by Cathy Kelly
Anna responded with a shrug of the shoulders and her weddings-are-hell look.
Natalie was shaking with cold and her skull ached from having her hair screwed on to her head with a million hair clips by the time she finally met up with her family and Molly again. The official pictures after the wedding ceremony had taken forever and most of them had been staged outside in the spectacular and scenic gardens of the elegant Mount Ardagh Hotel, which actually meant a bit of grass behind the hotel. Here there was a peeling pergola with flowers twirling round it and a small pond that was no longer viable for actual fish and home to lots of ferny-type things that looked good in photos but were remarkably smelly in real life.
‘I promise,’ whispered Molly, ‘that if I ever get married, it’ll be in the summer and I will let you pick your own dress.’
‘Never get married,’ Natalie whispered back, shivering. ‘Please get me something hot to drink. I am frozen.’
Bess handed her a woollen wrap in a dark crimson that immediately lifted Natalie’s complexion.
‘Lizzie should have let you each wear a colour that suited you,’ Bess said, and Natalie felt guilty at silently agreeing with her.
Even her little brother Joe, who didn’t notice female attire unless it was on a girl he fancied, nodded in sympathy at Natalie’s outfit.
‘The hair is brutal,’ he said. ‘Looks like it hurts.’
‘It does,’ Natalie informed him. ‘But I’ve got to keep it up for ages.’
‘Joe only likes long, flowing hair,’ Ted smirked.
Joe thumped him.
‘Whose long, flowing hair would that be?’ asked their father, grinning.
‘Nobody.’ Joe thumped Ted again for luck.
‘Joe’ll be getting married next,’ Ted said, getting out of his brother’s reach. ‘You’ll have to do bridesmaid again, Nat.’
Everyone smiled and Bess ruffled Joe’s gelled hair affectionately.
‘Before I buy the mother-of-the-bride outfit, can you tell us who this future member of the family is?’ she asked.
Natalie felt a stab of envy. Why? She couldn’t understand what would make her feel that way. It was like waking up after a dream and trying to catch the memory of it again, feeling it flitting away. Something to do with Joe and Bess and her little brother getting married one day.
‘Nobody,’ said Joe crossly. ‘Bigmouth here ought to watch it, or he’ll get another belt.’
Sitting at the top table was like being an international peacekeeper, Natalie thought. To cope with the combined masses of the O’Shea and Devine clans, the arrangement had turned into a long table with two big round tables stuck on at each end to appease the various great aunts, grannys and uncles who’d have been aggrieved to be seated somewhere less important. Sitting on the cusp of the long table and one of the round ones, Natalie found she was surrounded by people with a stack of freshly remembered resentments waiting to be aired.
The salmon was not as nice as the salmon at a previous wedding, one great uncle muttered.
‘I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t asked to that wedding,’ flashed back a gimlet-eyed cousin.
‘Who are your people?’ demanded Natalie’s neighbour, a misleadingly sweet-faced little old lady, who’d come all the way from Kinsale for today and had taken against the hotel because there was no kettle or tea-making facilities in her room.
Natalie had heard the whole story twice already.
‘They’re over there,’ she said now, looking wistfully at a distant table where her family and Molly appeared to be having fun.
The Kinsale lady peered at them. ‘Who’s that girl wearing the strange outfit with the fandangle on the shoulder?’
Natalie hid a smile. Molly was very proud of her vintage dress, a grey woollen 1950s creation with a flared skirt which she’d accessorised with a patent belt and a large white corsage à la Carrie in Sex and the City, undoubtedly the fandangle Mrs Kinsale was referring to.
‘One of my best friends,’ she replied.
‘I thought Lizzie was your best friend?’
Natalie’s smile was forced this time. ‘Oh, she’s one of them too.’
The introduction of bottles of cava for the speeches cheered up most of the grumpier people and Natalie relaxed.
Even the crossness emanating from the tables of relatives hadn’t dimmed Steve’s love for Lizzie, and Natalie found herself sighing at his speech, when he called Lizzie ‘my best, my always.’
