Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  ‘Can I ring you?’

  18

  I’m just about to text him back to warn him I’m about seven glasses of wine in when the phone starts ringing in my hand anyway, giving me a fierce fright.

  ‘How do you manage to still have a polyphonic ringtone?’ slags Sadhbh from the couch, but I just wave at Don to lower the music a bit.

  ‘It’s Paul. I better answer it,’ I say, grabbing my glass of wine and heading upstairs to the fancy front sitting room. I check my watch – it’s gone eleven here so it’s about nine in the morning in Melbourne.

  I try to bend my legs under myself like Sadhbh but nearly fall over and spill my wine on the couch in the process. My nerves. I bet it cost more than my industrial-sized walk-in fridge in BallyGoBrunch.

  ‘Well, P-Force,’ I say, sitting down normally. P-Force was what Daddy used to call him when he fell and grazed his knees as a child. ‘Everything alright?’

  There’s a sort of choking sound down the line. ‘She broke up with me,’ he eventually says in a strangled voice. ‘Hannah. She said there’s no point staying together while she’s away.’

  Poor Paul. He had seemed so happy.

  ‘Ah, Paul, that’s shite. I’m sorry to hear that.’ I don’t really know what else to say. We’re fairly close, but we were never the best at having deep and meaningfuls. Not like Majella and her brother Shane when they get stuck into the Southern Comfort and red. They’re like Oprah and Dr Phil then with their aha moments.

  ‘I only told her I loved her the other day, Aisling.’ He’s sobbing and I’m a bit lost for words. I’m not used to Paul talking about his emotions and throwing around words like ‘love’. It’s not like him, especially when he’s talking to me.

  ‘I know it’s a cliché, but there’s plenty more fish in the sea. Especially where you are. Fish and sharks, isn’t it?’ But he’s not listening.

  ‘I thought she was The One, Ais. She was perfect.’

  ‘No one’s perfect. We all fart!’ I say emphatically, trying uselessly to cheer him up.

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m going out of my mind.’ He gives a deep, shuddering sigh.

  ‘Are none of the lads from home there to talk to? Philser Cuddihy – isn’t he in the house with you?’

  I’m grasping at straws here. Philser Cuddihy is a cousin of Mad Tom’s and the last person you’d want near you in a crisis.

  ‘They’re gone off to play pitch and putt. Sure, I’ve hardly seen them in months. I was with Hannah.’ He starts to cry again and I’m at a loss. ‘I’m going to come home, Ais. I can’t stay here without her. I want to be at home.’

  ‘Now calm down, Paul. It was only four degrees here yesterday. Think about what you’re saying.’

  ‘Everything here is going to remind me of her. I could never go to the Tricolour again for a start.’

  ‘Listen, I know things feel like a disaster right now, but you’ll feel different soon, I promise.’

  I think back to advice that gave me comfort when me and John split. ‘Goodbye is a hello to a life without you.’ ‘When you’re going through hell, keep going.’ And, of course, my favourite.

  ‘What’s for you won’t pass you,’ I say gently to Paul. ‘It’s always the way.’

  ‘Well, she’s the one for me. And she’s said she doesn’t love me and to forget about her.’

  Jesus, that seems very harsh. I’ve never heard Paul this upset. I could kill that Hannah one.

  ‘Why don’t you take your mind off it for the moment? You work on Sundays, don’t you? Should you not be getting into your Mr Tayto costume? You must be busy with Christmas around the corner and everyone after the twenty-pack boxes.’

  You can’t have Christmas without a twenty-pack box of Taytos under the tree – I don’t care if you’re Australian or not.

  ‘Fuck work. I’m not going. Fuck everything.’ He trails off into tears again. ‘I’ll let you go, Aisling. I’m going to look at flights. I might need a lend.’ And he’s gone.

  When I get back into the kitchen Majella has seized control of the remote and is standing on a kitchen chair dancing to The Peigs’ forthcoming single, ‘No Hot Ashes’. Don is doing his best impression of himself with a fish slice while Sadhbh is lighting a rollie off one of the gas rings on the fancy hob.

  ‘Will I open another bottle?’ she roars when she sees me and I don’t have it in me to relay the Paul news. So I nod.

