Chapter 12
12
GIRLS’ TRIP
Becca
Girls, would you both be free to pop round to mine tonight? Or even on your way home from work? Or we could meet at Caffè Nero for a quick coffee and chat? I have news! And a favour to ask.
Niamh
An excuse to stay away from home for an extra hour and possibly avoid having to make three different dinners to appease my ungrateful brood? Sounds like heaven to me!
Laura
What time? I’m at the dentist with Robyn and then I’ve to meet Conal at Mum’s to sign yet more paperwork. *sad face*
Becca
What time works for you, L?
Laura
Six gives me time to drop Robyn home first. Does that work?
Niamh
It’s good for me. But I’m going to tell Paul that we’re meeting at five. I’ll treat myself to a hot chocolate and an hour reading my book in peace before you get there.
Becca
Perfect! I’ll see you all at six.
Laura
Is everything okay? The meeting with Grace?
Becca
Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.
Parking close to Caffè Nero, I really hope I can get the girls on board with what Grace and I discussed. I think it could really be good for them. I know it could be good for me. Or at least I think it would be. And if not, then at least we’ll be able to tell ourselves that at least we stepped – nay, jumped – outside of our collective comfort zone.
It’s not often an opportunity like this comes along and I can’t help but feel that this is fate in some way. Perhaps Kitty O’Hagan weaving her magical spell from the afterlife and looking after us in the way she always had. Maybe I can pitch it to them that way?
Pushing open the door, I’m greeted with a rush of coffee-scented warm air and the chatter of customers catching up with friends. It’s surprisingly busy for six o’clock on a Tuesday night in January and it takes me a moment to spot Niamh, curled onto a soft armchair, looking down at her book. She looks completely at ease – amid the hissing of the coffee machine, clatter of cups on saucers and hubbub of conversation. Then again, I suppose she is used to the non-stop noise of a school environment. Silence might be a bit overwhelming. I’m just about to start walking across the café to her when the door opens behind me, bringing with it a rush of cold and a semi-frozen Laura.
‘That is not a nice evening,’ she says, shivering before pulling me into a quick hug. Niamh has spotted us and is waving for us to join her. I mime bringing a cup to my mouth and raise an eyebrow in the universal sign language for ‘Do you want another drink?’ and she mouths ‘Hot chocolate’ in an exaggerated fashion. It’s probably a good thing. My increasingly shoddy eyesight means I need everything to be large and in my face. How I wish for the days I could take my glasses off long enough to lose them – and not have to panic about it.
‘What would you like?’ I ask Laura. ‘I’m getting these.’
‘You’re not,’ she replies. ‘I’ll get them. You’d a big day.’
‘Wise up! Just tell me what you want! You got them the last time.’
‘Becs, just go and sit down and I’ll bring them over…’
There is only one way to end this coffee-related stand-off. I need to act. Fast. I give her a gentle shove out of the way and barrel my way through to the counter, from where I grin at her triumphantly. I get a filthy look in return before she rolls her eyes and informs me she’ll have a cappuccino.
Neither Niamh nor Laura have to tell me they also want a slice of cake. You can’t be friends with women for close to four decades without knowing that they always, always have cake – and none of that extra fibre, low sugar, wholemeal flour, birdseed-topped healthy option stuff either. It’s go big-and-covered-in-chocolate or go home.
Once we are all seated with our tasty treats, Niamh urges me to ‘get to the bloody point’.
‘As if Paul’s reaction to the situation isn’t enough to try my patience, it’s a Tuesday in January and the heating was on the blink in the school today so my nice-girl persona has already been tested enough for one day,’ she says as she scoops a partially melted marshmallow out of her hot chocolate and swallows it. ‘And yes,’ she adds, ‘this is my second hot chocolate. It’s also my second slice of cake but I dare either one of you to say anything.’
We both raise our hands in a ‘surrender’ pose. ‘I’m not that brave,’ I say, and I mean it. Niamh had texted me earlier to ask me to recommend a good divorce lawyer. I’m only about 90 per cent sure she was joking.
‘Me neither,’ Laura says. ‘Have as much cake and chocolate as you want. This is a judgement-free zone. I raided Robyn’s leftover selection boxes over the weekend when the PMS hit hard, and had to replace the bars before she noticed.’
‘It’s medicinal. Anyway,’ Niamh says before turning her attention back to me and glaring pointedly.
I put my cup down. ‘Okay! First of all, yay! I got the gig! It’s only a column once a month and it doesn’t pay much. So now we have cast-iron proof that Carrie Bradshaw was a lying baggage with her fancy shoes and New York apartment all funded by her column-writing career. But still, I’m going to be paid to write about something I really want to write about.’ I can’t help but smile.
Niamh grins. ‘That’s brilliant. I am absolutely delighted for you. But if I hear you saying it’s only a column again I’ll not be responsible for my actions. It’s a bloody column in a well-known, well-read magazine. And as for payment – as long as they’re not taking the piss and being ridiculously stingy then it doesn’t matter that it’s not enough to live the Carrie Bradshaw life. She’s a train wreck anyway. Never should’ve let poor Aidan go and chosen that Mr. Big gobshite instead, if you ask me.’
I should’ve remembered that Carrie Bradshaw is on Niamh’s List. Niamh’s List is a thing of legend and once you find yourself on it, nothing you do can or will ever do can get you removed from it. To earn a place on it, all a person has to do is annoy Niamh in one of countless ever-changing ways. This can include being mean to her in her dreams, not saying thank you after she holds a door open for them, ever having appeared on Love Island and, of course, being Carrie Bradshaw.
