2

‘Ah you’ll have to do something Aisling,’ Sharon calls behind her as we elbow our way back from the bar in Maguire’s which is completely rammed, a sea of county jerseys. ‘Thirty is a milestone, like.’

Is there something in the water today or what? First Sadhbh, now Sharon, and just an hour ago I got an email from a gym I joined four years ago when I was working in PensionsPlus, reminding me once again that my birthday is hurtling towards me. I had to pack it in at that gym after just one Pilates class, which I signed up for thinking it would be lovely and gentle to ease me into my new life as a fitness fanatic. I was expecting to lie around in a room festooned with linen curtains, maybe with some candles and whale song in the background while I imagined wheat fields and natural yoghurt. Instead I was tortured for forty-five minutes and couldn’t walk for four days. I had to pretend I was happy to work through lunch at my desk because getting up out of the chair was such an ordeal. Gwyneth Paltrow has a lot to answer for. I’m still tormented by the three months’ membership I lost on that gym, but after needing the help of the Pilates instructor and the gazelle beside me to get up off the ground, I could never go back.

‘Carol will do you a cake,’ Sharon says, setting the drinks down on the table and nodding at Carol, who nods back enthusiastically. She does a great cake, to be fair to her.

‘What time are the lads due in at?’ Sharon asks, pushing her voluminous blonde curls back over her shoulder. She’s a wizard with the GHD but I suppose she wouldn’t be BGB’s foremost (and only) beauty-salon owner without the skills. In the few months I’ve known her, I could count on one hand the times I’ve seen her less than 100 per cent glam, and this evening is no exception. I could never get away with the tight red dress she has on under her jersey. My hips have always been a great trial to me, but Sharon shows off her ample curves like a pro.

‘Seven, I think. Any sign of Majella?’ I crane my neck looking for my best friend but instead catch an eyeful of Mad Tom up at the bar, top off again. It is warm, even by September standards, and outside the village is a riot of colour thanks to the bunting taut between telephone poles and the incredible job the Tidy Towns committee did with this year’s hanging baskets. I must remember to pass on my congratulations to Tessie Daly. There’s an ice-cream van doing a roaring trade outside Strong Stuff, Sharon’s beauty salon, and Eamon Filan has speakers in front of the newsagents-slash-funeral-parlour pumping out the nineties dance hits. The atmosphere is electric and the kids are all up to ninety, dabbing and whatnot. It’s almost as exciting as the time a horse trainer from outside Knock won the Grand National and they closed Main Street for a full day to parade Dexy’s Midnight Galloper through the town. The poor horse had to go into retirement it was so wrecked. Still, though, a mighty day.

As I scan the pub for Maj, I’m keeping an eye out for James too. He said he’d probably head in for the festivities with some of the lads from the building site and for some reason I’m feeling anxious. We haven’t done a whole heap of socialising together in BGB, and if my hand was forced I’d have to say I’m just not that keen on being seen out and about with him. I don’t need people thinking we’re a big serious item, especially when everyone is so mad about him and his manners. Me and John’s break-up was big news and I don’t want the Bowls Club and the entire Zumba with Mags class talking about us and feeling sorry for me when James is gone.

‘Was it busy today, Carol?’ I ask, relaxing back into my seat, no sign of either Majella or James. I took today off from BallyGoBrunch at Carol’s insistence after working twelve days in a row and then going straight from behind the counter to Croke Park for the match yesterday.

‘A steady stream.’ Carol nods. ‘We ran out of sausage baps at the takeaway counter and Noel grated his knuckles into the coleslaw but no other emergencies.’

She’d deny it but Carol and her secret sausage recipe are the real reason BallyGoBrunch is such a roaring success, if you ask me. She battled with her bully husband over that recipe and now both she and it are free of him, Carol Boland Sausages are trademarked and the recipe is patent pending. I’m a 49 per cent stakeholder in CBS and we sell so many packets of them in the café that we’ve outsourced their production to a small factory in Kildare. Carol is delighted with their standards and it’s freed up a good bit of space in the fridge. The space in the fridge is one of many things that wakes me up worrying in the dead of night. That and Noel the kitchen porter’s knuckles in the coleslaw. In fairness, Noel works brilliantly alongside Carol and we’re delighted with Karla, our new front-of-house whizz kid from Rathborris. She has a real way with people and is great for upselling desserts, and she gives me a bit more time to spend in the office wrangling invoices and wages and orders for our new catering sideline – wakes, Confirmations, twenty-firsts. You name it, we’ll cater it.

