Cruising with the O’Maras (The Irish Guesthouse on the Green #17)
Chapter 1
Dublin, April 2003
A isling O’Mara was perched on the edge of her bed with her legs crossed, looking like an advertisement for a day spa in her terrycloth robe. All that was missing was the glass of bubbles. ‘I think Donal’s after popping the question to Mammy and she’s said yes. You know what she’s like. She’ll have put the screws on him since Bronagh and Leonard’s engagement because she doesn’t like being left out.’ Aisling frowned, thinking about the receptionist at O’Mara’s, the guesthouse overlooking St Stephen’s Green here in Dublin, and the big diamond sparkler she was apt to shoving under guests' noses, and wondering how big Mammy’s ring would be. Hopefully, she wouldn’t waggle her fingers and break into a breathy version of ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’ each time someone feigned interest in her sparkler like Bronagh. To Aisling, she sounded more like a full-time smoker than Marilyn Monroe. Her fingers worried at an annoying loose thread on her robe. It was almost as irritating as the ‘Diamonds’ song, and she wasn’t done with the topic yet.
‘Do you think she’ll take his name?’ Aisling loved Donal. She did, but she didn’t like the idea of Mammy no longer being an O’Mara much. It was silly because she knew it wouldn’t mean Mammy would have forgotten about Daddy if she did. That was hardly likely with the fruit of his loins – Patrick, the eldest and only son, Roisin, herself and Moira, the youngest – to remind her of him.
Moira shared the family apartment they’d grown up in on the top floor of the guesthouse with Aisling. They rubbed alongside one another with their other halves and off-spring because it made financial sense in the short term. Right now, she was on her knees, arse in the air, with her head buried inside Aisling's wardrobe. Her voice was muffled as she bounced back, ‘She can’t because then she wouldn’t be an O’Mara anymore.’
Aisling thought that was a typical ‘no shades of grey’ Moira way of viewing things. Her sister was scanning Aisling’s covetable collection of designer stilettos on the closet's bottom shelf, which hadn’t been added to since Aisling became an O’Mara-Moran and her disposable income shrank with responsibilities like a mortgage and twin babies. Killer heels didn’t feature much in her day-to-day mammy wear. Today was an anomaly, however, and while Aisling was in her dressing gown waiting for Moira to get on with it and be on her way, she did have a gorgeous strappy pair of Louboutin heels on her feet, a full face of makeup and her mane of reddish-gold hair was suitably fluffed.
She gave up on the loose thread and crossed her legs, twirling her ankle to admire the sparkly gorgeousness of the shoe on her right foot. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you,’ she said quietly, thinking it was grand to have an occasion to wear them again even though she’d no clue what she would wear with them. In the worst-case scenario, she’d go in her robe. At least it would be comfy. She’d begrudgingly allowed Moira to borrow a pair of shoes for the auspicious luncheon, not out of the kindness of her heart but in exchange for babysitting bonus points.
A thought occurred to Aisling. Mammy might choose to double barrel like me. She went by O’Mara-Moran these days, proud to be Quinn Moran’s wife, owner of Quinn’s Bistro on nearby Baggot Street, but not having wanted to relinquish the connection to her daddy’s name either. ‘Maureen O’Mara-McCarthy.’ She sounded out what could very well be Mammy’s new name, deciding that, while a mouthful, it had a ring. She repeated it slower this time.
‘I heard you the first time.’ Moira's voice drifted out.
‘It’s strange hearing their names strung together like so. Don’t you think? Not in a bad way, like. Just strange. O’Mara-McCarthy, I could live with it. Jaysus Moira, are you ever coming out of there?’
‘Ash, you’re getting ahead of yourself. We don’t know why Mammy’s summoned us for lunch, but I’m taking my time. Choosing from your designer shoe collection is like being a kid in a corner shop with your pocket money and big decisions to be made as to which sweets to buy. Don’t rush me.’
Moira was out of practice when it came to dressing up, too. Her former life as a legal secretary had seen her leave the guesthouse looking like a fashion plate most mornings. These days, she fancied herself more bohemian given she was mam to the toddler Kiera and a Fine Arts student.
