Chapter Twenty-Three
“I will give you twenty euro if you let me put it up.”
I glance up at the mirror to see Nush standing behind me, a determined expression on her face.
It’s late afternoon and the first guests are due to arrive in a few hours.
She insisted we get ready at her salon beforehand, which means I’ve been sitting in this chair for forty-minutes while she tries to get me to put on bronzer.
“You always want me to wear my hair up.”
“Because you always wear it down.”
“I don’t like wearing it up,” I tell her, as she drags a brush through the strands. “There’s too much of it to wear up, it will just fall down.”
“But you have such a pretty neck,” she pouts, but before I can respond to that compliment, Gemma appears out of the back room, stealing both our attention.
“What?” she asks, and then glances down at her very bright, very red dress that can only be described as terrible. “Oh. Right.”
“Is that a joke dress?” Nush asks. “Are you playing a prank on me?”
“I was just seeing if it fit,” she mutters, tugging at the bodice. “I’m not going to wear it.”
“Then why do you still have it on?”
“Because I can’t reach the damn zipper, Anushka! What do you want from me?”
Nush abandons me in my chair as she goes to help Gemma, giving the zip a firm tug to free her.
“You should wear the blue dress,” Nush says. “It’s your best color.”
“It also shows off half my boobs,” she grumbles.
“Is Noah coming tonight?” I ask, as she pushes the thing down to her ankles.
“He’s staying at a friend’s house,” she says. “But he’ll be at the picnic tomorrow. What now?” she adds, when Nush and I share a look.
“Why’s he staying at a friend’s house?” I ask.
“In case I’m back late,” she says, and Nush starts to smile.
“Late because of your date?”
Gemma shoots her a warning look before turning her accusing gaze toward me. “You could tell me his name, you know.”
“Of your match?” I shrug. “I don’t know who it is,” I say truthfully. “Granny matched you. Plus, you’re not supposed to find out until everyone arrives so no one looks each other up.”
Nush scoffs. “I looked mine up.”
“What? How?”
“I may have had a sneak peek at the list,” she says innocently. “Perks of the position.”
“What position?”
“Executive Assistant. Put on the blue dress,” she adds to Gemma, who’s striding back to bathroom in her underwear.
“I’m going with the green one.”
“The blue one’s better,” Nush sings, but her attention is back on me, as she stabs me in the head with another pin. “He’s very handsome,” she says to me, and the smile on her face wipes away my annoyance.
“I’m glad you approve,” I say, but whatever excitement I might have felt for her is lost in the usual bout of nerves I get when I think about the festival.
Nush notices immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just thought I would have heard from Glenmill by now. Do you think that it’s bad that we haven’t?”
Nush doesn’t answer at first. She doesn’t answer for so long that I think she never will. And then she picks up a comb, and starts dividing my hair into sections, her expression thoughtful as she focuses on her work.
“Did you know you were the first person I met in Ennisbawn?”
“I was?”
She nods. “I was searching for somewhere outside the city to open a salon and had it narrowed down to here and Rossbridge. It was a no-brainer on paper. Rossbridge was prettier. It was also bigger. I’d have more clients, more space.
But the moment I stepped out of my car that first day, I felt like I belonged here.
It was just one of things, you know? Like it suddenly became easier to breathe.
But I made my decision when I met you. I went into Kelly’s, and I think we spoke for a total of thirty seconds before you offered to give up your break and show me around.
In any other village this size, I’d be forever known as a blow-in, but I’ve never been made to feel anything less than welcome here.
” She twists a clip into place, and parts my hair.
“This is my home,” she says. “I made it my home, and that’s why I fight for it like I do.
I want to save the street, and the pub, and everything I can.
But at the end of the day, I know they can take a sledgehammer to the whole area, and it wouldn’t matter.
Not really. Because Ennisbawn is more than some boundary map.
It’s people. It’s you and it’s me and everyone else.
And they can’t take that from us. So, screw Glenmill.
Screw Jack Doyle and screw that hotel. Tonight isn’t about them.
It’s about us. So promise me you won’t think about petitions or interviews or whether or not this is working.
Promise me you’ll have some fun tonight. ”
“Nush—”
“Promise.”
