13

‘I’ll see you later.’ His eyes twinkle and he lowers his voice. ‘Wear that little apron.’

I shove James out the door of BallyGoBrunch before Carol hears him, but he ducks back around and gives me a kiss on the cheek. It’s been a week and a half since my birthday and we were boyfriend and girlfriend officially after two days, without too much fanfare. He caught me scraping the black off a bit of burnt toast in his kitchen and took the knife off me. ‘No girlfriend of mine will be forced to eat burnt toast.’ And then he winked at me and that was that. Now, in my defence, I wouldn’t have burnt it if he didn’t insist on buying €4 loaves of sourdough from the bakery in Knock Garden Centre. I have to really concentrate on not thinking about the ‘sour’ part when I’m eating it, and the bloody thing is impossible to cut. I got a wedge of it stuck in the toaster. What did the sliced pan ever do to anyone? And at least you know where you are Weight Watchers Points-wise with a sliced pan.

He’s off even earlier than usual this morning, getting stuck into this Garbally project. Constance’s old house was big but there’s a huge extension going into the back of it, according to James. It’s going to be used as some sort of fancy private venue. They got the planning permission rushed through, which means there must be a ton of money behind it. The glamour!

I head back into the kitchen where Carol is dipping toffee apples in nuts and sprinkles. Beside her, Noel is hacking at a pumpkin with a paring knife, but I don’t think artistic creativity is his strong point, God love him. It’s like a massacre.

‘Did you flip the sign, love?’ Carol doesn’t even look up from her toffee-apple assembly line.

‘I did. Open for business.’

We got an order for a heap of Halloween-themed food for an office party in Rathborris so she’s been at it since five. People will be bringing their kids to the party so Carol’s thought of everything. There are spider-web sandwiches on trays ready to go and Noel’s already given up on the pumpkin to start adding toasted-almond nails to finger-shaped biscuits. In my day it was a black bin bag, a sack of monkey nuts and a wee prayer that someone wouldn’t set That Bloody Cat on fire.

The breakfast rush will be underway in twenty minutes but Carol always has that under control, so I set to work behind the counter refilling her little homemade ketchup jars. The door opens with a cold breeze and in strides Mammy wearing a pair of leather riding boots, despite her well-documented fear of horses. You know that thing where people start to look like their dogs? That’s her and Constance.

‘Aisling, would you look at what Paul just sent me?’ she says, holding out her phone. ‘They’re as cute, the pair of them.’

I take the phone and start dutifully scrolling through the photos. There must be about twenty of them. Paul and Hannah wearing their respective county jerseys at a music festival. Paul and Hannah doing karaoke in front of a massive Irish flag. Paul and Hannah literally throwing shrimp on a barbie while creasing themselves laughing. And on and on. There’s even one of Hannah asleep on the couch.

‘Love’s young dream, alright,’ I say, passing it back to her and placing my hands gently on her shoulders and moving her to the side, out of the way of the small queue forming behind her looking for coffees and sit-down breakfasts. She barely even notices.

‘I’ve never seen him like this before. She’s off fruit picking now next week and he’s fairly cut up about it.’

‘I’m sure he’ll survive. Sure, they hardly know each other.’

‘According to Skippy Brennan, little Emilia Coburn is engaged to a lad she’s only known four months! Romance can happen in a whirlwind, love.’

Mammy has actually convinced herself that she knows Emilia Coburn, even though she hadn’t heard of her until Marian Finucane interviewed her on Radio One last Christmas. Mammy is a big Marian fan, but when it comes to local radio her loyalty lies solely with Skippy in the Afternoon. It’s a hard show to describe: one minute Skippy Brennan could be going head to head with a local county councillor about the dangers of uneven footpaths, the next he’s talking to Emilia Coburn’s waxer live from Hollywood. All top-notch Mammy content, to be fair.

‘Paul is not going to get married to Hannah any time soon, so relax. Look how long he’s been in Australia and he still has his watch set to Irish time. He doesn’t commit easily.’

‘You have to leave him to it, Mammy,’ I say, loading the ketchup jars onto a tray and getting out of the way of Karla, who arrived in a whirl of ‘sorry I’m late’ and had the apron on and the coffees going before I’d even missed her, to be fair. ‘He’s an adult now – remember?’

‘I know, I know, I just don’t want him to get his heart broken.’

Honestly, she’d wrap him up in cotton wool if she could. Mammies and their little boys. John’s mother was the same. Nothing was good enough for her little man. I wonder if James’s mother is like that. We’ve been sort of grilling each other nightly to learn more about one another, but he doesn’t talk about his parents much. I asked were they wreck-the-heads but he was so tickled by the phrase that he didn’t go into it any further. I’m worried how many people at Garbally are going to be called a ‘wreck-the-head’ in a posh accent by the end of the day.

