Sadhbh looks impressed with my speech. ‘I’d visit your café, Ais. I’d say you’d have the place running like clockwork.’
‘And I was thinking, what BGB is really missing …’
‘Yeah?’
‘Brunch. I’ve had a mad idea to bring brunch to the sticks.’ I pause to gauge her reaction, but then, before she can even speak, my gumption leaves me and I bluster in with, ‘Sure it’s a completely mad idea, isn’t it? Where would I even get the money? It’s mad altogether.’
But Sadhbh has a glint in her eye. ‘It’s a brilliant idea, Ais. And, sure, there are grants and everything for people setting up their own businesses. It’s a fab idea. Go you!’
By the time Majella arrives back at the table I’ve floor plans drawn on napkins and Sadhbh is excitedly suggesting menu options. ‘Cloud eggs with salmon parcels! Avocado mousse with hollandaise crisps!’ She needs to calm down. I was thinking more along the lines of an all-day breakfast and maybe a few mimosas on a Sunday.
‘You’ll never guess what.’ Majella throws herself into the booth, all ready for chat, but then notices all of my drawings. ‘What’s that?’
‘You’ll never guess what,’ Sadhbh says proudly. ‘Ais is opening a café. A brunch place, actually. In Ballygobbard.’
‘No way, Ais. That’s a deadly idea! Filan’s needs a bit of competition for the deli counter. They seem to think there are only four food groups: stuffing, hot chicken fillets, cheese and more stuffing.’ I don’t know where Majella gets off being a snob about Filan’s legendary hot chicken fillet and stuffing rolls. She’s the sole reason they were able to afford a new meat slicer last year. Still, though, her enthusiasm is infectious.
‘I think it could really work. There’s that new unit your man James Matthews is building near Garbally. It would be perfect. My redundancy definitely wouldn’t cover it all, but Sadhbh is right about those grants.’ Mammy and the farm niggles in the back of my mind, but I push it even further back for now. ‘What were you going to tell us, Maj?’
‘Oh, I don’t want to bring the tone down. It’s about John.’
My heart leaps a little, but not as much as I would have thought, hearing his name. It’s more an under-14 Community Games 200m hurdles leap than an Olympics high jump leap.
‘No, go on,’ I urge her. ‘It’s grand.’
‘He’s been recruited to the county team. Got a spot as a selector on the coaching squad. Pablo says they turned up at training today and offered it to him.’ Pablo’s barely been in the country six months but his devotion to hurling knows no bounds. He’s already done the Croke Park tour twice and both times had to be fed tissues because he was so overcome with emotion.
‘That’s … great. I’m delighted for him.’ And I am delighted for him. He always dreamed of playing for the county, but he’s a bit long in the tooth now, so this is the next best thing.
‘Alright, enough about John. Back to Aisling’s café.’ Sadhbh really means business. I wonder can I pull it off at all.
An early night does us the world of good and the next morning, my mind jumbled with dreams about eggs and cutlery and dancing €50 notes and extremely odd flashes of James Matthews the contractor, of all people, dancing to Britney Spears around the unit back in BGB, Sadhbh convinces us that a helicopter ride to see the Grand Canyon is the only thing for us. I wish I could say I enjoyed it, but my heart was in my mouth the whole time. Helicopters are for Beyoncé and saving people up mountains. The Grand Canyon was lovely but I couldn’t take a single photo because my hands were glued to the Oh Jesus handles on either side of my seat. I’ve never been happier to be back on solid ground. Plus, I have to stop spending money if I’m to become a rural brunch mogul. None of us could stomach much more drinking so some sedate gambling and another mammoth American dinner later – about 324 Points, but who’s even counting at this stage? – and we’ve nearly reached the end of our mini Vegas adventure.
Sadhbh has provided running commentary on what Don and Antony are up to back in LA, but I’m happy to leave my one-night stand behind me in America. Sure, that’s why they’re called one-night stands. Our flight in the morning is an early one so I take on the dreaded task of clearing the mini-bar bill before going to bed. I squeeze my eyes shut as the receptionist prints out a ream of paper, complimenting me on my accent and asking if I know her cousins in Kerry. I skit that all Irish people know each other but, to be honest, her cousin Maureen from Tralee sounds very like a girl I met at a wedding last summer. I’m grilling her for details on Maureen’s colouring when she interrupts me with an ‘and $85 for the fruit supreme’. I have to cling onto the edges of the reception desk – $85 and not a strawberry to be seen? Between the three of us, the bill is in four figures. I nearly have to sit down. It’s time to get a grip on my finances. Enough is enough – $85 fruit bowls do not a successful businesswoman make.
