Kathleen’s mouth twitched, she did so enjoy getting a rise out of Alma.
‘Stop baiting her, Kathleen, would you?’ Agnes paused in her lightning-fast stitches.
She could knit with her eyes closed, Noreen thought, eyeing her needles, from beneath which the beginnings of a mustard sweater were emerging.
‘You know what she’s like. She’ll refuse to top the pot up unless we pay for another brew. How’re you, Noreen?’ Agnes asked, turning her wily blue eyes on her friend.
Noreen would have liked to say she was grand, but she wasn’t, and she’d known these three women too long to bother pretending. She felt as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders despite her visit to Father Peter, though she’d come away clearer in her mind as to what the right thing to do as a good Catholic woman was where Emer was concerned. This was all well and good, but to take the first step towards forgiveness at the wedding was not going to be an easy thing to do. Would the proverbial olive branch withstand the amount of water that had gone under their bridge? ‘I’m right enough, thank you, Aggie.’ That about summed it up she thought, opening her knitting bag and setting her things down on the table. She’d a new project to be starting and she was eager to cast the cheerful red wool on. Perhaps the bright colour would lift her mood.
‘Did you find an outfit for your grand niece’s wedding?’ Margaret asked.
Margaret had seen her waiting at the bus stop the day she’d tripped into town to go shopping. ‘I did. I went to Debenhams and decided on a green dress with three quarter sleeves, given it’s winter, and a matching jacket. It’s very smart.’
‘And you’ve the shoes, bag and hat too, I hope?’ Agnes chirped, looking at her currant bun. ‘Dust dry, so it is.’ She shook her head.
‘I have, indeed.’
‘You’ll have to give us a fashion show, Noreen,’ Kathleen said.
Noreen nodded, having no intention of doing anything of the sort as she deftly looped the wool over her needles.
‘And what of a present?’ Margaret inquired, pausing in her clacking to sip at her tea.
‘I did well there. I chose a Waterford Crystal vase, one of their lace patterns. It’s lovely so it is.’
There was a low hum of ‘ooh, lucky girl’ along with ‘that would have set you back a pretty penny.’. It was interrupted by Alma placing a cup and saucer down in front of Noreen with more of a clatter than was necessary.
‘I see, so let me get this straight. There’s money for Waterford Crystal vases and the like but not a penny spare for a currant bun,’ Alma muttered.
‘Oh, go on with you if it means you’ll leave me in peace to enjoy my tea, I’ll have one of your buns. No butter mind, Alma, and if I can’t do the zip up on my dress on the day it’ll be you who’s to blame.’
Alma scuttled off to fetch the bun, thoroughly pleased with herself.
As it happened the vase had been generously discounted but nobody needed to know that. ‘Sure, it’s nice to receive something special when you embark on married life.’
She didn’t recall Waterford Crystal or the like being received on her wedding day. From memory there’d been practical things for the kitchen. People didn’t give extravagant gifts back then, there wasn’t the money for it for one thing, and for another, people didn’t expect so much.
‘That was a sigh from the bottom of your boots.’ Kathleen’s keen eyes glanced over Noreen. ‘What’s up with you?’
Noreen pressed her lips together tightly for a second or two as her friend waited for her to speak. ‘Ah, it’s this business of Emer being at the wedding. Did I tell you Rosamunde’s after ringing and telling me it’s time to let bygones be bygones and a wedding is a time full of hope for the future. What was I supposed to say to that?’
The three women clucked in sympathy but it was Agnes who spoke. ‘Not much you could say, Noreen, not without coming across as a bitter old woman. She put you on the spot there, alright.’
‘Exactly, Aggie,’ Noreen said, recalling how Rosamunde had gone on to say, in what she had thought a condescending manner given she was the younger sister, ‘What better opportunity to put things right between the pair of you?’ What Noreen didn’t understand was why it had to be her who had to make the first move. It was Emer who was in the wrong and she’d vocalised this to her sister but Rosamunde had only tutted and said that was the problem where she and Emer were concerned. They were peas in a pod. Far too stubborn for their own good and someone had to reach out first. So, why shouldn’t it be Noreen?