‘I’m so happy for you,’ Laura adds, reaching across and giving my hand a squeeze. ‘And fair play to you for making it happen! I’m proud of you and my mum would be proud of you too!’
A lump forms in my throat. I really hope Kitty would be proud.
‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice breaking like a thirteen-year-old boy’s.
‘There’s no better reason for cake!’ Niamh brings a fork-full of chocolate fudge cake to her mouth before devouring it as if she hasn’t eaten in a week. I wait until her semi-orgasmic noises have died down before I drop my next bombshell.
‘There’s more,’ I tell them. ‘As well as the column, Grace asked me if I would write a feature on a new retreat that’s going to be run in Donegal.’
‘Ooooh! Is it going to be all luxury spa treatments and delicious organic food, and only the best non-hangover-inducing wine?’ Laura asks, her eyes wide.
‘Not quite.’
‘Tell me it’s not some sort of wacky survivalist shite where they make you plunge into ice water and drink some sort of hallucinogen which makes you boke your anatomy and go on some sort of spiritual journey?’ Niamh might be a fan of yoga, but you’d be wrong to assume she is in anyway a hippy chick. And as for ‘survivalist shite’ – she is very, very clearly not a fan.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘It’s not that either. At least I don’t think so. The details are a bit sketchy, but Northern People wouldn’t be interested if it was a complete shite-hole. I’d say it’s probably somewhere in between the two? It’s a retreat for women of our age who are looking to empower themselves and embrace the next stage of their life.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ Laura says. ‘So kind of a Crones Are Us type of thing?’
‘Who are you calling a crone?’
‘Crone isn’t a bad word, Niamh. We’ve talked about this before. The three stages of womanhood? Maiden, Mother and Crone? All centred in Celtic mythology and the belief that older women are wise and powerful. Like the Bean Feasa.’
Laura seems to have an increasingly unlimited knowledge when it comes to the folklore of ageing women. It seems to have become her special interest since her mother’s death. I imagine it’s because she saw that strength in Kitty, and she’s determined that we’ll hang on to it too.
‘Bean Feasa?’ Niamh asks.
‘That’s the Irish for wise woman – an older lady imbued with knowledge and healing powers.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ I add. ‘It’s a weekend retreat. There will be some meditation, but as far as I know no hallucinogens.’
‘More’s the pity,’ Niamh replies. ‘I would pay good money to read about you getting yourself off your tits on mushrooms.’
‘Let me stop you there!’ I raise my hand. ‘First of all, once again, there will be no mushrooms and even if there were, I would not be partaking. The last thing I need or want is to lose control of my senses. No. I want to be fully present. Second of all,’ and this is where I finally get to the point, ‘ Northern People have offered me three places on the retreat – as long as you two don’t mind bunking in with me.’
The expressions on their faces are a mirror image of each other. Eyes wide. Eyebrows raised. Not quite sure if this is a good thing, or a bad thing.
‘Sorry, what?’ Niamh asks.
‘Look, when I submitted the columns I wrote a little about, you know, the importance of female friendship groups and about how much you girls mean to me.’
‘Awww! That’s so sweet,’ Laura says.
‘So,’ I continue, ‘when I saw Grace and she agreed to the column she also said this opportunity had come in but really she didn’t have any suitable staff for it and she’s too busy to take the weekend away herself. She thinks it will make for great copy and sure, it means the three of us can get away for a weekend together and when was the last time we did that? It’s not going to cost us anything except for whatever snacks we want to bring and it will be an experience. Something different. Something the sixteen-year-old versions of us would want us to do?’
‘And where is it? I need more details than just Donegal,’ Niamh says. ‘Is it a nice hotel at least? Will the food be decent? It won’t be superfoods and sawdust, will it?’
I shift awkwardly in my seat. This might just be where I lose them. ‘I don’t know about the food. And, well… about the accommodation… the thing is…’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this,’ Niamh says.
‘Shush! Just let her speak.’ I knew I could count on Laura to be the voice of reason. Lovely hippy-centric Laura.
‘The thing is, it’s not a hotel.’
‘Self-catering cottage?’ Laura asks, hopefully.
I may be losing her too.
‘Yurt,’ I say, in little more than a whisper. ‘Near Clonmany. Not far from the beach. Apparently you can hear the sea from your bed.’
There’s a pause that lasts longer than is strictly comfortable for any of us before Niamh speaks.
‘A weekend, in a tent, near a beach, on the Atlantic coast… when? In the summer? Spring at least?’
‘This weekend.’ If there is a volume level that is one step lower than a whisper, I am speaking at it.
‘Sorry, did she just say this weekend?’ Niamh is incredulous.
Laura just stares at me for a moment, eyes blinking.
‘I know it’s a big ask, but very last minute and?—’
‘Fuck it, I’m in!’ Niamh says. ‘A weekend away from the bosom of my family who I simultaneously love but want to kill? In a tent? At the will of the wind and waves rolling in off the Atlantic? What could possibly go wrong? But here… fortune favours the brave.’
We both look at Laura. ‘You don’t even need to ask,’ she says. ‘My mum would kick my arse if I didn’t, and to be honest, it would be nice to get away from all the grief and the house-selling stuff. Even if only for a weekend.’
I am absolutely thrilled silly. The thought of the three of us going away together is so exciting. I don’t even care that it’s to a yurt. Or that there will be workshops and self-improvement sessions we will have to attend. I’ve survived yoga. I can survive this. I might even enjoy it.