A Wedding at O'Mara's (The Guesthouse on the Green Book 6) Page 17

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean the wedding obviously. It’s all I can think about and there’s no room for big decisions like enormous loans and the like. It’s not fair of him to add all this pressure to the mix now.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be feeling pressured. I have everything in hand. It’s my job and I’m good at it.’ She was wasting her breath, Leila thought as Aisling ploughed on.

  ‘Then today he insisted we go and see a house on the Crumlin Road. He said it looked like a good buy and got himself all excited, more excited than I’ve seen him in weeks. I don’t think he even got that worked up when I bought a suspender belt and stockings that time. Sod of a thing they were, kept pinging off.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘Anyway, he was like a child exploring Disneyland and, Leila, his face has not once been as animated over our wedding as it was when he was looking around that run-down old terrace today. Not once.’ It was true, Aisling thought, reliving the memories of his face closing up every time she mentioned something to do with the wedding.

  ‘I wouldn’t be reading anything into that, Aisling. You know how it goes, “Men are from Mars, women are from Venus.”. Well, it’s true. I have yet to see a groom who is wrapped up in the details of his wedding to the same degree as his bride. They don’t understand the importance of the small details.’ She shrugged. ‘All they want is their stag night to be unforgettable, then to front up on the day and have it all to run smoothly. That’s it. They are simple creatures.’

  Aisling was almost mollified but instinct told her it was more than a lack of interest it was almost as if he wanted to bury his head in the sand over the whole thing.

  ‘He’s doing his part isn’t he? Organising his and his brothers’ suits and the wedding rings.’

  It was Aisling’s turn to shrug. ‘I don’t know. Every time I broach the subject, he changes it. Look what he did today. Why did we need to buy a house right now?’

  Leila nearly slopped her coffee. ‘You bought it?’

  ‘We made an offer on it and it was accepted.’

  ‘Congratulations! That’s fantastic, Ash. What’s it like?’

  ‘A standard terrace house that has been let go.’

  Leila frowned. She could see she wasn’t going to get much more from her friend. ‘Well, I think it’s a fantastic start to your married life.’

  ‘We’re not married yet.’

  ‘You will be in just over a week.’

  ‘If Quinn doesn’t call the whole thing off.’

  Leila had had enough. ‘For feck’s sake, Aisling!’ She banged her cup down on the table startling her friend who was slumping further down the couch the more she wallowed. ‘Snap out of it. This has got to stop. You are a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown.’

  Aisling made to protest and defend her corner, but she’d pushed Leila too far.

  ‘It’s ridiculous. You’re behaving like a complete and utter eejit over this wedding.’

  Hot tears burned in Aisling’s green eyes and the hives heated up. This wasn’t Leila’s job. Leila’s job as her best friend was to listen and agree with her while simultaneously making murmuring noises of support. Moira and Mammy were the only ones in their pecking order allowed to speak to her this way.

  ‘Why won’t you accept Quinn loves you?’

  Aisling sniffed and Leila passed her the tissues kept on the table for those emotional moments. Aisling pulled one from the box and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘In ten days, Aisling, you two are going to be married but your insecurity is spoiling what should be a happy time for you both!’

  Aisling blew her nose. Leila was right. It was her ruining everything but now she had good reason to be insecure. ‘Leila,’ she managed to get a word in before she could head off on another tangent. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Help me understand then because I thought you’d finally got it through that head of yours, things not working out once before doesn’t mean history will repeat itself.’ Leila looked at her expectantly.

  Aisling took a shuddering breath and her voice wavered a little as she began to speak. ‘There’s been this fear from the moment I accepted Quinn’s proposal something would go wrong before we could head down the aisle.’ Aisling twisted the edge of her sweater. ‘And now it has.’ A sob caught at the back of her throat.

  Leila passed her the tissue box once more. ‘Here, take one.’

  She helped herself giving her nose another quick blow. ‘We have to have our loan to buy the house approved by Mr Cleary at the bank. He was working out our borrowings based on the deposit we agreed to come up with for whatever we decided to buy.’

