It’s nearly seven o’clock by the time my Uber pulls up outside Shebeen and the place is hopping. Or maybe it just looks hopping because it’s the only spot on the street open on Thanksgiving.
‘I have to let you go, Gearóidín,’ I beg, now ten minutes trying to get my father’s first cousin off the phone. She put me up in her little place in Queens when I first got to New York. We still talk all the time because of our mutual love of the Irish Times crossword and Barry’s tea. She was very disappointed when I told her I had to work and wouldn’t make it out for dinner today, but what could I do. ‘I’ll come and see you soon, I promise. Bye, bye, byebye bye.’
The Irish Mafia are out in force for Stilettos and Skyscrapers blogger Tara’s annual Friendsgiving get-together, and the air is thick with the scent of pumpkin spice. There are a few unfamiliar faces, but I immediately spot Stevie, who used to be in Sydney with Paul, chatting to his cousin Fiona Morrissey, formerly a political aide to disgraced congressman William J. McNamara. Joanne Collins is there too, on her phone as usual, which is what you need to do when you’re as high up at Facebook as she is. Davy Doherty from Netflix is laughing at something Sandra Hayes is saying, and Gráinne Whelan is doing shots with a few of The Peigs at the bar. Rumour has it she’s trying to get them to sign with Universal Music, but Sadhbh says she definitely won’t be letting that happen now that she has a new role with Neptune, their record company back home.
Tara beckons me over and envelops me in a hug, and I feel a pang of pride at being welcomed into this high-powered group. She smells unreal. According to Majella, Jo Malone makes her a new signature scent for every season because she has nearly 800,000 followers on Instagram and occasionally shows one of her candles.
‘The place looks great, Tara. Sorry I’m late.’
There’s one huge table in the centre of the room, and it’s heaving with food and decorative gourds and twinkling candles.
‘No worries, girl. Food is coming out shortly. What’s all this?’
I plonk down the stack of tinfoil boxes I’m struggling with and gratefully accept a seat from Stevie. ‘Leftovers from work.’
Sandra’s head shoots up. ‘From Bella Hadid’s Thanksgiving?’ She’s a producer for the Today Show on NBC and is forever trying to squeeze celebrity gossip out of me, even though she knows Mandy would have my guts for garters if her reputation for discretion was compromised.
‘I couldn’t possibly divulge that kind of information,’ I say, pulling off my parka. The weather is gone bitter. ‘Now don’t be at me.’
‘Just tell me what she had. I can get a segment out of it. Maybe two. Are potatoes in or out for supermodels?’
‘You know how Mandy is.’ No spuds for Bella.
‘Nod if Gigi was there.’
‘No!’ She had all the trimmings.
‘Blink if Zayn made an appearance!’
‘Sandra!’ No sign.
‘Down, Sandra!’ Stevie gently pushes her out of the way with a pop of his hip and drags his seat over next to me.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper gratefully, tipping the end of a bottle of white wine into the glass in front of me. I’m wrecked. Bella herself was grand, but her mother was a monumental dose and wouldn’t let the caterers put squeezy cream on the pumpkin pie even though it was a special occasion. ‘Where’s Raphael?’ Stevie is dating the painfully cool receptionist from my office who just about tolerates me.
‘In Missouri. With his family.’ He sighs, obviously still smarting because he had to work this morning and couldn’t go home.
‘Hang on, Raphael is from Missouri?’
‘Oh yeah. Everyone assumes he’s a New Yorker but he grew up on a farm. Don’t tell him I told you that, though. So … Jeff was asking about you.’
‘Ah, he wasn’t, was he?’ I don’t think he’s crossed my mind more than once.
‘I was sorry to hear you guys were dunzo. You were so cute together! He was asking about my plans for today and who’d be here and blah blah blah. I had to explain that Irish people don’t actually celebrate Thanksgiving the way we do.’
‘I’d say that took a while.’ Although he’s truly one of the nicest men on the planet, Jeff really isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He’s never been outside New York and once asked me if we had ten-pin bowling in Ireland.
Stevie mimes wiping sweat from his brow. ‘You betcha. I guess he was wondering why John wouldn’t be here. How are things going there?’
I smile and start picking at a hangnail. Although we swore we’d take it slowly this time, things between us have certainly escalated these past few weeks since he went home. We originally decided to Skype every Sunday at 8 a.m. my time, 1 p.m. his time. But it just wasn’t enough. He’s under my skin in a way he never was before. I just can’t get enough of him, and he’s the same. So we’re now WhatsApping all day long and FaceTiming at the drop of a hat. Like yesterday, he rang to show me That Bloody Cat asleep in one of Úna Hatton’s planters. I was in a meeting with Mandy, Josh B and Aubrey at the time about how to lock down the contract for Nick Cannon’s gender reveals. It was cute, though. I do miss That Bloody Cat.
‘It’s all good, thanks.’ And then there’s the sexting. It’s not something I’ve ever really done before, apart from one time James Matthews asked me for a racy pic when he was away on a job and I was so mortified I did a close-up of my bent elbow that managed to pass for cleavage. John sent a shot of himself reclining in bed the other night that looked like something out of GQ. I wanted to reciprocate but I was already in my nightie and my knickers were just plain multipack ones from Penneys, so I did the elbow trick again to hold him off. Sadhbh said she’d give me some tips on taking nudes the next time I see her. She’s well used to it, what with The Peigs being on the road so much and Don getting pelted with knickers on stage six nights a week. I scan the table and notice she’s not here.
I turn to Tara, who’s taking a selfie with the giant turkey that’s just been placed in the centre of the table. ‘Where’s Sadhbh?’
