The Importance of Being Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  ‘Quarter past nine.’ It’s early for prosecco, but sure we’re on international soil now. I made the girls promise to be here at seven because of what I’ve heard about the queues at US Preclearance in Dublin Airport. Deirdre Ruane went to Boston a few weeks ago and nearly missed the flight with the queues. She only gave herself three hours. Our flight is at eleven and I was taking no chances. We’re all wrecked already but it’s worth it for the peace of mind. We’ll get to Vegas in the evening, just in time to go out on the town. I’m already torn between wanting to sleep on the plane and wanting to watch the films. Sure, the films are nearly the best part – they’re always brand new.

  ‘I can’t wait to get there and hit the town,’ I say, wiggling my eyebrows at Sadhbh. She shakes her head, going crimson.

  ‘What are you two at?’ Majella looks from one of us to the other.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I snigger, ‘just wondering if Sadhbh’s new boyfriend, Don, is going to meet us there tonight. He’s in America. For work.’

  ‘Ah, Sadhbh, you sleeveen, this is a girls’ holiday. You’re not serious? No mickeys!’ Majella’s not impressed.

  ‘Not even … Don Shields’s mickey?’ I raise my Prosecco triumphantly, delighted with myself.

  It takes Majella a moment to register. ‘You’re joking.’ She looks again from me to Sadhbh. ‘You’re. Fucking. Joking.’

  Sadhbh shakes her head. ‘She’s not joking. Look.’ She offers her phone to Majella and Majella squeals and grabs it.

  ‘He’s such a ride, Sadhbh! You dark pony – I can’t believe you said nothing!’ Majella jumps out of her chair and swings her glass of prosecco around, nearly taking the eye out of an Italian man behind her. ‘I thought he was going out with Taylor Swift!’ Then she visibly pales. ‘Have you told Mairead and Fionnuala yet?’

  ‘Eh, no,’ Sadhbh says, sneaking a quick look in my direction. ‘We haven’t had too many chats, actually. They seem to go to bed quite early.’

  ‘They’re going to die,’ Maj squeals. ‘Mairead had three Long Island Iced Teas in Majorca last Easter and threatened to get his name tattooed on her shoulder. The only way Fionnuala could talk her out of it was telling her she’d regret it on her wedding day when she couldn’t cover it up. She was mortified about it the next morning.’

  Sadhbh’s hand flies up to her mouth.

  ‘God bless youuu, Pierce Brosnaaaan …’ Majella warbles into her flute, mimicking Don Shields’s distinctive vocals on The Peigs’s most well-known song. It’s mostly about being from Navan, but the yanks have gone stone mad for it. It’s fierce catchy, to be fair.

  Sadhbh drops her head into her hands, laughing and moaning. ‘Can you guys just be cool?’

  It turns out that arriving so early for a flight and hoofing so many little flutes of prosecco into you in the airport really relaxes you for all the boarding shenanigans. I barely cared that we weren’t up and queuing the second we were called, and Majella found me trying to wedge my backpack into the overhead locker so amusing that she developed a case of the hiccups. She and I got two seats by the window, with Sadhbh just across the aisle from us, although she promptly put her eye mask on and snuggled down into her expensive pyjamas, ready to sleep off the mid-morning booze fest.

  As we take off, me nestled in beside the window and Majella nudging me to stay awake for the drinks trolley, Maj gestures across at Sadhbh. ‘How can she just sleep like that?’

  ‘Well, it’s a long flight and we’ve had a feed of drink.’

  ‘No! I mean how can she sleep knowing she’s Don Shields’s girlfriend? Would you not be awake and thinking about it all the time?’ Majella has a mad look in her eyes. I hope if we do meet Don she doesn’t go ape. ‘I’m delighted for her, though,’ she continues. ‘As long as she doesn’t think she’s too cool for school now.’

  ‘She was always too cool for school, to be fair. Did you see her pyjamas?’

  Majella nods in agreement that the pyjamas are cracked altogether. Suddenly she grips my arm again. ‘Ais, between Don and Pablo, you’re the only single gal on the holiday. We’ll have to find you a fella!’

  ‘Ah God, Majella, that’s the last thing on my mind. Me and John are barely cold. I’m looking forward to being on my own for a while. No Piotrs, no Vegas lads. Nobody. Just me.’

  Majella goes to tease me with a smile on her face but changes her mind. ‘Are you alright, though, bird? About John and everything?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I am.’

