38

‘Hello, Mandy? Hiya, it’s Aisling. Aisling. From BallyGoBrunch? From the …’ I lower my voice and glance furtively around my immediate vicinity. Who knows what ears are listening in Tenerife Sud Airport? There’s an auld one by the magazines looking very suspicious and I’m nearly sure that cleaner already emptied that bin. ‘The Coburn–Dixon wedding? Aisling, the caterer?’

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for what feels like an eternity before Mandy places me. ‘Aisling, honey. Can you give me a minute while I take a Xanax? I’ve been on my cell for twelve hours straight. “Can you move the wedding back a week, Mandy?” they asked me. “Can God move mountains?” I asked them back. “Not really but I’ll make it happen.”’

She goes silent again and I presume she’s gone to take the Xanax, which I know Ruby used to keep a stash of in the Dublin apartment to ‘take the edge off’ a heavy weekend of partying. She offered me one once when I was particularly anxious about my tax disc failing to arrive within three to five days and was watching the post like a hawk. I declined, though. ‘Xanax’ sounds like something out of Breaking Bad and I would definitely end up in a ditch somewhere.

‘Aisling, honey. You got my email?’

Mandy’s back.

‘I did, Mandy. And I have to admit I’m alarmed. Very alarmed.’

‘Tell me about it. His shoot is running over because the director went AWOL for a month in a vintage Aston Martin. “You can’t reschedule two-hundred-fifty people,” I told them. “Try,” they said. So here I am, less than five weeks out, rescheduling a wedding.’

‘Mandy, I can’t … I just don’t think I can do it. I have my best friend’s –’

‘I don’t want to hear “can’t” and “don’t” from you, Aisling.’ Mandy is using a soft sing-songy voice but it has an edge like a razor blade.

‘My best friend’s wedding is the same day. I’m her chief bridesmaid. Her only bridesmaid.’

‘You signed a contract, Aisling. I need that food. Emilia wanted local. I’m getting her local.’

‘I signed a contract, exactly. For work on 27 April, not 4 May!’

‘It’s all in there, tootsie roll, in your contract. Change of dates is covered.’

My panic rises and rises and I fan my passport across my face and neck, which are now pulsating with heat. I read the whole contract, didn’t I? Of course I did. Did it say something about dates changing? I was so focused on the NDA, did I miss something in the fine print? It all happened so quickly I can’t remember. I’ve never signed anything without reading it in my life. My iPhone updates are like murder.

‘I just – I can’t be there, though.’

‘No offence, honey, but I didn’t hire you for your pretty face – although you do have that “sad Saoirse Ronan crying on the back of a ship and shittin’ in a bucket” look going for you. I just need the food – 4 May, Garbally House. We done here? We’re done here. Laters, honey.’

And she’s gone. Sweat prickles the back of my neck even though the air conditioning in the airport is gloriously efficient. How am I going to do this? When am I going to do this? I’ll have to call in some favours, push back the food orders. Even if I could get Mandy to let me off the hook, I’ve spent so much money pre-ordering ingredients I’d have to go ahead with it. These bloody NDAs – if it wasn’t for them I could hire an army of extra staff to help us out.

‘Aisling.’ Sadhbh touches my arm and I jump a country mile. I turn around to her, trying to calm the crazed look I’m sure is in my eyes. She looks almost as worried as I do.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got bad news. I just got a text from Don, and he … we … He can’t go to Majella’s wedding. The Peigs can’t go, I mean. They can’t play.’

‘Mm-hmm.’ I feel my legs start to go from under me, and I lean towards the nearest chair, which some clown has claimed with his backpack. ‘You wouldn’t move that, would you?’ I growl at him, shoving it to the side with my arse.

‘I’m so sorry, but something’s just come up. A work thing, sort of. I’m supposed to go with him but maybe I can try to do both?’

I eye her suspiciously. This all sounds very familiar, but I can’t ask her if it’s Ben and Emilia’s wedding without breaking my NDA.

‘This “work thing”,’ I whisper, doing air quotes with my fingers, ‘is it in BGB, by any chance?’

She starts to smile. ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘The … the E and B wedding?’

‘Yes!’ she whisper-shrieks, before looking around and composing herself. ‘You can’t tell anyone but they’re doing the song for Scarlet Fever, the new Bond film. The Peigs, I mean. Don wrote it. It’s called “Sex Martini”.’

