Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  ‘How’s everyone’s Trim for Tenerife going?’ Denise asks. Denise was like a rake before she had baby Cumhall and she stayed much the same after she had him, so I don’t know why she’s going on about Trim for Tenerife. The girls chat about how they’ve ‘been good’, and Sinéad reveals she tried eating celery for a week but gave up after two hours because she just really hates celery. I can’t help but mention my steps are off the charts at the moment, what with all the running around I’m doing.

  I notice that Sharon is still very quiet and I wonder is she thick with me for landing the whole hen party in on top of her like this. I’ve definitely felt a bit of a vibe off her this past while, but I know I’m feeling a bit sensitive about everything and stressed about leaving BallyGoBrunch for the weekend. Carol assures me everything will be grand. I ordered the tiny racks of lamb last week for the wedding, and Carol’s been practising in the meantime cooking them to pink perfection to slice into little chops. She promised me we won’t be giving them food poisoning, but I won’t be happy until we’re twenty-four hours the other side of that wedding.

  ‘I’ve more news, actually,’ Lisa pipes up, looking put out that her Dicey Kelly revelation wasn’t the bombshell she was hoping. ‘The date is confirmed for that big party in Garbally. Someone I know who works in a fancy restaurant in Dublin said half their part-time staff are taking 27 April off to work at it.’

  ‘Jesus, that’s only a month away!’ Dee squeals. ‘The excitement.’

  ‘And it’s only a week before your wedding, Maj,’ Sinéad adds.

  ‘I know, God!’ Majella laughs. ‘Imagine it was the same day? I’d go spare. All eyes on me, please!’ The girls laugh and move on to chatting about what they’re packing for the hen, and I finally relax.

  ‘Are you all set for Tenerife, Maj?’ Maeve asks.

  ‘Oh yeah, I have a different white dress for every day.’

  Lisa jumps off her chair, nail fixed, and heads for the door. ‘No ethnic food, okay?’ she says seriously. ‘You don’t want to be getting the shits in the middle of the street and destroying one of them.’

  33

  I’ve now sent four increasingly desperate emails to Flo at the Paradise Aqua to confirm our rooms and have heard nothing back. The website is still down and I can’t find a phone number online for love or money, but I’m trying to stay positive. I consider giving Interpol a buzz but they probably have enough on their plates. Despite the name, it wasn’t anything close to paradise the time I stayed there with John – the itchy blankets and feral cat situation still haunt me – but when I made the initial enquiry Flo had promised it was getting a huge facelift, as well as saying she’d give us a rock bottom rate. I’m afraid to think about what will happen if we arrive and it still has bars on the windows. Majella deserves so much better.

  My hands are actually shaking when I pick up my phone to open the hen-party WhatsApp group. Our flight leaves in nine hours and the last time I checked certain people were just starting to pack and were unaware that you can’t bring bottles of liquid over 100ml on a plane.

  I scan the list of unread messages. Thirty-six. Aunt Shirley is incredulous over the liquid ban and some of the cousins are trying to explain it to her.

  ‘But it’s only a litre of Tresemmé?’ she’s arguing. ‘It’s not a bomb???’

  ‘Put it in your checked bag if you want to bring it so much, Shirley,’ Dearbhla advises.

  ‘I’m sure they have Tresemmé in Tenerife,’ Bernadette adds.

  ‘Have you never heard of travel sizes?’ That’s Ellen.

  ‘Tresemmé, it is no bueno,’ Juana chimes in. ‘Bring Pantene, guapa.’

  ‘I think I’ll chance it in my handbag. Sure they’ll never know,’ Shirley says, followed by a shush-face emoji.

  There follows – I count them – twenty-four different messages explaining the ins and outs of airport security to Shirley. It turns out she didn’t know about the X-ray machines. Or taking off your shoes. And she’d never even heard of Nothing to Declare. She’ll probably try to bring a shrub in her handbag and introduce a deadly parasite to the farms of Tenerife.

  ‘When was the last time you were on a plane?’ Danielle asks.

  ‘The year I went to Lourdes – 1979.’

  Well, that explains it. I might have to turn to the Virgin Mary for salvation myself before the weekend is out. Shirley is going to get some land when she’s charged for her mid-flight cup of tea.