  Chapter 21

  ‘Jesus! Notions eleven or what?’

  Majella swings open door after door leading off the sitting-room part of our MGM Grand hotel room.

  There are three bedrooms, each bigger than the last, with massive floor-to-ceiling windows. I can feel the heat coming through, even with the triple glazing, and immediately panic that I haven’t brought enough factor 50. Sadhbh rushes over to take in the view. To be fair, the view is of another wall of windows, but looking down she gasps, ‘Check out that pool! We are living the life, ladies.’

  Behind a bit of a fake wall at one end of the sitting room is a mini kitchen, so I set to work opening every drawer and press. It’s the law when you check into a hotel. If there’s a trouser press or a mini hairdryer hiding anywhere, I’ll find it.

  ‘Any booze in those presses?’ Sadhbh calls from her spot by the window, where she’s scanning the pool area like a hawk. On Don Shields watch, maybe.

  ‘Not yet.’ I’m delighted there’s no mini-bar, to be honest. I’ve never touched one thing in a mini-bar. They know if your fingers even graze the tiny bottles of wine or the freezing peanuts, and they charge you. Better to pretend it’s not even there. ‘There mustn’t be any–’

  ‘Dear Diary, jackpot.’ Majella emerges triumphant from one of the bedrooms, swinging a full-size bottle of white wine from each hand. ‘There’s a bar in this room. There’s probably one in every room.’

  Sadhbh squeals and rushes into the second bedroom, with Majella calling after her, ‘Under the desk, looks like a chest of drawers.’

  ‘We’re in business,’ calls Sadhbh and appears at the door waving a bottle of what looks like very expensive Champagne at us. My heart is going ninety.

  ‘Will ye put them back? They’ll know we touched them – there’s probably an alarm going off downstairs somewhere. They’re probably a hundred dollars each!’

  ‘More, I’d say.’ Sadhbh shrugs and goes to pull the foil off the top of the Champagne. I dive for her, eyes peeled for some kind of menu or list of prices. But before I make it to her she’s doubled over laughing. ‘Your face, Aisling!’

  ‘We’re not made of money, Ais. As if!’ Majella’s laughing too. This is probably what they were whispering and scheming about in the airport in Atlanta as I was doing my anti-blood-clot laps of the chairs. The witches. They both rush forward to envelop me in a hug, skitting about room service and ordering a load of strippers. I give in and laugh with them. I feel so free. A million miles away from everything and in Las Bloody Vegas!

  ‘Sure, we’ll have a glass of something. We’re not animals.’ I am on my holidays after all.

  An hour and a half later we’re strutting down the hotel corridor in our glad rags ready to paint the town red. Majella and me are in our Jeans and a Nice Tops while Sadhbh is wearing a jumpsuit yoke that I swear to God must have been a Hallowe’en costume for an adult baby. The crotch of it is down around her knees. But she looks great, of course, with massive gold triangle earrings poking through her grey hair. She convinced us to throw caution to the wind and go thirds on a bottle of Pinot Greej from the mini-bar, so we’re all fairly giddy waiting for the lift. When the doors open we come face to face with a group of lads in Hawaiian shirts with sunburnt noses. They all look like they might be called Chad. Or Josh.

  ‘Going down, ladies?’ one of them shouts in an American accent as we step in and they all cheer. I’m puce, to be quite honest.

  ‘On your holidays, lads?’ Majella goes with a wink, and another
one produces a bottle of tequila, unscrews the cap and shakes it at her. Christ, everything I’ve heard about Vegas is true. They’re all mad here.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, gently pushing the bottle away from her and jabbing at the first-floor button with my other hand. She’s not getting a cold sore on my watch.

  ‘Hey, you’re Irish,’ the first one shouts and the others start cheering again. They’ve obviously been getting stuck in to their own minibars upstairs. Well for some.

  ‘We are,’ I say, cursing the day they put us on the thirty-fifth floor. The lift is taking forever.

  ‘Can we buy you ladies a round of Irish Car Bombs downstairs?’ one of them says directly to Sadhbh, who has taken out her phone and is studiously ignoring them all.

  ‘A round of what?’ I say.

  The tallest one, wearing a fedora, smiles at me dopily. ‘Irish Car Bombs. They’re shots. Do you guys not have them over there?’

  Majella gasps. ‘You can’t be serious! There’s a shot called an Irish Car Bomb? That’s a disgrace.’

