Bridesmaid Blitz (26 page)

When I asked Clover why Mum was looking so happy, she said, “I think she’s imagining Little Miss Perky’s palace once Gracie starts smashing the angels and scribbling on the walls.”

Dad refills Pauline’s glass with champagne and taps his own flute with his wedding ring.
Clink, clink, clink.

We all hush.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming here today to celebrate Gracie’s homecoming,” he says.

Alex burps loudly and everyone laughs, except for Pauline, who scowls at him. At least I think it’s a scowl; her forehead is so rigid it’s hard to tell. It’s wasted on Alex, anyway. He just waves at her gleefully with his podgy hand.

Dad raises his glass. “To Gracie Amber Green.
Sláinte
.”

“Otherwise known as Gracie Traffic Lights,” Clover whispers in my ear as she taps her glass against mine.

I chuckle. “Shush, Clover!”

Pauline glares at
us
this time.

“Ooh, I think I saw a wrinkle,” Clover hisses. “If your woman is staying in Dublin till Christmas, she’d better start checking out the local Botox clinics.”

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggles as Dad continues, “I’d also like to thank Gracie’s big sister, Amy, for all her help. Without Amy, Gracie may not have made it safely into this world, and for that, both Shelly and I are eternally grateful. And thanks to Clover too, for her rally driving.”

Everyone laughs.

“So,” Dad goes on, “we’d like to ask Amy to be Gracie’s godmother and to keep watching over her as she grows up. Like Gracie’s guardian angel.”

Before I get the chance to say anything, Pauline clears her throat loudly. “That’s a bit unconventional — a half-sister as a godmother.”

“So’s dressing like a cowboy unless it’s a costume party,” Clover says, quick as a flash. “But we’ve all been too polite to mention it. That’s quite an outfit.” (Pauline’s frilly skirt, matching waistcoat, and red-checked shirt are quite something all right.)

Pauline gulps, opening and closing her mouth like a guppy fish. “Well, I never,” she says.

“Clover!” Mum says in a warning tone, but from the spark in her eye I can tell she thinks it’s hilarious.

All the while, Pauline keeps on glaring at Clover, her eyes screwed tight. (Oops, I think Clover’s made an enemy.) But I don’t plan to let Pauline spoil my big moment. I’m going to be Gracie’s godmother!

I lock eyes with Dad and beam. “Thanks, Dad. I’d love to be Gracie’s godmother. Any excuse to shop. She’ll need sister
and
godmother presents now. Yeah!” I clasp my hands into fists and wave them in the air.

Everyone laughs again.

“I’m hoping you’ll look out for Gracie the way Clover looks out for you,” Dad adds. OK, finally, FINALLY, he gets it. My heart feels as light as a hummingbird.

“Aah,” Mum says. “That’s so sweet.”

And for once in her life, Clover is lost for words. I grin at her, and she smiles back and winks.

“And now, a toast to Godmother Amy.” Dad holds up his glass again. “And just think, the next time we all drink this stuff will be at Sylvie and Dave’s wedding.
Sláinte
.”

“To Godmother Amy,” everyone says, clinking glasses.
“Sláinte.”

Mum’s back has stiffened at the mention of her wedding, but no one’s noticed except me and Clover. Dave looks delighted. He grins and puts his arms around Mum from behind. She wasn’t expecting it and her glass wobbles, spilling champagne down her wrap dress.

“Sorry,” Dave says.

Mum dabs at it with a napkin. “It’s patterned. Won’t show a stain.”

Seconds later there’s a smashing noise in the kitchen and Alex runs back in, crying, his T-shirt and arms dripping wet.

Clover grabs one of his arms as he dashes past and licks it. “More spilled champagne.” She grins at Alex. “Starting early, mini-man.”

Pauline and Shelly gasp and disappear into the kitchen.

Alex’s cries have startled Evie, who in turn sets Gracie off. Mum and Dave decide it’s a good time to leave, but Alex is having none of it. He collapses on the floor and windmills his arms and legs in a full-blown toddler tantrum.