‘Lovely,’ said Mrs Kinsale, taking a good gulp of her cava before holding her glass up for a refill.
Natalie wasn’t listening, she was watching Lizzie and her mother embracing, all the morning with its arguments about who got the longer go of the hairdresser forgotten. That was the dream she hadn’t been able to touch, Natalie realised. Bess and Joe, mother and son. Lizzie and her mother. The strongest bond in the world.
‘Don’t worry, pet, it’ll be you getting married one day,’ said Mrs Kinsale, mistaking the gleam in Natalie’s eye for tears over her unmarried state. ‘But I’d do something different with your hair, pet. That doesn’t suit you.’
While the hotel staff were rearranging the tables for the dancing that evening, Natalie went to the ladies to take down her hair. Damn Shazza and her bloody idea. Painstakingly, she took out all the little hair clips until her head was metal-free and she was able to shake her dark hair loose again. She looked better already. With Bess’s wrap around her shoulders, she felt like herself and not the horrible fake bridesmaid version.
Despite the cold, she thought she’d venture outside to breathe some fresh air. The smokers had annexed a little outside bar area with heaters and seats, and she went the other direction to stand on the terrace and look out at the coast where the flicker of the lighthouse lamp broke up the darkness of the sea.
‘I was wondering what you’d look like with your hair down,’ said a man’s voice.
‘Whatever it looks like, it certainly feels better,’ said Natalie, turning towards the voice. ‘I have just taken twenty-seven pins from my head.’
‘Twenty-seven?’
‘I counted every one.’
He had a nice grin. Was nice all over, really, with an open, intelligent face and kind eyes. He was probably her own age or a bit older, and even in a very elegant navy suit and grey silk tie, looked like he was designed for bashing down doors and had ended up in a tie by mistake.
‘I don’t do much with my own hair,’ he added, and put a hand unselfconsciously up to his head, which was shaped like a bullet on top of huge shoulders and totally shaved.
Natalie laughed out loud.
‘Sorry,’ she said instantly, afraid she’d offended him.
‘It started to fall out,’ he said, ‘and I didn’t want to be one of those guys who have three long hairs and hairspray them into place: one to the left, one to the right, and one tossed.’
‘No, not a good look,’ she agreed.
‘I got rid of the lot.’
It suits you,’ she said.
‘Does it?’ he said, sounding as if he’d never really considered such a thing.
Natalie felt a sudden liking for this big, friendly man.
‘It’s handy,’ he shrugged.
‘Whose side are you on?’ she asked.
‘The groom’s side. I’m Rory Canavan,’ he said, and offered her a giant hand to shake.
‘I’m Natalie Flynn, bridesmaid number one and school friend of the bride,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘I asked.’
‘There are men who have to score the bridesmaid at weddings, you know,’ Natalie said.
‘I have heard that,’ he said. ‘Not the most noble of aims, is it?’
‘No. I wonder, do they have a points system? Three points for the chief bridesmaid, four if she’s married and is matron of honour, and ten points and a bonus prize if you score the bride?’
‘That is so cynical,’ he said, but he was laughing.
‘You’re not trying to sc
ore three points?’
He shook his head. ‘I followed you out here because I saw you earlier and I wanted to meet you but you seemed very interested in the people at your table.’
‘If only you knew,’ Natalie said with feeling. ‘You could have rescued me earlier.’
Rory looked pleased. ‘Am I rescuing you now?’
‘You would be if you sat with me at my table,’ she said thoughtfully.
Mrs Kinsale asked all the questions Natalie couldn’t.
‘What do you do?’ she asked, fixing Rory with her most adorable smile and giving him a poke in his substantial chest. The sparkling wine had been round her side of the table many times and she had almost forgotten her grudge with the hotel over the in-room facilities.
‘I’m a vet,’ he replied.
‘Ooh, a vet! A professional man,’ she said, and gave Natalie a delighted poke this time.
‘Where exactly?’
‘About ten miles outside Ardagh,’ he said, speaking loudly to the little old lady. Natalie could have told him that Mrs Kinsale was so sharp, she’d have heard a pin drop from the other side of the room. ‘It’s a big animal practice.’
