‘All going okay in here, troops?’
‘Aye-aye,’ shouts Carol, never once moving her eyes from the poaching eggs in front of her.
‘Table one!’ roars Noel over my head. He’s caught up in the adrenaline of it all, pushing a plate into my hand. ‘Extra sausages,’ he bellows. ‘Service, please.’ He’ll be throwing overdone black pudding against the wall next, à la Gordon Ramsey.
The frenzied pace of everyone arriving at once calms down a bit, and I survey my little kingdom, keeping a firm eye on their bread supplies and ready to swoop in with more tea should anyone need it. I start to wander over towards Majella and Pablo’s table to see how they’re getting on. Melissa’s baby is tucking into a bowl of Carol’s Very Special Porridge, with all manner of berries and jams heaped on top of it. Paula beats me to the table, inquiring if they’re alright for everything.
Melissa mouths silently over the baby’s head, ‘I’d love a can of Coke. A. Can. Of. Coke.’ She forms the words exaggeratedly with her lips. ‘She goes absolutely ape if she hears the word,’ she explains, pointing at the baby. She doesn’t even like the taste of it that much. It’s just the mention of it.’
Sadhbh had said not to bother with cans of drink and just get in artisan lemonades and hay-and-lavender cordials and what have you, but I know a hungover head when I see one, and I know what it wants too. Paula nods conspiratorially at Melissa and is about to head back to the kitchen when Pablo pipes up.
‘I too will have a … eh … eh … a … a … C-O-C-K.’
Turlough explodes. The scrambled egg he’s just put in his mouth goes all over the baby, and he snorts some down his throat while he’s at it. I fly in with a tea towel as the toddler screams in displeasure and Paula stares at Pablo in horror.
‘The C-O-C-K, you know? C-O-C-K.’ He desperately tries to mime the shape of a can with his hands, while Majella shakes helplessly with laughter on the chair. Deirdre and Titch aren’t much better and Sharon leaps up to look for a mop.
‘Coke!’ I grimace at Paula, helping Melissa to wipe down the child’s face, while she twists like a cat at the vet at the mention of the illicit beverage.
Paula has at least finally caught Pablo’s drift and gone to get him his C-O-C-K, and Pablo is beseeching the table to tell him what he did wrong, as Sharon plucks a stray bit of scrambled egg out of her hair and gives me a reassuring smile. Mild chaos, you might call it. There’s a tap on my shoulder.
‘All going well?’
It’s James Matthews, grinning at me and holding out something in one of those wine gift bags. I’ll be reusing that – very handy. I’d put the tea towel on my head in an effort to amuse the baby, but at the sound of his voice I snatch it off and swing around to him.
‘It’s going great, as you can see.’ I gesture ruefully in the direction of the egg-covered table where Turlough had just managed to catch his breath.
‘Don’t mind her,’ Majella pipes up. ‘It’s going just brilliantly. You’re never happy, Aisling,’ she adds, rolling her eyes and smiling.
James presses the bottle into my hands. ‘Something to celebrate with, when you get a chance. Just wanted to pop in and see how it was all going.’
‘Ah, you’re too good.’ Can I put the tea towel back on my head to hide the blushing, I wonder?
‘Not at all. Look, I’ll see you around during the week. Lots still to do upstairs.’ He strides back out to his jeep, cramming his brown curls under a baseball cap.
‘Do you see much of John these days, Aisling?’ Turlough interrupts my mini daydream, seemingly recovered from his mishap.
‘Eh, no. Not really.’ I haven’t seen him in ages.
‘He’s hardly ever in training with Rangers now that he’s the big county man.’ Turlough’s tiny hands mean he’s never made much of an impact on the pitch, but the lads do go training religiously, rain or shine. ‘There was no sign of him this morning. He’s around visiting clubs when he can – scouting for talent, I hear,’ Turlough continues. ‘Sure, we’ll be lucky if he talks to us at all anymore. Baby Chief Gittons says he hasn’t seen him in weeks.’