She’d left Father Peter’s the other day having heard the same sentiment from him. She’d also realised, as she’d sat relaying the story of what had happened all those years ago, how much she missed Emer. Her leaving Claredoncally had left a gaping hole in her life and the plain truth of the matter was, Noreen was lonely. She’d come here to Alma’s once a week and meet her friends, listening to them bat back and forth about their children and grandchildren. She liked to keep up with all the goings on in their lives but later, when she went home to her quiet, little house, she’d feel an emptiness. The sound of children’s laughter would never bounce off this house’s walls. She’d always thought she would take on the role of another grandmother to Emer’s children just as she’d played the role of a second mother to her growing up. She’d missed out on knowing Emer’s family. The children would all be grown and have no interest in spending time with their widowed great aunt.
‘I think Rosamunde has a point,’ Kathleen said, having clearly mulled over what Noreen had told them. Spying the expression on Noreen’s face, she held up her hand. ‘No, don’t give me that gin-soaked-prune look of yours. Hear me out.’
Noreen’s lips tightened once more and she knitted a frantic red row with her head tilted to one side. It was enough to show Kathleen she was listening.
‘I’ve known you long enough to know it’s a heavy burden you carry where Emer is concerned. What she did was wrong but Malachy dug his heels in when he could have asked her why she’d done it.’
Noreen made to protest he had asked and hadn’t liked her answer but she closed her mouth knowing what Kathleen meant was, what lay at the root of what she’d done.
‘You couldn’t cross his decision but I think if you’d had a say in it all back then, you’d have patched things up with her. Malachy isn’t here anymore, Noreen, and knowing him as I did, I’m telling you as one of your oldest friends he wouldn’t want you to be alone. There are friends and there are family in this world of ours. We get to choose our friends but not our family and when it all boils down to the nitty-gritty, if we don’t have family what do we have?’
‘Hear, hear,’ Alma said, placing the currant bun in front of Noreen. Noreen didn’t have the energy to tell her not to be listening in on a private conversation, besides she knew she’d be wasting her breath. Alma was an eavesdropper of the highest order. The door jangled announcing a customer, and with a groan about her knees not being able for all this standing she waddled off back behind the counter.
‘But how?’ Noreen muttered to the trio, none of whom were knitting.
‘How what?’ Agnes asked.
‘What do I say to her?’ This was the part that was all a puzzle. Should she walk up to her niece at the reception with her hand held out and say, It’s time we buried the hatchet. Or should she act as though nothing had happened and chat away to her as if she had no cares in the world.
‘Tell her the truth. Tell her you want to put the past behind you,’ Kathleen, who was full of wise advice this morning, said.
‘She’s right,’ Agnes agreed, dabbing the crumbs up off her plate with her index finger. Despite her protestations there was nothing left of the bun. ‘It’s simple.’ She popped her finger in her mouth.
Was it simple after all? Noreen pondered. Perhaps, she thought, a spark of hope for the future igniting, it wasn’t too late to start over again after all.
Chapter 23
Aisling and Quinn shuffled about the
floor trying to mimic the actions of Maria and Antonio Lozano who were gyrating toward one another in a manner that suggested they should get a room. The beat of the fast-paced salsa music Aisling had picked for their wedding dance was filling the studio above the shops on Dame Street. ‘Do you not think it’s a little over the top?’ Quinn whispered to Aisling who had to resist the urge not to stomp on his foot.
‘No, I don’t. I think it’s very romantic.’
‘But we’re Irish not South American.’
‘Oh, so would you rather me wear a red ringlet wig and a short green dress and jig my way across the floor toward you?’
‘Not at all, but we could do a swaying, slow dance sort of a thing, couldn’t we?’ Hope sparked in his eyes but it was doused as Aisling jeered back at him, ‘Everybody has that. I don’t want our wedding to be like everyone else’s.’
Quinn gave up and tried to concentrate on emulating their instructors. He’d mastered a few steps at the lessons he and Aisling had done before they’d become a couple but he was by no means a natural.
