A Wedding at O'Mara's (The Guesthouse on the Green Book 6)

by Michelle Vernal

  ‘What are you doing?’ Bronagh’s waspish voice made her jump.

  ‘Nothing. I was about to go through the diary to see what guests we’ve got arriving today, that’s all.’

  The receptionist’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘I know what was on your mind. I can read you like a book so I can, and you’ll not find any biscuits in there. I’ve hidden them. I’ll not have it on my head when the zip gets stuck halfway up your back on your big day. Nobody will be able to say Bronagh Hanrahan had her own best interests at heart. Or accuse me of sabotaging your chance to lose weight for my own financial gain.’

  Aisling tried to look innocent, hoping the rapid blinking and widening of her eyes would convince Bronagh she’d not been planning a custard cream biscuit heist. ‘I’ve lost three pounds. I’m on track, thank you very much and have no interest in sweets of any sort.’ The Pope himself would be proud of how pious she sounded.

  Bronagh patted her middle; the fabric of her skirt was shiny and stretched tight. ‘I’ve lost three and a half pounds myself and I have to say I’m feeling marvellous for it. And, remember I’ve the menopause to do battle with too.’

  Bronagh must be going through the longest running menopause on record, Aisling thought and her skirt didn’t look any looser than it had done last week. She reckoned it was a tactic and Bronagh was trying to psych her out. They eyed one another. She was very competitive was Bronagh, Aisling thought. This silly competition was all down to her too because as soon as Aisling announced she wanted to lose half a stone for her wedding, Bronagh had been all for putting money on who’d reach their target weight first. She said it would keep them motivated if they were dieting for high stakes. Aisling would have been content with sticking a photo of Cindy Crawford in her swimsuit on the fridge but Moira had been lurking in the background and it was her that had egged them both on. Sure, it had been like a scene from a women’s prison with her little sister’s carry-on. She might as well have been yelling, ‘Fight, fight, fight!’

  Aisling was not one to back down from a challenge and in the end, she’d wagered a tenner that it would be her that lost her poundage first. After all, the odds were in her favour given it was her wedding she wanted to be in fine fettle for. Moira having already cleared it with Aisling that she would not be paying for her bridesmaid dress – given she was a poor student, but that in no way meant she’d wear some frothy pink ensemble and look like an eejit either – had seen a way to supplement her income instantly. She was running a book on the great weight loss race. So far, Aisling was the favourite but, Moira had stated over her toast that morning watching as Aisling lovingly caressed the honey jar, it could change, just like that. She’d clicked her fingers for effect and Aisling had shoved the pot back in the cupboard and retrieved the Marmite instead.

  ‘Have you done the stairs this morning?’ Aisling asked Bronagh.

  Moira had also taken it upon herself to be both women’s personal trainer. Neither had asked her to do this and as such when she’d asked for payment for services rendered, they’d both told her to feck off. She’d not given up though and had said she’d do it out of the goodness of her heart. When she’d appeared in reception in joggers with a whistle around her neck both women had told her to feck off once more, but to no avail. In the end, Bronagh had climbed the stairs on the condition Moira hand over the whistle. She’d hidden it like she had the custard creams.

  ‘I have. Moira made me do it before she left for college. It wasn’t easy in this skirt I can tell you but I made it to the top floor with no rests, that’s a first for me. What about yourself?’

  ‘She’s got me booked for a session after dinner.’ Aisling frowned. To avoid temptation at Quinn’s she’d been eating her meals here at O’Mara’s under the watchful eye of Moira. She was fed up to the back teeth with salad and lean meat or vegetables and lean meat. She wanted a great big burger with fries, lots of skinny fries. Stop it, Aisling.

  The door to the guesthouse opened and it was a welcome distraction to watch a giant bouquet of flowers with legs walk toward them. It was their fortnightly arrangement of blooms for the reception desk from Fi’s Florists and Aisling recognised young Caitlin, Fi’s new apprentice’s voice as she said good morning to them both.