‘Any sign of that VIP area in the Vortex he was after?’ Melissa chimes in with a roll of her eyes. ‘It was the talk of the new salon yesterday. Apparently John was demanding his own private area. Imagine – a velvet rope in the Vortex. I know sportsmen are heroes, but you’d look a right sight nipping out from behind it to go to the bar for your pints and Jägerbombs. It’s a shame you’re not still with him to rein him in, Aisling.’
Jesus, none of this sounds like John at all. He’d sooner die than put himself in the limelight. Unless it’s karaoke, they’re playing Garth Brooks and he’s had eleven pints. He’s become quite a different person by the sounds of things. Oh well, it’s not my problem, I suppose. I have a café to run.
‘Now, anyone for more tea?’ I swing around with the pot, eyes peeled for a cup that looks wanting. The door goes again. More customers! But the big, hulking presence who lands in doesn’t look like he’s after poached eggs. Marty Boland.
‘Well, Marty.’ My voice has the tiniest shake in it, but I steel myself immediately. ‘Will you have a seat and we’ll get you a menu?’ I move back towards the counter.
He follows me, nearly pushing me back into it with a stare. In a low voice, he growls, ‘I don’t want a menu and I don’t want a seat, missy.’
Carol emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Marty, what are you–?’
‘The pair of you think you’re clever with your little café, don’t you?’ The people sitting nearest us have turned to look now.
Carol pleads, ‘Marty, don’t make a scene.’
He straightens up and takes a menu from my hand, but leans in closer still. ‘I know what you’re up to. Taking my business. Taking this lease out from under me. And that one.’ He gestures at Carol. ‘Where has my dinner been the past two nights?’ he asks her. She just stands there. He’s talking low enough so only we can hear him. My heart is pounding in my ears. He throws the menu back on the table. ‘Be home on time tonight.’ He turns on his heel and walks out, throwing a nod here and there like nothing has happened.
Carol retreats into the kitchen. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, following her in. ‘Let me make you some tea.’
‘Not at all, I’m fine,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘He’s just in a mood. It’s grand. Don’t worry.’ How can I not worry? But the door goes again and Paula calls, ‘More hungry customers.’ I hope it is grand.
Chapter 32
Sharon is picking me up for Denise’s baby shower in ten minutes, and I’m still in my apron and Crocs. Yes, Crocs. It was actually Constance Swinford who put me on to them – her house is so big she gets blisters walking from one end of it to the other, even in her ‘investment slippers’. Talk about first-world problems, although I can only imagine her bills. A big house is hard to heat.
The Crocs are so soft and cushiony – a godsend when you’re on your feet sixteen hours a day. And between sorting the stockroom and shining cutlery and taking orders and cleaning tables and filling sugar bowls, I rarely get so much as five minutes to sit down with a cup of tea and a purple Snack. My Fitbit is giving me no end of praise for it, and I’m exhausted but happy. So, so happy. The happiest I’ve felt in a long time.
After a few teething problems in the first couple of weeks (I under-ordered on the tea bags: lesson learned) BallyGoBrunch has really come together and, honestly, we’re busier than I ever imagined. There was a queue around the corner at twelve o’clock last Sunday! I took a picture and sent it to Sadhbh and she sent back a record number of emojis. I managed to get one of my Crocs in the shot, and I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of it. I rang her and tried to explain that sometimes you just have to go for comfort over style, but I don’t think she heard me with the screams of laughter.
Carol has to physically push me out through the swinging doors of the café kitchen as I fire questions and problems at her.
‘What if a vegan comes in?’
‘I just took a loaf of sourdough out of the oven, and we have plenty of Jim Doran’s mushrooms. They’d be lovely on toast with a bit of thyme.’
‘Do you know where the fire extinguisher is?’
‘Under the sink.’
‘What do you do if someone starts choking?’
‘Aisling! Would you just go!’
Carol’s menu has been a real hit, but neither of us could have anticipated the demand for the sausages. She can’t churn them out fast enough, and with production at an all-time high and money flowing into Marty Boland’s pocket, he seems to have calmed down a bit. Carol assures me there have been no more incidents at home. I’ve had all sorts of mad ideas, like doing a BallyGoBrunch cookbook or trying to get Nationwide to come down and do a piece on her recipe. Anything for a bit of publicity.