Aisling eyed Maria and Antonio thinking Quinn had a point as the couple oozed sensuality and rhythm, unlike them. They were like two wooden puppets, Punch and Judy she thought huffily, with hip swivel problems. She flung her arms up in frustration and stepped back from him. ‘This is hopeless, Maria, Antonio! I can’t seem to find my rhythm.’ She looked down at the swingy skirt and towering heels she’d worn thinking they’d put her in the mood to salsa about, before glaring at Quinn as though it were all his fault. The look on his face told her he’d rather be anywhere but here. She fumed silently, unsure why he kept throwing cold water over all her ideas. First the table settings were over the top and now this. Well tough, she’d asked the husband and wife salsa duo to help choreograph their wedding dance and they’d agreed, although they weren’t doing it out of the goodness of their hearts. They were charging like wounded bulls, not that she’d tell Quinn. Time was money and she couldn’t afford for the magic not to be happening on the dance floor tonight.
Quinn rubbed his temples, he was feeling very second-hand thanks to his uncommon night on the town. His brothers had kept it clean but had been enthusiastically sliding all manner of shooters down the bar top towards him for most of the evening. Quinn had knocked them back with equal enthusiasm. It had been a good craic at the time. He hadn’t been smiling when he’d woken with a banging head on Sunday morning though. Although he’d felt a little better by the time his mam had filled him and his da, who was also suffering loudly, up with a plate of bacon, eggs and beans to soak up the remains of the night before. He’d wiped his plate clean and drunk his milky tea, thanking his mam before taking himself off to ring Aisling, eager to know how her hen night had been.
Aisling was feeling surprisingly chipper given it was the morning after her hen night. She’d put it down to the big glass of water Moira had told her she should get down her when she’d gotten home. She’d filled Quinn in on the Bono masks and the limousine that had ferried them about the city in style. He’d laughed as she told him about Maureen’s karaoke faux pax. His poor mammy-in-law-to-be was, by all accounts, green around the gills today, although like him her delicate state had been helped by a full Irish. Mrs Baicu, the guesthouse’s weekend cook had put a good lining on the O’Mara women’s stomachs after which Maureen had announced, once she’d deposited Roisin at the airport, she was going home where she’d be receiving no calls or visitors for the rest of the day. Aisling, having finished relaying the events of her evening had reminded Quinn about this, their dance lesson, and he’d groaned into the receiver. ‘Can’t we give it a miss tonight, Aisling?’
She’d adopted a high-pitched timbre he was coming to recognise as one meaning she wasn’t to be pushed on the subject. ‘No,’ she’d said, ‘they could not cancel because there would be a cancellation fee. The Lozanos were busy people and, as such, they might not be able to fit them in again on short notice. And,’ the pitch went up several notches, ‘do I need to remind you the wedding is in less than two weeks?’ Quinn had decided he was best to go with the flow and hadn’t argued, which was why he was here now learning a routine to perform with Ash in front of all their friends and family. Was he happy about it? No, he was not. He felt like a complete eejit for one thing and knew his brothers would never let him live the moment down. Sure, he could imagine the names they’d be coming up with, ole swivel hips and the like. He knew why she had her heart set on salsa. It was his own fault and the knowledge of this irked him even more. He’d won her over with a salsa dance in this very studio, but it had been for her eyes only. It was no good telling her he felt ridiculous though, her mind was made up. Come February the fourteenth, they’d be performing the Latin American dance in front of an audience of family and friends. He was beginning to dread the fecking wedding.
‘Aisling, Quinn,’ Maria said, in a manner managing to be both sultry and smooth, which always made Aisling think of Galaxy chocolate. ‘You are not feeling the music in here.’ She put her hand on her breast and Aisling elbowed Quinn. ‘Remember, you’re nearly a married man.’
‘Salsa,’ Antonio stated passionately, ‘connects you with others. It is sexy and energetic. We come together to be our true selves and to be in the moment. Salsa is magic.’
‘Jaysus, feck, he knows that little speech off by heart,’ Quinn muttered, receiving a sharp elbow once more.
And on the count of three, away they went again. It was going to be a long night, thought Quinn as he stuck his bottom out and quickstepped toward Aisling.
Chapter 24
Aisling let Moira daub the deep conditioning treatment on her head. She’d asked her sister to give her a facial but she was going the whole hog massaging the conditioner into her scalp. She closed her eyes, feeling her shoulders relax. ‘You’re pretty good at this.’
‘Thank you,’ Moira said, piling her sister’s hair on top of her head before disappearing into the kitchen. ‘I need the cling film.’