  ‘An absolute disgrace!’ I echo, throwing them daggers. The only other sound we hear for the rest of the journey is a stifled fart.

  When the lift door opens, we all spill out into the lobby and the lads skulk off towards the shuttle bus up the Strip. In the distance I can see rows and rows of fruit machines beeping and blinking in the casino, and I must say they look tempting. Of course, I’ve done my due diligence and I know the house always wins, but I also know that you can drink for free in Las Vegas as long as you’re gambling. I’m conflicted because I’ve seen enough films to know how quickly it can become an addiction.

  ‘Lads, we have to have a flutter,’ Majella goes, her eyes lighting up.

  ‘We need to line our stomachs first,’ I say. I was on TripAdvisor last night trying to figure out the best restaurants, and I stumbled across the MGM Grand’s all-you-can-eat buffet. Well, once I started reading, I just couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t believe the value of this thing! As much food as you can handle for $30. And we’re talking all different types of food.

  ‘I could go for some sushi?’ Sadhbh says hopefully, but I’m already leading them towards the sign for the buffet.

  ‘I was thinking we could try the buffet, Sadhbhy?’ I say casually. ‘I think it has Japanese food. And Chinese, Italian, Lebanese, all sorts of craic.’

  ‘I’m actually not really that hungry,’ she says with a shrug. Only Sadhbh could survive on bag of airplane peanuts. I noticed she didn’t touch her meal on the flight, even though I rang up and ordered the vegetarian, gluten-free, dairy-free option especially. I love airplane food – all those little courses, everything so tidy in the little trays. I was afraid to blink in case they somehow got past me with the trolley.

  ‘I know for a fact they have a salad bar,’ I say, as a last-ditch attempt to sway her. ‘All-you-can-eat … lettuce.’

  She has the good grace to laugh. ‘Okay, Ais, I’m sold. Let’s do it.’

  I swing around just fast enough to catch Majella inching over to a blackjack table, where a man in a cowboy hat is patting the seat next to him. Mother of God, I’m going to have my work cut out keeping this show on the road.

  ‘Majella!’ I roar, and she turns around. ‘How are you fixed for an all-you-can-eat buffet?’

  ‘Go on so,’ she says, coming back. ‘As long as there’s booze too.’

  When the waitress – Shirley, an absolute dote – shows us to our table I try to stay calm. But it’s hard with everything that’s on display. The room is sort of divided into different countries with décor to match – in one corner there’s Italy with a rake of different pastas and pizzas, in another there’s India with more curries than you could shake a stick at and plenty of naan bread. And the dessert section! Don’t get me started. Little pastries and cakes to beat the band, as well as a self-service ice-cream machine. I’m actually shaking.

  ‘Guys.’ Sadhbh is back looking at her phone again. ‘I just got a text from Don and he said he’s going to meet us here in an hour.’

  Across from me, Majella grips the table to steady herself and I can see the whites of her eyes. ‘Oh my God, I need a drink,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, Sadhbh, but I’m shaking here. Don Shields, like!’

  ‘Okay, let’s call Shirley and get some wine,’ I say.

  Her name is only out of my mouth when she’s standing in front of us with a big jug. ‘Ladies, some water for the table,’ she says in her southern drawl. ‘And over there,’ she points to the far wall, which is in the distance beyond several other countries, ‘is the soda machine. Help yourselves.’ Is this real life?

  ‘Is there a wine menu?’ Majella gasps.

  ‘Certainly,’ Shirley says. And then she lowers her voice. ‘Maybe I could interest you ladies in the all-you-can-drink add-on? It’s $30 each for unlimited wine, beer and Champagne.’

  ****

  ‘Don! Don! Don!’

  Sadhbh is actually falling out of our booth laughing, and I’m not much better. Don Shields – the Don Shields, all six-foot-something of him in a grey T-shirt and three-day stubble – is walking towards us, and Majella is not handling it well. She already has a bottle of Champagne inside her and Shirley has been dispatched to bring another one. In fairness to him, Don looks mortified, even though he must be well used to this carry-on. He’s been on The Late Late twice.

  ‘Heeey,’ he says, laughing. ‘You must be Majella?’

  Sadhbh slips out of the booth, and he pulls her into his arms and shifts her right there in the middle of the restaurant. Majella drums the table with her hands, and I have to cross my legs I’m laughing so hard. Even the people at the other tables are joining in. That’s the thing about Vegas – it’s like everyone is at the same party.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ Sadhbh says, pulling him on to the couch beside her. ‘Babe, this is Aisling.’

