Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  I’ve only given her one ring this time but she’s down the stairs and reefing the passenger door off the Micra thirty seconds later.

  ‘Jesus, what took you, Ais?’

  ‘It’s just gone half four. I’ve dragged you out of bed at this hour on a Saturday afternoon before.’

  ‘I wasn’t out last night. We stayed in to finish the guest list.’

  ‘What’s the final headcount so?’ I enquire, pulling carefully out on to the Knock Road.

  ‘Two hundred and twenty, including kids.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t having kids?’

  ‘Pablo’s mam was on to him. Said if little Juanita and Pancho and Guillermo couldn’t go, the granny would kick off. I’m raging but my hands were tied. Pab really loves that granny.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I know,’ she goes, leaning back against the headrest. ‘Would you mind if we stop in to the Ard Rí on the way? I need to tell Lisa and I’d like to see her write it down, if I’m honest. It’ll only take a minute.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say, mentally recalculating our arrival time at the roadworks on the N7. We’ll still miss the worst of it, I’d say – if I step on it.

  Ten minutes later, Lisa Gleeson is ushering us into her little office in the Ard Rí. ‘Come in, come in, sit down,’ she says, diving for her computer. I could barely see the screen from where I was standing but I swear she’d been watching a film.

  ‘No problem at all,’ Lisa goes when Majella explains the situation. ‘I’m guessing we have a kids’ menu?’

  She’s looking straight at me, eyebrows raised.

  ‘You do,’ I sigh eventually. Christ, she hasn’t a clue. ‘I think it’s a choice of pasta or goujons or fish fingers.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Lisa says with a nod, typing away. ‘It definitely sounds familiar anyway.’

  ‘I think that’s it so, isn’t it, Maj?’ I say, standing up and pointing at my watch. We really do need to hit the road.

  ‘Do you think I should have more of a … persona for this job?’ Lisa says, leaning back in her chair and chewing on her pen.

  ‘What?’ Majella looks as confused as I feel. I wiggle my left wrist at her.

  ‘I was just thinking it could be good for business if I was a bit more flamboyant. Maybe adopt an accent? The brides might like it.’

  ‘I think you’re doing fine just the way you are,’ I say, lying through my teeth while putting on my anorak.

  ‘Really, Aisling?’ She sounds surprised and chuffed at the same time. ‘That actually means a lot.’ God, she’d believe anything.

  We’re hitting Ranelagh when my phone beeps in my bag.

  ‘Get that will you?’ I would usually ignore any and all distractions while driving, but it might be Carol with an emergency, and Majella can relay the information for me.

  She reaches in and retrieves it. ‘It’s “Paul Oz New 2”,’ she says, sounding disappointed. ‘I was hoping it might be James in nothing but his tool belt.’

  ‘Maj!’ My cheeks flame. ‘Just read out the text.’

  She clears her throat. ‘“Hannah is leaving in 3 days. Need to buy her something. Any ideas?”’

  ‘Wow,’ Majella says. ‘It sounds like he’s really fallen head over heels for this young wan.’

  ‘You know what he’s like. What do you think? She’s going to be crammed into a camper van with probably fifteen other girls for months so it can’t be a handbag or a scented candle or anything.’

  ‘Something small? Jewellery?’

  ‘Perfect. Type that out.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ Majella says, firing my phone back in my bag, ‘what’ll I get Pab for Christmas?’

  ‘Hmmm. I don’t really know. He’s a man of few needs. A lock of your hair?’

  ‘Gave him that last year. But that’s about all I can afford at the moment so you’re on the right track.’

  Although all their spare cash is going towards invitations and candles and jam jars and all the bits that my voucher didn’t cover, Majella and Pablo are still saving for their own place.

  ‘Are you gone over your budget for the extra wedding bits?’ I’ve been trying to explain the concept of budgeting to Majella for years, but it wasn’t until she started pricing gospel choirs and doves that the penny finally dropped. She’s been diligently keeping track of her spending ever since, and I must say I’ve never been prouder.

  ‘No, I’m on top of that. I just ordered a kilo of confetti from China, actually – saved myself a fortune.’

  ‘You didn’t fork out for the new Colette Greene Beauty Experience in Arnotts did you? €350 is too much for a blow-dry and a spray tan, Maj – I don’t care if Colette herself is doing the spraying.’