‘Why?’
She returned with the box and pulled a length from it before ripping it off the serrated edge. ‘I’m going to wrap it around your head so it keeps your scalp warm, it makes the treatment more effective.’
‘Will you leave me holes to breath?’ Aisling was alarmed.
‘I’m not going to mummify you, you eejit.’ She covered her sister’s scalp in the cling film and then told her to go and knot a towel around it.
Aisling disappeared into the bathroom to do as she was told. She pulled the towel off the rail and twisted it into a turban before glancing in the mirror. Jaysus, if those circles under her eyes got any deeper, she’d look like one of those little red pandas. She’d not been sleeping properly for ages now, not since Quinn proposed. The problem was, each time she was about to nod off, she’d remember something she had to do between now and Valentine’s Day and her eyes would fly open and she’d begin panicking. It was a vicious cycle and she didn’t know how to calm herself down. She leaned into the mirror and whispered.
Dear Aisling,
I’m getting married in a week and a half and instead of feeling excited about what should be the most amazing day of my life, I’m terrified something’s going to go wrong. Please give me some advice as to how I can shake this feeling. Oh, and any tips on how to stop Mrs O’Flaherty trying to tempt me away from my Special K and over to the dark side would be appreciated too.
Yours faithfully,
Me
Mrs Flaherty, their apple-cheeked breakfast cook who worked Monday to Friday was not impressed with the weight loss challenge Bronagh and Aisling had inadvertently undertaken thanks to Moira. She was a woman who did not believe in dieting, although apparently she was partial to the odd bet, but Moira was sworn to secrecy as to who she was backing. She’d been heard to mutter on many an occasion you couldn’t trust a person who didn’t wipe their plate clean with their bread. Diet was an offensive word and it did not feature in her vocabulary. As such, she was employing sabotage techniqu
es like standing at the bottom of the stairs with a plate of freshly fried, crispy bacon long enough to ensure it didn’t go cold by the time it reached the hungry guest who’d ordered it. Long enough though for the tempting aroma to fill the reception area causing the two women to pause in their morning’s stair aerobics, mouths watering, resolve weakening. Moira was having none of it though and she’d taken to keeping the can of fancy air freshener Mammy was after recommending on Bronagh’s desk. She’d spray it liberally and reception would smell like bacon and Arpège perfume.
Aisling turned side on to peruse her shape in the mirror. So far, she’d avoided temptation and the dance lesson the other night on top of the stairs routine seemed to be yielding results she thought, smoothing her sweater and not seeing any lumps or bumps. She’d never be a waif but aside from the cling film on her head and circles under her eyes she was looking good.
With one last flick over her reflection she went back to the living room where Moira was waiting with a tube of something in her hand. ‘A face mask,’ she said, waving it. ‘It’ll work wonders.’
‘Is it your clay one?’ Aisling said, sitting down.
‘No, that’s expensive. This one will be grand.’
‘Charming, I get the bargain basement beauty treatment. Well, for your information, your whizz bang, pricey one gave me spots anyway.’
‘I don’t recall you asking me if you could use it,’ Moira said.
‘It was payback for pinching my Valentino sandals.’
‘Fair play.’ Moira was feeling magnanimous thanks to a very pleasant few hours whiled away with Tom that afternoon. She squeezed the gloopy green contents of the tube into the palm of her hand and told her sister to look up as she began to slather it all over her face. ‘You look a little like Shrek.’
Aisling closed her eyes, not bothered with making a rebuttal. It was nice to be pampered, especially because it meant she had to stop, sit and do nothing for a while. She flexed her feet, her big toe was still tender from where Quinn had trodden on it at their dance lesson. It had brought tears to her eyes, although she didn’t know if it was because of that or the fact he’d looked like he had something unpleasant in his pants as he’d minced toward her. She’d finally nailed the razzmatazz as Maria said her opening sequence of steps was called sometime after nine pm when she was nearly dead on her feet and at the same time Antonio had declared he was satisfied with Quinn’s tags, taps, kicks and flicks. They were dismissed with an all the best for the wedding by the South American couple who were keen to see the back of their two left footed students and lock up the studio for the night.
The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2 Page 36