‘I know you said it was bijou, darling, but are you really taking meetings with clients in that minuscule room?’
I knew Mandy would think the European offices were on the small side, and that’s why I told her countless times the place is ‘bijou’, because that’s what Sadhbh called it when she came to visit.
‘There are only three of us and we have most client meetings out,’ I remind Mandy, ‘and the meeting room is big enough for Hannah to do her TikTok dances on her lunch break.’
Hannah regularly goes semi-viral with her dancing videos, which she uses to show off her ‘thrifted’ work outfits while also passive-aggressively getting at Aubrey for her truly unstoppable fast-fashion Penneys habit. I think she has the whole of her sterile corporate flat decked out in the Sunflower Fields homeware range, even though she’s almost due to go back to the US.
‘Ah, speaking of lunch?’ Mandy’s boyfriend – or partner, surely: she’s probably too old for a boyfriend – Seán has been patiently sitting in our tiny lobby while Aubrey, Hannah and I have been filling Mandy in on how the client books are looking and what the scope is for expanding. I know Mandy has her eye on the Windsors, ultimately, and while she’s disappointed Ireland doesn’t have its own royal family we can chase up, I’ve convinced her that landing Amy and Brian’s eldest’s birthday party is basically the same as hosting for Prince George. Hannah also has a meeting with three of the big Instagram comics tomorrow with a view to setting up a showcase for them. I’m still reeling from an interaction yesterday where I asked Aubrey where she was at the turn of the millennium and Hannah mentioned that she was born in the year 2002.
I’ve been feeling like a bit of a fraud carrying on with my event architect work when I’m still contemplating leaving to run the farm. Mammy’s told Paul that she wants to sell and he’s happy to go with the flow, so it’s making it all seem very real. I cried to John the night Mammy broke the news, and he said he’d of course support me if it’s what I want to do, but made it clear that I’d be taking the lead. I cried more when I thought about our babies, if we have any more babies, not growing up around the yard like I did. John has started seeing a woman over Zoom for therapy and tried to get me to do some breathing exercises with him, and we eventually fell asleep listening to some rainforest sounds with the sheep as backing singers.
‘I could eat a donkey.’ Poor Seán.
‘I’ve booked us into Le Cochon Vert for lunch, supposed to be lovely.’ I asked Sadhbh for recommendations. Nothing too fancy, because we don’t want Mandy to think we’re squandering, but fancy enough that they’ll have different-shaped wine glasses and at least a few raw meats on the menu.
‘And we’ll have a pint afterwards? Grogan’s is still in the same spot?’ Seán’s Irish accent just about comes through the evidence of his thirty years in New York. His head is unmistakably Irish, which is just the right amount of puce and potato, even though his teeth are most definitely New York born and bred. I’m not sure I would have picked an Irishman with veneers and a Gucci belt for Mandy, but she seems besotted. And this is a woman who famously stood Bill Murray up because she had a working pedicure booked. Now she’s bringing her boyfriend on business trips and assuring him that we can definitely go for pints in Grogan’s after lunch. I wince when she butchers the word ‘pints’. There are some words Americans just have no business saying, in much the same way Irish people cannot wrap their gobs around ‘garbage’ or ‘chipotle’.
Mandy is horrified when I suggest that we stroll to the restaurant on George’s Street. Aubrey had already laid the groundwork for the walk by reminding Mandy that Dublin is much more higgledy-piggledy than New York’s grid system and how it’s often much quicker to just walk. I’m also ready to head off her assertion that ‘we’ll just Uber’ with the devastating news that we don’t really Uber here, and actually if we hail a taxi we might get stuck with a talker – or even worse, a conspiracy theorist. Mandy is not a big fan of unsolicited talking. We’re actually three-quarters of the way to the restaurant before she’s over the Uber revelation.
****
‘Welcome to Le Cochon Vert, I’m William, and our specials today are a beef tataki and a venison with cavolo nero, and please let me know if you need the vegetarian or vegan menu options.’
