43

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t think it looks that bad.’

Majella stands back and takes a good look at me. She makes another few adjustments and appraises her work. I wish I could get Sadhbh to weigh in but she hasn’t arrived in BGB yet. I haven’t said anything to Maj but there’s a good chance I’ll see her before we go up the aisle. James is still at Garbally putting finishing touches to the orchard and the bubbles and whatever other madness they have going on. I can only imagine what it looks like now that it’s all finished. I hope James is proud of his work, even though the idea of him makes me feel sad. It’s all fallen apart so badly.

I turn around and look at myself in the mirror. I thought the colour would be a disaster but I’ve worn worse to be honest.

Majella had managed to hold it together when I eventually got to the Ard Rí and explained the dress fiasco to her. ‘We’ll figure something out,’ she said. ‘Someone will have something.’ Then a look of inspiration crossed her face and she excused us and dragged me upstairs and produced it.

‘I kept it as … I don’t know, a kind of good luck charm. The first wedding dress I ever bought.’

And now the decision is made. I’ll wear the mint-green monstrosity from China tomorrow. My heart aches for the lovely blue dress but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Me and Maj head back downstairs to see out her final day as a single woman, and to make sure Pablo isn’t making his face swell too much with the crying. I manage to relax and have a few drinks and a catch-up with the Tenerifian gang from the hen, and it’s 2 a.m. when I eventually get Majella to sleep after a pint of room-service champagne and half a sleeping tablet her mother passed me earlier. When I think of all the years I spent fantasising about sleeping in the bridal suite of the Ard Rí, I didn’t imagine it would be like this. Majella does a few bars of ‘I’m Getting Married in the Morning’ with her Wifey eye mask on before drifting off, a huge smile on her face. Then I lie staring at the ceiling until my alarm goes at a quarter to three: 4 May. My Everest. I swear to God, I’m this close to turning to … well, God.

I throw my fleece and O’Neills tracksuit bottoms on over my personalised Chief Ridesmaid nightie and sneak out of the room. Driving to the café, I go through the list of stuff I have to do before Majella wakes up. There’s pork belly to cube, apple garnishes to slice, the potatoes for the croquettes to boil and mash, pastry to roll, herbs to chop, things to stack, fry, cream, ball, whisk, flake, froth and bake. Carol is the most organised person on the planet, and her timetable for this morning is military grade, but time is going to be tight no matter what way you look at it.

Space is one of our main issues, and when I come blustering into the café, every available surface already has a tray or a pot on it and Carol is dancing between them like Katie Taylor herself.

‘Are we on track?’ I say, reaching for a hairnet. The windows are dripping with condensation and between the ovens, boiling water and extractor fans I can barely hear a thing.

‘Six minutes ahead of schedule but who’s counting.’ She opens the oven and flips a tray of sausage rolls around then sets the timer again and closes the door. They smell unreal. ‘Karla is outside pulling up the pansies.’

‘Did Mammy drop over the honey?’

‘It was on the back doorstep when I opened up, along with Constance’s purple carrots and the white asparagus.’

‘Does she suspect anything?’

‘I don’t think so. I said we were expecting a rush tomorrow.’

‘And the eggs?’

‘I’d say they haven’t even been laid yet.’

Mandy Blumenthal wants fresh and fresh is what we’re giving her.

It’s as bright as day and coming up to six when I slip back into the bridal suite. There was a helicopter doing the rounds above the village on the drive over and I wonder if Mad Tom has eaten another dishwasher tablet and is being airlifted or if it’s paparazzi looking to catch a glimpse of a few celebrities. Apparently it’s in a couple of the tabloids this morning that Ben was spotted arriving into Dublin Airport, and Skippy Brennan was more than happy to give them a few quotes. I wonder who his sources are. He always knows everything. Only a few hours to go now until all will be revealed anyway and I can go back to living free from the shackles of the NDA.

I check my phone just as I’m pulling the duvet over me. There’s a text from Sharon. ‘One of my sunbeds exploded, hun. Glass everywhere. Have to bring the bridal appointments forward to nine. Call me when you’re up xxx.’

Oh God, is she for real? She was supposed to be coming at eleven to do our hairs and make-up here in the suite. The photographer is due at one to take pics of her at work, but we obviously need to be finished and looking our best by then. Majella won’t be happy. And I can say with absolute certainty that I’ll have sweated any foundation right off me by the time the ceremony starts at two if it’s put on at nine o’blasted clock. Long-wear, my eye.

Majella stirs in the bed beside me and I lie as still as I can.

‘Ais?’

‘Mmm,’ I go, in the manner of someone who’s in a deep sleep, not someone who’s been out grating garlic all night.