‘Oh, speaking of Skippy,’ Mammy is still going but has dropped her voice to a tone I recognise as secretive because it’s the same one she uses when she’s gossiping about Una Hatton and her low-cut camisoles, ‘Sandra Crowley told Miriam Timoney that Skippy was fascinated by the eco farm when he heard about it and he might have Constance and myself on to talk about it.’ Miriam Timoney is officially retired but she works part-time on reception at Solas FM so is probably a reliable source. Mammy’s whisper has almost turned into a scream by the end of the sentence such is her excitement. Meeting Skippy will be like meeting the pope or Ryan Tubridy.

‘Wow, that’s brilliant, Mammy! Great for the business!’

The dry run went off without any major hitches. Elaine, Ruby and Sadhbh all stayed in yurts and claimed to have had the greatest sleep of their lives. James and I stayed in one too and he was cursed with a cold shower but it was something to do with an element and it’s already been sorted. James was very gracious about it, but I’m not sure Sumira Singh is quite over seeing him flee from the bathroom stalls to the yurt in just a towel on her way to talk to Mammy about cabbage samosas for the farm shop. James told me to tell Mammy that he’s available to take a look at any construction bits and bobs. I didn’t tell him about John doing the website. There’s no need. Mammy and Constance are planning a mid-November opening for the nature trail, and they’ll be passing alpacas off as reindeer come Christmas. They should be able to take bookings on the website when it goes live next week, although I can’t imagine they’ll have many yurt customers until the spring.

‘I know. I’ll have to see if I can get an emergency appointment with Sharon to get my hair done.’

‘Mammy, it’s radio!’

‘Webcams, Aisling – webcams!’

I’m rushed off my feet for the rest of the day. I bring the Halloween party food to Rathborris and deal with the lunch rush with the BallyGoBrunch team. I take four phone calls from Majella about the font for the invitations and whether it should be the same as the menus and one from Lisa Gleeson asking me if the Effortless Elegance package also included a basket of deodorants in the ladies toilets. As if a wedding could be elegant without one.

I make a pit stop at home to collect clean clothes, including one of my two matching underwear sets (Dunnes, €27), to bring back to James’s later. I’ve stayed with him every night but one and have gotten very adept at holding onto my Big Toilet for when I’m not in his apartment. My stomach has been in better shape.

It’s six o’clock when I finally sink onto a stool in the kitchen at BallyGoBrunch. Carol has left a wedge of quiche on the worktop with a note stuck to it. ‘For yourself and James.’ He’s working late over at Garbally and I decide to swing over to him with it. It’s Gubbeen cheese and pancetta, and I know he’s very partial to both notiony cheese and Carol’s shortcrust pastry so I hop into the Micra, balancing the quiche on the passenger seat.

I’m just pulling in to Garbally Stud when I nearly smack the Micra straight into a wall of timber hoarding where Constance Swinford’s fancy remote-control gates used to be. It must be twelve-feet high, with razor wire all along the top. It’s dark, but from where I’m standing this temporary wall seems to be running all around the property. A sign hanging just at eye level reads ‘NO ENTRY – Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ and I can see at least three CCTV cameras trained on me. I hop out of the car and start knocking at the hoarding in the hope of finding a door.

Suddenly a tinny voice goes, ‘Can I help you?’ in an unmistakable Nordie accent. I look up at the cameras and then behind me to where I’ve left the car engine running and the headlights on. There’s no one there.

‘Eh, hello?’ I say into the dark. ‘I’m here to see James. James Matthews. I have a quiche.’

I don’t know why I said that last bit. I panicked. Then I see a control panel on one of the makeshift gate-posts glowing as the hoarding in front of me splits in two and opens with a gentle hiss like the doors on the Starship Enterprise.

Back in the safety of the car, I make my way down the long, winding driveway at a snail’s pace. Behind Constance’s beloved old orchard I can see a rake of floodlights, cranes and machinery around the old stable-yard. It seems James wasn’t lying when he said it was a massive job.

I pull the Micra around to the back of the house, trying my best to avoid the potholes. Constance would have a conniption if she could see the state of her precious driveway now. She was always very proud of the depth of her gravel. It’s mad what posh people care about.

As well as a crew from Dublin, James hired some local lads, including Pablo and Shem Moran, who are smoking in silence when I exit the Micra. Apparently the Dubs are all working sixteen-hour days, six days a week and staying in the Mountrath till the job is done. According to Lisa Gleeson, they’re causing havoc in the Vortex when they’re not on the site.