  Leila nodded. ‘That’s standard.’

  ‘Yes, but when Quinn first broached this with me not long after Christmas we sat down together and worked out a figure based on our joint savings. That’s what he worked our offer on the Crumlin Road property around. The thing is, I’ve been spending since then Leila. I’ve been spending a lot. I don’t even know how much because I haven’t been keeping tabs but I do know I don’t have anywhere near what I had in my account before we started putting this wedding together. I can’t see how we’re going to be able to go ahead with the purchase.’

  Leila tilted her head to one side. She was beginning to understand what had Aisling so worked up. She had been splashing the cash what with horse-drawn pumpkin carriages, pricey photographers, a Swarovski crystal embossed dress, not to mention her insistence on splurging on all the bridesmaids’ dresses and they’d been almost as eyewatering in price as the wedding gown. She’d tried to broach how much it was all costing with Aisling a couple of times but she’d been so caught up in the dream of her day she hadn’t wanted any reality checks. A memory struck her. ‘Your dress, Ash, that’s my fault. I broke my golden rule. I showed you it before telling you what it cost. It was just so—’

  Aisling held her hand up, ‘Gorgeous? I know, and you hardly had to twist my arm.’ And now I’ve gone and paid the deposit on the honeymoon too.’ She winced at the memory of the smiling travel agent handing over her credit card receipt. She’d even passed her the bowl of complimentary mints. A sure sign she’d spent up large. But again, Quinn had never asked her anything more about the honeymoon. Sure, he’d made a few vague inquiries about what it cost but he’d been content to leave the arrangements up to her.

  ‘You’ve kept him up to date with everything, haven’t you? I mean you guys are a dream team.’ Leila was struggling with the idea Aisling had gone ahead and booked what equated to the best of everything without once checking in with her future husband.

  Aisling gave a small shake of her head and felt a current of anger at her fiancé’s lacklustre approach to their wedding. If he’d been willing to share in it all, to contribute to the planning then she wouldn’t have got herself in such a mess. The more he’d tuned out over it all, the more she’d amped things up in the bling stakes. It was very tempting to pass the blame onto Quinn. She’d like to take her anger and run with it because it was better than the sensation of impending doom she was currently saddled with. It hadn’t been him wielding the credit card like he was a Saudi prince though. Oh no, the blame for that sat squarely on her shoulders and she was not a member of the Saudi royal family, she was Aisling O’Mara of O’Mara’s Guesthouse on the Green.

  ‘No, I haven’t told him. He has no idea what it’s all costing and I’m petrified when he finds out he’s going to call the wedding off.

  Chapter 28

  Aisling got back to the guesthouse with Leila’s advice she needed to sit down and talk things through with Quinn before they went to see their bank manager ringing in her ears. It would be far better for him to find out exactly how much this wedding had depleted their finances first-hand than through some know-it-all with a name badge at the AIB she’d warned. Aisling knew she was right. She had to come clean and she resolved to go and see Quinn as soon as she’d checked in at O’Mara’s and gotten changed. The snug waistband of her skirt was a remind
er of her pastry misdemeanour and besides, the conversation she was about to have with Quinn warranted comfortable trousers. There was a modicum of relief in a decision having been made as to what she needed to do but still and all, it was a confession she wasn’t looking forward to having to make.

  Bronagh was sliding her arms into the sleeves of her coat. Nina was yet to arrive, Aisling realised, scanning the reception area, and Bronagh had a pinched look about her as though she’d eaten an olive thinking it was a grape. She hoped everything was alright. ‘Have you an appointment you’ve got to get to?’ she inquired, fishing for information.

  ‘Jaysus wept, Aisling, you look like you’ve been ravished by a mosquito. What happened to your face?’

  Aisling sighed and repeated the sorry tale of cheap skincare products and her selfish mare of a sister. Bronagh listened with half an ear, commenting if Moira passed herself as an expert in the beauty stakes and got results like the ones currently decorating Aisling’s face, could she be trusted when it came to her foray into personal training? Aisling got the impression she was desperate for a legitimate excuse to get out of tomorrow morning’s stair climbing. She picked her bag up but before she could leave, Aisling repeated her question. ‘Do you have somewhere important you need to be?’ It was asked without guile and a hint of concern.