  ‘Cluck, cluck, hens,’ I type into the group. Chicken emoji. Martini emoji. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be at our “casual dinner” at Emilio’s Tavern. Table booked for eight. Hope everyone likes tapas, it’s one of the bride’s faves!’

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them the question is already there, and in record time too.

  ‘What’s tapas? It sounds foreign.’ Carmel. A second cousin once removed. Majella was highly surprised she decided to come since she hasn’t left Headfort in fifteen years and is starting to prep for the apocalypse.

  ‘Tiny bits of dear Spanish food.’ How did I know Fionnuala wouldn’t be impressed? She has a point about the portions, though. I got some land when Majella and I accidentally ended up in a tapas bar on a long weekend to Budapest. We got Ryanair flights for forty quid each and Majella thought we were going to Romania until the flight touched down and the captain welcomed us to Hungary. In her defence, Budapest does sound very like Bucharest. But once you get past the disappointment of the ‘small plates’ of tapas the grub is actually dynamite. Maj took to it in a major way, horsing into calamari and manchego and prawns pil pil like her life depended on it. She was never the same after, so I just had to bring her to Tenerife’s finest tapas bar on our first night. Emilio’s is highly rated on Yelp, save for the three one-star reviews it got because Emilio didn’t contribute to the street’s Christmas lights fund two years ago. The louser.

  ‘Just get three portions of patatas bravas like you always do, Fionnuala.’ Smiley face.

  Mairead! It’s not like her to be so snarky. To be fair, I was going to suggest the same thing. I’ll be bulk ordering the patatas myself.

  ‘What’s the plan for Thursday’s activity, Ais?’ Maeve asks.

  It was hard to think of something that would combine Majella’s favourite things – drinking and acting the maggot, basically – but I eventually found it online one night a few weeks ago after I stayed up till 3 a.m. smudging the apartment. Desperate times.

  ‘We’re taking a pedi-bus to an Irish pub where we’re booked in for an hour of knickers customisation over cocktails. I’ll distribute the T-shirts in the morning. Any questions?’

  I have to plug in my phone five minutes later after it nearly dies under the weight of the messages that flood in. Even Sadhbh is stumped.

  ‘What’s a pedi-bus? Just boarding now in JFK. See you all soooon xx.’ There follows at least fifteen variations of the same query from the others.

  ‘It’s an open-top pedal-powered bus that seats ten,’ I say, and attach a picture I found online in an article on TheJournal.ie on the rising number of public order offences in Temple Bar. ‘We can bring booze and play our own tunes! Leave the playlist to me. I have flower crowns.’ Winky face.

  I made the playlist on Spotify earlier during a quiet spell in the café. Noel gave me a hand and stopped me just putting ‘Maniac 2000’ on repeat. He explained that, although Maj would definitely get a kick out of it, the rest of the hens might get sick of her screaming the oggie oggie chant through the streets of Tenerife since we’ll be pedalling for an hour. I conceded, although it’s not like we’re all going to fit on the same bus – I had to order six in the end. The price of them.

  Thursday night is the officially sanctioned ‘mad night’, so I’ve given us three hours to go home and change into the traditional Tenerifian outfits and then we’re booked into another Irish pub, Fibber Magee’s, for platters of mini fish and chips and dares and generally terrorising the other patrons. The stripper is booked fo
r one. It has to be done. Wearing the new customised knickers is optional.

  I’ve downgraded Friday’s ‘activity 2’ to a pool day at the Paradise Aqua since I blew the budget on the pedi-buses and the plain knickers. That’s assuming there is a pool. That night’s optional dinner is going to be at the pizza place next door, which has promised us free shots on arrival, but to be honest, I can’t see many making it. I have the Prosecco pong set and a How Well Do You Know Maj? quiz just in case.

  There are a few other random questions – ‘Does Tenerife have the euro?’ ‘Will there be films on the plane?’ ‘Has anyone seen my passport?’ – which I answer as best I can before saying goodnight and reminding them to bring sandwiches for the morning unless they want to be stung paying airport prices.

  When I stand up to go weigh my suitcases of props, I notice I’ve been absentmindedly scratching my left forearm, which is dotted with angry-looking hives. Probably my own fault for switching to generic washing powder, but with the amount this hen is costing me, Fairy Non Bio seems like an unnecessary luxury.

