‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she whispers.
I can feel the emotion rising inside me. Marty Boland is nothing but a bollix. All this time he’s been waltzing around like he’s God’s gift to sausages when it’s Carol who’s obviously been making them. I’m convinced the original recipe was her Granny Nellie’s and now she’s working on a new one, but he’s happy to let her slave away out in that kitchen while he takes all the credit. The neck!
‘Carol,’ I say, in what I hope is a reassuring voice, ‘I know you’re the one behind the sausages. I saw you with my own eyes mixing up the new recipe. The smell of them – I was weak. You’d give Rachel Allen a run for her money. It’s your granny’s recipe, isn’t it?’
For a minute she’s frozen, then she nods. It’s a tiny nod, but it’s there. ‘Aisling, please. Can I ask you not to say anything? Marty … he wouldn’t react well if people knew.’
I knew she was scared of him. And I can’t say I blame her. I’d be scared of him too.
‘I won’t say a word, I promise. I know things can be delicate. And sure don’t men love thinking they’re the boss?’ My attempt at a little joke falls flat, though, and Carol looks down at her hands, rending her fingers together. My heart leaps into my mouth and I look around the kitchen, wondering what kinds of things have happened here.
‘He doesn’t … he doesn’t hit you, does he, Carol?’ I can’t believe I’m sitting here in Mrs Boland’s kitchen asking her this, but I’m ready to bundle her out into the Micra right now if I need to. God love her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone,’ I add, reaching out and putting my hand over hers.
‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘God, no, Marty has never laid a hand on me. He wouldn’t do that.’
‘I’m sorry to ask,’ I say. ‘It’s just that, you seem … frightened.’
‘He can be … domineering,’ she eventually says, looking out the window. ‘I’ll leave it at that. I think he has himself convinced he really did come up with the recipe for the sausages. But you’re right, it was my Granny Nellie’s. She was some woman.’
‘You should be getting the credit for those sausages, not Marty. And I know that if they’re on the menu of my café, it’ll be a success.’ I pause. ‘Will you at least tell me you’ll think about coming to work with me?’
‘I’m just a housewife,’ she says again, staring into the distance. It sounds like a phrase she’s been told more than once.
‘There’s not a thing wrong with being a housewife,’ I say, and she turns to face me. There are tears in her eyes and I can feel myself welling up too. ‘I was dying to be a housewife myself for a long time,’ I explain. ‘But now I’m about to do this café and it’s given me a new lease of life, if I’m being honest. And if you come and work for me, you’ll have some money of your own. You could become more …’ it takes me a minute to think of the word, ‘independent. Go on, will you at least think about it?’
‘He won’t hear of it. He doesn’t really think women should be working outside the home.’
‘Who cares what he thinks? Aren’t you your own person?’
‘I wish it was that easy.’
‘Please, Carol. I’d be honoured to have you on the team. I think it would do us both the world of good. Go on.’
She flashes me a little smile, squeezes my hand and says, ‘Okay, I’ll think about it.’
****
My arse has barely hit the seat in Maguire’s when my phone rings – it’s Mammy. I’ve already texted her to say I got everything I needed at the auction, so before I answer it I make a mental bet with myself that she wants to talk about a) food or b) washing. I wonder does Sheryl Sandberg’s mammy ring her about her whites? I doubt it.
‘I’m making a curry – will I put you in the pot?’ I knew it. When I lived in Dublin I discovered that there are a seemingly infinite number of curry types: korma, tikka, massaman, Thai green, Thai red, Thai yellow (a personal favourite due to the potato content). But I know that when Mammy says curry she means a packet of Knorr Medium powder with some bits of leftover roast chicken thrown in. And that’s fine by me because it’s actually the nicest of the lot. Some of the others are fierce spicy.
‘Oh yes, please,’ I say, ‘but I won’t be home for a while. I’m meeting Maj for a pint and – oh, hang on, she’s just walked in. I’ll let you go, Mammy. Byebye byebyebye byebyebyebye.’
I wave over at Majella and do some elaborate gesticulating at the two bottles of West Coast Cooler in front of me so she knows she doesn’t have to go to the bar.