I’m on my way into the toilets when Sharon walks in. I see her eyes fall on the Crocs, and she has to grab the back of a chair to steady herself. Honestly, if I could just get any of them to try on a pair they’d see the appeal. It’s like walking on clouds. Ask any nurse.
‘I’m just getting changed – I’ll be back in second,’ I say, holding up my I Heart Penneys tote bag. Inside the toilet, I throw on a purple wrap dress (from Savida but thirty per cent off), my trusty eighty deniers and a pair of black kitten heels that I’ve had since Majella’s twenty-first and are still going strong. I smooth down my hair with a drop of water and put on a slick of brown mascara. It’s not ideal, but I’ve been up since 6 a.m. Then I give the sinks a quick wipe down and restock the toilet roll. Like I said, you’re never off.
‘Love the dress, hun,’ Sharon says when I eventually emerge.
‘Oh, it’s only a rag,’ I say, shaking my head and mouthing ‘bye’ over to Paula, who’s passing out extra sausages to a table of six. As well as putting them in the full Irish and the open sandwiches, we’re now doing sausage rolls, sausage casserole, bangers and mash and toad in the hole. I’m reading a book about vertical integration and I think this is it.
It’s my first time in Sharon’s little Beetle, and I must say I’m very taken with it. She has one of the fancy Yankee Candle air fresheners and a little pink flower in the vase attached to the dashboard! I’d kill for that. I used to have a cat teddy in the back window of my Micra, but I had to get rid of it when me and John broke up. Too many memories. Now I have a fancy box of tissues, which I think is very sophisticated. Hard to reach, mind.
‘Sharon, would you mind slowing down here for a second?’ I say as she’s pulling out the front gate. I’m thinking of asking James Matthews if he’d put in a cattle grid before he finishes up – there was a herd loose on the road last week, and I had to leave my post at the toast station in the kitchen to block the opening or they’d have made shite of the flower bed. Carol was not happy but, as I told her, at least we discovered that the fire alarm works. You can’t be too careful with health and safety, and I haven’t had time to train her properly yet.
I’m trying to gauge whether a cattle grid would actually fit between the two granite gate posts when out of the corner of my eye I spot what looks like a silver car parked tight against the ditch up the road a bit. Why would anyone do that? I think to myself. Everyone knows two cars can barely pass on this road, but it doesn’t stop the lorries flying along, despite all the bumps and sharp bends. You’d have to have a death wish to park there. Sharon pulls out and turns left and, as much as I try and find the silver car in the wing mirror, there’s nothing there. Maybe I imagined it. I’m half-mad with the tiredness, and I have to do a load of admin tonight too.
I actually get a fright when I see Denise in the foyer of the Ard Rí. You know those pregnant women who stay absolutely tiny all over except for the bump? The ones who look completely un-pregnant from behind and like they’ve just swallowed a basketball from the front? Well, she’s not one of those. She’s ballooned. Even her face looks pregnant.
‘Denise, you’re looking well,’ I say, beaming, trying to get close enough to get my arms around her for a hug. And you know what, she is looking well, despite it all. She’s glowing. And you can tell the bulk of it is water retention anyway. ‘Not long to go now! You must be fierce excited.’
‘Three more feckin’ weeks.’ She sighs, rolling her eyes. ‘I don’t know how much more I can take. I can’t stop eating, Aisling. Even when I’m chewing I’m thinking about where my next meal is coming from. I don’t understand the hunger. I was bulimic in fifth year!’
Sharon has the table looking faboo, I must say. She’s done a three-tier nappy cake and there’s a big balloon with a rabbit on it anchored to the top. There’s a good turnout – a few faces I don’t recognise, though. I pull up a chair beside Dee Ruane to prove we’re all water under the bridge since the lease debacle. To be fair to her, she’s been a BallyGoBrunch regular since she’s started bringing people around to see the show apartment upstairs. Apparently the interest has been off the charts. The sale of land to the GAA went through last week, and she’s regaling Maeve Hennessey with her preparations for the upcoming fortnight in Marbella.