‘What!’

Sadhbh can’t help a flush of pride and excitement, even in this moment of my dire need, and I don’t blame her.

‘They’re doing what?’

‘I know. It’s mad. Completely mad. Like, Madonna’s done one! Adele!’

‘This is all so mad.’

‘Anyway, they’re basically contractually obliged to be at the wedding because of the film company and the record company, and Don has actually gotten quite close with Ben.’

The reality of the situation is starting to hit me now and I’m feeling a bit faint. My stomach does an involuntary gurgle and I scan the terminal but I can’t see any sign for los baños.

‘No, of course, of course. I understand.’ The Peigs can’t play. Majella’s going to throw herself in front of a Boeing 747 when she finds out. ‘Majella will be fine. I’ll break it to her.’

‘I’m going to do whatever I have to do to be at both,’ Sadhbh says, teeth gritted in determination. ‘I’ll clone myself if I have to.’

‘You’re a good friend, Sadhbhy,’ I reply.

‘So how did you know about the wedding? Did James tell you? Don and the lads had to sign NDAs. He wasn’t even supposed to tell me what we were going to until the day before, but obviously he understood my need to think about outfits so he told me anyway.’

Oh, to have a rock star’s flagrant disregard for the law.

‘Don’t breathe a word of this,’ I say, trying not to pass out, ‘but BallyGoBrunch is actually doing the passed food for the drinks reception.’

‘Aisling, that’s amazing! What a coup.’

‘Yeah but …’

Sadhbh’s eyes widen with realisation. Then it hits her. ‘Oh, shit,’ she gasps, sitting down heavily on her little wheelie case. ‘It’s now on the same day as Majella’s wedding.’

‘What am I going to do, Sadhbh?’ I wail. ‘I can’t break the contract or I’ll be sued and I’ve already spent every penny I have on the food order.’

‘Majella will understand,’ Sadhbh says, sounding very much like she did back in her HR days. ‘You’ll just explain it to her and she’ll probably be happy for you.’

‘But the NDA. You know she couldn’t sit on a secret like this. And I’m her only bridesmaid. I can’t just not show up on her wedding day.’

‘Fuck, Ais, this is a nightmare,’ Sadhbh says helplessly, throwing her hands in the air. ‘Don and the guys will be sorry to be missing it too.’

‘I’ll figure it out.’

Majella has told anyone who’ll listen about The Peigs playing. I tried to get her to keep it under wraps and get Lisa on board to do the same, but sure Lisa has been worse than Maj. I’m surprised it isn’t on the Ard Rí website somewhere. Lisa will definitely be putting it in her wedding-planning portfolio even though she had literally nothing to do with organising it.

‘Maybe they could … play at both, somehow?’ I suggest, my eyebrows high with hope. But they fall almost immediately. Who’d want to leave a celeb-studded affair at Garbally for the ballroom with the second-nicest chair covers in the Ard Rí?

Just then Majella, Deirdre, Sharon and Elaine come clattering over with their Duty Free spoils. Majella is proudly sporting her T-shirt from Pablo and Elaine seems to have become deeply connected to her penis zogabongs. The man with the backpack gathers up his belongings with a look of sheer disgust and goes to find somewhere else to spread out, and Majella sinks into his seat gratefully, her bag clinking.

‘I got Pab some Tenerifian coffee to keep him going and four giant Toblerones for school …’ I don’t even have the energy to tell her not to bother and just to get them in Dunnes. She reaches into the bag. ‘I got you this.’

She hands me a box wrapped in a smaller plastic Duty Free bag. ‘For being the best bridesmaid in the world and organising the best hen in the world.’

I hold the bag in my lap, feeling like the worst bridesmaid in the world.

‘Go on, open it.’

I shake out the top of the bag and peer inside, then clasp it shut again when I see what she’s bought. ‘Ah, Maj, it’s too much.’

‘It’s not at all. You deserve it.’

‘Open it. Open it,’ chorus Deirdre and the girls and I reach in and pull out the limited-edition Clinique Happy.

‘And it’s the big bottle and all,’ I gasp.

‘And …’ Majella digs into her bag again. ‘Your special gift.’

