers to offer Mammy but pickings are slim. It’s not like in the apartment in Portobello where Elaine would frequently appear with armfuls of Ponstan and Difene as soon as I so much as mentioned having cramps. Not that I ever accepted. I value the lining of my stomach, thanks, Elaine.
There’s nothing but Milk of Magnesia and some Andrew’s Liver Salts in the kitchen press, but if I recall correctly, there may be a Solpadeine or two in the Important Drawer in Daddy’s old writing desk in the front hall, saved for genuine emergencies. Like if someone loses a leg in the combine harvester.
‘Auntie Sheila was the one who organised the cocktails,’ I say, heading for the door. ‘What exactly did she order, Mammy?’
‘She got a great deal on the tequila from Eamon Filan so she told Jocksy to make loads of double margaritas and just put them in a bigger glass,’ Mammy explains holding her head, her voice weak. ‘I think she overestimated how much we’d need. The six cases she bought were all drank by ten.’
Well, that explains that, I think to myself, heaving up the lid of the ancient desk. Some people just have no cop on.
I only have the Important Drawer half-open when I spot the unmistakable white and red wrapper of the Solps under a sheaf of papers. I’m just reaching in to retrieve them when an official-looking document under a pile of mismatched keys catches my eye. The heading says ‘Whitford Chartered Surveyors’ above a Dublin address. ‘A chara,’ it reads, ‘Pertaining to our recent survey of your property at Knocknamanagh Road, Ballygobbard, please see below our detailed valuation …’
I’m just about to pull it out to finish reading it when the door swings open and Sadhbh appears in the hall with my phone in her hand: ‘It just buzzed!’
I slam the drawer shut and grab it, hoping to see John’s name flash up, but it’s not John at all. It’s not even a text – it’s just my Fitbit app wondering if I’m dead or alive.
With the precious Solps in hand, I head back into the kitchen. ‘Here’s something for your head, Mammy,’ I say, firing the two tablets into a glass of water with a satisfying plink-plink-fizz. I dither beside her, the words ‘survey’ and ‘valuation’ pinging around my head. Why is she getting the place valued? She groans a little and I back away. Now is not the time to be quizzing her about that document. ‘Do you want to take that back to bed? Don’t worry about us, we’re fed and watered. You might as well rest yourself. A tequila hangover is no joke.’
‘I do not have a hangover,’ she retorts, standing up and shuffling out of the room, clutching the bubbling glass.
I’m still pacing up and down the kitchen, my skin practically itching with anxiety.
‘Ais, you’re going to be okay. It’s going to be okay,’ Sadhbh says gently.
‘I don’t think so, Sadhbhy. Not this time.’ And I finally sit down, the nervous energy draining out of my legs.
****
After depositing Sadhbh at the bus stop in town – again grateful for the mad sunglasses – I arrive home to find Majella at the kitchen table eating a Chocolate Kimberly. She must have gone deep into Mammy’s stash to find such a high-quality biscuit. And Mammy didn’t even bother hiding any this past Christmas – she didn’t have it in her. I suspect they’re actually from a couple of years ago.
‘In a sealed sandwich bag inside the downstairs toilet cistern,’ she says firing one at me, clearly delighted with herself. Mammy still hasn’t resurfaced but Maj would know well how to let herself into the house without making a peep. The Morans are only two fields away and we both spent as much time in each other’s houses as our own growing up. No play dates or any of that craic in BGB. We just … hung around.
‘I’m sorry about letting the cat out of the bag, Ais,’ she says tracing the pattern on Mammy’s oilcloth absentmindedly, and I know in my heart of hearts I can’t stay mad with her. It was an accident – she didn’t put a gun to my head and force me to kiss Piotr that night. No one did.
‘It wasn’t your fault, Maj. I’m sorry for being short with you,’ I say, accepting her chocolate-covered peace offering.
<
br /> ‘Any word from him?’ she says.
‘From John? No.’ I’m about to tell her about Piotr, topless in the hospital, but don’t have the energy.
She reaches for another Kimberly. They are irresistible to be fair. ‘So …’ She hesitates. ‘What is the story with you and John?’ She already sounds resigned. I guess she’s seen this coming.
‘It’s so, so broken, Maj. And I’m not even sure if I want to fix it.’
