Bridesmaid Blitz (2 page)

I sprint toward my house. Mills and I both live in the same estate, Sycamore Park in Glenageary. We’ve been friends since we were old enough to share Barbie dolls. She lives at number 21 — our place is number 15 — so every school day we meet at the green postbox in front of Mills’s and travel in together on the DART. Mum can’t understand why we need to spend so much time “in each other’s pockets,” as she puts it, but I guess that’s because she’s nearly forty. Her priorities are all over the place.

Dad’s Mercedes is parked outside my house, and I’m so not in the humor for yet another pep talk about how “second year is the foundation for the Junior Cert. exams,” so “there’s to be no coasting” and “you must take it seriously”— yadda yadda yadda. I plan to creep in and dash upstairs without getting spotted, but Mum catches me in the hall.

“What time do you call this, young lady?” she asks crossly.

“Eight?”

She taps her watch face. “Twenty past. Your dad’s in the kitchen waiting for you.”

My little brother, Alex, appears at the top of the stairs in his Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas, his cheeks pink and shiny from the bath, his white-blond hair standing up wild and fuzzy, like a dandelion. He looks delighted with himself. Even though he’s only two in October, he loves a good upside-down blow-dry.

“Get back into bed, buster,” Mum hisses up the stairs.

He shrieks with laughter and scampers off.

“He’d better not wake Evie,” Mum says darkly. “I swear I’m going to put bars across the top of his cot one of these days. He’s a mini David Blaine.” (Evie’s my baby sister, and she’s a divil to get back to sleep.)

Mum gives one of her theatrical sighs. “Dave’s never here when I need him.”

Dave lives with us. He’s Mum’s boyfriend. Scratch that, fiancé — he proposed recently on a beach in West Cork, and it was actually quite romantic for two olds.

“Is he at work?” I ask, then immediately wish I hadn’t. Oops, I should learn to keep my mouth shut. Cue the Mamma Moan.

She rolls her eyes. “As always. He should be here, helping me with the kids. But if he’s not hiding away, working on those ridiculous songs, he’s in that stupid hospital, looking after strangers.”

Before he had the babies with Mum, Dave used to be a singer-songwriter, and in between nursing at Saint Vincent’s Hospital he’s working on a range of rock nursery rhymes for toddlers featuring a fluffy yellow character called Dinoduck, who’s half duck, half dinosaur. I kid you not!

Mum brushes a lank clump of hair that has escaped from her ponytail back off her face. The bags under her eyes are the color of fresh bruises. Poor Mum — she looks wrecked.

“I think that’s what nurses are supposed to do — look after people,” I say gently, sensing she’s a tad fragile this evening. “It’s their job.”

She rubs her sockets with her knuckles, smearing her mascara. “Sorry, Amy. I’ve just had a long day. Alex is exhausting at the moment, and Clover keeps bothering me about the wedding plans.”

“She’s only trying to help.”

“I know. But I have enough to worry about. There’s plenty of time to stress about table arrangements and wedding cakes.”

“If you’re still getting married on New Year’s Eve, you only have four months,” I point out.

She looks horrified. “Four months? Are you sure?”

“Yep. Wednesday is the first of September.”

Mum puts her hands over her face and starts to moan.

I think for a second and then say, “I recorded
Grey’s Anatomy
for you. Why don’t you go and watch it? Would a cup of tea help?”

She peels her hands away and starts to perk up a little. “No, but dreamy doctors and a large glass of wine just might. I haven’t sat down all day.”

When I walk into the kitchen to get Mum her wine, Dad’s on his hunkers rooting through one of the cupboards. Mum hates when he does that. She says it hasn’t been his house for years and it’s an invasion of her privacy. I think she’s just embarrassed by the state of her cupboards. Dad’s new wife, Shelly, keeps their house immaculate, not a biscuit crumb out of place. White carpets, white sofas, white walls, with touches of silvery gray — her accent color, apparently; whatever that means — it’s like living in a show house.

“Make yourself at home,” I say dryly.

He stands up quickly, looking a little guilty. “Oh, hi, Amy. I’m on the scrounge for chocolate. My blood sugar levels are all over the place.”

There’s nothing wrong with Dad’s blood sugar. What he really means is: “Help, I’m a chocoholic. I need a fix.” Luckily, Dave’s also Mr. Sweet Tooth. It’s about the only thing they have in common, apart from Mum, of course. I click my finger against the child lock, open Dave’s special drawer, and hand over a Mars bar.

