Tales From a Hen Weekend (17 page)

The plan, this evening, is for a traditional Irish meal at a place that Jude’s booked for us in Temple Bar, followed by (naturally) a few drinks, as it’s our last night. I can’t believe how quickly this weekend is going. I’m actually quite surprised that I’m having such a good time, considering that everything in my life seems to be going pear-shaped. I’m wondering whether the constant topping-up of alcohol is keeping me from grasping anything with any real clarity. I’m drinking, and smiling, and laughing, and drinking, and all the time there are these dark clouds forming somewhere on the edges of my consciousness. Like an unexpectedly bright sunny day in the middle of a bad winter, the alcohol and the laughter are giving me a false air of cheerfulness. Underneath, I’m not sure what cold depths of reality are lurking.

So far Helen hasn’t tried to talk to me any more about Greg. I think she may be embarrassed. I’m sure if she hadn’t had a few drinks last night, none of this would have come out.

And I’m equally sure that if
I
hadn’t had a few drinks this lunchtime, I wouldn’t be walking next to her now on the way to the DART station in Dalkey, bringing up the subject again myself.

‘I’ll have to leave,’ I tell her, quite nonchalantly, as if I’m not talking about the job I love.

‘What? Leave?’

She’s looking at me as if I’ve spoken in Japanese. No, on second thoughts – knowing Helen, she’d probably have understood me if I had.

‘I’ll have to leave Bookshelf. Obviously.’

‘Of course you won’t!’ She looks stricken. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Why should you?’

‘I didn’t say I
should
. I said I’ll
have
to.’

‘But…’

‘You must have known that. You must have realised I won’t be able to stay, now you’ve told me all this stuff. How can I? I’d feel like… well, like a third shoe when there’s only two feet. A third glove for a pair of hands. A…’

‘Yes, yes, I get the picture. But you won’t! We’ve worked so well together all this time.’

‘Only because I didn’t know what was going on in your head, or Greg’s. Now I know, it changes the whole dynamics of our little
ménage à trois
. It’ll be impossible.’

‘Greg’ll blame me. If you go, he’ll be distraught, and he’ll blame me, and then he’ll
never…
’

I look at her almost indifferently.

‘He’ll never want you? Well, how can I help that? You’ll have to work it out between you, Helen. I’m going to start job-hunting when we go back.’

‘You’ve got enough on your plate as it is,’ she says, quietly, ‘with the wedding.’

Yes. That too.

We have a couple of quiet hours in our rooms when we get back to the hotel. We’re all tired out from the fresh air, the exercise, and the alcohol. And poor Jude’s in a lot of pain with her ankle. It’s really badly swollen.

I put some extra pillows on the end of the bed and help her to lie down with her foot up and some cold towels around it.

‘Are you sure you shouldn’t see a doctor?’ I ask her.

‘Jesus, no. Sure it’ll be grand if I just rest it for a while.’

She swallows a couple more painkillers and closes her eyes.

Oh well – might as well read a chapter or two of
Love In The Afternoon
. I pick up the book and turn a few pages but I can’t concentrate. My thoughts keep straying to what sort of job I might have to take if I leave Bookshelf.
When
I leave Bookshelf. I might have known it was too good to be true. Who in this world gets to have their perfect job?

Come to that, I think, skimming the words of chapter one and turning another page, who in this world gets to have their perfect man? I lie back and close my eyes for a minute, thinking about Matt. I remember all the good times we’ve had during our years together. All the fun, and love, and laughter, before we started arguing. I need to focus on that – focus on the happy times, forget about Prague, and all the cross words and bickering and sulks recently. That’s just a blip. It’ll pass. Everything’s going to work out fine.

Helen thinks her perfect man is Greg, which is the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever heard in my life – but what good will that do her, if it’s not reciprocated? She’ll just be even more unhappy than if she’d never met her so-called
Mr Right
in the first place.

And look at Lisa. She thought Perfect Prick was her perfect man at one time. And now he’s turned out to be the booby prize, she thinks this Andy from the gym is Mr Perfect. Until when? Until their first argument? Until he finds someone else, or she does, or she finds out he’s just another prick in disguise?