‘Oh, thank Christ, there you are!’ Majella’s hand comes snaking through the throng surrounding our table and she grabs my arm and pulls herself towards me like she’s clawing her way out of quicksand. She’s managed to keep an impressive hold on a pint she must have acquired along the way.

‘You made it!’

She looks very shook. ‘I almost didn’t get into the town at all. The Tidy Towns committee are on perimeter security detail and I nearly had to show Murt Kelly my passport to get through the cordon.’

‘Is Murt Kelly not your godfather?’

‘He is. The power went to his head. He wouldn’t let Dr Maher into his own driveway. And I’m nearly sure I saw Tessie Daly frisking Billy Foran.’ Majella winces as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. ‘I didn’t even get a chance to get home and change out of my work gear. I don’t know how much longer I can wear court shoes for, Ais. Bunions run in my family, you know?’

Majella’s the new deputy principal at St Anthony’s in Santry and went completely berserk buying work suits and pencil skirts in Dunnes so she looks the part. She’s already gone through seventeen pairs of American Tan tights and school is only back a week. She said Pablo hid in the en suite for half an hour after she put her fingers through three pairs in one morning, such was her rage.

Sharon and Carol shove up on their bench and she goes to sink in beside them, but changes her mind and stands up on it instead, roaring over the heads towards the bar. ‘A round please, Felipe. Working women over here in need of a drink.’

I just about stop myself from reminding her it’s Monday and a literal school night tonight for her. Although, even though she’s only just back, she seems to be making a real go of this new role. She did some serious prep over the summer and is flat out organising sub teachers and making sure she can still leave early enough to catch the four o’clock Timoney’s bus Down Home every day. She buys Double Deckers for Tony Timoney to keep him sweet so he’ll wait for her if she’s a few minutes late. If you miss the four o’clock you’ve to wait for Tony to drive all the way down to BGB and all the way back to Dublin to collect you.

Felipe makes a gesture that looks rude but, not being Brazilian, we can’t be sure. He’s very proud of his culture so we never question him. He roars back at her. ‘We are all working, pequeño. Wait your turn.’

Majella brandishes one court shoe at him and he holds up his hands in mock defeat and starts putting our order together.

‘Any sign of Pablo?’ Majella says, scanning the pub as she sinks down. According to Sharon, Pablo actually passed through Maguire’s like a whirlwind just before I arrived, grabbing as many bodies as he could. He was shrieking something about crowd control and Murt Kelly, which now makes much more sense. Pablo’s very impressionable and Murt must have put the frighteners up him. I suppose you can’t be too careful when it comes to public safety. I was once at a free St Patrick’s Day Brian Kennedy performance up in Dublin and I’m amazed there weren’t fatalities when he threw his leprechaun hat into the crowd. I nearly had the ankles taken off me by a girl from Ballina who kept screaming that he was her second cousin once removed. Daddy had warned me to mind my bag and keep my wits about me when he dropped me and my cousin Doireann off, but I wasn’t expecting a near-death experience. I wonder if Sadhbh and The Peigs are dealing with similar madness in Japan – knickers walloping them in the face and what have you.

‘We’ll have to head out after this one, Ais.’ Majella nudges me with an American Tan toe. I’ve been invited onto the VIP viewing platform on Main Street for when the heroes arrive and I’m bringing Maj as my guest. She was at me to bring James, but the thought of parading him on a literal stage is just too much. Mammy would be straight into Geraldine’s Boutique for a hat and I had enough ‘when’s the Big Day’ chats when I was with John to last me a lifetime. Majella, my platonic life partner, will do the job just fine.

She nudges me again, a glint in her eye. ‘I’ve news.’

She’s not. ‘You’re not …’ My gaze flits from her almost empty pint glass to her stomach to her face just as she throws her eyes to heaven.

‘Jesus, no, chance would be a fine thing. And also, I’m not wrecking my honeymoon by not being able to drink. Imagine what a dose that would be.’

‘Well, what then?’

‘I got a call from the Ard Rí this morning. For luck it was little break so I could take it – although, the yard roster for little break is my responsibility, and I swear there are first class teachers who keep swapping and making a balls of it –’

‘Majella! What about the Ard Rí?’

I gave Maj and Pablo the Effortless Elegance wedding package at the local fancy hotel as an engagement present. I’d randomly won two hundred grand after placing a drunken bet in Vegas earlier in the year, and I knew it would take them forever to pull the money together living on Majella’s income and Pablo’s multiple part-time jobs while saving so hard to get a place of their own.