  34

  I didn’t get a wink of sleep all night. Not one. When my alarm goes off at 3 a.m. I’m already up and dressed and checking my email. Still nothing from Flo, although the airport transfer company has been on to say the bus driver’s name is Diego and I won’t be able to miss him in Arrivals. I don’t like the sound of that but it’s the least of my problems, to be honest.

  I’m trying my best not to wake James, but as soon as I go for one of my three suitcases – the prop situation is truly out of control – he’s out of bed like a shot, being his usual helpful self.

  ‘Are you sure you can manage?’ he asks, wedging the last one into the passenger seat of the Micra, the exhaust pipe practically scraping the ground.

  I fight the urge to admit that I can’t manage at all, that I’m worried all thirty of us Irish are going to be sleeping on the street, that the activities are going to be disastrous, that I’m going to ruin Majella’s hen, that what I really want is to go back upstairs, crawl into bed and never come out again, but instead I say, ‘I’m grand, I’m grand. I’ll text you when we arrive,’ and hop into the driver’s seat.

  I can barely see over the suitcases when I push the trolley into Departures after hauling them three miles from the QuikPark. I couldn’t pass up the online deal. Majella, her mam and a selection of the more affable cousins stayed in the Airport Maldron last night to ensure they wouldn’t be late, while the BGB girls got a minibus this morning. In hindsight I should have gone with them, but Tony Timoney was being very relaxed about our departure time. We booked him to bring us to Slane for Bon Jovi in 2013 and we missed the first three songs as well as all the support acts. I don’t think I could trust him with something as important as this.

  I check the board – FR 7122 to Tenerife is leaving on time. Well, that’s something, I suppose. I have everyone’s boarding passes – all twenty-nine of them – printed out and in a folder in my backpack. I’ve already emailed Sadhbh hers. I also have a lumbar support pillow for Shirley, some vegan energy balls to keep Joyce out of McDonald’s and a bottle of Prosecco and sashes for the bride, the mother of the bride and myself. Well, I am a bridesmaid, after all.

  A quick scan of the WhatsApp group reveals that everyone is either on the way or parking up – even Danielle, who is wrecked by the sounds of things. She seems to be very unlucky with late-night punctures.

  ‘Here comes the briiide!’

  I swing around and there she is. Majella. My best friend in the world. She’s wearing a white wrap dress and wedges and strutting through Departures like she owns the place, flanked by miscellaneous relations. It’s not even 6 a.m. and she’s carrying a plastic champagne flute, looking absolutely radiant, happiness and highlighter oozing out of every pore.

  While most of us dream about our wedding day, Maj has been just as excited about the hen and unapologetically so. Not that she’s not looking forward to taking Pablo down the aisle, but she’s very partial to a stripper when she can get her hands on one.

  ‘How’s the best bridesmaid in the world?’ She pulls me in for a hug and I squeeze her back. ‘I’m already having the time of my life. You’re the best, Ais,’ she whispers into my ear. ‘Can’t wait to see what you’ve got up your sleeve for us.’

  I mutter something about patience being a virtue, pass out the sashes and scuttle off in the direction of the Bag Drop. I should really try to stop worrying and just enjoy the weekend but, well, easier said than done. While Majella introduces me to Joyce, Teresa, Ellen and the gang, Fionnuala and Mairead come at us from the other direction with inflatable pillows already around their necks, followed by Elaine and Ruby, who is wearing a leather jacket despite the forecast saying we’re in for highs of nineteen degrees. Total fashion victim.

  Maj cracks open the bubbles and I start handing out boarding passes like a blackjack dealer and suddenly it’s feeling very much like a party. Until I look at my watch, that is. Five forty-five. Our flight leaves in an hour and forty-five minutes and there’s still no sign of the BGB contingent and loads of bags need to be checked. We’ll have to get our skates on.

  By the time we get through security, Sadhbh has joined us direct from the States in a flurry of hugs and kisses, and I’ve taken to doing a headcount every ten minutes, just to be sure Aunt Shirley hasn’t wandered off again. She was seduced by a Bailey’s stand earlier and had to be dragged away from the free samples. So did Mairead, to be fair. Fionnuala has her work cut out for her.