I’ve always believed in love. I
love
believing in love and I don’t want to stop. But look around you: where is it? Where’s the evidence for it? Look what happened to Mum, for instance. What was the point of her falling in love with my dad – what good did that do her? It ruined her life! Apart from getting me and Lisa, of course. Is that what it’s all about, at the end of the day? Just God’s little trick to get you to reproduce, keep the population going? I’m
not
going to believe that. I can’t give up on it. It’s always been my dream. One woman; one man; one lifetime. It’s got to be true. It’s got to work! I’m going to read this bloody book if it kills me, and I’m going to believe in
love in the afternoon
, and the evening, and the morning, and
all
the time, despite everything I hear to the contrary.

But I’m not thinking about Matt as I finally immerse myself in the story of the two star-crossed lovers in my book. It’s completely silly, and it’s probably just because I’m still a bit drunk. And I’m certainly not going to be telling anyone. But the face I keep seeing in my mind’s eye is Harry’s.

‘What in God’s name is a boxty?’ demands Lisa, about one second ahead of the rest of us.

Jude’s taking us to a boxty restaurant. She says it’s an Irish tradition and we’ll love it. Luckily it’s only just round the corner from our hotel, and we’re taking it in turns to be Jude’s ‘crutches’.

‘It’s a kind of potato pancake, with all kinds of different fillings. Sure you’ve never been to Ireland if you haven’t tasted a boxty. You’ll be full to the brim, it’ll soak up any amount of alcohol, so it will.’

‘Sounds like it was invented for us!’

‘It’s an ancient Irish dish. They say you won’t get married if you can’t make it.
Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan. If you can’t make boxty, you’ll never get your man!’

‘Blimey,’ says Emily, nudging me. ‘You’d better get the recipe for one of these boxty thingies off the chef, love, or you might as well call the wedding off tonight!’

‘
Not
funny, Emily,’ says Lisa, looking at my face. ‘Don’t upset the bride on the last night of her hen weekend.’

‘It’s OK, I’m fine’, I say quickly. ‘Yes, very funny, Em – get the bloody recipe off the chef, then, good idea.’

Maybe I’ll open a boxty restaurant in Romford after I leave Bookshelf.

‘Are there any vegetarian boxties?’ asks Karen suspiciously.

‘There are too. Sure I’ve had one meself and it’s probably the tastiest of the lot. Then there’s fish, and chicken, and beef with stout, or of course you should really try the bacon and cabbage – that’s the most typically Irish boxty.’

‘Have you got shares in this place?’ says Emily. ‘You could get a job standing outside the restaurant, getting people in off the streets.’

‘That’s one thing they don’t need!’ laughs Jude, as we turn the corner and she points to the queue already snaking out of the restaurant door. ‘This place is always busy.’

Good job Jude got us a reservation. We squeeze our way in past the queue and make our way to our table. Everything’s old and dark in here, with ancient wooden tables and chairs. You feel like you’re in someone’s farmhouse kitchen.

‘Cool!’ shouts Suze, settling down with the menu. ‘Get the drinks in!’

‘I think it’s Guinness all round, tonight! No excuses! We should all be used to it after three days here,’ says Lisa.

‘And I’m having some homemade Irish Broth to start,’ decides Helen.

‘Would you maybe not think of having a starter,’ says Jude. ‘Or you’ll never get the boxty inside of you, to be sure.’

Our waitress is rushed off her feet and we have a bit of a wait for our meal, so by the time it arrives we’re all onto the second pint of Guinness and most of us have had enough of it and are more than ready to get stuck into the wine.

‘I feel pissed already,’ complains Emily.

‘Well, get outside of your boxty, that’ll take care of you, so it will.’

Jude knocks back a couple more painkillers. She’s sitting at the end of the table with her foot up on an extra chair. Her ankle’s strapped up now with some proper bandages we got from the chemist’s, but you can still see how swollen it is.

‘Should you be taking all those pills, with the alcohol?’ I ask her.

‘Ah, be away with you and yer nagging, Katie. To be sure if the pain doesn’t kill me, the drugs and the alcohol will!’

‘But seriously…’

‘They’re only paracetamol, for the love of God. I’m having a laugh with you. I’ll be grand altogether when I’ve got a couple more glasses of this wine down me neck.’

It’s warm in the restaurant. Halfway through my beef boxty, I’m having doubts about Jude’s claim that it’ll soak up the alcohol. I guess it might if you don’t drink as much as we’re all putting away.

‘Hey, everyone!’ calls Emily, trying to stand up but getting pushed back down by Lisa, sitting next to her. ‘As it’s our last night I think we should all raise a glass to our bride.’