  ‘No, I’m in need of fresh air that’s all, Aisling.’ Bronagh flicked her eyes about the place and satisfied the coast was clear muttered, ‘I’ve had it up to here today.’ She saluted her forehead several times to prove her point before picking up a piece of paper and thrusting it in Aisling’s direction. ‘It’s enough to turn a woman to drink so it is.’ The crumbs on the desk in front of her suggested she hadn’t turned to alcohol but had found comfort in her custard cream biscuits instead. Good, Aisling thought, quietly pleased she wasn’t the only one who’d had an indiscretion this afternoon. She scanned the piece of paper, understanding dawning as to why their receptionist wasn’t her usual sunny self. Her own fingers twitched with the urge to reach for one of the custard cream filled biscuits.

  The Australian couple who were staying in Room 6 had complained the hot water pressure wasn’t great and they’d found a hair belonging to neither of them in the bath. Not only that but the pillows were lumpy and the bed was too hard and hadn’t been vacuumed under. She sighed all the way down to the tips of her patent leather, Dior stilettos. Bloody Ita! She’d be having words about her standard of cleaning. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to rake her over the coals for her slapdash efforts and she knew from past experience their director of housekeeping was a sulker. They’d all be in for days of hoover banging on the skirtings as a result. Still, she needed to be told. As for the hot water pressure, there was nothing wrong with it. Did they want a water blaster to take the fecking skin off them? None of their other guests had ever moaned about lumpy pillows or hard beds either.

  Aisling knew the couple’s type. They were people for whom there would always be too much salt in the stew or not enough pepper on their steak. The kind who felt short-changed by life in general. Born complainers, and born complainers had to be handled with kid gloves to ensure they didn’t make a loud noise in front of their other, perfectly happy guests. There was a saying when it came to offering a service such as their guesthouse, ‘the customer was always right.’ As such, it was time to don her fecky brown noser hat; Quinn would have to wait.

  The door opened as Aisling screwed up the paper and tossed it in the bin and Nina, her face peeping out from the furry hood of her parker, called out an apology for being late. Bronagh, huffing, made her escape out the door and Aisling seeing Nina’s face fall, explained. ‘You’re only a few minutes late, it’s not you. Don’t worry about Bronagh, she’s had a day of it with the couple in Room 6. Full of moans about the place so they are.’

  Nina’s worried face softened. She hated upsetting people. She was a pleaser and as such she would not ask Aisling why her face was covered in red lumps. She went to hang her coat up in the small kitchen area as Aisling sat down in the seat still warm from Bronagh and placed a call to Room 6 to see if they’d like to have a chat, in the guests’ lounge, about how she could improve their stay at a time that suited them.

  The sniffy accented twang of Mrs Trope agreed to come down and meet with her in fifteen minutes. Aisling hung up the phone and vacated the seat for Nina before scanning their bookings and seeing, as she’d hoped, Room 8 with its California king was free for the next few nights. An upgrade would hopefully appease them.

  AN HOUR LATER, HAVING politely listened to a lengthy rehashing of Mr and Mrs Trope’s earlier complaints, Aisling stood in her stocking feet in her bedroom, the skirt with its merciless waistband in a heap next to her feet. She was opening and closing drawers in search of her favourite pyjama bottoms. The headache that had been lurking all day had worsened to an almost migraine-like status and she needed to lie prone on the couch and let the paracetamol she’d popped work their magic. She also needed to indulge in a few snowballs which always had the exact opposite effect on her headaches, chocolate was supposed to have. Her favourite coconutty, chocolicious treat and an hour spent staring gormlessly at the television should sort her out. Then, she’d go to Quinn’s.