  It’s nearly eleven when I wake up the next morning, but I’m still wrecked. It took me ages to get to sleep, the worrying I was doing about Paul – I kept thinking about him sitting there on his own crying. I think about texting John – they are good pals after all. But would it be odd to text him out of nowhere? He wasn’t mad for the texting even when we were together. I once sent him an essay about seeing who I thought was Rod Stewart on the bus (it wasn’t Rod Stewart but it could have been, and I swear the woman had the same hair and nose) and all I got back from John was ‘K. Will u buy milk?’ I didn’t talk to him for two days. But then, I suppose, there was the time he was on a stag in Antwerp and he sent me twenty-three texts in one hour trying to tell me he loved me. It’s really quite something the number of times you can misspell ‘love’.

  I decided not to text him for the time being about Paul. Paul will be grand. He overreacts about things. Instead, I started worrying about the catering orders I left Carol to look after while I’m off gallivanting. She insisted I take the time off, and I suppose she was off for her niece’s wedding last week, but I just can’t stop fretting. Then I started wondering if I should put the willy straws for the hen in my carry-on in case they lose my luggage. The mattress in Sadhbh and Don’s spare room wasn’t to blame for my sleeplessness, anyway. It was like a cloud. And, of course, I took two paracetamol and drank a pint of water before turning in so at least I’m not completely dying. It’s the only way to ward off a hangover, other than just not drinking. And I wasn’t about to do that in party season, as they call December on Xposé.

  There’s no sign of anyone moving so I help myself to a tin of Diet Coke from the entire shelf of Diet Cokes in the fridge and then take a second one to hold to my head. I don’t feel too bad but old habits die hard. I retrieve my phone from where I left it charging beside the couch – apparently having it in the bedroom is the last thing you need if you’ve trouble sleeping – and check for messages from Paul. Nothing. I fire off a text asking how he’s doing now, hoping he’s had a change of heart about coming home. Although, I suppose he might be a good help to Mammy with the eco farm, if it comes to that. As I’m sending it, a message from James flashes up. It’s a picture of two mugs on his kitchen table.

  ‘Got one out for you without thinking. Hope you’re having fun x.’

  ‘What are you smiling like an eejit at? And how do you look so grand?’ Majella accuses me as she slopes into the kitchen. ‘I’m in bits. On a scale of rice to sand I’m basically dust.’

  Sadhbh follows her, heading straight for the fancy coffee machine. There’s no sign of Don at all.

  ‘You know how.’ I shrug. ‘I offered you some Panadol last night and you said “codeine or nothing” and wobbled off to ring Pablo. I tried, Maj.’

  ‘Fair enough, bird.’

  ‘Were you talking to him today yet?’ Sadhbh asks her, sticking on a round of toast. ‘Has he calmed down?’

  Apparently when he’d answered the phone Pablo was sobbing quietly. Nothing new there, I thought – he probably just saw a nice bird or something. But Majella eventually got him to admit he’s cacking it about the stag, even though it’s months away. The lads have told him he needs to bring his passport, get an anti-tetanus shot and write his name and blood type on a consent form. They’re only winding him up, but he’s taken to googling ‘Irish stag parties’ and is worried they’re taking him out to international waters in Chief Gittons’s speedboat. I said I’d doubt it since it only has enough space for four people and a cool box for fishing bait. Besides, John would never p
lan anything really dangerous. He once witnessed a lad sellotaped to a lamppost in Dingle and it was so cold his mickey is said to have never recovered. A cautionary tale if ever there was one.

  ‘Yeah, he’s grand now,’ Majella says, helping herself to a slice of Sadhbh’s fancy seedy bread and lashing on the Kerrygold – I never leave home without it. I might be a Fry Light devotee for cooking, but when it comes to bread and butter I’m a purist and only a thick layer will do, Points be damned.

  ‘And where are you at with the wedding prep? I bought a hat when I was in Japan.’

  I notice Majella taking a deep breath and steadying herself on the kitchen island. She wouldn’t be a fan of Sadhbh’s mad outfits at the best of times, but the thought of her in a Japanese hat might push her over the edge, even though Maj herself was a big fan of Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku phase.