  ‘I can’t say I wasn’t tempted,’ she admits, ‘but it’s school stuff. We’re crowdfunding for new laptops and we were so close to making our target that I needed to donate a few bob to get us over the line. It’s going to make my life so much easier in the long run.’

  ‘Fair dues, Maj. That must have put you in the principal’s good books.’

  ‘Well, she’s stopped calling me Marilyn, so it definitely helped.’

  17

  Don opens the door and Majella lets out an involuntary gasp. His months abroad have managed to turn even his Navan skin a fetching shade of golden, and he’s kept the head shaved. A great look for him.

  ‘Aha, the gals!’ He beams, reaching for the handles of our wheelie cases and sweeping his arm out behind him. ‘Welcome! Herself is in there.’

  We nearly fall over each other in our rush to follow his pointed finger and get a gawk at their new place – it’s one of those old Georgian houses. All renovated, of course, and looking festive with a massive Christmas tree in the front hall and fairy lights everywhere. I’ve seen bits of it on FaceTime with Sadhbh but now it’s time for a proper inspection. We make our way down the hallway, oohing and aahing over the height of the ceilings – although, I can’t help fretting about how astronomical the heating bills are going to be. We touch the nice bowls on the side table, and I notice that not one of them is full of keys and hair clips. Very swish. We compliment the art on the wall, even though it looks absolutely cracked. I always think if you’re going to pay money for a painting you should at least be able to figure out what’s in it.

  ‘Ah, there you are, my lovely ladies!’ Sadhbh is sitting cross-legged on the absolutely mahoosive velvet couch – a position I’d need help getting into and out of – and closing her laptop as we arrive into what must be the Good Sitting Room, there’s that many cushions, while Don disappears upstairs with our bags like a celebrity butler. ‘Sorry, just finishing off a bit of work so we have the whole evening free.’

  I’m surprised to see, as she unfolds herself from the couch, her outfit is almost completely normal. Pale grey bottoms and a matching sweatshirt. They look incredibly soft and like they’re straight out of the shop, of course. I have something similar but they’re as bobbly as a school jumper, despite my careful attention to the washing instructions. I know all the little symbols. She comes in for a hug and my hands hit her bare back. There it is. A chic backless tracksuit. On anyone else it would conjure images of Christina Aguilera’s arseless chaps – a look Majella tried to emulate with a pair of old Wranglers for Halloween 2002. Sadhbh is also wearing a whisper of a bra, if you could even call it that. A bralette, is that what they are? I could never get away with one. I need a bit of steel and at least five centimetres in strap width to feel in any way secure.

  ‘Show us around!’ Majella shrieks. ‘What a house! This is even nicer than the Portobello place.’

  She’s right, it is. And I didn’t think that could ever be topped. I was only telling a complete stranger in BallyGoBrunch about the wine fridge in our old Dublin apartment the other day. There must be money in having the number one single in the States for eight weeks in a row.

  Don appears with three mimosas on a tray. Imagine having a tray in your house for carrying
drinks around on! How the other half live. I make a mental note to look for one in IKEA for bringing the tea in from the kitchen. ‘For the journey,’ Don says, and we do a cheers to welcome him home and to toast the new house.

  ‘Follow me so,’ Sadhbh says, leading us out of the sitting room, back into the hallway and downstairs to a very swish open-plan kitchen and living room. ‘You have a basement,’ I gasp. I can’t help it. I thought only American houses had basements – for their terrifying furnaces and teenage hangouts, the latter being my dream when I was fourteen. She also has a kitchen island – that’s been on my vision board for as long as I can remember. A double sink and one of those drawers with the triple bins, and maybe even a hob right there in the middle of the room so you can baste something while entertaining your guests. Although basting seems to involve a fierce amount of butter and I’m not sure my carefully measured sprays of Fry Light would do the job.

  ‘Lads, it’s faboo,’ Majella goes, draining her glass and examining the ice-cube dispenser in the fridge door. ‘Are you loving it? You must be loving it – you have underfloor heating.’

  ‘It’s great,’ Sadhbh says, and we settle in on another enormous couch for a good catch-up. ‘I just wish we were here more. Don’t say anything but The Peigs have just booked a US arena tour for next year so we’re going to be based in New York for at least six months.’

