34

I didn’t get a wink of sleep all night. Not one. When my alarm goes off at 3 a.m. I’m already up and dressed and checking my email. Still nothing from Flo, although the airport transfer company has been on to say the bus driver’s name is Diego and I won’t be able to miss him in Arrivals. I don’t like the sound of that but it’s the least of my problems, to be honest.

I’m trying my best not to wake James, but as soon as I go for one of my three suitcases – the prop situation is truly out of control – he’s out of bed like a shot, being his usual helpful self.

‘Are you sure you can manage?’ he asks, wedging the last one into the passenger seat of the Micra, the exhaust pipe practically scraping the ground.

I fight the urge to admit that I can’t manage at all, that I’m worried all thirty of us Irish are going to be sleeping on the street, that the activities are going to be disastrous, that I’m going to ruin Majella’s hen, that what I really want is to go back upstairs, crawl into bed and never come out again, but instead I say, ‘I’m grand, I’m grand. I’ll text you when we arrive,’ and hop into the driver’s seat.

I can barely see over the suitcases when I push the trolley into Departures after hauling them three miles from the QuikPark. I couldn’t pass up the online deal. Majella, her mam and a selection of the more affable cousins stayed in the Airport Maldron last night to ensure they wouldn’t be late, while the BGB girls got a minibus this morning. In hindsight I should have gone with them, but Tony Timoney was being very relaxed about our departure time. We booked him to bring us to Slane for Bon Jovi in 2013 and we missed the first three songs as well as all the support acts. I don’t think I could trust him with something as important as this.

I check the board – FR 7122 to Tenerife is leaving on time. Well, that’s something, I suppose. I have everyone’s boarding passes – all twenty-nine of them – printed out and in a folder in my backpack. I’ve already emailed Sadhbh hers. I also have a lumbar support pillow for Shirley, some vegan energy balls to keep Joyce out of McDonald’s and a bottle of Prosecco and sashes for the bride, the mother of the bride and myself. Well, I am a bridesmaid, after all.

A quick scan of the WhatsApp group reveals that everyone is either on the way or parking up – even Danielle, who is wrecked by the sounds of things. She seems to be very unlucky with late-night punctures.

‘Here comes the briiide!’

I swing around and there she is. Majella. My best friend in the world. She’s wearing a white wrap dress and wedges and strutting through Departures like she owns the place, flanked by miscellaneous relations. It’s not even 6 a.m. and she’s carrying a plastic champagne flute, looking absolutely radiant, happiness and highlighter oozing out of every pore.

While most of us dream about our wedding day, Maj has been just as excited about the hen and unapologetically so. Not that she’s not looking forward to taking Pablo down the aisle, but she’s very partial to a stripper when she can get her hands on one.

‘How’s the best bridesmaid in the world?’ She pulls me in for a hug and I squeeze her back. ‘I’m already having the time of my life. You’re the best, Ais,’ she whispers into my ear. ‘Can’t wait to see what you’ve got up your sleeve for us.’

I mutter something about patience being a virtue, pass out the sashes and scuttle off in the direction of the Bag Drop. I should really try to stop worrying and just enjoy the weekend but, well, easier said than done. While Majella introduces me to Joyce, Teresa, Ellen and the gang, Fionnuala and Mairead come at us from the other direction with inflatable pillows already around their necks, followed by Elaine and Ruby, who is wearing a leather jacket despite the forecast saying we’re in for highs of nineteen degrees. Total fashion victim.

Maj cracks open the bubbles and I start handing out boarding passes like a blackjack dealer and suddenly it’s feeling very much like a party. Until I look at my watch, that is. Five forty-five. Our flight leaves in an hour and forty-five minutes and there’s still no sign of the BGB contingent and loads of bags need to be checked. We’ll have to get our skates on.

By the time we get through security, Sadhbh has joined us direct from the States in a flurry of hugs and kisses, and I’ve taken to doing a headcount every ten minutes, just to be sure Aunt Shirley hasn’t wandered off again. She was seduced by a Bailey’s stand earlier and had to be dragged away from the free samples. So did Mairead, to be fair. Fionnuala has her work cut out for her.

I check my watch again, throwing one eye over at Majella who’s trying to sweet talk her way into the Emirates first-class lounge with Bernadette, who hasn’t let the break-up slow her down, and Karen, her sister, egging them on. Still no sign of the BGB crew. I emailed them their boarding passes when we went through, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them and I’m getting worried. I’m heading into a quiet corner to try ringing Maeve again when I hear a screech and the familiar clatter of heels on lino. Just in the nick of time.

‘Sorry we’re late, hun,’ Sharon gasps, followed by Dee, Sinéad, Denise and Maeve, all carrying bags from Filan’s. ‘We stopped for rolls in the village and they ran out of coleslaw so Eamon had to do up another batch. You’d think he’d be quicker at it by now.’

Majella spots them and there’s more squealing and screeching and before I know it I’m up and queuing to board our flight to Tenerife.