‘They had a cancellation,’ she breathes through a massive grin. ‘Some couple from Dublin had it booked the weekend of the May bank holiday but apparently she’s moved to Amsterdam with the stripper from her hen …’

‘No!’

‘And the whole thing is off! And because my wedding package is already paid for, they’ve offered the slot to me! I’m getting married next May!’ She raises the dregs of her pint and the four of us cheers her as I frantically calculate the months in my head. I mean, as her only bridesmaid, I’ve obviously been thinking about the hen since the day she got engaged, but now I’ll have to go into turbo-speed mode. A bullet of panic rises in my throat and I fight hard to push it back down. It will be grand. I’ll just stay an hour longer in the BallyGoBrunch office a few nights a week and research our options.

‘Hey, I’ve a favour to ask you, Ais.’ She gives me the puppy-dog eyes I usually see when she’s scheming something. ‘Will you ask The Peigs to perform at the wedding? They’ll definitely say yes to you.’

The bullet rises again. Sadhbh was just giving out about this kind of thing. They’re probably plagued with requests and favours like this.

‘Even just a few songs. Imagine the glamour,’ Majella continues breathlessly.

Of course, Sadhbh is one of my best friends and she and Maj are good pals now too. I suppose I can call Don a friend too, which is completely mad. I still kind of curtsy every time I see him. He and Sadhbh were down in BallyGoBrunch just before they left for the tour and there were girls hiding in the bushes outside and I caught a woman old enough to know better trying to slip his napkin into her handbag. He’d twelve bras signed before he managed to leave.

I suppose Sadhbh and Don will be invited to Maj and Pablo’s wedding anyway, so maybe it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to ask the rest of The Peigs to come too. Maj has been a fan since before they made it big so I know it would mean a lot to her. I add talking to Sadhbh about it to my mental list of things to worry about.

‘No problem. I’ll ask them.’ I smile at Maj and she squeals.

‘Imagine the craic we’ll have bopping along to them with Elaine and Ruby.’ Elaine and Ruby are me and Sadhbh’s old Dublin flatmates. They had their own wedding on New Year’s Eve. Mammy thinks she’s the height of sophistication knowing a married lesbian couple and has started watching the Ellen repeats every morning on RTÉ in solidarity.

Majella is already singing The Peigs’ current hit ‘She’s the Business’ under her breath and smiling away to herself. I can’t let her down. I won’t.

‘Maj, will you tell Aisling she has to do something for her birthday?’ Sharon says, accepting a tray of drinks from an extremely harassed-looking Felipe. ‘Her thirtieth, like.’

‘I’m blue in the face telling her,’ says Maj, pouring a pile of €2 coins onto Felipe’s tray.

I lift my gin and slimline tonic off and take a refreshing sip. I was forced to drink a G&T at a local networking event for rural women in business. I was shocked, to be honest. I always thought gin tasted like Calpol but it’s actually quite delicious and I’ve transitioned from my traditional West Coast Cooler. They can keep those big fishbowl glasses though. Your whole face gets wet. I prefer a slim jim myself.

‘Please, girls. Let me be in my old age. I don’t want a fuss.’

‘This better not be about getting old,’ Majella says defensively. ‘I’ve been thirty for months and I made Pablo tell me this morning that I looked like a foetus. Skin like a newborn’s arse.’

‘And I’m so far past thirty I can’t even see it in the rearview mirror,’ Carol pipes up.

‘I just don’t want a fuss,’ I repeat.

I wish I could explain to them that it just doesn’t feel like it’s happening to me: turning thirty. Where’s the adult woman I thought I’d be?

‘You’ve done nearly everything on your list,’ Majella announces.

‘What list?’ says Sharon.

‘She made a list when she was sixteen of things to do before she was thirty. Travel the world, that sort of thing.’

‘Have you travelled the world, Ais?’ Carol asks and I nod magnanimously. Spain twice, Berlin twice, Vegas, Blackpool for Auntie Sheila’s fiftieth. Mammy still talks about getting her photo with the cardboard cut-out of Bruce Forsyth.

‘Still haven’t kissed Prince William – or Harry,’ I counter, just as a pair of strong hands land on my shoulder and a smooth voice in an unmistakable English accent says, ‘Hello, you.’

Majella’s eyebrows shoot up and she nods her head towards James Matthews, ‘Next best thing.’