  Don Shields holds out his hand and I shake it mutely. He’s even more ridey in real life – the eyelashes on him! I can barely meet his eyes. I’m just no good with celebrities. Marty Morrissey opened the new Aldi two years ago and I was the only person in the village too shy to ask for a selfie. Don isn’t just a random celebrity, I have to remind myself. He’s Sadhbh’s boyfriend.

  ‘Don, I have to get it out of the way,’ Majella slurs, reaching over to shake his hand. ‘I’m a big fan. And I was nervous about meeting you so I drank a load of Champagne and now I’m pished.’

  He laughs and gives her a hug. ‘You look really familiar. Was I talking to you backstage at Electric Picnic last year? You were sitting with the Coldplay lads?’

  ‘I wish, Don,’ Maj says, passing him a glass. ‘I was sitting with the BGB lads in the Jimi Hendrix campsite.’

  ‘Well, that sounds like good craic too.’

  ‘It’s all-you-can-drink,’ I chime in, gesturing at the two bottles of Champagne Shirley has just dropped on the table with a wink. She also doesn’t seem a bit concerned that another person has joined our party without paying. ‘Help yourself there.’ This is normal. I am normal. I’m just talking to Don Shields like a normal person.

  ‘Thanks, Aisling, that’s sound.’ Don Shields thinks I’m sound!

  ‘Should we head on somewhere?’ Sadhbh says, picking a bit of fluff off his threadbare T-shirt and running a hand up his arm.

  Head on? Is she mad? I haven’t even visited China yet and none of us have had dessert. The house is not going to win on my watch!

  Don catches my eye. ‘Maybe we should stick around for another while?’

  ‘Shirley,’ Maj roars. ‘More Champagne, please!’ And everyone cheers.

  ****

  There’s a buzzing. What is it? Oh Jesus, my head. And my mouth. It’s like each one of my teeth is wrapped in sandpaper. My blood feels like it’s fizzing. And what is that buzzing? I peel an eye open, and then another. It’s pitch dark, save for a sliver of light coming in through the thick blackout curtains. Where the blazes am –? Oh, of course, I’m in Las Vegas. This is the hotel
room. The buzzing is last night’s music ringing in my ears.

  Suddenly there’s a movement in the bed beside me and a deep sigh. I freeze and go stiffer than I have ever gone before. Holding my breath, the whole shebang. Who the feck is it? It’s not Sadhbh or Majella. That sigh was … foreign. And where are my knickers? All that’s over me is a light sheet and it’s touching every bit of me. I’m starkers. Oh Jesus. Is there a giraffe in the bathroom to top it all off? Or a tiger?

  I try to swivel my eyes around in my head without moving an inch, to get a glimpse at who or what is in the bed with me. The swinging of my eyeballs sets off a chain reaction of pain through my head, down my jaw and into my teeth. Am I dying? Take me quickly, Lord. Or at least deliver me a can of Diet Coke and a straw. What was I drinking last night? My blood feels like syrup.

  The mass moves again and an arm comes through the air, landing over my stomach. I squeeze my eyes shut and go stiffer still. I wonder can I kind of plank sideways out of the bed like a crab without him noticing? It’s definitely a him. I peel an eye open again. The one farthest away from him, just in case. A smooth brown arm lies across the sheet, and a round, brown bare arse rises from the crumples of the bedclothes. And it all comes back to me.

  Shirley pleading with us to leave, that we’d drank them dry. Eating all the garlic bread Italy had to offer. Don handing out 99s to a queue of fifty people. Majella standing on a chair screeching, ‘God bless youuu, Pierce Brosnaaan, though you’re so faaarr from Navaannn’ at the top of her lungs. Fast forward to us being ushered through what looked like an emergency exit off a seemingly never-ending corridor of lights and restaurants and gamblers and bars and people. Were we still in the hotel? Who knew? Next there were handshakes and back slaps and hugs and welcomes and drinks were thrust into our hands and Maj was taking selfies with our very own velvet rope and the rest of The Peigs crew were there, totting up who we had in common between us back home and who had shifted who in the Gaeltacht, and then there was dancing and I was dancing with a tall, beautiful man with dark-brown arms and smooth brown cheeks and black eyes and a fresh clean-clothes smell and … holy Jesus. He’s in my bed. He’s in my bed and he’s moving. He’s sitting up. Oh Jesus.