36

I’m standing in the foyer of the Paradise Aqua with the box of customised T-shirts, forty-eight pairs of blank white knickers (varying arse coverage), the zogabongs, the flower crowns, the flashing shot-glass necklaces and thirty inflatable shamrocks, tapping my foot impatiently. My hives had all but disappeared last night but the heat now isn’t doing them any favours. The pedi-buses will be here soon, and so far only about half the women have surfaced and are standing around comparing sunburn, even though the only time they were outside was walking in from the bus yesterday. It’s impressive, really.

I have my phone in my hand ready to send Maj a hurry-up text – we’re on a schedule, like – when the lift doors open and she comes skulking out looking unimpressed. My hackles are up immediately. Did she not sleep well? Did things go south with Juana? Does she need a Nurofen Plus? Or a shot of sambuca? I have both on me.

‘Everything alright, Maj?’ I ask casually. That’s when I realise she’s wearing a coat. It’s already sixteen degrees in the shade. She’s going to melt. ‘You’ll be roasting once you start pedalling, you know. There are a few steep hills on the route,’ I say, digging out the I’m the Bride fluffy zogabongs and handing them over along with the shot-glass necklace.

‘I can’t, Ais.’

‘Why not?’

‘My T-shirt. I have to hide it.’

‘But I got you the one you wanted,’ I say, rooting in the box for it. ‘One Last Ride for the Bride on the front and It’s All About Me on the back. Size small.’ I hold it out to her but she just shakes her head.

‘I can’t. Pablo snuck this one into my bag. And I promised him I’d wear it.’

She opens the coat. The T-shirt is neon yellow, with a giant picture of Pablo’s beaming face on the front. ‘This Is My Fiancé,’ reads the text. ‘I Don’t Want Your Burger, I Have Steak at Home.’

It takes the pedi-bus man twenty minutes to explain to us how to make the yokes go. His name is Clive and he’s actually from Canada, so we can’t even blame the slow uptake on a language barrier.

‘I have a bad knee. What if I need to stop for a break?’ Shirley asks, rolling up her sleeves and climbing on to the last available seat.

‘As long as everyone else keeps going, the bus will continue to move,’ Clive says, looking exasperated. ‘It’s a group effort, remember?’

‘How do we steer it again?’ Bridget asks.

‘Once again, ladies, I’ll be looking after the navigation,’ Clive replies, rolling his eyes.

‘Come on, women, I want to get moving,’ Liz Moran shouts from two buses back. I don’t think the three sisters have spent this amount of time together since they were kids, and I can see why. They don’t get along very well.

Majella is sitting across from me wearing the Pablo T-shirt over her proper bride one. I thought it was a decent compromise. I nipped out this morning and bought plenty of water as well as more Prosecco, so she has a plastic flute in her hand again. At this point I’m afraid to look at my bank balance, which is a new concept to me. I normally know exactly how much is in there at all times.

‘Can you plug in my phone there, Clive, and we’ll get going,’ I say, passing it up to him. There’s a short pause and then the opening bars of the Proclaimers’ seminal hit ‘I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)’ blares out of the speakers.

‘Yeow!’ shrieks Majella, and we start pedalling.

We’re thirty minutes late pulling up to the Claddagh Bar, and Clive had the foresight to have an ambulance waiting for us on arrival. ‘This isn’t my first rodeo,’ he mutters, loading the pedi-buses onto the back of a flatbed truck and screeching off into the Tenerifian sunset.

Another reason to be glad I made sure everyone packed their European Health Insurance cards. You can’t take any chances when you’re abroad.

Despite my best efforts pushing bottles of water on people, Dee, Mairead, Danielle and two other cousins need intravenous rehydration and Shirley has to be treated for mild sunstroke. I couldn’t stop her flinging her Roscommon Ladies Golf Club sun visor at a crowd sitting outside a café as we trundled past so she only has herself to blame.

I check my phone while the rest of them head into the bathroom of the pub to reapply their faces.

There’s a text from James. ‘How’s it all going? Miss you xx.’