‘Well, bird,’ she says, plonking herself down in front of me and reaching for a bottle. She does it very slowly, though, and I’m wondering if she put out her neck again. Communion prep at St Anthony’s is going full throttle, and since it’s her last year she says she wants to out with a bang. She’ll be in full Deputy Head mode come September so she’s giving it all she’s got. Her choir conducting can be very vigorous at the best of times.
‘Drink up, Maj, we’re celebrating!’ I roar. ‘You’d want to see what I bought for the café today. BallyGoBrunch is officially go! And that’s not all – I have loads to tell you.’ And I raise my glass and shake it in her direction. But she doesn’t cheers me. Instead, she slowly lifts her hand and starts running her fingers through her hair. I shake my glass at her again, the ice clinking away, but she just keeps doing it, a massive smile plastered on her face. Over and over again, running her fingers from her scalp down the length of her hair, which is a newer, more violent shade of red than it was the last time I saw her. I start to panic and wonder if she’s had a stroke. Is her face gone wonky? Is she slurring? What’s that acronym I’m supposed to remember? F.A.C.E.? Or is it F.A.S.T.? Jesus, what do the letters even stand for? I’m about to stand up and shriek at Felipe to call an ambulance when it catches my eye …
‘What the fuck is that, Majella?’ I scream.
She stands up and pushes her left hand right into my face until it’s mere millimetres from my eyeballs. Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod. It is. It is what I think it is.
‘It’s a ring, Aisling,’ she screams back. ‘I’m engaged!’
Chapter 29
‘Tell me everything.’
I’m barely sitting down and Sadhbh is nearly in my lap, looking for news. I suppose there’s loads to catch her up on: Majella, the café, Carol Boland and the sausages, what I bought in IKEA. Most people whinge about going to IKEA, but I think it’s like going on holidays. The little pencils. The ordered arrow system pointing customers to follow the flow of traffic. The absurdly affordable food. They’re practically giving it away! Now, I know it’s hard to come away without at least seven things you don’t need, but you can never have too many laptop cushions, bins and dish sponges, if you ask me. I headed this morning for some essentials for BallyGoBrunch. I had a list and was determined not to stray from it. Place settings, napkins, vases and aprons. I’ll order a load of the other stuff wholesale, but for the time being I need to get going and get the place looking like a café, and I have a very particular look in mind. Shabby chic is what I’m going for. I saw it in a magazine and, besides, half the cafés in Dublin look like you accidentally stumbled into someone’s granny’s house. You’d nearly expect to find a set of teeth in your water glass. I’ll have my eyes peeled for anything with flowers, bees or old wellies on it. Sadhbh has begged me to add a few ‘modern twists’ too. Something to do with irony. Maybe a few silver butter dishes and plugs for people to charge their phones will keep her happy. People go berserk for places to charge their phones. And if they can charge their phones, they can put pictures of their grub on Instagram and put BallyGoBrunch on the map.
Sadhbh had me convinced to drive into town afterwards to meet her for lunch. I’ve barely seen her since we came back from Vegas, and it’s about time we had a catch up, to be fair. She knows the bare bones of Majella’s news, of course, but she wants all the details.
The car park earlier was gloriously empty. The absolute luxury of coming on a w
eekday morning. I could get used to this self-employed lark. I left BGB late enough to skip the morning commuter traffic but still gave myself enough time to sail around the whole place before I had to leave to meet Sadhbh. In I went, arming myself with a pencil, an order sheet and a little paper measuring tape. I’d hardly need it but you never know – they are just so handy. I must have at least five of them in various handbags and coat pockets. John used to love a trip to IKEA as much as me, but you’d hardly be as far as the shower curtains and you’d be rowing. It’s around the shower curtains that most of the rows start, and if you stop and observe for a few minutes you can see people left, right and centre storming off with trolleys or firing a bathmat back to the wrong spot with a ‘Fine’ or a ‘Get what you like so.’ And if bathrooms didn’t finish off your relationship, pictures frames surely would. John and I sometimes wouldn’t get past kitchenware. I’d be trying to fire dishcloths and self-sudsing scrubbing brushes into his trolley in the hope he might tackle the kip of a house he lives in, and he’d be going hammer and tongs for the shelves and screws, with no intention of ever putting a thing up. We’d be lucky to be speaking when the time came for the traditional tiny ice-cream cone after the checkouts. I don’t miss that, that’s for sure.