Chapter 23
‘There’s a lot of forms to fill out, hun, which is a pain in the arse.’
We’re sitting on blocks in the middle of the building site that will be Sharon’s salon, trying to come up with a name for it. She’s already vetoed three: Hair Lingus, Braziliant and The Best Little Hair House. The last one was mostly to rile up Marty Boland, but she nearly committed to stationery for Hair Lingus before changing her mind at the last minute. I’m not much use to her, but she did write down my suggestions of The Two Ronnies and Hair Dot Comb, so maybe I’m in with a chance of naming the place. If she’s not careful it’ll just be called Sharon’s, and where’s the elegance in that? In return, she’s filling me in on the Entrepreneur Ireland Women in Business grant that she’s certain I’ll qualify for. Little does she know, filling out forms is one of my favourite pastimes. I sat beside Majella once when she was renewing her passport, and she had to go back into the post office three times for new applications because she kept making a balls of it. It’s hardly rocket science – if she read the instructions first she would have known full well it was supposed to be all done in block caps. And black pen.
‘That part won’t be a problem,’ I say confidently. ‘And you’re happy to have a look at my business plan?’
I spent last night on my trusty Toshiba laptop writing out my plans and projections for BallyGoBrunch. That’s what I’d call the café. The mention of brunch will lure in the hens and stags and Dubs. It won’t be all avocados and halloumi and Sadhbh’s cloud eggs, whatever they are – I’ll be doing good, honest-to-God fodder too to keep the locals happy. It felt great to throw myself into it and, despite Mammy’s internet running at a snail’s pace, the more I read about café ownership online, the more enthusiastic I got – although, talk about counting your chickens. If I don’t get this grant, my carefully curated folders of research will be going in the bin. Still, though, I spent a significant amount of time daydreaming about being my own boss – why didn’t I think of it before? All the responsibility and no one to take orders from. I spent an hour struggling to think of what I’d actually miss about working in an open-plan office, and the best I could come up with was someone saying ‘bless you’ when I sneeze. The bless yous got borderline competitive at PensionsPlus, but I usually managed to be the first to shout it out. It’s like poker – you learn people’s tells.
I know it’s hard to get a new business off the ground, but I have my head screwed on and I’m being realistic about the work I’ll need to put into it. It took three hours to print it all out, and I owe Mammy a new ink cartridge, but I’m delighted my brain is up and running again after the recent hiatus. It’s a relief that I didn’t do any permanent damage that night in Las Vegas.
‘I’m more than happy to take a look,’ Sharon says, and I hand over a thick red folder with ‘Business Plan’ written across it in large letters. Her arms fold under the weight of it. ‘It’s very thorough,’ I add with a nod. ‘Everything is colour coded.’
I called Ruane’s estate agency in Knock this morning to confirm that the lease on the unit was still available. Deirdre answer
ed the phone, and even though her father Trevor usually handles the commercial lets, she said she’d show it to me tomorrow afternoon before trying to convince a couple from Dublin that having a detached house is more important than being able to walk to the IFSC. She said the rent on my unit is €350 a month but, after I heard a door in the background slam, whispered that her dad said the developer would take €300 for it. That’s the figure I have in my business plan so bring on the negotiations.
The salon is starting to take shape, although the big glass vase of lilies inside the front door is looking a bit out of place. I say nothing, though, and pick up a few of the cards she has displayed around the makeshift office. ‘Good luck, Sharon, we are so proud, love Mam and Dad.’ ‘Best of luck to all at Hair Lingus, from the Maguires.’ They mustn’t have heard it’s been vetoed. There’s also a corporate-looking one signed by James Matthews.
‘How do you know James Matthews?’ I ask.