‘Oh, Ais. I’m sorry.’ She doesn’t even try to talk me out of it. ‘Do you know what you need?’ Her tone has changed. She’s up to something. ‘You need to get out of here for a while.’ She knows full well what it could be like around BGB with the gossip. Between Denise Kelly being stone-cold sober and witnessing everything last night, and my run-in with Fran at the hospital this morning, I’d say everyone within a 15-mile radius knows my business.
‘What about going away for a few days?’ Majella continues, clearly thinking out loud. ‘It’s mid-term break next week so I’m free to head off. Pablo is broke – he won’t mind. Shem and Liz are already starting to do my head in, and maybe with me gone for a few days Willy might leave Pablo alone for two minutes. What do you think? We could get a handy little last-minute deal and you have your redundancy money.’
‘I’m not supposed to be spending that on a holiday, though,’ I say. Who knows how long I’ll have to make that money last. I’ve already spent €92. Every cent is like a knife through my heart. But she’s on to something – it would be nice to get away. Maybe Sadhbh would come too?
‘We’d have to be careful, though,’ Majella adds. ‘Hard to avoid kids on a mid-term break, and I don’t want to end up swimming around in a pool full of toddlers and piss. I get enough of it at school.’
Just then, the front doorbell trills loudly, and Majella and I look at each other. Nobody down the country uses the front door, let alone the doorbell. I wasn’t even sure it worked. Even the odd time Mammy orders something online, the courier instinctively knows to come around the back. (Her latest way to outsmart the Nigerian princes and phishing scammers is a prepaid Visa card. Constance Swinford put her on to them, and she’s as smug as anything, delighted her bank account remains impenetrable.) Does the front door even open? I’ve long suspected it’s just there for show.
‘Are you going to … answer it?’ Majella eventually says, cocking her head in the direction of the hall. I suppose I’d better. Maybe I’ve won one of those RTÉ competitions for a car and there’s going to be a camera crew standing on the front step? God knows I enter enough of them.
But when I drag open the door it’s not Ray D’Arcy or even Derek Mooney staring back at me: it’s Denise’s cousin Sharon. And she has two massive black sacks with her.
‘Hiya, hun,’ she goes, turning around and zapping her car locked. It’s one of those Volkswagen Beetles with the eyelashes on the headlights. Very glam. Although why she’s locking it is beyond me. She’s just wasting her zapper battery in BGB. ‘Denise brought home all this Mexican stuff from the party and I told her I’d drop it back to your mam.’
‘Ah right, of course,’ I say. ‘Come in now out of the cold, Sharon. Will you have a cup of tea? We have the good biscuits out.’
She follows me through to the kitchen and I relieve her of the plastic bags, sombreros and ponchos and bits of banners tumbling out on to the lino. Mammy will be delighted to get them back. Nothing makes her happier than reusing party bits – she has a great knack for unwrapping presents without tearing the paper. It’s a gift I’m delighted she passed on to me because it’s saved me a fortune over the years.
‘Did you have a good night, hun?’ Sharon goes to Majella, sitting down at the kitchen table, and I busy myself putting the kettle on. ‘Your boyfriend is some man to dance!’
‘It’s the Spanish blood,’ Majella says proudly. ‘He’s teaching me salsa at the moment. It’s great craic. I’ve been telling him he should run classes in the hall.’
‘Well, I had a deadly night,’ Sharon says, ‘even if it was the first time I met Cillian. It seemed like the whole village was out.’
I wince at that last bit. The whole village was out. They all saw the fight.
‘You were looking fairly cosy with Cyclops there towards the end,’ Majella says with a smile. ‘He’s a nice lad – and a world-class centre back, in case he didn’t mention it’
Sharon looks a bit stony-faced and takes a sip of her tea. ‘Yeah, he did actually. He seems sound but … I’m not interested in a man right now.’ She changes the subject. ‘Why does everyone call him Cyclops, though? I didn’t want to ask in case, I don’t know, it was because of a medical condition.’
‘His name is Eoin Ó Súilleabháin,’ Majella says by way of explanation, but Sharon just looks back at her blankly.
‘Súilleabháin,’ I repeat a bit louder, but still no flicker of recognition from Sharon. I would have thought it was obvious. ‘Súil amháin,’ I say even louder.
‘One eye!’ Majella yelps. ‘Cyclops.’
‘Ahhh,’ Sharon goes. ‘I get it now! Okay, that makes sense. Sorry, my Gaeilge is a bit rusty.’