Aisling mulled over what she’d said about her getting ahead of herself and decided her sister was wrong. ‘Cop yourself on Moira: a spontaneous, slap-up meal at Beaufield Mews, which everybody knows is a popular wedding venue. Watch this space, girl, because engagements fall under that category, too, and that’s what we’ll be toasting this afternoon. Donal’s girls Louise and Anna and their lot are invited too.'
The expense of the meal would make your eyes water, she thought, blinking, recalling how two days ago Mammy had demanded her daughters’ including Roisin, who was pregnant, and their partners Quinn, Tom and Shay, along with the twins, Aoife and Connor, the toddler Kiera and school-age Noah’s presence for a slap-up lunch, at one pm sharp on Sunday. She'd ordered if they had other plans then they were to change them. Aisling knew she’d have invited Patrick, Cindy and the babby Brianna if they weren’t living in Los Angeles. Patrick got out of a lot of things because of that. Sometimes, emigration was a tempting prospect, she mused.
It was an invitation initially met with moans of, ‘It’s short notice’ from Aisling and, after conferring with Roisin, she found she wasn’t alone in this sentiment. Meanwhile, Moira had been more concerned about the financial aspect of dining out, with her first question being, ‘Are you and Donal paying, Mammy? Because Tom and I are students, you know, as well as parents.’ Tom was at medical school and would one day become a doctor. It was handy having a trainee doctor in the house. Sure, Aisling had presented him with a mysterious red spot on her leg just last night. She was unsure about his abilities as she’d disliked his ingrown-hair diagnosis.
However, all moans were silenced when Mammy divulged lunch was on her and Donal. Also, a table had been booked at Beaufield Mews, thanks to a cancellation at the last minute of a wedding reception. When you think about it, it is sad, Aisling mulled, because it likely meant the bride or the groom had cold feet, and she knew how it felt to be let down. Still, things worked out grand for her in the end, and it was far better to pull the pin before saying ‘I do’.
Moira’s main concern had been whether the couple had lost their deposit on the venue.
It wasn’t every day you got an invitation for a family gathering at the likes of the beautiful converted old house in Stillorgan with a stellar five-star reputation. Nor was it often Mammy was tight-lipped about anything, but on the reasons behind the last-minute lunch she would not be drawn, saying all would be revealed when they were seated around the table enjoying a convivial lunch.
The O’Mara girls had burned up the phone lines tossing theories back and forth, with the hot favourite between Aisling and Roisin being an engagement. Moira was adamant it was purely a spontaneous celebration of Mammy and Donal’s luck in having wonderful children and precious grandchildren. That or she’d decided to formally adopt Ciara with a ‘C’, her fashion guru who worked at a local Howth boutique near Mammy and Donal’s home with its sea view. Aisling and Roisin vetoed the suggestion because Ciara was still in the bad books over the fashion faux pas, whereby the same dress had been sold to Bronagh and Mammy. The result of which was they'd twinned at a recent family christening. Nobody bothered ringing their brother, Patrick, in Los Angeles for his input, aware that all they’d get was an earful on the trials and tribulations of being a new daddy.
‘Is it a miner’s head-torch you’re needing?’ Aisling flung at her sister’s arse before averting her gaze, which lit upon the latest Marian Keyes novel on her bedside table. She’d been dipping into it before bed each night and was nearly finished. ‘Marian got married there, you know.’
‘Marian who?’
‘Keyes. You know, the author.’
‘I see, a close personal friend of yours is she?’
Aisling pulled a face even though Moira couldn’t see her. ‘I’m just saying.’
At last, Moira popped out from the closet, a champagne cork from a bottle or, Aisling thought a tad bitchily, like a dog who’d dug up a bone as she sat back on her haunches and waved a pair of Yves Saint Laurent platforms triumphantly. ‘These are perfect.’ Then, getting a sly look on her face, she asked, ‘Do you know who else has dined at Beaufield?’
Aisling pulled another face. ‘Ah no, not Daniel?’ Instantly, an image of Daniel Day-Lewis in his The Last of the Mohicans loin cloth, Mammy’s all-time favourite film for that very reason, frolicking amongst the spring flowers in the beautiful gardens of Beaufield Mews appeared before her. ‘Mammy’s probably got wind he’s over there in Stillorgan filming a sequel to The Last of the Mohicans .’
‘Sure, what would he be doing making a film about a Native American tribe in a Stillorgan restaurant?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘Anyway, I’m not talking about Daniel. It’s someone else.’