This morning, though, there were no rows. Just me and a handful of others gliding around serenely, with nobody hacking the backs of anyone else’s ankles with a trolley or pushing past them at the Billy bookshelves with an ‘excuse me’ through gritted teeth. Pure bliss. I loaded up on four cases of slate-coloured plates, bowls and mugs, treated myself to a selection of flowery milk jugs, and fell upon a pile of napkins with old suitcases on them. No aprons but maybe I’ll get some online. A quick pit stop for a ludicrously reasonably priced bit of fish and chips and Daim cake (12 Points – worth it) and I made it out with only two extra bins and four rogue photo frames. Not a bad morning’s shopping.
Parking in town during the day is a luxury I would usually only allow myself at Christmas, but I make an exception for Sadhbh. She’s very good to me and sent me a text just before I set off for IKEA reminding me, ‘No wavy mirrors.’ I would argue that nothing modernises a space like a wavy mirror and a print of the New York skyline, but Sadhbh knows her fashion. She only buys beige cushions and streamlined storage solutions in IKEA. No coat hangers that look like dogs’ arses for her.
I arranged to meet Sadhbh at a café on South William Street near her office. My eyes were on stalks looking for hints and tips and décor tricks. I wore silver bangles and my skinniest jeans in case any of the other Flatlay Records crowd were going to be there. I haven’t gone full skinny, of course. I just can’t bring myself to and my calves would never forgive me. Every jean needs a little kick to it, in my opinion. To my relief, it’s just Sadhbh sitting there hunched over her phone. I’m a few minutes late, but it was the difference between €3.40 an hour and €2.80 an hour in the car park so I left the car further away and hoofed it over here on foot. My Fitbit will thank me for it.
‘Ais,’ she squeals, and jumps up for a hug. I was never much of a hugger before I moved in with Sadhbh and Elaine, but they’d have the stuffing squeezed out of you by midday.
‘Hiya, Sadhbhy. Any craic?’
‘Never mind me. Tell me everything.’ She shoves a menu in my direction. She’s already warned me that she only has an hour for lunch. Busy times in the music biz.
‘Well, you know he got the kids in her class to kind of flash mob her with flowers?’
‘I know, I know. I still can’t believe it. It’s so deliciously cringy but so adorable at the same time.’ Sadhbh has long-held feelings about public proposals, i.e. don’t do them. I mean, if you’re going to be tasteful and get someone to hide in the bushes to get pictures for Facebook I suppose it’s okay, but she has a point. Some people go way over the top. Last year at a Knock wedding the best man proposed to his girlfriend after the first dance and there was war. You never know when it might all go wrong. Luckily for Pablo, though, it went right.
‘So the kids went up to her desk, one by one, and put a flower on it.’
Sadhbh squeals again, holding her menu up to her face.
‘Majella thought they were going to kill her for a second. Some kind of ritual they were conned into on the internet. But then the door opens and there’s Pablo holding a full bunch of flowers and the children all chant “Missus Moran, will you marry him?” The shrieks brought people in from four classrooms away.’
I pause to order and let Sadhbh soak in all of the details.
‘Can you believe it?’
‘I know! Isn’t it mad?’ I’m as breezy as can be but Sadhbh still senses my hesitation.
‘Are you not sure about it?’
‘Ah no, I am.’ I look at my hands. ‘But at the same time they’re only together a wet weekend. I’d worry she’s rushing into it – I love Pablo but does she even know him, really?’
‘Ah, she does. Hasn’t he been living with her and the fam for a while now?’
Sadhbh is right, I suppose. ‘How are Elaine and Ruby? I haven’t seen them since the wedding, if you can believe that. I’ll have to get them down to the … café.’ I blush at my own words. It still doesn’t seem real.
‘Oh, I know! Tell me all. Did you say something about sausages on the phone or was I hallucinating?’
Sadhbh’s open salmon sandwich arrives, and I gaze at it with pity as my chicken burger is placed in front of me. I’m sorry, but a sandwich is not a sandwich without two slices of bread. What’s the point? They definitely saw her coming.