‘No sign of her or Don, and my photographer is leaving in twenty minutes.’ She nods towards a bored-looking guy with a camera, wearing one of those little fisherman hats on the back of his head that don’t look like they’d keep in a jot of heat.
I reach for my phone. There’s a text from her: ‘Sorry, I’m in an Uber.’ That’s Sadhbh for ‘I’m getting out of the shower’. ‘She’ll be here soon, Tara.’
‘Okay, we’re gonna have to start without her, though.’ Tara sighs. She knows full well that having Don Shields in a pic is a chance to get her blog mentioned in one of the tabloids and potentially go viral. It happened before when Davy scored them tickets for the premiere of some serial-killer documentary. Don was blinking and The Sun ran the shot with some made-up story about him suffering from exhaustion and going into rehab. Tara was delighted with the exposure, but his mam went mental.
At this stage everyone is seated at the table, and Davy in particular looks like he’s going to go for the turkey if someone doesn’t slice it up and serve it to him. I’m half thinking of tucking into Bella’s leftover green-bean casserole myself.
Tara taps a glass with her knife and a hush falls over the room. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mostly create content for my blog.’ There’s an immediate chorus of groans and boos and a chunk of bread roll goes flying past her. ‘I’m joking! Just enjoy your free dinner and please ignore Edson, who’s going to snap away. Joanne, that pumpkin is decorative. And Davy, can you chew with your mouth closed for a change?’ He mutters something in his thick Donegal accent that I don’t catch. ‘And between courses we’re going to each say what we’re thankful for.’
There’s another groan as servers start passing around plates.
‘I’ll go first,’ Tara says, ignoring the discontent and shovelling stuffing on to her plate. ‘I’m thankful for you lot. I wouldn’t have lasted a month in this mad city without you.’
There’s an eruption of aaahs around the table. Tara’s incessant need to create content can get a bit tiring, but she’s sound out and generous with her freebies. Everyone understands that you have to be driven to survive in New York. I don’t think I’d still be here myself if I hadn’t met the Irish Mafia.
‘Oh, just start without me, why don’t you!’ Suddenly, Sadhbh is in the doorway, stamping snow off her shoes. She recently bleached her eyebrows and has never looked cooler. I wave, and she gestures at me to scooch up and make space.
‘No Don tonight?’ Tara trills, looking anxious.
‘Can’t make it. Sends his apologies.’
‘Hey, everything okay?’ I whisper as she slips in beside me and the others get back to saying they’re thankful for DoorDash and living in buildings with lifts.
‘We had a fight in the hotel,’ she whispers back, helping herself to nut roast.
‘Ah, Sadhbhy, you two never fight. What happened?’
‘He wants to have’ – she lowers her voice another few decibels – ‘a fucking baby.’
‘A baby?!’
‘A fucking baby. Since we’re moving back to Dublin, he thinks the timing is right, even though I told him when we first got together that I didn’t ever see myself having children. He knows about the … you know … and everything.’
Not long after I moved in with Sadhbh in Dublin, she got pregnant with her on-again-off-again boyfriend and had an abortion. She was the first woman I ever knew who’d gone through that, or so I thought, until Mammy explained she’d had to make the same decision years ago when I was a child.
‘Is he set on the idea?’
She shrugs. ‘Seems to be. He said he thought I’d eventually change my mind, that all women do.’
‘That’s a bit …’
‘Isn’t it? So I just walked out. That’s why I’m wearing my pyjamas.’ She looks down at her outfit. It’s a big T-shirt and she has on knee socks and loafers with it. It doesn’t look any different than the gear she normally wears.
‘Well, Don isn’t the only one with baby fever. Majella and Pablo are going at it like the clappers at home by all accounts. She has an app that sets off an alarm for when she’s ovulating. Apparently Pablo has developed a fear of it.’
‘Aisling, I’m trying to eat my dinner here. I don’t want to think of Pablo doing –’
‘Now, you know Maj would be doing all the doing.’
‘That’s true. Ah no, I’m happy for them. It’s lovely news. If they’re both on the same page.’
She picks at her turkey, looking sad. Sadhbh and Don have always been rock solid – they even have each other’s initials tattooed on their ring fingers! – so I’m not used to seeing her like this.
‘Tell me about the new job at Neptune,’ I say, trying to change the subject. ‘Head of Marketing sounds very swish!’
She perks up. ‘Doesn’t it? And the office is on South William Street, so very handy. The movers are coming Saturday.’
‘Why do you need movers? You came to New York with four suitcases.’
‘It’s mostly Don’s guitars.’
I raise my eyebrows at her.
‘Okay, it’s mostly my clothes. I’m going to miss Aritzia so much!’
‘Ah, I’m sure they deliver.’
Tara pokes her head in. ‘Are you sure Don’s not coming?’
Sadhbh shrugs. ‘Sorry, Tara.’ She turns back to me. ‘What if I can’t live without adaptogenic water and Trader Joe’s cauliflower gnocchi and my edibles, though?’
‘You’ll survive. And you have a gorgeous house to go home to, remember?’
‘I know, I know. I’m excited to get back and get settled. Ruby and Elaine are planning a girls’ night, just like the old days.’
The wave of FOMO nearly knocks me off my seat. When me, Sadhbh and Elaine lived together, we used to order a takeaway and sit around drinking wine under blankets at least once a week. It was heaven, even when Elaine insisted we listen to some godawful techno mix.
‘Oh Jesus, I’m so jealous, Sadhbh.’
‘I’ll tell the girls you said hello. Now, will you pass me whatever that is with the marshmallows on top and fill me in on what’s going on with John?’