Hannah sighs with relief and immediately asks for direction on the vegan dishes. I knew by the way William’s kerchief was tied around his neck and by the bustling lunch crowd already sitting down that Sadhbh had steered me in the right direction. Just the right level of notions and a waiter who seems to know what he’s doing.
‘Oh hey, Aisling, there’s chicken on here for you.’ Mandy guffaws and elbows me. It really tickles her that I always order the chicken. It’s just usually such a safe option. I don’t know what beef tataki is, but I’ve seen a plate of very pink meat brought out to the table beside us so I’m not taking any chances. And I really do like chicken. Very versatile.
Across from her sits Seán, who’s gleefully reading the restaurant’s stockists list at the bottom of the menu to Aubrey like a who’s-who of childhood Irish holiday locations. ‘Clawna-kilty black pudding. I went there every summer. Every damn summer.’
Aubrey, who’s across from me, is genuinely interested. Jeremy is due to arrive in two days, and she’s settled on Cork and Kerry for their mini-break. Hannah tried to get them to do it in a converted HiAce but I begged Aubrey to book hotels, if only for the breakfasts. I couldn’t bear their first Wild Atlantic Way experience to be sleeping on a bed that somehow converts into a shower and a dining table. They need helpful concierges and bain-maries of sausages and rashers to get the real American-on-holidays-in-Ireland experience. Over lunch, we discover that Mandy has no intention of going on a trip down memory lane with Seán on the highroads and byroads. They’re staying in the Merrion for the few days and then over to Powerscourt for the weekend and then back to New York. I think he mentioned a helicopter at one point. He’s absolutely loaded by the looks of things. The perfect man for Mandy, it would seem.
‘You are mad about him!’ I whisper and nudge her as he excuses himself to the bathroom after they all order coffees and I cannot resist the praline profiteroles. I wouldn’t usually be elbowing her or whispering to her about her private life, but I’m emboldened by three glasses of Pinot Greej, and she’s been hoofing into the Malbec.
She turns around a little in her chair to face me. ‘Aisling, I had forgotten what it was like to have fun with a man. This fool has me laughing all day and night.’
She really does laugh a lot at his extremely cheesy jokes. But sure, look, there’s a boot for every foot.
‘I’m thrilled for you Mandy. You –’ I’m about to tell her she looks ten years younger, but she would probably fire me on the spot or have me served up alongside the beef tataki. ‘You look so happy.’
‘I suppose I am, Aisling. And how about you? How’s my favourite mute man?’
I break into a huge smile. ‘He’s good. I don’t know if I told you, but he’s opened his own gym Down Home in Ballygobbard.’
‘An entrepreneur!’
‘Yes, I’m very proud.’ I would love to see the look on Mandy’s face if she saw John’s gym compared to the multi-floor mecca to wellness she goes to in the West Village, and even more if she caught sight of Mad Tom doing his squats in his wrestling singlet.
‘And you’re living down there, down in Ballywhatsit? I thought you were setting up in the city?’ She laughs at herself at this because she can’t believe Dublin has the audacity to call itself a city. Aubrey was actually its staunchest defender over lunch and gave a very passionate speech about the Luas, its characters and its ‘quirky’ logistical layout. Hannah nearly choked on her wine when she called the Red Line ‘spirited’.
‘Actually, now that I’m older it’s not that bad of a place to settle.’ I swallow a lump in my throat thinking about the farm and wishing I could ask for Mandy’s advice.
She nods in barely concealed disbelief at the idea of BGB being a decent place to live. Seán returns, exclaiming that he’s just met his second cousin in the toilets. Mandy is gobsmacked, but Hannah and I are less surprised. It’s determined that the cousin and his wife should join us in Grogan’s, and I say a prayer to the pub gods that we’re able to get a table. The sun is out and it’s just the kind of day that would have it packed.