‘It’s actually gas because his sister is an optician,’ I chime in. ‘Susie Ó Súilleabháin. She has a little practice over in Knock.’
‘How’s the salon coming along?’ Majella asks, helping herself to the last hot drop of tea. She wouldn’t be Susie Ó Súilleabháin’s biggest fan after a dispute over the cost of contact lenses. She accused Susie of being a gouger and, long story short, she buys them online now.
‘Nearly there, thanks. Hoping to open in a couple of weeks.’ Sharon’s expression changes and she lifts the cup to her lips but doesn’t drink from it. ‘I’m getting a bit of grief from your man next door actually, the butcher? He’s complaining that my builders are interfering with his business, even though I’m just having a few sunbeds put in. He’s in nearly every day to give out about something.’
I say nothing but I’m not surprised, and sure Tessie had already predicted this. Marty Boland has a terrible reputation in the village – he’s an out-and-out bully. His sausages won the grand prix award at the threshing three years in a row and, to be honest, it went to his head. He has that massive sign on the front door that says ‘Best Sausages in the “County”. Handmade by Marty Boland.’ Jesus, they’re good, though. Word on the street is the recipe was handed down from Marty’s grandad and he keeps it locked in a safe behind a picture in one of the walls of his house.
‘Keep your guard up there,’ I advise. ‘Tessie Daly, you know from the charity shop? She had a fierce row with him a few years ago over her shop window. She had a very tasteful slip display and he lost the head and said it was indecent. She put her foot down and the names he called her at a Neighbourhood Watch meeting … I couldn’t repeat them myself. And his poor wife is like a mouse. He thinks he’s such a big man.’
‘He’s a prick,’ Majella says flatly, and I nod. He is a prick.
‘Noted,’ Sharon says, finishing off her tea and standing up. ‘Right so, I better be off. Thanks for the cuppa, hun. See you ladies soon.’
I let her out the front door, and when I get back to the kitchen Majella is sporting a massive grin.
‘I’ve got it,’ she says, slapping the table, sending the Chocolate Kimberly wrappers flying. ‘I’ve thought of someplace we can go where we definitely won’t encounter any children and where we’re guaranteed right craic.’
‘Will I get a tan?’ I venture. Of course my Irish skin only alternates between red and white, but you’re obliged to try and go brown, aren’t you? How else are you supposed to prove you’ve been abroad?
‘Only if you want to,’ Majella counters. ‘You can probably stay indoors the whole time if you like.’
‘Where is this magical place?’ I’m intrigued. I have a love–hate relationship with the sun, but it’s nice to have options.
‘Las feckin’ Vegas!’
Chapter 19
John paces back and fo
rth in my room, picking things up and putting them back down again, pretending to examine them. He’s just picked up a box of tampons and turned them around in his hand, though, studiously ‘reading’ the back, so I’m fairly sure his mind is elsewhere. He picks up a pair of socks and peers at them intently, so I jump off the bed and take them, gesturing to the chair at my desk, which is still laden with my colour-coordinated Leaving Cert folders I just can’t bring myself to throw away. You never know when someone might come looking for my detailed karst landscape diagrams. To this day I know a clint or a grike when I see one. And I can spot a sea stack from half a mile away.
Neither of us has spoken since Mammy let him in the back door and called up the stairs that he was here. Usually he’d just head on up. But things are different now. I haven’t seen him since the party. John talks first.
‘So I hear you’re going to Vegas?’ he says dryly. And then sarcastically adds, ‘Without me.’
We had always planned to go to Vegas someday. Back when I had engagement rings and bouquets on the brain, I thought it would be a great honeymoon destination if we decided against the customary two weeks in the Maldives or Mauritius. Vegas and the Grand Canyon and San Francisco and all that jazz. You can get great deals.
‘Well, I didn’t think you’d want to come!’ I shoot back, equally sarcastic
‘Of course I wouldn’t want to come!’ he almost shouts, giving me an awful fright. Mammy’s ears must be on stalks downstairs. ‘I can hardly look at you.’
We’ve had rows before, obviously. Loads of them. Sure, we’ve had a break-up before. But this one feels different. It feels so sad and final. He’s so angry and hurt. It took him days to acknowledge any of my messages or calls. It was him who finally reached out to me, although his ‘I think we should talk’ message didn’t inspire any confidence.
‘Look, I’m sorry, John. It wasn’t nice for you to find out that way. I didn’t think –’
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 14
