The Importance of Being Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  ‘Hiya, Ais, where will I set up the raffle table?’

  ‘Denise!’ I squeal. She only had the baby a week ago and she’s back to looking like it never happened, albeit with a newborn now attached to her in a sling. Very Kate Middleton. ‘And little … how do I pronounce it? Coo? Coov?’

  ‘Coo-al,’ she says confidently. I’m obviously not the first person to ask. ‘Cumhal was Fionn Mac Cumhaill’s father. It suits him, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does, he’s dotey,’ I say absentmindedly, looking across the room. James Matthews has left his post outside at the pig and is now carrying around stacks of chairs, lining them up. If I didn’t know he was English I’d swear he was local the way he’s bantering with Cyclops and Titch Maguire, who keeps bringing up the six counties. ‘The table goes just inside the door,’ I say over my shoulder, heading in his direction. ‘Thanks a mill, Denise.’

  ‘That pig is not going to turn itself, James,’ I say with a hand on my hip. But I smile so he knows I’m only messing. Well, I’m partly messing. Someone better be turning it – if it’s burning I’ll have his guts for garters.

  ‘Carol came back and relieved me,’ he replies, setting down the chairs and wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Apparently I was doing it wrong?’ He laughs. ‘I suspect it’s in better hands now. Everything going according to plan?’

  ‘Right on schedule,’ I say, tapping my clipboard with my biro. Then I pause, trying to choose my words carefully. ‘I just wanted to say thanks a million for your help at the café the past few days. You went above and beyond and I appreciate it.’

  As soon as I heard about my Vegas win I cranked up the laptop and replaced all the stuff that was smashed up in the break-in. I even upgraded a few things, truth be told, but I won’t be too out of pocket once the insurance money comes in. My credit card was practically steaming, so when the cheque from the MGM arrived yesterday I flew straight in to Knock to lodge it. Joe Funge was in the bank twiddling his thumbs, but he still insisted I feed it into one of those big machines instead of just bloody well accepting it over the counter. I was livid. He was manning the place himself, just him and six machines and two phones. This is the future, apparently. Anyway, when I was off doing that, James Matthews was unpacking all the new delph and doing a final clean on the kitchen. I couldn’t believe it when I called in on the way home – the place looked as good as new. Better, actually. I’m all set to reopen at the weekend.

  ‘I felt very bad for you, Aisling,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It was the least I could do. Have you heard anything from the police?’

  ‘Garda Staunton rang yesterday,’ I say. ‘They questioned Marty Boland last week, but he really was at the Irish Butchers’ Challenge Gala Dinner in Belfast.’ James raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I know, it sounds made up but they checked out his alibi and it’s watertight. He was up on stage in front of 200 butchers accepting yet another award for the sausages. He couldn’t have done it.’

  There’s a kerfuffle over at the door and I turn around, expecting to see Geraldine going for Tessie Daly. The two of them have been at each other’s throats over the order of the models all afternoon. But it’s not Geraldine who’s drawing the crowd – it’s John, who I haven’t clapped eyes on in months. At the last minute, I decided to add a ‘men’s fashions’ segment just before the interval. The audience is mostly women so I thought it would be a crowd pleaser – get them riled up right before Denise swoops in with her raffle. I roped a few of the Rangers into doing it, and James said to count him in too, but I wasn’t expecting John to be around. He’s big news now with his county team connections. I definitely wasn’t banking on him showing up early.

  ‘Sorry, James, I have to fly,’ I say, rushing off. ‘I need you backstage at half – okay? Backstage is the toilets.’

  He nods and I continue on over towards Denise. Then she steps to the left, and out from behind Coo … Coov … the baby in the sling, appears a blonde bombshell and she’s hanging off John’s arm, looking up at him like she’s ready to eat him. I actually gasp because she looks just like one of those GAA wags I’ve seen in magazines. Although she’s even browner, and blonder, and more glamorous, if that’s possible. And that’s when I realise I can’t go over there. I thought I was ready, I thought I’d moved on, but I cannot meet John’s new girlfriend.

  The only place to go is down, so I hit the floor and crawl under a row of seats – very neat: I must remember to compliment Titch on his symmetry – and scurry to the opposite side of the room, a safe distance away. I’m about to sneak out when a pair of millennial pink suede mules appear in front of me. I’d know those perfectly pedicured toes anywhere.