  ‘We’re motoring, aren’t we, Ais?’

  ‘We are.’

  We are, I tell myself. We’ll be grand. I sent her on a few ideas for invitations last week, very classy, so that’s another thing off my list.

  ‘They’ve a new wedding coordinator in the Ard Rí who seems a bit clueless, but we’re not worried.’ She steals a look at me. ‘Are we?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Everything is under control. And we haven’t said a word to anyone about The Peigs playing. It’s going to be the talk of the night.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Majella goes in mock horror.

  ‘After how stunning the bride is, of course,’ I add.

  ‘That’s more like it.’

  ‘Does Pablo have many coming from Tenerife?’ Sadhbh asks.

  ‘Last count was forty-two and three kids, which is plenty. We have to have a Spanish priest now to keep them up to speed. Felipe from Maguire’s was able to put me in touch with one.’

  ‘I thought he was Brazilian?’ Sadhbh looks confused.

  ‘He is. But he’s a great connoisseur of the Romantic languages. That’s a direct quote from him. Father Fenlon is bulling, of course. He hates sharing the altar.’

  ‘And dare I ask, what about the dress?’

  ‘No joy yet,’ Majella says sadly. ‘I think I’ll need a miracle to get one that I love with my current budget.’

  ‘I actually saw an incredible dress in Vogue’s wedding special – well, it was a while ago now, but it just screamed Majella to me. Let me see if I can find it. I think I put all my magazines in here,’ Sadhbh says quietly, walking over to a deep drawer and rummaging a bit before producing said magazine, the colour coming back into her cheeks. Nothing like a bit of fashion chat to get her blood pumping. The corner of one of the pages is turned down and she flips it over.

  There’s a sharp intake of breath when we see the dress. Sadhbh was right, it is very Majella. But in a good way. A great way!

  Maj stabs at the page with her finger. ‘This! This is the exact style I’m after. Just look at that boat neck.’

  It’s faboo. Absolutely faboo. Majella has collarbones like razor blades.

  ‘It couldn’t be more perfect,’ she says. ‘I have to have it! Pablo will need to be hospitalised when he sees me in this. Paramedics on standby, Ais.’

  Then she looks for the price. ‘Six grand! Ah, Sadhbh, what are you doing to me here?’

  ‘Calm down, calm down,’ Sadhbh says. ‘Krystal Ball is the designer and I know for a fact that her dresses go on sale all the time, and they go for quite cheap. Well, comparatively. And this magazine is about six months old. Write down the style and keep your eyes peeled in January. You might get lucky.’

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ Maj says, tearing the page out. ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘And if you don’t, there’s this amazing girl Diva who styles Don and the lads. She also designs the most stunning gowns. I could get you an appointment if you’re interested? Mates’ rates!’

  ‘Deadly! Does this Aoife have a shop or something I could go into for a goo?’ Majella asks.

  ‘Diva.’

  ‘I just wanted to have a look!’

  ‘No!’ Sadhbh laughs. ‘Her name is Diva, not Aoife.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Majella goes. ‘Eh, I’ll let you know then.’

  19

  I’m barely in the door when Mammy comes flying into the kitchen, the cordless phone in her hand. ‘Paul was saying he was talking to you. Ah, Aisling, my heart is broken for him. The craythur.’

  ‘Do you not think he’s being a bit dramatic, Mammy? He’s talking about coming home and everything,’ I say, parking my wheelie bag and lifting up the kettle and then flicking it on. My white wine hangover is starting to make itself known. I nearly had to drop poor Majella at the County General on the way home – she asked for a pen and paper to write her will when we were passing the Red Cow.

  ‘Oh, his flights are booked,’ she says, going for the mugs. ‘He’ll be home in time for Christmas.’

  ‘But what about the rental deposit on the house? His job?’

  ‘Philser Cuddihy said they’ll have no problem renting out his room so he gave him the deposit back. It nearly covered the flights.’

  ‘Nearly?’

  ‘Well, it’s two weeks to Christmas. He was lucky to get a seat at all, Aisling, with the amount of Irish in Australia. I just gave him a few bob to make up the difference. I couldn’t have him halfway across the world with not even a Terry’s Chocolate Orange in the state he’s in.’