‘Hannah, Hannah,’ I hiss across the table at her. ‘Will you run on ahead and scout for tables outside Grogan’s?’ She dons a determined look and slinks out of the restaurant as I finish my glass of wine and promise myself to have two waters if and when we get seats outside the pub. I’m hosting and I can’t be on my ear trying to show Mandy and Seán around.
****
After another show of incredulity about having to walk, Mandy does graciously apologise when we arrive at Grogan’s and she realises that it was literally a two-minute stroll. To my delight, Hannah is guarding two tables pushed together in the glorious sunshine the same way a dog might guard a slice of ham. She’s even managed to corral an assortment of chairs and stools and, after some convincing, Mandy does eventually sit on one. Two people stop to say hello – Des from Escalations, who’s definitely had hair plugs, and Sandra, a weapon of a girl I went to Irish college with. Between that, the creamy pint in front of her and the August sun, Mandy accepts that it’s actually a pretty special place to drink and be merry. As Seán and the cousin launch into another FaceTime to a disbelieving relative, she leans over to me. ‘Okay, I can see why you’d want to come back here.’
I glow with pride at this coming from the queen of New York. ‘Thank you, Mandy. I knew once you’d sampled some Guinness while a guy plays “Bohemian Rhapsody” on an accordion you’d get it.’ He was alternating ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with ‘Runaway’ by the Corrs, and both were definite crowd-pleasers.
‘How’s your mom? I’m sure you’ve worried about her being alone since your father passed.’
I don’t remember ever telling Mandy that. Did it come out of my pores like I was channelling Saoirse Ronan in Brooklyn? Maybe Aubrey told her.
‘I have a mom too, you know?’
I genuinely can’t imagine Mandy ever being a baby, ever having her nose wiped, ever being parented. ‘Mammy is good, actually. She has a new, eh – boy– eh – partner.’
‘And they live in the same town as you and John?’
‘They do, yeah.’ I let out a sigh. ‘Mammy’s actually wanting to sell her house and the farm and all that. Where I grew up. She wants to retire fully, you know?’
Mandy puffs out her cheeks. ‘Yikes, that’s gotta be hard? The childhood place? That’s a big decision.’
I feel a swell of love for Mandy that she recognises how huge the prospect of selling is. It means she really was listening that one time she joined us for post-work happy-hour drinks because she had an hour to kill before a Thai boxing class. After two huge glasses of Pinot Greej I was showing her pictures of the three-legged lamb me and Daddy once nursed back to health in front of the kitchen radiator. It is a huge decision, and it’s one that I feel hangs on me now, because unless I take on the farm, it has to go.
‘You couldn’t live there?’ Mandy continues before I can answer.
‘Well, it’s a farm and it has yurts and a shop and all, so it would be a full-time job.’
‘Oh, I see. And you already have a full-time job.’ She raises her glass to me, but her tone is odd.
‘Yes, I do.’ I know it’s come out sounding odd as I clink my glass with hers.
She stares at me for a moment and then talks, low and serious. ‘Are you looking for a new job or are you happy with the one you have? Because, if you can’t tell, I think you’re doing a great job here with the new office, and I’m excited about the trajectory and where you can take it.’
I go to reassure her, not because I’m one hundred per cent sure of what I want but because I don’t want to be in trouble with her.
She holds up her hand a fraction and then keeps talking. ‘But if what I’m picking up here about shacking up in Ballygobatshit with your dream lover and running the family farm being a possibility, then you need to tell me because I am going to need to move Aubrey into your position asap and break it to her that she lives in Dublin now. Understood?’
I just nod at her, trying not to cry. Crying with work people at a pub is still technically crying at work, and I saw an Instagram reel about how you’re not supposed to cry at work because it’s bad for peer respect and career progression. Or maybe it was that you are supposed to cry at work. Either way, I don’t want to cry in front of Mandy, so I just nod.
‘Okay then. Phenomenal. Hey, fella, know any other songs?’
Turns out, for fifty of Mandy’s dollars he knows any song you want.