  I check my watch again, throwing one eye over at Majella who’s trying to sweet talk her way into the Emirates first-class lounge with Bernadette, who hasn’t let the break-up slow her down, and Karen, her sister, egging them on. Still no sign of the BGB crew. I emailed them their boarding passes when we went through, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them and I’m getting worried. I’m heading into a quiet corner to try ringing Maeve again when I hear a screech and the familiar clatter of heels on lino. Just in the nick of time.

  ‘Sorry we’re late, hun,’ Sharon gasps, followed by Dee, Sinéad, Denise and Maeve, all carrying bags from Filan’s. ‘We stopped for rolls in the village and they ran out of coleslaw so Eamon had to do up another batch. You’d think he’d be quicker at it by now.’

  Majella spots them and there’s more squealing and screeching and before I know it I’m up and queuing to board our flight to Tenerife.

  35

  ‘By any chance, are you Diego?’ I ask the moustachioed man wearing an inflatable penis hat and wrapped in an Ireland flag in Arrivals at Tenerife Sud Airport.

  He bows deeply. ‘Si, señorita. You are Mrs Ayes-Ling? Welcome to Tenerife, good lady.’

  ‘Aisling. Miss,’ I say, leaning out from behind my tower of suitcases and shaking his hand. I fire off a quick text to James to tell him we all got here in one piece – well, pretty much – before getting back to the job at hand.

  ‘Now, Diego, I’d just like to apologise in advance. Some of the women are a bit rowdy. It’s Sadhbh’s fault. You see, she bought three litres of Jose Cuervo in the Duty Free in JFK and, well –’

  Before I can finish, the swinging double doors fly open and Aunt Shirley slides out of the baggage-claim hall on her knees singing ‘Come On, Eileen’ at the top of her lungs, followed closely by Ruby, Danielle and Carmel careening around on a luggage trolley and nearly taking the ankles off a group of seven-foot Scandinavians in the process.

  Diego gives me a knowing look. ‘Miss Aisling, we specialise in transporting your hen parties.’ He gestures to his headgear. ‘I have seen it all, I assure you.’

  There’s more screaming from baggage claim before Majella emerges behind the wheel of a golf cart. Her mother is in the passenger seat pouring tequila straight into her mouth while Sadhbh, Elaine, Sharon, Fionnuala and Joyce chant ‘Mad-Jella! Mad-Jella! Mad-Jella!’ and twerk in the back. The rest of the hens are not far behind them in a conga line led by Mairead, who has a bottle of Bailey’s in eac
h hand. It turns out giving free samples really does work.

  I swear I see Diego falter, but he takes a deep breath and steels himself. ‘Who is the bride?’ he roars. ‘Show yourself to Diego!’

  When Majella’s hand shoots up, the whole airport cheers, and the roars only get louder when Diego puts a studded leather collar and leash around her neck and leads her towards the exit.

  My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure it’s going to wake up Shirley, who’s fallen asleep on my shoulder and is snoring contentedly despite Diego’s erratic driving. I check my phone one last time. Still nothing from Flo. The Paradise Aqua is only two minutes up this road and I have no idea what we’re going to find when we get there.

  ‘Any sick bags, Ais?’ Dee appears beside me on her hunkers, confirming my worst fears. The cocktail of Baileys and tequila didn’t sit well with Mairead, and by the sounds of things, I’ll need to dip into my Dioralyte stash to get her ready for later. I anticipated this carry-on and brought three boxes, spread out between my suitcases in case one went missing. There was no such mishap, though, thank God.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, going into bridesmaid mode and handing her a stack of the little bags. I was even able to get them and the hangover recovery bags personalised with ‘Majella’s Bride Tribe’. The internet is great all the same for things like that.

  Dee disappears off down the back of the bus and I hear the faint clicking of Diego’s indicator. I screw my eyes shut. This is it, I think to myself, scratching my hives. The last time I was here the fountain out the front hadn’t seen water in years and the pink facade was faded and crumbling. And don’t get me started on the situation with the itchy blankets. Is it going to be the same this time? Worse? Is there just going to be a giant hole where the Paradise Aqua used to be? I’m struggling to catch my breath.