‘Who?’ Aisling felt she was walking into a trap.
‘Bono!’ Her sister clapped her hands delightedly, watching Aisling, who almost had an allergic reaction whenever the singer’s name was mentioned, throw herself back on the bed with an anguished yelp.
Making a swift recovery, Aisling reared back up and pointed a finger at her sister. ‘So, we’re clear then? You will be personally responsible, student or no student, for full replacement value should you and your cloven hooves damage my Yves Saint Laurents in any way.’
‘Affirmative,’ Moira bounced back with a nod. Then she slapped her chest with her hand. ‘Hand on heart. I will look after these beauties as though they were my child. And can I have a squirt of your Jasper Conran while I’m here? Pretty please.’
‘No. And given you lost Kiera in the Tesco yesterday, I’m not feeling reassured, Moira.’
‘Ah, be fair, Ash. That wasn’t my fault. It was your man on the butcher’s counter. He was asking for trouble, offering her the little red sausage in the first place. How was I to know she’d toddle back for seconds?’
Aisling begged to differ. It should have been obvious, but then she and her niece were on the same wavelength regarding food. Not just food, she thought. Kiera burst into tears whenever she saw a photograph of your Bono man, too.
Moira disappeared and left Aisling to inspect the contents of her wardrobe. She began flinging items onto the bed, her frown becoming a scowl because nothing suitable fitted since she’d had the babies. She sat down again, wondering if she really could pull off the bathrobe look.
Moira’s figure snapped back like an elastic band after giving birth to Kiera. She reappeared in the bedroom merely minutes after vacating it. ‘How do I look?’ She twirled her sheet of black hair, shimmering like silk. ‘I feel like the old Moira. Only a new and improved version because I’m much happier now than I used to be.’
‘I can see your knickers in that IBS,’ Aisling muttered, unimpressed.
‘It’s LBD : little black dress, as well you know.’
‘More like itsy black sheath: IBS. It’s lunch, not opening night at a club in town.’ Aisling was aware she sounded like their mammy and turned her attention back to the loose thread, mumbling, ‘Sorry. You look gorgeous.’
‘What’s got up your nose then?’ Moira asked, mollified.
Aisling slapped her hands down on her thighs. ‘I’ve nothing to wear, and Mammy’s bound to take photos to mark the occasion!’
‘I’d offer to loan you something, but . . . ’ Moira shrugged. Not even she, Mouth of Ireland’s South, was prepared to suggest that Aisling would only get one leg in anything she owned. Instead, she was proactive in inspecting the contents of Aisling’s wardrobe. ‘Here, put this on. You look well in that shade of blue.’
‘Not funny.’ Aisling glowered at her sister, holding up the dress she and her sisters had nicknamed ‘The Chinese Silk Prostitute Dress’ because your redhead who was in China Beach on the tele wore something similar. Mammy had brought it back along with different colours for Moira and Rosi from her and Moira’s Vietnam travels.
Then, a flash of green caught Aisling’s eye and she shot off the bed, pushing Moira out of the way (who nearly went over, still not having found her centre of gravity on the heels). ‘I’d forgotten all about you,’ she cooed to the A-line apparition. ‘I always felt a million dollars in this.’ She held the fabric next to her. ‘What do you think?’
Still spiralling her arms out, Moira announced it to be ‘Perfect.’
Aisling flung her robe off, and Moira wisely did not comment on the sucky-in-everything underwear her sister squeezed into as she slipped the dress over her head. It floated down around Aisling’s legs, and her black mood dissolved like magic.
‘If we don’t leave now, we’ll get stuck in the match day traffic,’ Quinn bellowed outside the door.
Aisling picked up her bag, linked her arm through her sister’s and strutted forth. The clothes strewn everywhere would have to wait. Hopefully Quinn had sorted Aoife and Connor: dressed them in their party best as instructed and had taken her advice to stick with the white shirt for himself. It brought out the blue in his eyes and the uncanny Ronan Keating resemblance, ensuring exceptional service from waitresses. Donal, Mammy’s intended, might be the spit of Kenny Rogers but Ronan was Ireland's flavour of the month. And nobody could say life wasn’t a rollercoaster now they had the twins! Aisling laughed at her little pun but quickly sobered because, soon, all would be revealed, hopefully over a lovely juicy steak.
Would Mammy become a McCarthy?