  ‘Here I’ll take those, Caitlin, they’re gorgeous. Did you arrange them?’ Aisling took the flowers and inhaled the sweet aroma from the gardenias. Were they edible, she wondered, and would she have gardenias in her bridal bouquet? She filed the latter question away to bring up with Leila when they met for lunch or in her case lettuce leaves.

  ‘I did, thanks. How’re the wedding plans coming along, Aisling? It’s not long to go now.’ The young girl’s cheeks were flushed from the cold outside and the tip of her nose bright red; she sneezed.

  ‘Bless you.’ Bronagh immediately said.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve a bit of a sniffle.’

  Aisling took a step back, she could not afford to get sick, not now when she had so much on her plate (a bad choice of metaphor), she decided. ‘Grand, thanks, Caitlin. Everything’s coming along nicely.’ She liked to think the more she said this the more she’d believe it. The power of positive thinking and all that.

  Bronagh put her hand up to her mouth and mouthed, ‘She’s a complete nightmare.’ to Caitlin who grinned.

  ‘Well I’d best be off and carry on with my rounds.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Aisling called over her shoulder, carrying the flowers through to the kitchen. The guest’s lounge room was empty and she made a note to self to replenish the tea and coffee sachets once she’d sorted the bouquet. She always found the act of placing the fresh flowers in the vase therapeutic and hopefully it would improve her mood. She didn’t like being snappy and edgy; it wasn’t like her and it wasn’t all down to the fact she was about to start gnawing on her arm if she didn’t get some sustenance in her shortly. It was her own fault. She’d set a ridiculously tight timeframe in which to organise her wedding. Everybody thought she was mad. Quinn included. They’d gotten engaged on Christmas Day and now here she was expecting to have a big, white wedding with all the trimmings on the fourteenth of February, Valentine’s Day, no less.

  It had given her shy of eight weeks in which to organise everything. Thank the Lord for Leila. The gods had smiled down on her the day her best friend had decided to launch her own wedding planner business. This wedding would be a rip-roaring success because Love Leila Bridal Planning services was backing her all the way. Sure, if it weren’t for Leila, she’d be headed straight for the registry office dragging Quinn along behind her. Leila had the power to get them in with places that otherwise would have told them to come back in a year when they had space free in the diary. Of course, it wasn’t the first time Leila had planned a wedding for her which was why Aisling had no intention of dilly-dallying for a year while all the arrangements were made. Sure, anything could happen like it had once before. She’d been let down weeks out from her wedding, which obviously was a blessing as, with the benefit of hindsight, her ex-fiancé was an eejit of the highest order. It hadn’t felt like a blessing at the time though. It had been the most humiliating experience of her life.

  Oh, she knew right enough Quinn wouldn’t let her down but there was still the fear. The omnipresent fear she couldn’t shake that unless she expedited matters something would go wrong. She sighed, and filled the vase. She should be feeling excited and full of the joys of being a bride-to-be. Instead she was an anxious, hungry wreck. She began to pen one of her imaginary letters, something she hadn’t done in a long time.

  Dear Aisling,

  I’m getting married soon and I want to know how I can make this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach go away, and please don’t tell me to eat a lovely, great big slice of chocolate cake with fresh cream filling and a ganache icing because that won’t help.

  Yours faithfully,

  Me

  Chapter 3

  ‘Aisling have you had any further thoughts on the reception’s seating a
rrangements?’ Maureen O’Mara asked her daughter.

  ‘Leila and I were going to go over those again at lunchtime, why?’ Aisling knew she was going to regret asking like she was already regretting having answered the phone. Mammy was driving her round the bend with her daily guestlist updates. She’d only nipped upstairs for a quick sandwich before she headed out to meet Leila. It was not on her to-do list to sit and listen to Mammy gabble on about who wouldn’t be seated next to whom and who was allergic to what. She’d already been delayed by having to sort Ita out on her way upstairs.

  She’d spotted their self-titled Director of Housekeeping on the first-floor landing. She’d been pretending to look for supplies in the cupboard at the end of the hall where all the cleaning products were kept. Aisling had tiptoed toward her, guessing she was engrossed in a game on her phone. ‘Ita, could you make up room six please. The Fenchurch family are arriving within the hour and they need the cot as well,’ she’d said, in a voice designed to let her know she knew exactly what she’d been up to.