‘Well, Ais,’ Shem calls out when he spots me. ‘Have you any interest in a power washer? I have three in the boot there. Be dead handy for keeping the car park beyond in the café clean. Only €80 for you.’

‘They had them in the New Aldi for €60 last month, Shem,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘What do you take me for? Here, there’s some quiche in the car if you want a bit?’

‘Thank you, Aisling, but no, we must get back,’ Pablo says, nudging his soon-to-be father-in-law. ‘End of day briefing.’

‘How are the stag plans coming along?’ I say as they both stub out their fags on the granite windowsill behind them. Even in the dark, I see Pablo go pale as Shem throws an arm around his shoulders.

‘Oh, he doesn’t know what he’s in for. We’re giving him a proper BGB send-off. The works.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ I smile in the dark, wandering off towards the light and noise where I can see James reading architects’ drawings off the bonnet of his jeep. His yellow hard hat does something funny to me, and as I get closer, he turns around, takes it off and rakes a hand through his hair in what I would swear is slow motion. A smile spreads slowly across his face when he sees it’s me.

‘This is a nice surprise,’ he says, walking over and kissing me on the cheek.

‘I thought you might be finishing up soon?’

‘I’ll be another half an hour. I’ll follow you home.’

The ‘home’ hangs in the air for a second, and I don’t mind it, but I swing away from him anyway because I can feel my cheeks starting to go.

I notice several burly security guards standing around in what appear to be stab-proof vests. I think they might have overestimated the crime rate in BGB. Apart from all the hoo-ha earlier in the year with Sharon’s ex, the worst thing that’s happened around here lately was Trevor Ruane’s dog worrying Billy Foran’s sheep. May Lucky rest in peace.

‘Excuse me, James – is herself there a friend of yours?’ It’s the security guard from the front gate by the sounds of his voice. ‘It’s just she said something about a quiche?’

‘It’s in the car!’ I yelp. Jesus, this place is like Fort Knox.

‘I was just checking,’ he goes. Then he gives me a nod and walks off, calling ‘have a nice evening’ over his shoulder. I notice he goes straight to the Micra and peers in the passenger window.

‘It’s a quiche, not a Kalashnikov,’ I mutter under my breath.

‘They’re very thorough,’ James says apologetically, taking me by the hand and leading me towards the jeep. ‘Come on, I’ll show you why.’

He points to the plans and my eyes nearly pop out of my head. I always thought Garbally Stud was swish, but even to my untrained eye it’s clear it’s about to become a lot fancier.

James shows me how the house is basically being gutted and extended and the stable-yard transformed into luxury cottages. Not that Constance’s horses didn’t enjoy the finer things in life, but this looks next level. Words like ‘recording studio’ and ‘wine cellar’ and ‘private cinema’ and ‘helipad’ are leaping out at me. It reminds me of the golden days of the Celtic Tiger when Irish people used to travel almost exclusively by helicopter and the whole country was off their heads on cocaine. That was when Una Hatton had the decking put in and Mammy started leaving brochures for conservatories around the house. She nearly had Daddy convinced too until I pointed out the cost of heating a conservatory in the winter would be no joke.

‘Is that an outdoor swimming pool?’ I gasp, pointing at a rectangle to the west of what used to be the slurry pit and is now a spa.

‘It has a retractable glass roof but, yes, essentially,’ James says. ‘It’s actually an infinity pool. There’s an indoor pool at lower basement level too.’

‘And what are all those squiggles around the orchard?’ I say, pointing to funny little shapes on the drawings.

‘There’s going to be an art walk all around the property, with pieces by Louise Bourgeois and Jeff Koons and Banksy.’

Banksy! I’ve heard of him. His stuff isn’t cheap, even when he shreds it.

‘They’ve already started arriving,’ James continues. ‘Hence the heavy security. The paintings for the main house are worth a fortune too.’

‘And the circles in the paddock?’

‘Bubbles. They’re basically clear circular tents so guests can sleep looking up at the stars. Each one will have a private butler.’

‘So is it a hotel then or what?’ I ask, thinking of the eco farm and everything Mammy and Constance have put into it. Why stay in a glorified tent when there’s a bubble with a butler available three miles away?

‘I don’t think so,’ James says, rolling up the plans and sticking them into a cardboard tube. ‘They’re calling it a private venue, but for what or who I don’t know. Nothing’s been said to me officially, but a woman in very high heels got a tour yesterday and I overheard her say something about a birthday cake and lots of celebrity guests. Now, will I meet you back at home?’ He lowers his voice. ‘Should I bring the hard hat?’