Chapter 3
ROSIE
‘Made from the finest Irish linen.’ The hotel’s house manager, Bertie, was showing off his new suit in the office to Rosie and Grace.
‘Sure, it cost an absolute fortune,’ went on Bertie, picking off some lint from his lapel, ‘but you know what they say, quality comes at a price. I feel like it’s the kind of thing WB Yeats wore when he was writing those long poems about swans and whatnot. ’
Grace appraised Bertie’s suit approvingly. ‘Very dapper. Perfect for a heatwave.’
‘You look like a man of leisure,’ said Rosie. ‘Or a member of the British royal family.’
‘Perhaps one of the minor ones,’ said Bertie, modestly. ‘Now, tell me this, what time are the bride and groom arriving?’
‘Any moment now,’ said Grace, her nose an inch away from the fan, blasting cool air into her face so her hair was permanently in flight.
‘Well, the bride and her matron of honour are arriving soon. The groom is collecting his brother at the airport. I actually feel nervous, as though I’m getting married.
’ She paused. ‘I may as well enjoy the feeling, because it might be the closest I’ll ever get.
’ She picked up her mini-fan and angled it down the front of her dress.
‘Would it be wrong to wear no underwear under my kaftan?’
‘Wrong,’ said Rosie, emphatically.
‘Rosie, are you not melting in that suit?’ asked Grace.
Rosie never gave her clothes a moment’s thought. She wore suits on her working hours and jeans when she wasn’t. She had begun wearing a skirt suit when she was training and it was a no-brainer solution to workwear.
Bertie turned to Rosie, giving her the once-over. ‘You do look roasting,’ he said. ‘Have you considered something woven from the finest Irish linen?’
‘Or a kaftan,’ said Grace. ‘It’s so airy.
The breeze is able to penetrate.’ To illustrate her point, she placed her mini-fan through one arm and the air rippled all the way through to the other arm.
‘If I didn’t like food so much, I might take off,’ she said.
‘But Rosie, a navy skirt suit is… well…’ She paused, as though trying to find the right words.
‘It’s just a small bit old-fashioned – and also too hot. ’
‘You look wonderful,’ Bertie said, as always springing to her aid.
Rosie turned to Grace, as though her point was proved.
‘Except…’ Bertie began.
Rosie turned back, bracing herself.
‘Perhaps a teensy-weensy… now just a smidgeon, not really at all, but perhaps a minuscule amount and no more, old-fashioned…’
‘A bit nineties,’ agreed Grace, firmly.
It was okay for Grace because she wore what she liked, long flowing dresses, big stripy jumpers, dungarees.
She had turned up to work once wearing what could only be described as someone auditioning for clown school, and now an array of kaftans so billowy that you could fall out of an aeroplane wearing one and land gently onto the ground.
But Grace looked effortless and she clearly was able to express herself through her clothes.
Rosie was unable to contemplate ever wearing anything but her navy suits – she had various skirts, matching jackets, trousers, all dry-cleaned regularly and hung up every evening.
Without them, she’d be just her. With them, she was a hotel manager.
‘In my humble opinion, and from what I’ve witnessed on hotelier conferences recently,’ said Bertie, ‘is that hotel managers of the female persuasion are not required to wear the old skirt suit any longer.’
‘What are they wearing?’ Rosie was confused. A skirt suit was work attire, wasn’t it? It was the epitome of competence which was all that guests wanted from her.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Bertie. ‘Florals, colours, linens…’ He motioned to his own suit. ‘What is called, I think in current parlance, business casual.’
‘But you’re in a suit,’ said Rosie.
‘But I am a man of a certain age. Perhaps one day, as the onslaught of business casual becomes unassailable, I too will be in chinos and polo shirts.’ He shuddered briefly. ‘But until then, I’m in Irish linen.’
‘But I like a uniform,’ insisted Rosie. ‘It’s one less thing to think about.’
‘You can still have a uniform,’ said Grace. ‘Just make it business casual.’
‘I thought navy was flattering to everyone…’
Grace shrugged. ‘I suppose dark is practical,’ she conceded. ‘Can’t see the blood. Or vomit. Or…’ She paused, thinking of something dreadful that could be found on Rosie’s clothes. ‘Baked beans.’
‘What do you think I’m doing with them?’ Rosie’s voice became slightly shrill, which was most unlike her. She hoped her clothes would never be a point of discussion again.
‘Do you ever think it will get cool again?’ asked Grace. ‘Do you remember we used to wear actual jumpers once upon a time, made of actual wool?’
‘Don’t,’ said Bertie. ‘The thought of a jumper is making me even hotter.’
‘Remember scarves?’ said Grace. ‘And things like socks?’
‘Stop it,’ said Bertie. ‘I’m going to combust.’
‘Thermal underwear,’ said Grace, giving him a look.
‘You’re evil you are,’ hooted Bertie. ‘But I think the weather will break, I’m sure of it. Mark my words.’
‘We haven’t had rain in weeks,’ said Grace. ‘And we certainly can’t have rain this weekend. It can rain on Monday, when it’s all over. And anyway, all the apps are saying sunshine.’
‘I don’t rely on the apps, whatever they are,’ said Bertie. ‘I rely on Teddy. And he said that rain is on the way.’
Grace whipped out her phone and quickly consulted the six different weather apps she had become obsessed with as the wedding had drawn closer. ‘See!’ She thrust her phone at Bertie. ‘It’s all little suns.’