  Ita had banged her head on the shelf above her and hastily shoved her phone back in the pocket of her smock. She’d picked up a bottle of detergent before scurrying off with a wounded look on her face. It had annoyed Aisling that she should be made to feel guilty over the way she’d spoken to her and she’d stomped up the rest of the stairs to the family’s apartment on the top floor wishing she could be made of sterner stuff, like Moira.

  If it had been the youngest O’Mara, she’d have told Ita to get off her idle arse and get on with the job she was being paid to do without so much as a second thought. Aisling had set about slapping two pieces of soft, white bread together, sandwiching the thick spread of honey between them as the telephone had begun to shrill. She knew who it would be before she picked up but she also knew from experience that it did no good ignoring Mammy, she’d track you down eventually.

  Now, she flopped down on the armchair by the window and took a deep breath. The light doing its best to shine in through the windows was weak and wintery but at least it wasn’t raining. She sniffed; it smelt a bit doggy in here. That was down to Pooh. She’d have to spray the air freshener about the place. Mammy was after buying her a can in order to stop her complaining about her bringing the poodle to visit. The downside of this was she’d bought the one that smelled like her favourite perfume, Arpège, so now the apartment either smelled of poodle or Mammy. She kept looking over her shoulder expecting to see one or both of them lurking in the shadows.

  She took a bite of her honey sandwich and the sweet burst on her tongue was comforting. She chewed as Mammy informed her, ‘I’m after hearing from your great aunt Noreen down in that godforsaken place she lives in again. I think they only got the electricity last year. In a right state she was. She says she won’t enjoy her meal if she’s put at the same table as your aunt Emer. There’s bad blood between those two, not that anybody knows why. Although I’m sure Emer’s mammy, Rosamunde, knows what’s gone on but she’s not saying. Anyway, Noreen says she’ll not be held responsible for her actions if Emer winds up next to her. Your father’s side of the family always were a pain in the arse except for his mammy and da, God rest their souls.’ she sniffed.

  Noreen wasn’t technically Aisling’s great aunt at all. It was all very complicated but from memory she was her dad’s cousin the correct title as to what that made her to Aisling a mystery so great aunt it was. She rolled her eyes at the thought of the old biddy laying down the law to Mammy. ‘The only reason your side wasn’t a pain in the arse too was because you’d fallen out with them, Mammy and we never saw them.’ Aisling sighed because unfortunately her mammy’s brothers were making up for lost time now and had all informed their sister they were waiting for their invitations to their favourite niece’s wedding. Sure, she’d only met them a handful of times. The politics of planning a wedding were all very frustrating.

  ‘I am not a one-woman United Nations you know,’ Aisling said, thinking about how Uncle Brendan had threatened to clock Uncle Frankie if he mouthed off at the reception. It was a likely scenario given Frankie’s love of a drop. ‘To be honest, I don’t know why your brothers have to come at all, Mammy. Tom will sit there picking his nose all through the speeches like he did at Rosi’s wedding and Colm couldn’t keep his hands to himself with any of her friends. Disgusting he was, following the girls half his age around saying, ‘Now then, how’s about a kiss for the bride’s uncle? As for Brendan and Frankie it will be fisticuffs at dawn mark my words.’ Aisling put her hand on her chest; she could feel her heart beginning to pump a little faster at the stress of it all. ‘It’s not as if we ever see any of them either. And what about Cousin Jackie and her shellfish allergy, not to mention Aunt Ina who doesn’t want to be seated near the band because she won’t be able to hear herself think. I’m pulling my hair out here.’

  ‘Ah now, Aisling, calm down. My brothers are heathens I’ll grant you but I’ve no parents left in this world and family is family. Your day will be grand so it will and all this will be a storm in a teacup like the KY2 business at New Year.’

  Aisling frowned, surely Mammy wasn’t on about a new version of an old favourite that a girl’s mammy should know nothing about in the first place – and then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, you mean the Y2K bug.’

  ‘Yes, that. Why, what did you think I meant?’