  Sadhbh gone again. I’ll miss her. ‘Well, isn’t that brilliant, though,’ I say. ‘Think of the shopping – the outlets over there are something else.’

  We chat and laugh and drink and before we know it three hours have flown by and there’s a ping from the oven.

  Don pipes up. ‘Dinner is served, ladies.’

  I had my oh-yes-it’s-delicious face all ready for when Sadhbh served up one of her mad dairy-free, gluten-free, taste-free buffets, but it turns out Don has taken over most of the cooking in the house. I wasn’t complaining, let me tell you, when he handed me a plate of shepherd’s pie. Okay, it was made with lentils and, okay, the topping inexplicably contained sweet potato, if you can even call that a potato, but it tasted bloody gorgeous all the same.

  ‘Don, are you just good at everything? Is that it?’ Majella half-accuses when we’ve had an hour to digest our main courses and he produces an apple crumble that was hiding in a second oven disguised as a microwave. Two eye-level ovens! My head is swimming slightly and I clock that we’re on our fourth bottle of wine.

  ‘Cooking destresses me,’ Don says with a smile and my ears prick up. ‘I hardly ever get to do it.’

  ‘Really – does it, Don?’ I say. Maybe I’ll give it a go. Although, I spend a fair portion of my day in the kitchen of BallyGoBrunch and, if anything, being in charge of the toast only increases my stress levels. Carol has very exacting standards.

  ‘Definitely. You should try it.’ Then the phone in his pocket starts to vibrate and he backs out of the room muttering his apologies and something about Elton calling him at all hours. We move back over to the couch and Sadhbh produces three woollen throws from a wooden chest doubling as an end table. I must add multiple spare woollen throws to the vision board.

  ‘How are things in the café, Ais?’ Sadhbh asks kindly, topping up my glass and passing it to me. I sent her something of an SOS text when I found myself having a small panic attack over settling on a new lunch special. It was very unlike me. But I’ve started to feel that familiar pull of anxiety more often these days, and even the smallest tasks occasionally feel impossible. Like asking if a friend’s band will play at a wedding or choosing a lunch special. Next I’ll be in full-blown panic when Carol asks if I want a cup of tea. I went for the darne of salmon for the special in the end. Sure you can’t go wrong.

  ‘I just have a lot going on at the minute, you know yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you where there’s a lot going on – in James Matthews’s bedroom.’ Majella cackles. ‘You lucky thing,’ she adds with a sniff.

  ‘Majella!’ I go. But I’m fairly tipsy at this stage so I can’t help myself spilling my guts. ‘He’s so lovely, though,’ I whisper into my glass. ‘And he’s made such an effort to have all my favourite bits in his place for when I’m over …’

  ‘Your Müller Lights. Even if they were the wrong flavour.’ I had sent Sadhbh a picture of them. Toffee! Who buys the toffee ones?!

  ‘That’s more than John ever did after nearly nine years together,’ Majella interjects with a nod, and I choose to ignore her.

  ‘The problem is me. I just feel so wound up all the time. I’m always on edge. And I think it’s because maybe he’s too nice?’

  ‘I think that’s normal at the start of a relationship, before you start to get comfortable together,’ Sadhbh says, putting together one of her rollies with one eye closed. ‘Well, normal-ish. Are you still wearing the CC cream?’

  I nod earnestly.

  ‘I think you’re having trouble relaxing in general at the moment, though – aren’t you?’ Sadhbh continues, and I hope she’s not going to mention trying some of her crystals again. I don’t understand how rubbing a lump of celestite is supposed to make me stop catastrophising over every little thing, but each to their own.

  ‘I am a bit. Last week I brought up leftovers from the café – Carol’s famous vegetable moussaka, which is always the Tuesday lunch special and a good way to use up the prepped veg from Monday. We had a lovely dinner, a glass of Pinot Greej and were just about to sit down with Netflix when a ferocious pain went through me.’

  The girls look confused.

  ‘You know, a pain. In my belly.’ I nod down towards my lower half, mortified. ‘A gas pain, like.’

  Majella catches on and nods sagely. ‘Moussaka farts. I know them well.’