I meant to give him a ring last night, but after I’d poured Pablo’s relations into a taxi, got the rest of them out of the restaurant and fixed up with Emilio it was far too late in the end. And then I had to get everything ready for today.

‘Grand,’ I say back. ‘Rooms are great and everyone still alive, I think. Just waiting for the granny now.’

The meeting between Majella and Pablo’s Abuela Sofia has been a source of concern for both families. From the bits of conversation I overheard last night, the matriarch sounds like a formidable woman and, according to Paola, Pablo is her golden grandchild. She’s fairly devastated he’s marrying a ‘gringa’, especially one as pale as Maj, and there was even talk of her sitting out the wedding as a form of protest. I didn’t want to inflict the pedi-bus on her, what with her being ninety-six, but Maj asked me to seat them near each other for the knicker decorating so she can show off the Español she’s been learning on Duolingo. She’s the bride so I couldn’t say no, but I’m sincerely hoping nothing kicks off. I had an Abuela Up for It T-shirt made up so she’ll feel included.

‘Do you have the pants, Aisling?’ Elaine goes, once the women are all sitting around the long rectangular table. ‘Pass ’em over – myself and Ruby can give them out.’

‘Thanks a million, girls,’ I say gratefully, before heading to the bar to make sure the signature cocktails I preordered weeks ago over email are ready. First we’re having Mango Majellatinis, then it’s Majitos, then Majaritas and finally a round of Long Island Iced Majellas.

Once everyone has their knickers, I put out baskets of glue, scissors, lace, ribbons, googly eyes, sequins, rhinestones, letters and a load of other bits. China really came through for me in this instance, and I’m delighted to see Majella getting stuck in straightaway and the rest of them following suit. By the time the cocktails are served, the craic is up to ninety and I’m actually very impressed with some of the designs. Teresa has fashioned an elegant peephole into the back of her classic briefs while Maria did a sparkly Spanish flag on the front of her boy shorts. I’m actually in awe of Maj, though, who managed to spell out Pablo in glittery letters on the back of her thong – especially since she dropped down to pass Home Ec for her Junior Cert and missed all the sewing. The less said about what Shirley did with the crotch of her control pants the better.

‘They look fab, hun,’ Sharon says on the way to the bathroom, pointing at the pink sparkly J I’m sticking on to my Brazilian briefs with sequins. ‘I can’t believe you’ve organised all this on your own. Majella is having the time of her life over there.’

I follow Sharon’s gaze and it’s true. Maj is having a ball talking to Paola and Ellen, Majarita in one hand, glue gun in the other. Once I get through today, I’ll be over the worst of it, and I can focus on the weddings. Then I see Majella’s face fall and she puts down her glass. I look over to the front door of the Claddagh and there she is, the abuela, looking around the pub and clutching her handbag close to her chest. She has a face on her that would make an onion cry.

Juana jumps up and starts babbling in Spanish and gesticulating wildly while Majella sits there, her arse rooted to the seat. Apart from Liz, who’s keeping an eye on things while stitching Up Rangers on to her hipsters, no one has noticed anything amiss. Juana is saying something to the abuela while pointing over at Majella, but the abuela isn’t moving. In fact, she’s shaking her head. Of course, I can’t understand a word of what’s being said but I know it’s time for me to intervene.

‘Abuela,’ I say, grabbing her T-shirt and curtsying before her. She just looks at me. ‘Please join us in the ceremony of knicker decorating.’ Then I turn back to Juana with a look that I hope says, ‘Can you translate that there, please?’ She gets it, thankfully, and reels off a load of Spanish. Again, I haven’t a clue what’s being said. I can feel Majella’s eyes boring into the back of my head.

I proffer the T-shirt to the abuela. ‘From Ireland, a gift to you,’ I say, again hoping Juana translates, which she does. This time the abuela actually takes the T-shirt with a muttered ‘gracias’. She unfolds it, and for a minute I’m not sure if she hates it or if she just has one of those resting bitch faces I keep reading about in women’s magazines. Juana points at the text and whispers something to her in Spanish. Then the abuela throws her head back and roars laughing before walking over to Majella, dragging her out of her seat and giving her a massive, all-encompassing hug.