  ‘Erm never mind.’

  ‘Well you get my point, Aisling. We saw the millennium in with fireworks galore but despite all the merchants of doom predicting the world as we knew it was going to crash down around us, it didn’t. Sure, it’ll be the same with your wedding. There’ll be a few crackers going off but no major catastrophes. Mark my words.’

  Aisling wasn’t sure she liked her impending nuptials being compared to the Millennium bug and she’d prefer it if no crackers went off thanks very much but Mammy had only paused to draw breath so she didn’t get a chance to protest. ‘Have you heard back from Cormac as to whether he’s coming over from America to walk you down the aisle.’

  Cormac was her dad’s older brother. Aisling had gotten to know him when she’d visited LA on stopovers to her various resort postings. Her dad had never spoken about him much when they were growing up. There were nearly ten years between them and Cormac had left home and sailed to America in search of adventure and to make his fortune, or so Daddy had always said, when he was still a young lad. He’d done well for himself, becoming a mover and shaker in the LA fashion scene where he’d wound up making his home. From a grown-up perspective, Aisling had concluded that what had driven Uncle Cormac to America all those years ago was not the need for adventure but a need for acceptance, something his effeminate ways would have struggled to find in Ireland when he was a younger man

  When the time had come, he’d had no interest in taking over the running of the family’s guesthouse. So, it had fallen to his younger brother, Aisling’s daddy, Brian. Her brother Patrick caught up with Cormac from time to time over there in the city of angels but apart from funerals, and weddings the rest of the family hardly saw him. It had been Mammy’s bright idea to have Cormac give her away when she was supposed to walk down the aisle the first time around. A stand in for Daddy. Tears prickled and she blinked them away because more than anything she wished her dad could be the one whose arm she linked hers through as he led her down the aisle to meet Quinn. She liked to think he’d be there in spirit. Cormac was no Daddy but she was very fond of him. He was their closest male blood relative excluding her mammy’s brothers and Patrick and the thought of any of them marching her up the aisle was enough to bring her out in a rash.

  She’d felt sheepish when she’d telephoned Cormac a second time to ask if he would do her this favour. His relaxed drawl made her think of blond shaggy-haired surfer dudes and hum Beach Boy tunes whereas in reality Uncle Cormac was a short man whose fondness for the finer things in life saw his belly rest comfortably over the top of the flowing, loose fitting linen pants he favoured. She also suspected he wo
re a toupee. A very good one, granted. They made good ones in LA. Uncle Cormac, with his tendency to talk with those beringed hands of his was one of life’s characters, Aisling had decided long ago and without him the world would be a little duller.

  He hadn’t beaten around the bush, telling her he wanted to check out travel insurance policies for their cancellation clauses this time around before saying yes, given he’d not been able to get a refund on his flights the last time she’d been going to get married.

  He’d telephoned her the other day and she’d thought she’d passed the news on to Mammy that yes, he would be there and to make a room up for him at the guesthouse. It must have slipped her mind. She informed Mammy of his call.

  ‘The reason you’re forgetting things, Aisling, is because you’ve too much on your plate.’

  Aisling thought that was an ironic thing to say, given there’d been feck all on her plate since she’d started her weight-loss journey, or nightmare, whichever way you wanted to look at it.

  ‘And,’ Maureen said, failing to see any irony in her words whatsoever. ‘I understand the planning of your big day is a stressful thing but that’s what the mother of the bride is for. It is my job to be a good listener, constant giver of compliments, cheerleader, and source of support to you.’

  ‘Mammy, are you reading that out?’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘You are too.’

  ‘Well, according to Bridal Life magazine that’s my role and as such I want you to know you can relax because I’ve had a grand idea. Why don’t I come along for the luncheon with you and Leila? I don’t mind cancelling my watercolour workshop this afternoon. I’m annoyed with Rosemary Farrell anyway and could happily give it a miss. She’s after copying my idea of doing a self-portrait. You want to see hers, Aisling, she looks like yer wan with her gob wide open in that painting Moira was after putting on her wall as a teenager. Jaysus it gave us all nightmares so it did.’