  Sadhbh shrieks with laughter and lies back, nearly drenching her lovely tracksuit.

  Majella gives me a look. ‘So? What was the problem?’

  ‘I can’t fart in front of him!’ I shriek.

  ‘You definitely can,’ Sadhbh says, pulling herself together and nodding furiously. ‘You’re only human. I had to get Don to help me with an ingrown hair on my bikini line a few weeks ago. Guys aren’t squeamish.’

  ‘Well, that’s just gross, Sadhbh.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ Maj asks.

  ‘I panicked and ran straight out the front door and did it in the hallway. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me. I ended up pretending I heard someone outside shouting “sausages” – it happens more than you’d think. And I’m shaving my legs at least once a day, sometimes twice, morning and night, which is crippling me financially – the price of razor blades! – but once you use the ones with the built-in Olay moisture bar you just can’t go back.’

  ‘I bet while you were outside he was inside doing the same thing,’ Sadhbh says.

  ‘Shaving his legs?’

  ‘No, farting!’

  I don’t know about that. James doesn’t fart. I’m convinced of it.

  ‘You need to let your guard down,’ she continues, opening another bottle. ‘Be yourself around him. Was it not like this before, like, before you were boyfriend and girlfriend?’

  ‘Well, I just didn’t see him this much, did I? I was just sort of … in and out.’

  This is out of my mouth before I realise what I’ve said, and the girls fall around the couches, shrieking with laughter. It really does feel like old times now, drinking wine and talking about boys. God, I miss it. I miss Dublin too, now that I’m here. I can feel the buzz and the energy of the city even through Sadhbh’s fancy double glazing.

  ‘It’s still so new. I don’t even fully know why he likes me. He called me “chilled out” the other day and said he likes that about me. I’ve never been called “chilled out” in my life, especially not at the moment. I’ve never actually been so tightly wound.’

  ‘Moussaka makes me gassy too, Ais.’

  I jump as my rant is interrupted. It’s Don! How long has he been standing outside the door? I can feel my ears turn crimson and I�
��m fairly sure I’ve gone momentarily deaf. Maybe nobody will notice.

  ‘Ais, you’ve gone bright red!’ Majella roars. ‘Here, Don, put on some tunes, will you? Good lad.’

  Now Don Shields from The Peigs knows I fart and grow leg hair. Talk about things going from bad to worse.

  ‘Listen, I’m a guy, I know how he thinks,’ Don says, reaching for the remote while Majella mouths ‘The Corrs, yeah?’ at him. ‘He doesn’t give a shit about any of that stuff. I guarantee he wouldn’t notice if you didn’t shave your legs for a week. He’s crazy about you. Sadhbh told me about the yoghurts.’

  ‘Men like Müller Lights too,’ I say with a shy smile.

  ‘No, they don’t.’ He scoffs. ‘He got them in because he luuurves you.’

  I reach for one of the many cushions and bury my head in it. I’m not able for all this carry-on.

  ‘How’s your own living situation going, Maj?’ Sadhbh asks, and I’m grateful for her changing the conversation. I feel safe enough to lift my head off the cushion just as she’s tucking her legs under her bum and I have pins and needles just looking at her.

  ‘Well, I caught Daddy and Shane eating one of my face masks after they crashed in from Maguire’s last week, so I’ll let you draw your own conclusions, bird. It’s not easy.’

  ‘In their defence,’ I say diplomatically, delighted to have the focus off me, ‘it was in the fridge and smelled like chocolate.’

  ‘And what’s the latest on the wedding?’ Sadhbh once saw Majella drinking a bottle of cucumber eye-make-up remover while under the influence of a particularly catastrophic hangover, so she’s not too fazed by the behaviour of the extended Moran family.

  ‘It’s all systems go. And, from what I hear, I’m going to have the hen party of the century.’

  I feel an instant sweat go up the back of my head at the mention of the hen. I wonder should I work on lowering her expectations. I’m about to explain that there are a million and one things that could go wrong with it when my phone beeps in my bag. No matter how many times Sadhbh has begged me to get with the times and turn my ringer off, I refuse, and this is why. Who knows what I’d miss! I stumble over to the kitchen island to get it, expecting a good night message from James. But it’s not James: it’s Paul Oz New 2.