The Mandy Blumenthal Event Architects European Headquarters is actually a former international language school, and we’ve barely taken possession of the keys when the first lost student rings the buzzer.
‘I did Spanish in high school,’ Aubrey says with a shrug, as I try to explain in broken French that the premises he’s looking for is now on George’s Street and has a different name. I think a lot of these language schools are money-laundering operations, to be honest. After two more buzzes, I decide to put a little sign with a map downstairs on the front door and take the receiver off the hook. I can’t be spending all day on Google Translate when we have a delivery of chairs and desks to assemble before we can actually start work.
Promising the Peigs ticket to Aubrey is a godsend because she’s having a tough time settling into Dublin life. Unlike Irish people moving to the US, who grew up on a diet of American TV shows and films, she really hadn’t a clue what to expect when she arrived here. She watched The Banshees of Inisherin on the plane over so was pleasantly surprised to see that Dublin is actually not all fields and donkeys. But she’s already missing Jeremy like mad and is struggling with not being able to plug in her hairdryer in the bathroom. It’s putting a dampener on the whole experience. Plus, she doesn’t like being on the back foot when it comes to local knowledge.
‘I promise the Luas isn’t always like that,’ I tell her softly after she recounts an unfortunate incident involving a group of tweens setting fire to a schoolbag while further down the carriage a fare evader was trying to wrestle the doors open. I would have thought after New York Aubrey would be up for anything, but the Red Line would test Jason Statham.
‘I know, I know. I’m just missing home. And ranch dressing. I can’t find it anywhere!’
‘Right, I need a break from these IKEA instructions. Will we have an actual work meeting? Something to report back to Mandy on Tuesday? She’s already scheduled a Zoom.’
I’m actually dreading having a face-to-face with Mandy. I feel so sneaky taking the job knowing full well that I’m going to be clocking off for at least six months while the company is still finding its feet. I’ve heard of women in New York sending emails between pushes and being back at their desks while their stitches are healing. I have every intention of taking all my maternity leave, though, whether she likes it or not. I know my rights. But I’ve decided I’m going to wait until l’m five months gone to tell her, because I probably won’t be showing until then. I’m also considering wearing a wire in case she threatens to murder me and I do end up going missing. It could be crucial evidence.
Aubrey snaps right into work mode and opens her laptop. Luckily the Wi-Fi is working like a dream. That might have sent her over the edge.
She looks at me over the top of the computer. ‘I have a lead on a waxing company – the Hairy Mollies – but it’s small fry.’
‘Small fry is good. It’s something. We’re starting at the bottom here. Anything else?’
‘What do you know about hair?’
I self-consciously touch my damp bun. ‘Not a huge amount.’
‘Okay, well, when Mandy was in London she connected with a potential new client who’s expanding into Ireland as a sort of tester before going to the UK. Paloma Porter Haircare.’
‘I have her deep-conditioning masque!’ I picked it up at one of Tara’s charity beauty sales for a dollar. She has one every month to get rid of all the free stuff that’s clogging up her spare room, with all proceeds going to a women’s shelter on the Lower East Side. The masque normally costs $30 so I was keeping it for a special occasion, but I’ve opened the lid three times for a sniff. Divine.
Aubrey rolls her eyes. ‘She’s not a person – it’s a corporation.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘So … any ideas? The budget is generous. Mandy wants to make it known that there’s a new player on the events scene in town.’
I think for a minute. ‘What about an awards show?’
Aubrey narrows her eyes. ‘What, like, Paloma Porter sponsors the Irish Oscars or something? Do you even have an equivalent of the Oscars here?’
I’m about to launch into a defensive explanation of the IFTAs when I remember some of the guests got a bit pissed and rowdy one year and then they stopped televising it for a while. It plays into too many stereotypes.
‘I mean we could create our own awards show from scratch. Something like’ – it comes to me in a flash of inspiration – ‘the Paloma Porter Style Awards. We can have categories for beauty industry professionals, celebrities, influencers. Anyone who’s cool. Let people campaign and then the public can vote.’
I can nearly hear the cogs in Aubrey’s head turning. ‘How will people vote?’
‘Josh B can make a website.’
‘What’s in it for the winner?’
‘The glory.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘A night out.’
‘A night out?’
‘You have to remember you’re in Dublin now, Aubrey. There’s not that much going on here, entertainment-wise. RTÉ might even show it. Well, maybe Virgin Media Two.’
‘Okay, let’s do up a pitch for Mandy,’ Aubrey concedes. ‘The sooner we get things moving and hire permanent staff, the sooner I can go home.’