  ‘Sadhbh,’ I hiss. ‘Down here.’

  Her upside-down face appears in front of me, her expression understandably confused. I wait for her mop of grey hair to fall downwards but there’s … nothing.

  ‘Ais, what the hell are you doing down there?’ she says, simultaneously laughing and reaching down to pull me out from under the chair.

  ‘It’s John,’ I whisper, struggling to my feet. ‘He’s over there with his swanky new girlfriend. I couldn’t face him. I thought I could, but I couldn’t.’

  She’s nodding along sympathetically but I can’t take my eyes off her head – it’s bald as a badger’s arse. What has she done to her hair? Her lovely hair! It was so well conditioned and shiny and swingy.

  ‘Do you really care, Ais? Like, really?’

  I think for a second. ‘No, I suppose I don’t. I just wasn’t ready to see him with another woman,’ I say to her scalp. ‘Sadhbh, your … hair, where is it gone?’

  ‘Couldn’t get rid of the nits so I just thought, fuck it,’ she says.

  ‘Well, you look great!’ I say, and I do mean it. Her skull is the perfect shape. ‘You didn’t bring Don with you?’

  ‘He’s in London for the Brits tonight,’ she says, ‘but he told me to stick a few quid in a bucket on his behalf. Mad Tom caught me with one on the way in.’

  ‘Ah, well tell him thanks a million from us – we really appreciate it. Are The Peigs nominated or what?’

  ‘Best Newcomer,’ Sadhbh says proudly, fishing out her phone. ‘Here, look, he just sent me a pic. They’re all wearing suits. It’s gas.’

  But when she holds up the phone, the picture on the screen looks nothing like The Peigs. It takes me a minute to register why.

  ‘Jesus, they’re all bald too!’ I scream. Bloody Mairead has a lot to answer for. ‘So I take it you fessed up?’

  ‘Yeah, I told Don last week. He was grand about it. He had just bumped into Beyoncé at a recording studio, though, so cross your fingers she doesn’t have them now too.’

  ‘Ah, she’s another one who’d look good with a shaved head, to be fair,’ I say. ‘Although if Mairead can trace herself back as the one who gave Beyoncé nits, we’ll never hear the end of it.’

  ‘It’s weird – since I arrived at the hotel, three people have offered me their seats,’ Sadhbh goes, looking perplexed. ‘No idea what’s going on.’

  ‘I think I do,’ I say. ‘They probably think you have cancer. We don’t get a lot of baldies around here.’

  She pales ever so slightly. ‘Oh my God, now it makes sense. Some auld lad in the car park said he’d light a candle for me!’

  ‘Maybe it will keep the nits away,’ I say hopefully. ‘Now listen, I have to run. I’m up to my eyes here.’

  ‘I can’t believe you pulled this off, Aisling. The place is chockers. Where’s Majella and the fam?’

  I consult my clipboard. ‘The Morans will come in when everyone’s seated and the lights go down. Father Fenlon is going to say a few words, possibly a prayer. And then we’ll get started.’

  ‘Why is a … priest–?’

  ‘Just because, Sadhbh. You’re not in Dublin now.’

  ‘Right, where do you want me?’

  I direct her to the second last row (you snooze, you lose) and head backstage to se
e how hair and make-up is getting on. The smell of fake tan nearly knocks me out when I open the door, and I notice the toilets are doubling as perfect make-up chairs. Very handy.

  Suddenly, Sharon appears in front of me. ‘Sorry, hun,’ she goes, her voice a bit shaky. Her phone is in her hand. ‘I just got a call off PhoneWatch to say the alarm in the salon is going off. One of the windows is open.’

  ‘Jesus, get one of the lads to go with you if you’re going over there,’ I say anxiously. I’m extra security conscious after what happened the café. Not that I was in anyway lax about it beforehand.’

  ‘Can you spare one? Is their segment not on before the interval?’

  ‘It is, but you’ll be back by then. I’m sure Cyclops would be delighted to go with you. He’s around here somewhere.’