‘To the bride!’ goes the cry around the table.

‘To Katie!’

‘To Katie and Matt!’

‘May your days be touched by a bit of Irish luck…’ begins Jude, waving her glass in the air.

She stops, rubs her head, frowning, but before she can remember the next line Karen finishes for her:

‘And may your nights be warmed by a bit of Irish fuck!’

‘Karen!’ exclaims Mum, scandalised, as we all screech and squeal and roll around in our chairs with laughter. ‘Honestly!’

‘Come on, Marge,’ laughs Joyce, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘You have to admit, that was very funny!’

‘What
are
the correct words to that nice Irish blessing, Jude?’ asks Mum, sniffily.

‘Buggered if I know, Marge!’ giggles Jude, spilling half her wine over her plate. ‘I prefer Karen’s version!’

Look at the state of us, by the time we move on to a bar a little way down the street. There’s live music in here so we reckon it’ll be a good finale to our last night. At least I think that’s what we reckon. We’re all so full of boxty, booze and general high spirits we can hardly hold a rational discussion.

The bar’s absolutely crammed; we find a spot near a window where there’s just about room for us all to stand. The music’s lively and the crowd’s good-natured, and someone lets Jude have a chair although there’s nowhere for her to put her foot up.

‘Should have been wearing our schoolgirl outfits again!’ shouts Lisa, as she and Karen come back from the bar with the drinks. ‘I bet we’d have got served a lot more quickly!’

‘Yeah – and attracted a lot more attention!’ I laugh.

‘Oh! Oh, God – I almost forgot!’ shrieks Emily, diving into her handbag. ‘I brought these for us to wear again tonight!’

The photo badges. Great.

‘Do I really need everyone in here to see what I looked like as a baby?’ I groan as they all start pinning on their badges.

‘Yeah – come on, love, let’s see!’ laughs a guy at the next table. ‘Your hen party, is it?’

Well done.

‘Ha! Brings back memories!’ says the girl sitting next to him, who looks too young but is evidently his wife. ‘Had a brilliant time on mine last year. Went to Prague. Great, it was!’

I freeze at the mention of Prague. Bugger. Just when everything was going so well.

‘We went for a week – it was so cheap! Everything! The hotel was cheap, the drink was cheap …
much
cheaper than Dublin! Dublin’s the most expensive place in the world, I reckon. We’ve been saving up ever since the wedding to come here for our first anniversary.’

This is really,
really
not what I want to hear.

‘Yeah, it’s very expensive, is Dublin’, chimes in her husband. ‘And as for London! I went to London just for three days for my Stag, and it cost more than her week in Prague! Unbelievable!’

‘Never mind, love. You enjoy yourself while you can! Plenty of time for economy after the wedding, eh!’ giggles Mrs Happy First Anniversary.

I feel sick. I don’t want to talk to these people about their hen party and their stag party. I walk away from them, push my way through the crowd to the Ladies.

I don’t really need to go to the loo; I just need to be on my own for a minute. I lean against the sinks and close my eyes. When I open them, Emily’s standing next to me.

‘You all right, little hen?’ she says, frowning at me through the mists of her own drunkenness.

‘No.’

‘Whassup?’

‘Prague. Anniversary Annie out there went to bloody Prague for her hen party – her hen
week –
and it was cheap. Cheap, cheap, cheap. Cheaper than a weekend in Dublin’.

‘OK, Katie,’ she says, grasping my point straight away, despite the alcohol. ‘So the stag’s cheap. So what? That’s not really the point.’

‘Of course it is. It’s the whole point! I made all that fuss, and I was wrong about it.’

‘No. No, you
weren’t
wrong.’ She’s got hold of my arm now and talking right close to my face. ‘Matt was wrong, Katie. He was wrong because it mattered to you, and he didn’t care how much it mattered. That’s the bottom line. That’s what I
told
him. . .’

‘You what?’ I stare at her, totally lost. ‘When? When did you tell him?’

She’s realised what she’s said, the minute the words are out of her mouth. She’s covered her mouth with her hand as if to stop herself saying anything else.

‘
When
?’ I repeat, staring at her. Staring at the flush rising in her cheeks, the shifty look in her eyes, the slight shake of her hand as she takes it from her mouth and scratches her head with it. ‘
When
were you talking to him? Why were you discussing this with him behind my back?’