Sharon looks up from where she’s engrossed in my folder. ‘He’s my contractor,’ she says. ‘For the sunbed room and the refit. It’s a small enough job so he’s only here with the lads one day a week, but I must say they’re doing a very tidy job.’
‘And no card from himself next door?’
She sighs. ‘Pfft. And I wouldn’t expect it either. I swear, he’s somehow pumping the smell of raw meat in through the vents. I don’t know how, but I’ll prove it. If not I’ll be broke buying lilies to cover it up.’
She goes back to my business plan, and my eyes fall on a copy of RSVP magazine. There’s a picture of four glamorous-looking women in bandage dresses on the cover. ‘Meet the GAA WAGs’ it screams in thick block capitals. I’d say the forefathers of the Gaelic Athletic Association are turning in their graves. I pick it up and flick to the feature where they’re talking about ‘staying warm but looking cool’ on the sidelines and what they’re wearing to the GAA All Star Awards. I wonder is this all ahead of John.
‘My ex John will probably be moving in these circles soon.’ I gesture at RSVP and Sharon picks it up, looking from the girls on the cover to me in my leggings and navy fleece. In my defence, I am extremely comfortable and I haven’t had to shave my legs or anything.
‘Oh, right,’ she says, ‘and how do you feel about that? I can see the one on the left’s chicken fillets poking out of her dress.’
Chicken fillets? I doubt she brought snacks to an RSVP photoshoot. And if she did, I assume it would be something like a salad or a Special K Bar.
‘It’s grand,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t be my scene now.’
‘I hear it’s already going to his head a bit,’ Sharon offers.
‘Oh, that doesn’t sound like John.’
‘Yeah,’ she continues. ‘One of the lads doing my tiles was saying he was over in Maguire’s demanding a stool be held for him on an ongoing basis. Because he’s so important.’
I can’t imagine him carrying on like that, but I suppose we haven’t been in touch since this whole GAA thing took off. Still, though, not my problem. I just hope he doesn’t lose the head altogether. That’s a one-way street to being a topic on Liveline for antisocial behaviour in your county jersey. It happened last year after the All Ireland, and one of the player’s mammies rang in herself she was so ashamed.
‘Actually, since I have you here,’ Sharon says, heaving my business plan off her lap, ‘I want to start planning Denise’s baby shower and gender reveal party. Have you any ideas?’
Gender reveals have reached BGB. They’re surely ready to embrace brunch.
‘The Ard Rí does a lovely afternoon tea. Sandwiches aren’t too small. It’s very classy.’
‘Oh, that sounds perfect! I’ll look into it so.’
I better start thinking about a present. Denise and Liam’s house is cavernous. They got the land off her daddy, so they could put in as many bathrooms as they wanted. The baby will probably have two ensuites. They’ll regret those cream carpets, though, when it’s rubbing its Frubes into them. I would traditionally wait until the baby is born before picking out a present, either a little pink or a little blue outfit, but this baby-shower shenanigans means I’m now having to buy two presents per baby. When will anyone buy me a present, I silently wonder, before giving myself a little shake. Sharon is asking me something.
‘What are you up to this afternoon?’
‘Oh, I’m calling over to Majella once she’s home.’
I haven’t seen Majella since the weekend. She called in looking to borrow my grey interview suit – a knee-length pencil skirt and matching jacket. I bought it full price – not like me – but it got me the job in PensionsPlus so I suppose it owes me nothing. I actually thought I’d get loads of wear out of it, but I stuck out like a sore thumb on my first day when everyone else was in trousers and blouses. After that I usually wore my black work slacks and something from my collection of shumpers (so handy to have your shirt collar stitched into your V-neck jumper, I find).
Maj decided to go for the Deputy Head position at her school, and I couldn’t be more delighted. Pablo called in with her, desperately trying to avoid the dog. Apparently Willy has taken to following him into the bathroom and staring at him in the shower. ‘It’s the eye contact, I can no longer take it,’ Pablo told me while Maj rubbed his thigh reassuringly. ‘Willy, he never look away. I cover my bolas with the shower cap.’ Poor Mammy nearly choked on her scone.
‘Do you need any other help with planning or decorations or anything, Sharon? Bit of bunting? Some balloons? I have loads at home.’