  Mammy’s always been like this with Paul – nothing is ever too much trouble for her golden boy. I could be on fire in the middle of the calving shed and she’d step over me to bring him a ham and cheese sandwich with the crusts cut off.

  ‘Well, I suppose he could give you a hand with the farm. Any new bookings since your media blitz?’ I feel bad that I even have to ask that. I should be helping out more but I just don’t have the headspace to take on anything else at the minute.

  ‘Oh, did I not tell you? We’re booked out for February! Constance sent John a picture of a pet lamb sucking milk from a bottle, and as soon as it went up on the website we got a school tour, two hens and a corporate retreat. Air traffic controllers from Shannon, I believe.’

  ‘That’s deadly, Mammy.’

  ‘How’s Sadhbh and himself, the rock star? Still singing about Liam Neeson, is he?’

  ‘Well, it’s Pierce Brosnan, but yeah. The place in Ranelagh is lovely. Two ovens, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Ah, isn’t that great. God, you’re all so grown up now, settling down and getting married. It’s starting to make me feel a bit old.’ Then off she goes, humming ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’, to return the phone to its cradle – God forbid the battery gets used.

  It’s pitch dark at 6 a.m. when I pull up the shutters and open the back door to BallyGoBrunch. But the Christmas trade waits for no woman. As well as her signature mince pies and spicy gingerbread women, Carol’s new limited-edition Santy Sandwich has been flying out the door. It’s great for business, but it also means someone has to get in early to fire up the oven for Billy Foran’s organic turkey breasts. I’m rostered on today, but I’m tired after tossing and turning all night, dreaming of monster kangaroos and oven timers that can’t be turned off. I pride myself on being no slave to the demon coffee, but I whip myself up a little cup of Nescafé to keep me going – which seems criminal given the freshly ground beans not five metres away from me, but if my hand was forced I’d have to say I couldn’t be bothered with all the fluthering.

  Half an hour later I’m in the office making a small dent in the paperwork that’s been piling up when I hear a key in the back door.

  ‘Well, Carol,’ I call out. ‘Ready for another day of it?’

  ‘Are you alright, Aisling?’ she says, appearing in the doorway after a minute, a concerned look on her face.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, swinging around in my ergonomic office chair.

  ‘It’s just the trays of turkey are on the counter.’

  I jump up, scooch past her and fly out into the kitchen. But she’s right
, of course: her carefully seasoned turkey breasts, scattered with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, are indeed sitting out catching salmonella instead of roasting in the oven, which is going full blast. I distinctly remember turning it on but I could have sworn I’d put the turkey in too.

  ‘I … I’m sorry, Carol. I thought I’d done it,’ I stammer, mortified.

  ‘Not to worry, love. I’ll pop them in now. They’ll still be done in time,’ she glances at her watch, ‘more or less.’

  ‘Would it help if I cranked up the temperature?’

  ‘And serve dry turkey in my Santy Sandwich? Over my dead body. Now go on, back to your desk. I’ve some party bits to assemble and the sausage rolls to put on.’

  I’m on my way back to the office – it’s very hard to say no to Carol when she’s being uncharacteristically stern – when there’s a knock on the front door. Mother of God, it’s like Heuston Station here today. We’re not due to open for another twenty minutes but I go out to answer it anyway in case it’s a lunch order from the crew at Garbally. They’ve been sausage-bap stalwarts since they arrived, thanks in no small part to James’s encouragement, I’m sure.

  I’m expecting to see some lad in a high-vis but instead there’s an immaculately turned-out woman smiling through the glass at me. She’s dressed head to toe in black and has two phones in one hand and a BallyGoBrunch catering leaflet in the other.

  ‘Hi!’ she trills. ‘Mandy Blumenthal. Can I come in?’ She waves the leaflet at me. ‘My apologies, I thought you’d be open at 6.40, but I guess things are pretty laid-back around here, huh.’

  An American. Americans outside America make me nervous. They seem louder than usual and make ordering chips unnecessarily complicated and have much better raincoats than us. Although this woman isn’t wearing a raincoat. It’s probably in her car.