“I promise,” I say, and she squeezes my shoulders just as Gemma steps into the room in the black dress, takes one look at our unenthusiastic reaction to it, and turns back around.
* * *
The village looks incredible. Bridget, who usually manages our Tidy Towns committee, took charge of getting the main street into shape.
We painted the old buildings, we set up Harry’s fake window displays.
We plucked wildflowers from the roadside and arranged them in bright, mismatched bunches every few steps.
It all reminds me of the Ennisbawn in some of Granny’s old pictures, and not that I didn’t expect us to pull it off, but as I walked from Nush’s salon down to Kelly’s, a route I had taken so many times before, it was still a shock to the system.
What I really didn’t expect was so many people.
It’s dumb, I know. It’s what I wanted. What I hoped and planned for.
But when I envisioned the pub and the village teeming with guests, they were always just a faceless blur of color and movement.
An abstract impression of activity , but with no actual realness to it.
These people are real. They are real and there are a lot of them, all dressed up for the party as they stroll around taking pictures and line up outside the pub, signing in to get their hand stamped, and find the name of their match.
Inside is even busier, something a few guys on the door were keeping track of, while others tried to keep everyone moving, flowing them through and out to the other side where the dance floor was ready by the lake and Danny and the rest of the musicians would soon take to the stage.
We are going to have an outside bar too, but not for a while, and as a result, the queue for the inside one is several people deep.
Adam just waves me on when he catches my eye though, telling me silently that he has it under control.
The patio is my favorite bit. The sun shines like it’s been doing all afternoon, and people were already taking pictures by the well, just as I’d hoped. Frank stands nearby with Nush’s petition, explaining in his teacher voice about what we’re trying to do.
“There’s the star of the show.”
I turn to see Harry walking toward me, his partner Richie at his side. Harry’s husband is a devastatingly handsome, soft-spoken librarian, and I’m still not sure how Harry got him to marry him. A few people are already ogling the man, and Harry, instead of appearing jealous, only seems smug.
I give them both a hug, my eyes straying to the drink in Harry’s hand. “I thought you only drank on special occasions.”
“Is this not a special occasion?” He gestures wildly as he says it, the liquid (a whiskey sour by the looks of things), sloshing dangerously.
“How many of those have you had?”
“I don’t know; it’s an open bar.”
“No, it’s not,” I say sharply, but he’s already grinning, enjoying teasing me.
“That’s his first,” Richie assures me. “He’s just excited. I think he’s had too much fresh air.”
“Just reconnecting with my true village self,” Harry says. “How are you doing? No stress hives, at least.”
“That you can see,” I retort. “And I feel awful. I hate being in charge. Never let me be in charge of anything again.”
“It all looks great,” Richie assures me, and I nod, needing every bit of reassurance I can get.
“Did you see the village?” I ask. “How long have you guys been here?”
“About an hour or so?” Harry turns to Richie, who nods. “We’ve been taking in the atmosphere. Trying to find a third person to join us in the bedroom.”
“He’s joking,” Richie says pleasantly, but Harry’s still glancing about the crowd.
“Am I?”
“I’m afraid we didn’t have that option on the forms.”
“Maybe next year,” he says with a wink. “But what about him.” He points to a well-dressed older man talking animatedly a few people away.
“Too good-looking,” Richie dismisses. “You’ll get nervous.”
“I’ll get what ?”
“No propositioning the guests,” I say firmly. “Jokingly or not.”
“Well, that’s no fun.”
“Do you know what would be fun?” I say. “Helping us out. I need someone out here to collect empty glasses before we open the outside bar. And then you can…” I trail off as a beautiful blonde-haired woman in a short, sparkling silver dress steps outside the pub, a glass of white wine in her hand.
I swear to God, everyone within a few meters of her immediately turns her way.
She must be used to the attention because she barely notices as she glances about with vague interest before joining the line for the wishing well.
“Is she famous?” I ask, growing excited. “She looks famous.”
Harry scoffs. “You think every person with good posture is famous.”
True, but she has great posture.
“Maybe she’s a model or something? I bet she has a massive following. Do you think she’ll post about us?” I glance back at the flower wall, wondering if I can subtly drag her over to it, when Harry makes an amused, slightly strangled noise in the back of his throat.