‘Well,’ I start, ‘you know Marty Boland, the butcher?’
‘Yeah. The prick that’s been giving the new beauty girl all the hassle.’
‘Yeah, well, his wife is a dynamite cook, and it turns out that she’s behind the amazing sausages he’s been making a name for himself with. They serve them for breakfast at the Ard Rí and people go crazy for them.’
‘Sure, I know them well. You used to bring them up to Dublin all the time. I swear Elaine thought about giving up the veganism once or twice for them. But did they not have his name and face plastered all over them?’
‘That’s the thing. He’s taken her granny’s recipe that she’s perfected and put his mark all over it. It seems like she’s powerless to stop him. He’s such a bully.’
‘But you told me she’s coming to work for you, right?’
‘Oh, Sadhbh, it’s not just the sausages she’s got under her belt. The bread and cakes and potato farls are out of this world.’
‘Go on, Aisling! Look at you, little miss entrepreneur.’
‘And she hummed and hawed over it, afraid of him more than anything, I’d say. But we sealed the deal by telling him about the exposure the sausages will get if the café does well. He’s mad to get them into supermarkets. Carol said he actually went purple when he found out I’d told James Matthews that he was planning on putting his sausage factory in the unit. Serves him right for thinking he’s above zoning laws. Things between them are fairly tense because of it, but we’re hoping he’ll get over it soon enough.’
‘And so his wife is coming to work at BallyGoBrunch?’
‘Yeah. He decided to let her. Said they need the money for another van for distribution.’
‘Big of him,’ Sadhbh scoffs.
‘So she’s been working on some recipes and menus and, do you know, Sadhbh, I can’t believe I got her. It seems too good to be true.’
‘Well, I’m delighted for you. Cheers to that.’ She lifts her sparkling water and we clink glasses. ‘Here, tell me more about this James Matthews person. This isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned his name.’
I’ve tried to keep the mentions of Mr Matthews to a minimum, to be honest. Truth be told, the thought of him makes me blush to high heaven. Of course she picks up on my discomfort right away.
‘Oh? Is he a looker?’
‘If you like horsey, Made in Chelsea types, I suppose. He’s very Constance Swinford.’ Sadhbh k
nows all about Constance. She’s entranced by her and Mammy’s friendship. ‘They’re like us, kind of,’ she jokes. ‘Chalk and cheese.’
I’m being a bit unfair to James, I suppose, but I don’t want any more romance chat after the last while. After going out with the same lad for years, I’m wrecked out with all the drama and the fighting and the sheet wrangling of the past few months. Speaking of which …
‘How’s Don?’
‘I was just texting him.’
I wait for her to slag me about Antony, but she stays mercifully silent on that front, thank God. What happens in Vegas and all that.
‘Is he still over in the States a good bit?’
‘Yeah, they’re touring the east coast at the moment. About twelve of them sleeping in a bus. Just thinking about the smell makes me queasy.’
‘Have Fionnuala and Mairead found out about you two yet?’
She puts down the phone. ‘Yes, and it’s not good. Fionnuala saw him on some local New York chat show that she recorded and the interviewer asked him about having a girlfriend …’ She spears a cherry tomato with her fork.
‘Well, go on,’ I almost shout. Has Don professed his love for her publically? Is Fionnuala now on hunger strike? Is Sadhbh’s life in danger?
‘Sorry,’ she says, swallowing. ‘I’m starving – totally forgot to eat breakfast. Anyway, he said he was seeing someone blah blah blah and pointed to the S he’d just had tattooed on his finger.’
I nearly choke on my burger. He got her initial tattooed on his body permanently. Then she holds up her own hand – where there’s a D etched just above the knuckle on her middle finger. They’re like something out of a sexy perfume ad.
‘Sadhbh, you didn’t,’ I squeal, and she smiles back at me.
‘I did. And so did he.’
‘You’re mad about him, aren’t you?’
She shrugs. ‘He’s a keeper. At least, I think he is.’
He’s some catch, I’ll give her that. I can’t believe I’m only finding out about this now, though. I fight back the feelings, but I’m a bit sad.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 22