  She gives me a quick hug and then teeters off to find him. I can’t believe the progress she’s made with the Gaels. They’re all looking in the mirror, mooning over themselves. Gillian Browne suddenly has cheekbones sharper than a Penali pen, and Avril O’Leary looks like she’s had lip implants since I last saw her an hour ago. Sharon is some make-up artist, and this show couldn’t be a better advertisement for the salon.

  ‘Girls, you’re all looking faboo,’ I shout over the din, and they all quieten down. ‘Geraldine will be in shortly to give you your outfits. Remember, loads of smiling on the catwalk. The Morans have been through enough.’

  It’s twenty minutes to showtime, so I decide to sneak out to the bar for a quick drink to steady my nerves. I might seem calm as anything on the outside, but I’m fairly shitting it in case something goes wrong. It’s like that sign Mammy used to have hanging up in the kitchen – something about nurses being like icebergs because you can only see a tiny bit of what they’re doing. I can’t remember the exact wording but I got the gist.

  My arm is nearly waved off me walking through the function room – it’s like everyone I’ve ever met is out – so I’m delighted to be the only one in the bar.

  ‘A West Coast Cooler and a glass of ice, please, Jocksey.’ He nearly has it in my hand before I’ve finished saying it, and I pay and sneak off into the snug to take the weight off my feet. I really wish I’d just worn my Crocs instead of my good Clark’s boots – is this what it’s like to be a fashion victim, I wonder.

  ‘Long time no see, Ais.’

  It’s John. He’s sitting on the leather couch behind the door. I should have known he’d be in here; this used to be our secret little spot when we first started going out and wanted to talk without being interrupted. All that talking and now look at us – we don’t know each other at all.

  ‘Eh, hiya. What has you hiding in here?’ I don’t know what to say. Seeing him again makes me feel so sad. He’s wearing clothes that I don’t recognise. Did his girlfriend pick out that waistcoat? Did she buy him that new aftershave for his birthday? He never let me buy him aftershave, said it was a waste of money. Now he smells like the inside of Brown Thomas’s and he has no socks on.

  ‘Ah, I just wanted a bit of peace and quiet. Everyone keeps asking me about the county team. I’m worn out talking about it.’

  ‘You must be enjoying it, though, are you?’

  ‘It’s good craic alright. Hard going, though, when I’m working full-time. Mammy is going mad that I’m not home enough.’

  Fran. The last time I saw her I was leaving the hospital with Piotr and I’ve somehow managed to avoid seeing her since. I’m still not recovered from the look she threw me.

  ‘How is Fran?’ I dutifully ask. ‘And Mel?’

  ‘Grand, grand,’ he says, toeing at a broken tile with his shoe. I notice he’s still wearing those brown pisscatchers and smile. Socks or no socks, some things will never change.

  I’m about to bite the bullet and ask him where the girlfriend is when I hear Sadhbh calling my name out in the corridor and look at my watch. Jesus, it’s less than five minutes till showtime! I have to get out there and make sure Geraldine has put the right shoes with the right outfits. She had a mad idea about ‘clashing colours’ earlier, and I had to put my foot down. Next thing she’ll be putting blue with green, and God knows they should never be seen.

  ‘Bye, John,’ I say, standing up and taking a few gulps of the Cooler. ‘It was really nice to see you.’ And I mean it.

  ****

  The fashion show went off without a hitch. Well, with minimal hitches. Sharon and Cyclops arrived back just as Shem was taking to the stage to thank everyone for coming. She said she was full sure she’d closed all the windows, but I had to remind her she’d had a busy day. It’s no mean feat looking at twelve camogie players in their knickers for hours on end. She also forgot to bring enough fake eyelashes for everyone, which really wasn’t like her.

  The Gaels played a blinder in the first half, apart from Áine Farrell who thought she was Kate Moss, blowing kisses and winking at people with her tongue out. There were two anonymous complaints for vulgarity lodged at reception. And the lads had apparently sneaked a bottle of whiskey into the toilets for Dutch courage, so they were fairly rowdy during their segment. Geraldine was no help, patting them down with baby oil backstage and loving every second of it too. You can imagine the moves when they got out on the catwalk. Even James Matthews had a spring in his step when he weaved up and down. John’s arrival nearly lifted the roof off the place, and an ambulance had to be called for Mad Tom, who thought it would be a good idea to stage dive; there’s another stamp on his A & E loyalty card. Still, all in all, I’d call it a success, and between the tickets, raffle and pig-on-a-spit, we raised €6,284 for the Morans. I wanted to get one of those big novelty cheques to present to them, but Liz said it was probably a waste of funds. Good craic in a picture, though.