‘Teddy’s got good bones,’ said Bertie. ‘My money’s on Teddy.’
‘And mine is on science,’ said Grace.
‘Let’s quickly talk about the weekend,’ Rosie said, glad to be off the topic of her clothing, even if perhaps the threat of rain wasn’t doing much to ease her worries about the wedding. ‘Grace, will you bring us all up to speed, please?’
Grace nodded, contemplating her clipboard.
‘The bride, Niamh, will be arriving soon, with her matron of honour. The groom, Seán, is collecting his brother at the airport and they will be here shortly. More guests arriving later today,’ said Grace.
‘The marquee will start being erected this afternoon. Tomorrow, Thursday, is the beach barbecue in the afternoon, Friday we have the garden party and then the rehearsal dinner in the evening. We have caterers coming in on Saturday for the wedding meal,’ she continued, ‘but Francois is making canapés to serve with drinks. He is obviously doing all the catering for the rest of the weekend, including the beach picnic and the garden party. Martin Moore says he will be around to fix any electrics or other issues. And what else…?’ Grace checked her clipboard.
‘And then the big day on Saturday. There will be what I am calling the altar, close to the marquee, beside the edge of the cliff…’
‘Make sure no one falls off the cliff,’ said Bertie. ‘My heart’s in my mouth every time I see one of our guests near the edge.’
There was a sound of a car pulling into the gravel driveway. Grace looked out through the small window. ‘It’s the bride! She’s arrived!’ She gathered up her kaftan like a Jane Austen heroine on her way to a ball and ran outside, Rosie behind her.
In one of the parking spaces on the gravel drive, two women were extricating themselves from a car which was so piled high with suitcases, boxes and clothes carriers that it was difficult to see how they had managed to fit inside in the first place.
Grace was hugging them both. ‘Oh, you’re so welcome to Cliff Top,’ she was saying. ‘The weather is behaving itself, isn’t it? Splitting the rocks, almost too hot.’ She smiled. ‘Niamh, this is Rosie O’Malley, Cliff Top’s owner and managers. Rosie, Niamh our bride.’
Niamh flung her arms around Rosie. ‘Oh, thank you for having us,’ she said.
‘We know we’re your first wedding and so we’re so grateful.
When Seán proposed here, we were so thrilled when Grace said Cliff Top could host our wedding.
She said that the big boss was called Rosie and she absolutely adored weddings. ’
Rosie was about to ask who the big boss was and then she realised Grace meant her.
Big boss sounded more like someone who ordered horses’ heads to be left in enemies’ beds or smoked cigars and Rosie had never done either.
Nor did she particularly like weddings. ‘They’re my favourite things,’ she said, looking at Grace who studiously avoided her gaze.
‘And you’re both so welcome to the hotel. ’
‘I’m Kate, bridesmaid-in-chief,’ said the other woman, dragging her case over the gravel. She had golden hair which actually tumbled, there was no other word for it, and the kind of teeth that looked chiselled, all perfect and white.
‘Bridesmaid-in-chief?’ said Grace. ‘That sounds impressive.’
Niamh laughed. ‘Kate is the perfect embodiment of someone with a type-A personality. Even when she’s a bridesmaid. She’s one of those annoying people who excel at everything.’
Kate was smiling. ‘But I’m not the one getting married.’
‘Same,’ said Grace. ‘I don’t excel at relationships either.’
‘I’m not saying I don’t excel at them,’ said Kate, quickly. ‘I haven’t yet found a man who deserves me.’
Grace smiled. ‘Why don’t we go and have a cup of tea or perhaps something cooler? We have some home-made raspberry cordial?’ Grace led the two women into the hotel.
Kate and Niamh were full of excitement, giddy with happiness and anticipation and, as Rosie walked behind them, a strange feeling hung over her, as though life was happening to other people and never to her.
Sometimes, she had a fantasy of buying a camper van and driving off into the sunset, a dog on the seat beside her, making for the Rosslare ferry and straight to France.
Freedom, the whiff of adventure in the air.
Oh, she was being silly. Who wouldn’t want to run a lovely hotel like this?
‘Will the groom be here soon?’ asked Grace.
‘Oh yes,’ said Niamh. ‘He texted about an hour ago to say they were heading out of the airport. They won’t be long now.’
Bertie was already coming towards Niamh and Kate with a tray with a jug of iced water and sprigs of mint, a pot of tea, one of coffee and some of Francois’ shortbread and a bowl of fresh strawberries, dusted with sugar and a dish of cold whipped cream.
‘Ladies, a hundred thousand welcomes to you both,’ Bertie was saying.
‘Oh, isn’t this marvellous? I remember when I was manager of the Shelbourne Hotel and Princess Grace and Prince Rainier of Monaco came to stay on their honeymoon.
We had such fun looking after them. And we’ll do the same with you.
They were at some big banquet at áras an Uachtaráin, with our president and all that, and they returned to the hotel and Rainier went to bed but Grace joined just the staff all in the kitchen, away from the guests, for a little party.
She had some great Hollywood gossip, I can tell you. ’
Bertie was great for the old blarney, thought Rosie. She never knew which of his stories were true and which were richly embroidered to add to his charm. Perhaps this wedding would pass without any issues after all. She just needed to get through the next four days.