I gasp again. I’m always very up on whatever toilet bag and tiny bits are on offer with your purchases in Brown Thomases or Debenhams, but this one is a style I’m unfamiliar with and comes with – I zip it open – a mini mascara and a generously sized Dramatically Different Moisturiser.

‘I kept the exfoliator for myself,’ Majella admits. ‘Have to look about twelve for the wedding.’

I nod dumbly and glance at Sadhbh, who gives me a nudge of encouragement. ‘Maj. I have some … news.’

She sees my face and clutches at my arm. ‘What is it? Is it Pablo? Oh God, what is it? I can’t be a tragic bride. I’m too old. You have to be in your early twenties for that to be truly sad.’

I think Majella’s been spending too much time sitting in Strong Stuff striving for the Rosie Huntington-Whiteley hair and reading Chat and Take a Break and the new Irish one simply called Tea!. Lots of tragic young brides and husbands running away with donkeys and ghosts showing up in mobile homes.

‘Is it Mammy? Daddy? Not Willy? Not my little hero Willy?’

I know it’s her hangover sending her into overdrive but the hysterics aren’t helping me one bit. Would it be better to tell her now when my blood is 99 per cent adrenaline or put it off till we land and I’m wrecked? I don’t think I could enjoy the flight with it hanging over me. Michael O’Leary might be my arch-nemesis, but I’m very partial to Ryanair’s little in-flight snack boxes and the tune that plays when the plane lands on time. I put my hand over hers and take a deep breath.

‘The Peigs can’t play at the wedding.’

I only need to offer a brief synopsis of what’s happened to the air steward and she agrees to furnish Majella with a G&T before the plane doors are even closed. In fairness to Majella, she took it quite well. She went through a range of emotions. As we were queuing to board, she was telling me that it was grand and she and Pablo could soldier on without The Peigs and maybe they could get Love Hurts to play one of their songs instead.

By the time we were showing our passports she was crying, saying it wasn’t going to be the wedding she dreamed of and maybe she should call the whole thing off.

Sadhbh broke the news that she might not be able to come to the wedding either while we were going up the steps of the plane, and I did think Maj might tip herself over the steel bannister. Elaine floated the idea of The Peigs recording a video for Majella’s wedding, which cheered her up for a bit, but then Lisa Gleeson texted Maeve to say the birthday party at Garbally had been pushed back a week and now both events were happening on the same day. Apparently the Garbally party planner had been straight on to the Ard Rí to try and secure rooms for some celebrity guests. She even went so far as to offer double the rate for the honeymoon suite, but thankfully that came as part of the Effortless Elegance package. I’ll say one thing about Mandy Blumenthal, she has some neck. Luckily everyone was too caught up in the drama to put two and two together and suspect The Peigs were going to this ‘party’ instead.

Majella started fretting about Garbally stealing all the good staff for the celebrity party and her wedding dinner being ‘flung at her by amateurs’, which was right around the time the G&T arrived, so not a minute too soon. I placated her by saying Lisa Gleeson wouldn’t let that happen, and the subsequent laugh we had was a brief moment of respite. Most of the hens, including Majella, mercifully passed out for the majority of the flight, but I got my notebook out and started planning what food could be made safely in advance and how we might store it and how I could plot out the night before and the morning of the weddings to make it all work. But as preoccupied with the logistics as I was, I couldn’t stop my mind wandering back to what Majella had said about John, and James, and how uncomfortable the whole thing was making me feel.

By the time we’re queuing for our bags in Dublin Airport, everyone has gotten more excited about the prospect of the big celebrity party and they’ve all got their theories about whose it might be. Puff Daddy. Mariah Carey. A Hemsworth. Majella even gets into the spirit of things and suggests either Kim or Kanye.

‘They went on their honeymoon to Portlaoise so anything’s possible,’ reasons Denise.

Deirdre Ruane, always with her estate agent hat on, poses a very good question. ‘Aisling, there isn’t much accommodation at Garbally, is there?’

‘There’s some in the main house and the stable yard and those bubbles around the place. Not a heap, though.’

Majella pipes up. ‘Well, the Ard Rí is the only other decent hotel, and I have most of it block booked.’

‘So,’ Deirdre muses, ‘where is everyone going to stay?’