‘Big practice or big animals?’ asked Natalie, grinning, although she knew very well what he meant.
‘Big animals,’ he said. ‘Cattle and horses, and some dogs and cats.’
‘I had a Yorkshire terrier, but she died,’ said Mrs Kinsale, getting maudlin. ‘She was like a child to me, that dog. I loved her like a child.’
‘Did you get another dog?’ asked Rory.
The old lady shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t be able for it and who’d mind her if I died?’
‘You know, if you get her from a good vet, they could promise to do their best to look after your pet if you couldn’t take care of her any more,’ Rory said kindly. ‘It’s a worry for lots of people and the veterinary community understand that. And a sprightly thing like yourself would be dancing for many years yet,’ he added. The band were striking up ‘When I Fall in Love’. ‘I don’t suppose you can waltz? I’m very bad at it.’
Mrs Kinsale beamed at him.
They made an odd couple on the dance floor: the giant of a man supporting the frail lady, and Natalie saw she wasn’t the only person looking at them fondly.
Lizzie, who hated slow dancing, wandered over hauling her dress behind her. The skirt was speckled with something dark and reddish. Red wine, Natalie guessed.
‘I’m wrecked,’ Lizzie said, sitting tiredly in Rory’s chair. She picked up a full glass of sparkling wine and drained it. ‘I see you’ve met Rory,’ she added.
‘He’s nice,’ said Natalie, which was actually an understatement. She’d never gone for those big, Gaelic football-playing type of fellows before, but she could see the charm. You’d feel totally safe with Rory by your side, safe in every sense of the word. There was a decency about him, a sense that he’d protect you from all harm.
‘Sure, if you like that type of thing,’ said Lizzie shortly. Lizzie had always liked sophisticated men. Steve, with his narrow hips and well-cut hair, could have stepped out of a modelling catalogue. ‘You can’t dress him up, though. He looks ridiculous in a suit.’
‘Since when do we judge people by dressing them up?’ Natalie asked, hurt but hiding it. She hadn’t liked a guy for ages and now she was liking one she’d met at Lizzie’s wedding and Lizzie seemed put out by the whole idea.
Besides, Rory looked lovely in his suit. Sexy and rumpled, somehow. She wondered what he’d be like to kiss–
‘He’s a bit of a caveman,’ said Lizzie dismissively. ‘And there isn’t an artistic bone in his body. You hate men like that. Remember how much you hated dopey Alan at school?’
‘I didn’t hate him,’ Natalie said. ‘I just didn’t fancy him, that’s all.’ Alan was a strapping farmer’s son who’d adored Natalie for years, but her constant refusal to go out with him had eventually upset him to the point that he’d called her a ‘stuck-up cow’.
‘That was years ago, Lizzie. It’s ancient history.’
‘Just reminding you.’
It was as if, Natalie thought, Lizzie wanted their past laminated and untouched so she could visit it from time to time. Lizzie hadn’t seen how much everyone else had changed, but then, perhaps she hadn’t changed that much herself.
When Rory came back with Mrs Kinsale, he asked Natalie up to dance.
The tempo had changed and the band, who’d been warned to mix old and new, were tentatively trying out a version of ‘Wonderwall’.
‘I love this song,’ said Rory as they found a place on the heaving dance floor.
‘By Oasis, though?’ asked Natalie mischievously.
‘This version has its good points,’ Rory replied, not taking his eyes off her.
‘You mean the lead singer’s only a teeny bit off key?’
‘No, I mean the company,’ he said, and Natalie’s heart skipped a beat.
He could dance. Not many big men could. Natalie had known many who’d lurched around like fridges on wheels, looking ungainly. But Rory had rhythm. He was fit too. By the time ‘Wonderwall’ was over and the entire fast Elvis canon had been gone through, Natalie was sweaty and exhausted.
‘Let’s slow it down,’ crooned the lead singer and the drummer went at his drums with the brushes as the band launched into a slow set.
Natalie laughed at the corniness of it all and had been about to walk back to her seat, when Rory caught her hand and pulled her to him.