****
‘Welcome home!’ John scoops me up in his arms on the doorstep of his parents’ house in Knocknamanagh.
‘Home? You know I’m BGB till I die, and don’t get me started on the tiny jersey debate again,’ I murmur into his shoulder.
‘Okay, okay, you know what I meant.’ He laughs and holds me at arm’s length. ‘I’ve already ordered two little hurls in the BGB and Knock colours. We can be bipartisan.’
‘You big eejit!’
‘Are you nervous?’
‘A bit. Are they here?’
‘They are. They know we have to tell them something. I think they’re expecting an engagement. Oh, by the way, will you marry me?’
I roll my eyes and push past him. ‘Come on, let’s just do it.’
****
I’m shaking a bit when John delivers the news. His dad, Ray, strides over and gives him a big handshake, and after Fran has digested everything for thirty seconds, she comes to me first and wraps her arms around me. I wasn’t expecting a hug.
‘Well, isn’t that lovely news? You’re a great girl.’ Over her shoulder, I raise my eyebrows at John and he smiles. This couldn’t be going any better. I sensed Fran was disappointed that John and I seemed done for good when he went to Dubai with Megan, so maybe me getting knocked up is actually a big win for her. I’m just so glad there wasn’t a lecture or a round of tutting.
‘Will you have dinner, Aisling? You will, of course. You always had a good appetite. And you’ll stay tonight? I’ll do up the spare bed for ye.’ She kind of mutters the end of the last sentence but I hear her well enough. Never in all my years of knowing John have we been allowed to share a double bed in the spare room. I was always in the single bed in his sister Rachel’s old room and he was in his own. The fact that she’s now giving us the nod to share is like getting a blessing from Rome. I don’t know if I’ll be able to look her in the eye in the morning.
I follow Fran into the kitchen while Ray and John go out to look at Ray’s new car. As they go out the door, I hear Ray calling it a ‘Granddadmobile’ and it nearly sets me off.
‘How far along are you, Aisling? Oh look, move those papers and sit down.’ She points to the comfy armchair by the stove.
‘Actually only nine weeks. So it’s early days, although it has taste buds now. We just wanted to tell you and Ray because I already told Mammy.’
‘The first grandchild on both sides. We’ll have them spoilt between us.’
Fran busies herself draining potatoes and checking chops. I offer to help twice, but her second refusal is borderline terrifying, so instead I take up one of the papers I moved off the chair. The local weekly has a story on the front page about three Christmas wreaths that were stolen from front doors over the festive period. Hopefully the best minds are on the case. I’m just getting stuck into a review of the Knock Musical Society’s run of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and the praise for Father Fenlon in the high heels when Fran asks me to tell the lads that dinner is ready and says she’ll take a Romantica out for dessert since it’s a special occasion. My heart feels so full.
****
‘I’m surprised Fran didn’t have long johns and a floor-length nightdress laid out for us,’ John murmurs as we lie naked in the spare-room bed under a picture of Jesus Christ himself. We thought about removing the red bulb but it felt too blasphemous.
‘I suppose she’s thinking “what’s the worst that can happen now?”’ I whisper back, before sliding out of my side of the bed.
John grabs at my arm. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I’m putting on my nightdress. What if Fran comes bursting in in the morning with a plate of rashers and sausages? I might be pregnant with her illegitimate grandchild, but I’m not having her seeing me in the nip on her good spare-room sheets.’
He sighs. ‘Good point. At least they’re going away tomorrow.’
I actually can’t wait for that bit. Fran and Ray are off to a boules tournament until Monday, so John and I will have the place to ourselves. It’s already been a pain going between Mammy’s and Sadhbh’s, so I’m looking forward to having a bit of privacy. We both are.
In the morning I wake up early and for a second I assess myself, checking to see if I feel sick. No nausea, thank God, but my belly hurts like I’m about to do a stinker in Fran’s retro seaside-themed bathroom. I tiptoe across the hall and squeeze the door shut as quietly as I can. The sick feeling comes rushing back as I sit down on the toilet, and when I glance down into my pale-pink knickers a slash of bright-red blood in the gusset knocks the air out of my lungs.
I go to reach for my phone to google ‘nine weeks pregnant blood’, but I’ve left it in the bedroom. I stand up and close my eyes, afraid to look in the bowl before I flush, but I open them again to see more blood swirl away down the drain. I steady myself on the sink and just miss knocking over a ceramic lighthouse before crossing the hall back into the spare room to shake John’s foot under the duvet.
‘John, I think there’s something wrong.’