‘Not at all, but thanks a mill, hun!’ she says, heaving the business plan over to the reception desk and putting it underneath. ‘I’ll look after all that. I might do one of those baby-picture games, though – where you have to guess which baby is which guest. Get rooting for a picture, will you? And tell Majella too?’
I haven’t the heart to tell her there are only three baby pictures of me in existence: one taken at my christening, another on my first birthday, where I’m sitting in front of a sponge cake with a thick purple candle stuck in it, and another on Paddy’s Day, when Daddy thought it would be gas to give me a pint bottle of Guinness to hold. Good luck to Sharon if she thinks Mammy will release any of them from her precious photo album. I suppose I could always cut a picture of a baby out of a magazine and pass it off as myself. I was a very plain child.
‘Baby picture, no problem,’ I chirp, heading for the door. I’m nearly there when I spot Eoin Ó Súilleabháin loitering outside pretending to examine the tray of lamb chops in Marty Boland’s window. ‘I think you have an admirer there,’ I say, cocking my head in his general direction.
Sharon looks up from her laptop. She’s obviously saving the business plan for later when she can dedicate a proper amount of time to it.
‘Ah yes, he dropped me in a bottle of bubbly yesterday to say good luck with the opening. Very decent of him.’
‘Any excuse to come in for a chat. Did he ask you out yet?’ I venture.
She looks up. ‘No. God, no.’
I look back out the window at Cyclops, who’s still inspecting the chops like he doesn’t eat them for his tea twice a week, obviously waiting for me to leave so he can come in.
‘Well, I have a feeling it’s on the cards,’ I say with a smile.
‘If he does he’ll be disappointed,’ Sharon replies quietly.
‘Too busy with the salon, is it? Keeping the place clean and tidy alone must be a full-time job. I can only imagine what it’ll be like after the opening.’
‘Yeah, that’s true,’ she says. ‘But I’m also off men for a while. That’s actually sort of the reason I left Waterford and ended up here.’ Her face goes dark and I say nothing and just let her keep talking. ‘It was a bad break-up. You know yourself.’
I do, although judging by her expression, I have a feeling Sharon’s must have been much worse than mine.
Chapter 24
I had told Mammy about me and John before I went to Vegas. I had to get it out of
the way. I was absolutely dreading it. I even had a bottle of brandy on standby in case she went into shock. But she just gave me a long hug and sighed and said, ‘It’s probably for the best, pet. When it’s done it’s done.’ She’s taken to palling around with Constance Swinford these past few weeks, and they’ve been doing yoga in the morning using YouTube tutorials. All the downward dog and sun salutations have made her very zen. Although, I found her asleep on her mat yesterday morning while Adriene from Yoga with Adriene was wittering away about breathing from California.
She’s less zen when I tell her about my plan for the café, though.
‘Ah, Aisling, are you sure? You have no idea how hard it is being self-employed,’ she says arranging a selection of good biscuits – Toffypops, no less – on a plate. ‘I don’t mean to sound negative but I’m just worried about you, pet. You’ll never get a day off. Look at how me and Daddy were with the farm. And what do you know about running a café anyway? You burnt the arse out of my good small saucepan making porridge yesterday.’
I thought I’d gotten away with it. She really doesn’t miss a trick. ‘You don’t need to be a chef to run a café – I’m going to hire someone else to do the cooking,’ I explain, swiping a biscuit when she has her back turned. ‘I’m only the brains of it. Nothing is finalised yet, but I’ll be doing full Irish breakfasts and toasties and a few simple lunch things. Plenty of coleslaw. And mostly using stuff from local farmers and producers. Nothing too over the top, don’t worry. I’ve thought it through.’
‘But how are you going to afford to get it off the ground, love? I don’t think I’ll be able to help you much at the moment, and your redundancy won’t stretch to it I’m sure.’
I sigh. ‘I know that. But I’ve applied for a Women in Business grant. Sharon told me Entrepreneur Ireland are firing money at women this year. She was very impressed with my business plan – it took her six hours to get through it. They gave her €15,000 to open the salon, and she said I’d be eligible for the same. I’d be mad not to at least try. I’m getting nothing decent back on the CVs I’ve been sending out.’
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 18
