33

I’ve now sent four increasingly desperate emails to Flo at the Paradise Aqua to confirm our rooms and have heard nothing back. The website is still down and I can’t find a phone number online for love or money, but I’m trying to stay positive. I consider giving Interpol a buzz but they probably have enough on their plates. Despite the name, it wasn’t anything close to paradise the time I stayed there with John – the itchy blankets and feral cat situation still haunt me – but when I made the initial enquiry Flo had promised it was getting a huge facelift, as well as saying she’d give us a rock bottom rate. I’m afraid to think about what will happen if we arrive and it still has bars on the windows. Majella deserves so much better.

My hands are actually shaking when I pick up my phone to open the hen-party WhatsApp group. Our flight leaves in nine hours and the last time I checked certain people were just starting to pack and were unaware that you can’t bring bottles of liquid over 100ml on a plane.

I scan the list of unread messages. Thirty-six. Aunt Shirley is incredulous over the liquid ban and some of the cousins are trying to explain it to her.

‘But it’s only a litre of Tresemmé?’ she’s arguing. ‘It’s not a bomb???’

‘Put it in your checked bag if you want to bring it so much, Shirley,’ Dearbhla advises.

‘I’m sure they have Tresemmé in Tenerife,’ Bernadette adds.

‘Have you never heard of travel sizes?’ That’s Ellen.

‘Tresemmé, it is no bueno,’ Juana chimes in. ‘Bring Pantene, guapa.’

‘I think I’ll chance it in my handbag. Sure they’ll never know,’ Shirley says, followed by a shush-face emoji.

There follows – I count them – twenty-four different messages explaining the ins and outs of airport security to Shirley. It turns out she didn’t know about the X-ray machines. Or taking off your shoes. And she’d never even heard of Nothing to Declare. She’ll probably try to bring a shrub in her handbag and introduce a deadly parasite to the farms of Tenerife.

‘When was the last time you were on a plane?’ Danielle asks.

‘The year I went to Lourdes – 1979.’

Well, that explains it. I might have to turn to the Virgin Mary for salvation myself before the weekend is out. Shirley is going to get some land when she’s charged for her mid-flight cup of tea.

‘Cluck, cluck, hens,’ I type into the group. Chicken emoji. Martini emoji. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be at our “casual dinner” at Emilio’s Tavern. Table booked for eight. Hope everyone likes tapas, it’s one of the bride’s faves!’

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them the question is already there, and in record time too.

‘What’s tapas? It sounds foreign.’ Carmel. A second cousin once removed. Majella was highly surprised she decided to come since she hasn’t left Headfort in fifteen years and is starting to prep for the apocalypse.

‘Tiny bits of dear Spanish food.’ How did I know Fionnuala wouldn’t be impressed? She has a point about the portions, though. I got some land when Majella and I accidentally ended up in a tapas bar on a long weekend to Budapest. We got Ryanair flights for forty quid each and Majella thought we were going to Romania until the flight touched down and the captain welcomed us to Hungary. In her defence, Budapest does sound very like Bucharest. But once you get past the disappointment of the ‘small plates’ of tapas the grub is actually dynamite. Maj took to it in a major way, horsing into calamari and manchego and prawns pil pil like her life depended on it. She was never the same after, so I just had to bring her to Tenerife’s finest tapas bar on our first night. Emilio’s is highly rated on Yelp, save for the three one-star reviews it got because Emilio didn’t contribute to the street’s Christmas lights fund two years ago. The louser.

‘Just get three portions of patatas bravas like you always do, Fionnuala.’ Smiley face.

Mairead! It’s not like her to be so snarky. To be fair, I was going to suggest the same thing. I’ll be bulk ordering the patatas myself.

‘What’s the plan for Thursday’s activity, Ais?’ Maeve asks.

It was hard to think of something that would combine Majella’s favourite things – drinking and acting the maggot, basically – but I eventually found it online one night a few weeks ago after I stayed up till 3 a.m. smudging the apartment. Desperate times.

‘We’re taking a pedi-bus to an Irish pub where we’re booked in for an hour of knickers customisation over cocktails. I’ll distribute the T-shirts in the morning. Any questions?’

I have to plug in my phone five minutes later after it nearly dies under the weight of the messages that flood in. Even Sadhbh is stumped.

‘What’s a pedi-bus? Just boarding now in JFK. See you all soooon xx.’ There follows at least fifteen variations of the same query from the others.

‘It’s an open-top pedal-powered bus that seats ten,’ I say, and attach a picture I found online in an article on TheJournal.ie on the rising number of public order offences in Temple Bar. ‘We can bring booze and play our own tunes! Leave the playlist to me. I have flower crowns.’ Winky face.

I made the playlist on Spotify earlier during a quiet spell in the café. Noel gave me a hand and stopped me just putting ‘Maniac 2000’ on repeat. He explained that, although Maj would definitely get a kick out of it, the rest of the hens might get sick of her screaming the oggie oggie chant through the streets of Tenerife since we’ll be pedalling for an hour. I conceded, although it’s not like we’re all going to fit on the same bus – I had to order six in the end. The price of them.

Thursday night is the officially sanctioned ‘mad night’, so I’ve given us three hours to go home and change into the traditional Tenerifian outfits and then we’re booked into another Irish pub, Fibber Magee’s, for platters of mini fish and chips and dares and generally terrorising the other patrons. The stripper is booked for one. It has to be done. Wearing the new customised knickers is optional.

I’ve downgraded Friday’s ‘activity 2’ to a pool day at the Paradise Aqua since I blew the budget on the pedi-buses and the plain knickers. That’s assuming there is a pool. That night’s optional dinner is going to be at the pizza place next door, which has promised us free shots on arrival, but to be honest, I can’t see many making it. I have the Prosecco pong set and a How Well Do You Know Maj? quiz just in case.

There are a few other random questions – ‘Does Tenerife have the euro?’ ‘Will there be films on the plane?’ ‘Has anyone seen my passport?’ – which I answer as best I can before saying goodnight and reminding them to bring sandwiches for the morning unless they want to be stung paying airport prices.

When I stand up to go weigh my suitcases of props, I notice I’ve been absentmindedly scratching my left forearm, which is dotted with angry-looking hives. Probably my own fault for switching to generic washing powder, but with the amount this hen is costing me, Fairy Non Bio seems like an unnecessary luxury.