‘Shall we dance?’
His body was hard and muscular up close, and she felt light as thistledown in his arms, but the effect was ruined by the fact that she was sweating profusely. She’d bet the damn pale pink dress was stained under the armpits and her hair was wet at the roots from dancing. Impossible to feel romantic under the circumstances.
And yet she did feel romantic. Natalie was tall and even so, her nose was about level with his chin. There was something beguiling about being with a man who made you feel like a fairy straight out of a children’s film.
‘I wanted to ask you something, but is it fair to ask without the lady at your table here?’ he said. ‘She’s so interested, it doesn’t seem right to continue the whole thing without her.’
Natalie laughed. ‘You can ask me anything,’ she said.
‘Can I see you again?’
The pleasurable feeling Natalie felt from being pressed up close to Rory increased. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.
‘Great.’ He stopped dancing long enough to wave over to Mrs Kinsale. ‘She said yes,’ he roared.
6
It’s never too late to stop and change the way you’re going. Never.
Marcella Schmidt’s mother had always told her she was too picky. If Marcella had been given two choices, she wanted a third, just to be absolutely sure. Back then, she’d been Marcella Doyle, a name she couldn’t wait to change. Doyle was fine on its own, the same as Marcella was: but together, the two sounded ridiculous. The exotic Marcella teamed with the utterly non-exotic Doyle. Her mother, Jane, had defended her choice in children’s names.
‘Marcella is a name you’d notice,’ said Mrs Doyle, who’d hated being plain Jane all her life. There might have been some Janes who lived exciting lives with thrilling things happening to them, but she wasn’t one of them. Her children wouldn’t be saddled with the same problem. Nobody could forget girls called Marcella, Regina and Concepta. And if their surname was quite ordinary, it didn’t entirely matter. Their given names were the ones people remembered.
Marcella’s Confirmation outfit had been the source of much drama in the Doyle household. Her mother had wanted Marcella to wear the same cream lace dress her older sisters had worn. Marcella had balked at that.
Regina, who’d left their small farm in Mayo to work in an office in Dublin, had promised to send a dress from Arnotts’ children’s department. ‘A little dress, something in velvet? You’d look very smart.’
Marcella didn’t see her
self looking smart in either cream lace or velvet. She’d spotted a very nice coral-pink shift dress and matching jacket, à la Jackie O, in a boutique in Ballina. It wasn’t a child’s outfit, but she was tall for her twelve years, and it would fit her.
Concepta, who was three years older but shorter, thought it totally unfair that her little sister might look glamorous on her Confirmation Day, when she’d looked like a child in that ridiculous cream dress with babyish white ankle socks and white patent shoes. Marcella was growing up far too fast.
‘Regina’s going to send you a dress from Dublin,’ she wailed. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’
‘Regina still thinks I’m a child,’ Marcella said calmly. ‘I’m not.’
‘She has great taste; she’ll send you something lovely,’ Jane Doyle soothed. ‘And you can’t parade down the church in a grown-up’s dress, Marcella. You’re only twelve. Besides, where are we going to get the money for it?’
‘If Regina’s going to pay for a dress from Dublin, she can pay for this instead,’ Marcella said. She’d thought it all out. ‘I want to look just right, Mam.’
‘You’re too picky, love,’ her mother had sighed. ‘It doesn’t pay to be picky.’
Marcella disagreed. On her Confirmation Day, everyone had said she looked marvellous in her coral pink. The adult effect of the dress meant the grown-ups didn’t talk to her like she was a child, and the older boys she fancied–brothers of the lads in her class in school–clearly fancied her back.
‘You always get what you want,’ said Concepta crossly, as if it was a bad thing.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Marcella asked, stung. She wanted her sister to approve of her.
‘You’re a tonic,’ said their father, smiling at his youngest daughter proudly.
Marcella forgot about Concepta’s remarks and basked in her father’s praise. She adored her dad. He didn’t think she was picky: he thought she was right.
Thirty-seven years on, Marcella was no longer sure about the benefits of being picky–or discriminating, as she liked to call it now.