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It was after midnight when Aisling clambered into the taxi. Alasdair had called it to take her around the corner and home. She hadn’t found herself in rags, her taxi didn’t turn into a pumpkin, but her feet ached just as much as if they had been encased in glass slippers all evening. She couldn’t wait to kick her shoes off and give her tender tootsies a massage. Her ears were ringing with the music they’d jigged along to with the best of them.
It was a miracle she and Leila had been able to get up from the table let alone perform energetic dance moves after the dessert Quinn had produced. Come to think of it Quinn had been a little subdued after dinner, and he’d barely touched any of the bite sized sweeties he’d brought out to share. Instead he’d sat back content to let them snaffle the lot. He hadn’t wanted to join them either as they muscled in on the tiny dance area. He’d sank the rest of the bottle of wine in their absence. It wasn’t like him. She’d been having too much fun to notice anything amiss at the time and scrunching her toes she felt a guilty pang. A good friend would have noticed.
Maybe he was worried about his mam. He’d said she was doing alright, but the stroke had given the family a shock. She should have asked him instead of twittering on like she had about Marcus. She’d pop around in the next day or so and thank him for a deadly night, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a great craic. She’d be sure to ask him then if everything was okay. She settled on that as the driver slammed, his door shut and performed a U-turn. His English was stilted, and he clearly wasn’t in the mood to practice it given the time of night.
It was a miracle she’d managed to dance in her Jimmy Choo’s but despite grievous risk to her ankles she’d forgotten all about them as she threw herself into the mix. She never could resist a tin pipe and a fiddle. The music was catchy and the atmosphere too infectious not to get in amongst it.
Aisling loved to dance it made her happy. She’d briefly done ballet as a little girl, but she didn’t have the physique to be a ballerina—too sturdy and she’d joined the Brownies for a brief stint instead. Her dancing over the years had been relegated to sticky floors after dark with her friends until Leila had talked her into coming along to salsa classes. She rested her head back on the seat and closed her eyes as the conversation between her and Quinn replayed. Why had she never gone back for a second class? She’d loved the initial one the three of them had attended. Not just because she’d met Marcus but because the music had made her feel carefree like she was connecting with another part of herself. A part that wasn’t sensible and bound by duty. Why then had she felt because it wasn’t Marcus’s thing it couldn’t be hers either?
She massaged her temples. She was knackered, last night’s broken sleep had caught up on her. The second wind she’d been running on had well and truly blown itself out now. The taxi pulled up outside O’Mara’s which was in darkness. Aisling paid her fare and the driver waited until she’d let herself in. She locked the door behind her and stepped out of her shoes her sigh of relief an audible hiss in the deserted reception. As she tiptoed through the inky interior she passed by Room 1 and wondered whether Una had come back. She might have decided to stay at Aideen’s. She’d have to wait until the morning to find out. She was looking forward to hearing how the rest of the day’s catching up had panned out for the sisters and what their plans were now they’d reconnected.
The stairs creaked as she made her way up them despite her best efforts to be quiet. Although fair play to her she was getting quite good at this creeping about nocturnally business. She unlocked the door to the apartment expecting to have to pat around the wall for the light switch but Moira uncharacteristically considerate, had left a lamp on for her. She would long since be tucked up in bed Aisling thought, tempted to head straight for her own bed.
Her stomach rolled over reminding her of the evening’s excesses. What was it mammy swore by for digestion problems? Bicarbonate of soda dissolved in warm water sprang to mind. She’d see if that would do the trick. It certainly wouldn’t do any harm. So she opened the cupboard where the baking things that hadn’t seen the light of day since Maureen O’Mara had moved out were kept. There was a tin labelled bicarb, Mammy was a good labeller, tucked down the back which she dug out. She hoped making up the potion it hadn’t expired in 1990 or some other decade. It didn’t taste flash, punishment for all the rich food she’d shovelled down earlier but she got it down.
She forced herself into the bathroom to remove her makeup not fancying waking up with her eyes glued together with the evening’s mascara. At last face washed, teeth brushed she crept into her bedroom and tossing back the covers clambered in all set to snuggle down and visit the land of nod. Aisling’s scream a second later as she felt a warm arm drape itself across her middle should have brought the Guards rushing to their door.