‘Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m getting married today,’ she screeches, sitting bolt upright and ripping off the eye mask. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just gone six. You should try and get another couple of hours’ sleep so –’

My phone starts to ring on the bedside locker.

‘Who’s ringing you at this hour?’ Maj asks, looking suspicious.

I look at the screen. It’s Mandy Blumenthal.

‘It’s James,’ I say, leaping out of the bed. ‘Just going to …’ and I leg it into the en suite and lock the door.

‘Aisling speaking!’ I whisper brightly.

‘Honey, just checking we’re all on schedule?’

‘Yes. All good here. We’ll be ready to go.’

‘You can start bringing the food up now. The kitchen is ready for it.’

Shite, this wasn’t supposed to happen until nine, and I thought I’d be able to go and be back before Sharon got here. If I go now, though, I can be back in time but I’ll have to rush.

When I slink out of the en suite Majella is sitting at the dressing table in her ridey bride nightie looking at herself.

‘Only seven hours of singledom left,’ she muses. ‘Hard to believe isn’t it, Ais?’

‘It is,’ I say, pulling back on my fleece and O’Neills. ‘It really is.’

‘Where are you going?’ She swings around.

‘Nowhere. I’ve to get something from the car.’

She turns back to her reflection. ‘I had a good run, to be fair. No regrets. I did it my way.’

‘Oh, by the way,’ I say. ‘Sharon was on a while ago. She has to come at nine now. Something exploded in the salon. Will you tell your mother and Juana to be here?’

‘Nine? My Rosie Huntington-Whiteley hair! It’ll be flat as a pancake.’

‘Not at all. She’s bringing extra Elnett, she said. The big tins. Hop into the shower there and I’ll be back in a minute.’

I race down the stairs to the restaurant where the early risers are just starting to drift down for breakfast. I recognise one of Pablo’s aunts at the toast rotisserie and I swear a woman at the pink grapefruit is the head of Kate Moss.

‘Aisling, I knew you’d be down early for the breakfast. Good woman.’ That’s Lisa Gleeson. I feel relieved to see she has a clipboard. She’s wedding ready. At least somebody is.

I race out of the hotel, into the car and back to BallyGoBrunch as fast as the speed limit will let me. Carol catches me when I fall in the door of the café.

‘What time is it?’ I gasp.

‘Five to eight.’

I sit on a crate of tomatoes to catch my breath before explaining that I need her to give me the first trays ready to go so I can bring them to Garbally. She helps me carry them out and I fumble in my bag for the pass Mandy sent me to gain access to the grounds. I make sure the trays are secure and belt towards Garbally, sweating and mumbling bits of my wedding speech to myself. I reach the gates and pull out the pass, shaking it at the burly security man who waves me through. I’m only going in the back entrance but I can see glimpses of the orchard and the bubbles as I drive up the driveway. It looks stunning. James has done some job. I haven’t even talked to him since he dropped in briefly to the drinks last night. As I trundle up the driveway, a familiar-looking figure striding at high speed down one of the glass walkways connecting the various parts of the Garbally buildings catches my eye. Was that … Sharon? No, it can’t be. Sharon wouldn’t be caught dead in the flats this woman is wearing. I pull up by the catering entrance and leap out and ring the bell. The young fella who answers the door has no choice but to take the trays I’m pushing into his arms, and after some small talk about how this whole thing is mad and isn’t it great they got the weather, I’m racing straight back to the car. Just as I round the corner to where the Micra is my foot catches on a bag of something and I go head over heels, dragging whatever it is with me and feeling a fine powder settling on my skin. I open my eyes and spit the offending stuff off my lips. Cement. Of course. Just perfect. I stand up, brush myself off and leap into the car to reverse back out to head to the Ard Rí.

I screech into the car park and race back into the hotel. With the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I don’t have the patience to wait for the lift, so I run up the stairs to the bridal suite. It’s the penthouse and, needless to say, I’m puce by the time I arrive. Four storeys is a lot, and there’s absolutely no arch support in my Crocs. Everyone turns around when I walk in.

‘There she is,’ Liz Moran says, while Sharon backcombs her hair aggressively. ‘Not like you to abandon a bride in her hour of need, Aisling.’

‘I … I …’ I gasp. ‘I was only gone twenty minutes. I had to get something.’

‘You were gone an hour. And where is whatever you were supposed to be getting?’ Majella asks, her eyes narrowing. If I’m not careful she’s going to twig that I’m double jobbing. I say a prayer to St Anthony and put my hand into my fleece pocket. It lands on a packet of spearmint Extra.

‘Here,’ I say, pulling it out. ‘You want to be minty fresh for Pablo, don’t you?’

‘Aw, Ais,’ Majella goes, spraying Alien on her ankles and up her nightie, ‘you really think of everything.’