“Thanks.” He sits down at the kitchen table and starts to dunk it in his mug of tea, making the chocolate go all slimy. Yuck.

I pour a large glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge. “Back in a second, Dad.”

“That’d better be for your mother, young lady,” he says, giving me a mock serious look.

“It is. I’m more of a mojito girl myself,” I joke. A mojito is Clover’s favorite cocktail. It’s white rum with lime and mint. Even though she’s not a big drinker — she likes being in control and says life’s difficult enough to navigate without dulling your senses — she’s a whiz at mixing cocktails and appoints herself Head Bar Girl at all Gramps’s parties. Gramps is Clover’s dad and my grampa, but we all call him Gramps.

Dad laughs a little uneasily. I think he still sees me as a little girl whose only knowledge of drink is Ribena and fizzy Fanta Orange.

Once Mum is settled on the sofa, clutching a glass and sighing over Meredith Grey’s complicated love life, I return to the kitchen.

Dad’s still dunking and munching. Boy, that man can devour a Mars bar — it’s nearly all gone. Wiping traces of chocolate from the edges of his mouth, he looks up and smiles at me. “Have a present for you.” He picks a Champion Sports bag off the floor and hands it to me. “Wanted to get you something. New year at school and all that. Hope they’re the right size.”

I pull out a pair of navy yoga pants and give a little squeal. They’re heaps better than my gross pleated gym skirt that looks like an old-fashioned lamp shade. When I asked Mum for a pair, she handed me a tenner and told me to get some tracky bottoms at Penneys. I just sighed and handed it straight back, only to be given the usual “money doesn’t grow on trees” lecture.

I hold them up against me and smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Sylvie said you were after a pair.” He chomps on the final nub of the Mars bar, then swallows before saying, “All set for school?”

I bundle the yoga pants into the bag and hang it on the back of the chair. “Kind of. But let’s not talk about that — too depressing. How’s Bump?” (Shelly’s pregnant and I’ve just about gotten my head around having another sproglet sibling.)

“Kicking away. Shelly’s finding it hard to sleep. Makes her a bit grouchy. Roll on October.”

I’m about to say, “Duh, she’s Oscar the Grouch anyway, Dad,” but I bite my tongue. I’m trying to be nicer to Dad’s new wife these days on account of the baby. “Would you like a boy or girl?” I say instead.

“Shelly’s dying for a girl — says the clothes are nicer — but I don’t really mind either way.” Dad turns the Mars bar wrapper inside out and starts to lick it.

“Dad, please. That’s disgusting.”

He puts the wrapper down. “Sorry.”

“Any idea of names for the baby?” I ask.

“Yes. But it keeps changing. Last week, Shelly liked Amber or Wallis for a girl, and Oliver for a boy. This week, it’s Willow and Jonah. Or Justin.”

“Dad! Justin’s the dog’s name. You can’t name the baby after your dog. Anyway, what are
your
choices? It’s your baby too.”

“Alice, maybe? Martha? Rosie? I like old-fashioned names. And for a boy: Jack.”

“Jack.” I nod, smiling. “Much better than Justin.”

Mum walks in the door then, wineglass in hand. She puts it down on the kitchen table. It’s still half full. “What’s better than Justin, Amy? What are you talking about?” She sounds slightly worried.

“We’re discussing baby names, Mum, OK?”

She looks relieved. “Jack Green,” she says slowly, testing it out. “I like it. What about your girls’ names, Art?”

“Shelly likes Willow.” I throw my eyes to heaven as I say it.

A smile flickers over Mum’s lips. “Willow Green? Sorry, Art, but it sounds like a color on a paint chart.”

“How about Arminta Green?” I suggest. “Minty Green is cute.”

Mum claps her hands together. “I’ve got it. Pepper Minty Green.”

“That’s not very helpful, girls,” Dad says. But I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

“Anyway, the name has to fit the baby,” I say. “Evie was going to be Alice, but it didn’t suit her, did it, Mum?”

Mum nods. “She had loads of dark hair and her face was all squished up, like a little pixie. She wasn’t an Alice.”

“So I think you should wait until you see the baby before deciding,” I tell him.

Dad smiles. “You’re quite right, Amy. I’ll pass your words of wisdom on to Shelly. Let’s hope she’ll go for it; otherwise, I think your half-brother or sister may have a tough time in school.”

Half
-brother or sister? That’s a funny thing to say. I know it’s technically correct, but Alex and Evie are half-siblings too and they sure feel like the real deal to me. Maybe Dad thinks this baby won’t be as important to me on account of Shelly and everything, or because I won’t be living with them every day, but he’s wrong, so wrong!

I stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Mum’s oblivious too. She yawns so deeply her jaw cracks. “Ouch,” she says, rubbing it. “Right, I’m off to bed.”

I laugh. “It’s not even nine yet, Mum.”

“I know. Pathetic, isn’t it? One sip of the wine and my eyes started to droop.” She sloshes the rest down the sink — the fruity smell wafts around the kitchen for a second — and then yawns again. “Bit of a waste, but can’t be helped. Bed by nine thirty, young lady, and don’t forget to organize your bag. You have school in the morning.”

I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

Dad stands up then and dumps his mug in the sink. “Best get going. Shelly doesn’t like being alone at the moment. I keep telling her she’s not going to pop for at least another month, but she’s convinced she’ll go early like her mum. I’ll see you this weekend, Amy. I have a golf tournament in Wexford, followed by a dinner, but I’ll be back first thing Sunday morning. OK?”

“But what about Saturday night?” I say.

“Shelly will order in pizza. And you can watch a movie together.”

“You won’t be there?”

Dad sucks his teeth. “No. It’s an important tournament. I really need to play.”

I start to panic. Shelly and I don’t exactly get on. “Why don’t I come over the following weekend instead?”

“It’ll be fine. You and Shelly can have a girls’ night. It’ll be fun.” Dad goes to rub my hair, but I jerk my head away.

Fun,
I think. Are you deranged? Shelly’s crazy and she hates me. And the feeling’s mutual. I want to tell him this but don’t like upsetting him — I get to see him little enough as it is. So although I feel like yelling at him, I say nothing.

I can tell Mum’s not impressed, though. She’s staring at him, her eyes like fireworks. “Art, can’t you see that Amy’s not exactly thrilled about being dumped with Shelly for the whole weekend?” she says.

Dad runs his hands through his hair. “It’s hardly the whole weekend. Just one night. And it’s not really any of your business, Sylvie.”

Mum gives a high-pitched squeak then opens her mouth to say something, but I step in quickly. I HATE when they argue. “How about I come over on Sunday instead, Dad? We could go for pizza then, just the two of us. Shelly could stay home and rest.” I look at him hopefully.

He’s gnawing on his lip. “This golf tournament is a big deal, Amy. Padraig Harrington’s playing. And because Shelly hates being on her own at the moment, I can’t go to Wexford unless —”

Mum gasps. “Now I get it. You want Amy to stay over to keep Shelly company for you. Art, that’s appalling!”

Dad looks sheepish. “You’re not really helping, Sylvie.”

“Helping?” Mum gives a rather manic laugh. “Like I care. You’re the most selfish man on the planet, Art Green. Just listen to yourself — trying to use Amy as some sort of babysitter for Shelly because she’s too fluffy to cope on her own for one night.” She turns to me. “Tell your father you’ll see him the weekend after next, Amy. You’ll be spending this weekend at home.”

Dad’s face drops. “What about my golf tournament?”

“Frankly, you can shove your golf tournament where the sun don’t shine. Now, Amy needs her sleep. Good-bye.” Mum holds open the kitchen door.

Dad looks at me, unleashing his hound-dog eyes. “Amy, I just need you to do this one thing for me. And when I’m back on Sunday, we’ll do pizza, I promise. Just the two of us. Please? I don’t ask for much.”

I stare back at him. What? Is he serious? Spending a whole evening with Shelly would be a
humongous
ask at any time, but she’s even more neurotic now she’s preggers. Only . . . he looks so sad now, and suddenly I don’t know what to do. Dad is golf mad — it’s his obsession. And he has some sort of weird man-crush on Padraig Harrington, the Irish God of Golf; he even has this special signed photograph of him. And I do want to make Dad happy.

I shrug. “OK, I’ll do it.”

“Amy, you don’t have to —” Mum says, but I interrupt her.

“On three conditions,” I continue. “One: it had better be a stonkingly good pizza. Two: I’m not watching any of those horror films Shelly likes. And three: I charge ten euro an hour for babysitting. So that will be what, about two hundred euro.”

Dad chortles. “Good one, Amy.”

But I’m not smiling and the grin drops off his face pretty quickly.

“Shelly’s not a child,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow and Mum snorts.

“I think you’re getting off lightly, Art,” she says.

“I’ve just given Amy expensive yoga pants,” Dad protests. “And ten euro an hour is extortionate.”

“And now I’m saving up for new runners,” I say. “To go with the yoga pants.”