‘I’m trying to get Titch to go in to Sharon for a back wax, but he won’t even entertain the idea,’ she says, helping herself to a little cucumber sandwich. ‘It’s not that I find the hairy back that bad myself – I’m just worried it’ll offend the other guests. It’s a five-star hotel, like. There could be celebrities there.’ Maeve is nodding along furiously. The chat gives me a flash of inspiration and I call out to Sharon: ‘What about The Hairy Backers?’ She shakes her head no. There’s only so long I’m going to keep throwing out these gems of salon names.
‘Pssst, Ais, will you make yourself a bit smaller there.’ It wouldn’t be any kind of organised event if Majella wasn’t slinking in late.
‘What took you?’ I say out of the side of my mouth. I had tried to siphon off a few egg sandwiches for her, but Denise had them hoovered up as soon as the plate hit the table. I was able to hide a ham one under a napkin, but all that’s left is smoked salmon, and good luck getting Maj to eat that.
‘More feckin’ drama with Willy,’ she hisses back under her breath. ‘I had to bring Pab with me for his own safety. He’s out in the bar having a whiskey for his nerves. Did I miss the big reveal?’
‘No, Denise is going to pop the balloon and the confetti is either going to be pink or blue,’ I explain. ‘The water spray isn’t working then?’
‘If anything it’s making Willy more determined,’ she says, reaching for a cucumber sandwich, sniffing it and then putting it back. This afternoon tea is €30 a head – she’s getting a raw deal out of it if all she gets is one miserable ham sandwich and a few scones. I always make sure to get my full entitlement at these things. The price of them!
‘Sorry, girls,’ Sharon says, leaning down between us. ‘Did you bring those baby pictures? We’re going to start the games now.’
Ah, baby-shower games. I could do without them, to be honest. Well, most of them. Guessing who’s who by baby pictures is a bit of craic, but some of them can be a bit disgusting. Like the one where you have to eat the melted chocolate bar out of a nappy and guess what it is. I’m fierce good at it, but that doesn’t make it right.
I pass Sharon over the picture – it’s actually one of Karen Koster’s kids that I printed off myself, but she’ll never know – and excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I want to be in situ when the next course comes out or Denise might do me out of my mini raspberry cheesecake. Not on my watch, Denise. On the way through the lobby of the Ard Rí I spot Pablo out the bay window, sitting at a garden table nursing his whiskey. I’m just about to go over and knock and say, ‘Hola, what’s the craic,’ when Susie Ó Súilleabháin leans foward in the chair opposite him. And then, as I watch, she keeps leaning in to him until their lips are practically touching and appears to gently caress his face. I feel my blood run cold and quickly jump behind a potted ficus. What the hell are they playing at, cosying up when Majella
is not 30 feet away? How dare they! And why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong? We’re here to celebrate Denise, and I don’t want there to be some kind of scene before I can present her with the tiny Knock Rangers jersey I had made up especially. It wasn’t cheap.
When I get back to the table everyone is shrieking, and I assume they must have popped open the balloon to reveal the baby’s gender. It takes me a second to work out that it’s not Denise who’s at the centre of it all: it’s Majella. Dee is cradling Maj’s left hand, demanding a go of it, while Maeve is roaring, ‘Prosecco! Quickly, we need prosecco!’ at the waitress. Denise is looking a bit put out, and I can’t say I blame her. Someone’s baby shower is hardly the place to unveil your engagement ring. To be fair to Maj, though, she doesn’t have much choice in the matter.
‘Oh, it’s fab. Looks much bigger than on Facebook,’ Maeve coos over it. ‘You’re the cutest couple, the pair of ye.’
If only they knew. If only Majella knew.
‘Ah yeah, isn’t it … great,’ I stutter. ‘Great altogether.’
‘Sorry, Denise,’ Maj mouths at the party girl, who’s balanced a plate of shortbread expertly on her bump. She was never going to get away without at least ten minutes of ring chat though.
When I was going out with John, Maeve used to forensically examine my hand every weekend. She’s like one of those pigs who sniffs out truffles, except with diamonds. I tap Maj on the shoulder and whisper, ‘Can I have a quick word?’
She reefs her hand back from Maeve and follows me through the double doors into the famous Ard Rí function room, BGB’s number-one wedding venue. It doesn’t look much now, all bare and empty, but this room has been the scene of some legendary sessions over the years.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 24