  Moira blessedly was out so the apartment was silent and she could put whatever tripe she fancied on the box and vegetate. Bliss. She deserved it after the grovelling she’d had to do where the Tropes were concerned. It had gone against the grain to place such an ungrateful pair of heathens in a larger suite, especially as she’d gotten a vibe from them upgrades were something they were well-practised at getting. She had them marked down as the kind of couple who creates a scene by saying there was a cockroach in their dinner in order to get out of paying the bill. In the long run though, it was easier to move and appease them than have the duo upset the equilibrium amongst their other guests. They were checking out the day after tomorrow. It was a small price to pay.

  She’d positioned herself so she was spread the length of the sofa like an aging film star except instead of grapes she had a bowl of the snowballs within hands reach. She’d hidden them for emergency situations like this, behind the baked beans in the cupboard where Moira would not find them (she hated baked beans). A ridiculous game show was flickering on the screen in front of her with a paunchy, balding man who fancied himself a comedian hosting it. It was his blonde sidekick in the scanty evening wear who had her mesmerised though. Her facial expressions should see her in line for an Oscar. One minute she was feigning excitement akin to an orgasmic experience when a contestant won an iron and ironing board, the next great sorrow on a par with having found herself orphaned when they lost out on the toaster. The pinging of her phone distracted her. It lay abandoned on the kitchen worktop and she twisted her head to see if she could telepathically get it to float over to where she lay. She squinted her eyes and focussed but it didn’t budge and she wondered whether she was strong enough to ignore it. All she wanted was another forty-five minutes or so to lie here and wallow in snowballs and gameshows.

  She’d almost convinced herself it had never made a sound when a few minutes later it announced the arrival of another message. One could be ignored but not two, and with a sigh she swung her legs off the sofa and sat up. Her headache had eased which was a bonus and at least she knew it wouldn’t be Mammy messaging her. She never bothered with their mobile phones which meant it might actually be something important. ‘So long as it wasn’t from Quinn,’ she muttered, padding over to retrieve the black Nokia. She didn’t bother to look at the first message knowing it would be much the same as the second one she’d just read. She wished she had ignored it because from the terse few lines telling her they needed to talk with not one single x or o at the end, Aisling knew Quinn had beaten her to it. He’d already been in touch with Mr Cleary.

  Chapter 29

  Aisling hadn’t bothered to run a comb through her hair or put her lipstick on, having decided it was best she go and swallow whatever m
edicine Quinn was going to dish out. She only went so far as to swap her pyjama bottoms for jeans. She half-heartedly hoped the sight of her wan, spotty face might soften his heart a little.

  Alasdair hadn’t quite been his usual effusive self, greeting her as she pushed the door of the bistro open and stepped inside. She was unsure if it was out of politeness to avoid mentioning her spots or because he knew what a spendthrift she’d been. Common sense told her it was far more likely it was her guilty conscience playing paranoid tricks on her. She hadn’t imagined Quinn’s steely expression as he asked her to give him a few minutes before he joined her out on the floor, though. A chill akin to icy fingers had traipsed up and down her spine at his unflinching blue eyes as he paused with the pan of boiling potatoes, he’d been carrying over to the sink to drain. They were eyes that usually twinkled with unspent mirth but tonight they were stormy. His mouth too had been set like a heart monitor flatlining. She’d also caught Paula and Tony glancing at each other before putting their heads down and getting on with the business of making sure the restaurant ticked over. The boss and his fiancée might be at odds but for them it was business as usual.

  Aisling had done as he’d suggested, grateful to see Tom wasn’t rostered on, as she’d gone in search of a quiet table. She tucked herself into the darkened corner far enough away from the other diners to ensure they weren’t privy to her and Quinn’s private goings on. From where she’d positioned herself, she could see the fire with its flames, forked tongues of orange and yellow. A shadowy glow danced up the walls, illuminating the framed photographs of guests enjoying boisterous nights in the bistro. She watched a man excuse himself from the pretty woman he was dining with, and saw him dip his head to avoid the low hung ceiling beams as he made his way to the bathroom. There was no band playing tonight given it was early in the week so she and Quinn would, at least, be able to hear themselves speak. She almost wished Shay and his band were on the empty stage banging out a bit Van Morrison so she didn’t have to sit through the talking-to, she knew was coming her way.