  After the show, The Truck fires up his legendary mobile disco and the place really starts hopping, while a few of us try to tidy up. I asked Sadhbh to stack chairs but she got cornered by Geraldine, who insists on demonstrating the various ways she could wrap a floaty scarf around her head. There’s not much of the pig left, but Carol is making some noises about bones and trotters and stock for soup for the café. It sounds manky, but she knows what she’s talking about so I leave her off.

  When Sharon appears out of the toilets with her make-up kit, I finally realise how she managed to transform the Gaels. She has suitcases of it. Actual suitcases of make-up! How many trios of eyeshadow and lipsticks does one person need?

  ‘Hun, I’m going to do a run out with this stuff,’ she says, grabbing the handle of a case, ‘and then I’ll swing the car in closer to the door. Be easier.’

  She’ll be in and out all night if someone doesn’t give her a hand, so I scoop up two of the smaller bags and head after her. But even though she’s in the heels, there’s no catching her. When I get to the side door of the Mountrath I scan the pitch-dark car park – no sign. Then I hear the scream.

  Chapter 39

  ‘Sharon? Sharon? Sharon?’ Jesus Christ what’s going on? ‘Sharon?’

  I rush in the direction of where I saw her Beetle earlier, weaving in between parked cars. The car park is eerily quiet and dark save for a solitary floodlight. Before I can find her I trip over something. Sharon’s stuff. Part of her make-up kit. Where is she? My heart is pounding in my ears and I fumble in my pocket for my phone. It’s not there. I’ve left it inside. I can hear muffled laughter and chat from inside the hotel, and I turn to run back in for help when I hear her scream again, coming from my right. I turn in the direction of the noise and begin walking, and then running. There’s a silver car, parked right at the edge of the car park, and the interior light is on. As I get closer I can see movement inside. I can see the orange of Sharon’s dress in the weak illumination, and I can see the driver – a man with dark hair – has one hand over her mouth and another around her throat.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Help. Helllp!’ I race towards the car, and as I reach the passenger door and uselessly flip the handle, I can see Sharon clawing desperately at his face. She’s k
icking her legs against the dashboard and the door as I pound from the other side. He lets go of her for a second to start the car, and I look around for something to smash the window. Plenty of empty cans under the hedge. Sure, you’d be sober as a judge in the queue for the Vortex without a can of something to keep you going. There’s nothing substantial enough to break glass under there, though.

  The man grabs Sharon by the hair again and, with the other hand, awkwardly tries to manoeuvre the car out of the space, reversing around and back towards the exit. The place is packed and there isn’t enough space for him to turn. I look around desperately for a rock or something, anything. The lights of a car flash into my face as a jeep pulls in off the road at the other end of the car park. I frantically wave my hands in the air, screaming for help, but all I get in return is a friendly salute and a ‘There you are now, good girl.’ It’s Jocksey Cullen’s elderly father. Deaf as a post and wouldn’t see the Pope himself standing in front of him, he’s that blind.

  ‘Helllppp!’ I scream again. But he shuffles inside with a cheery, ‘Lovely night for it.’

  I frantically try the handles on other cars around me, and the second one I try gives way. God bless the parish and its trusting nature. As the silver car slowly moves away from me, Sharon still fighting and screaming, my hand closes around the long handle of a hurl. Perfect. Pulling it from the back seat, I sweep around to where the silver car has once again stalled. Running to the passenger window I scream at Sharon to ‘Get down,’ line the metal band up with the window and swing. It smashes first time, covering Sharon’s hair and clothes in shattered glass. I reach inside the car and pull the lever on the passenger door, which opens, and I grab her arm and drag her out. The driver’s attentions turn to escape, and she’s barely clear of the car when he puts his foot to the floor, reversing at speed all the way back towards the entrance. Sharon is shaking and keening, a kind of a high-pitched moan, and I help her to her feet.