As we watch the mayhem from the sidelines, Clover says, “I think what Sylvie needs is a cracking hen night. Banish all those prewedding jitters. What d’ya think, Godmother Beanie?”

“
Absolument.
How about a really posh restaurant? Or a pampering day at a spa?”

Clover’s eyes glitter. “I was thinking something a little more unusual. What’s your mum’s favorite city in the whole entire universe?”

I don’t even have to think about it. “New York. But wouldn’t that be a bit expensive? Mum’s worried about the cost of the wedding as it is.”

“Ah, but what if we bring New York to Dublin, complete with a tour to rival the
Sex and the City
one and our very own Tiffany’s experience?”

“We could have a picnic in Saint Stephen’s Green Park instead of Central Park!” I suggest.

Clover claps her hands together. “Good thinking, Beanie. And we don’t have an Empire State Building, but we do have . . .”

I grin from ear to ear. I love it when a plan comes together.

The following afternoon my mobile rings.

“Amy, what are you doing right now?” It’s Shelly and she sounds frantic. Gracie is crying in the background, and from the little hiccuppy and gulpy sounds, I’d say she’s been at it for quite some time. I instantly start to worry. It can’t be good for a baby with a heart condition to cry so much, can it?

“Why?” I ask, irritated. She should be looking after Gracie, not ringing me. Besides, Seth’s coming over soon, and I’m currently trying to find the right casual-yet-cool outfit. I know in his
Goss
article Brains claimed that boys don’t really care about clothes, but for a guy, Seth is pretty observant. I’m really looking forward to seeing him. I didn’t see him at all yesterday and I want to find out how Polly’s treatment is going. He doesn’t like talking about it at school, and whenever I ask him on the phone, he just says, “Fine,” and changes the subject.

“Gracie won’t stop crying,” Shelly wails.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Golf.” She spits it out, like a dirty word.

“Where?”

“Portmarnock. And he’s not answering his phone. What am I going to do?”

It’s pretty off of Dad to abandon Shelly — I can’t believe he’s golfing again when Gracie’s only just home, especially when he promised he wouldn’t be playing for a while. Typical Dad. And where is the oh-so-attentive Granny Pauline?

“And your mum?” I ask.

“At a spa in Enniskerry. Getting some, um . . . urgent treatments. She’s not answering her phone either.”

Which leaves — me.
Holy Moly
, as Mills would say. But when it comes to babies, I do have a lot of experience — Evie’s a right little banshee when she gets going.

“Have you tried a pacifier?” I ask.

“She just spits it out.”

“OK, what about rocking her?”

“I’m not stupid, Amy.”

I’m tempted to say, “Really?” but I don’t. Gracie is my little sister, not to mention my godchild now; it’s my duty to help. And I do feel a bit sorry for Shelly, even if she is back to her old self — she sounds completely wired.

“What about walking her?” I suggest.

“Outside?”

(Now, if that’s not a silly question, I don’t know what is.) “Yes, outside.”

“Amy, I’m so tired I can barely stand, let alone walk. She didn’t sleep a wink last night. I can’t stand much more of this.” She lets out a high-pitched scream, like a cat being strangled. “Should I ring the hospital, ask their advice?”

I can’t believe Dad left Shelly in this state, although I have a niggling feeling that her fragile state is part of the reason he’s on the green today. I can forgive Dad — somehow I always do — but how could Pauline leave her?

“Drive down to Enniskerry,” I say, “hand Gracie over to your mum, and take a nap in the car.”

“If I knew the name of the spa, I might actually do that,” Shelly cries. “I neeeeed sleeeep!”

“I’ve got it! Mum used to make Dave drive around the neighborhood with Evie in her car seat to get her to drop off. Have you tried that? You could just drive around Phoenix Park or visit a friend or something.”

“Do you think it will work?” Her voice sounds painfully hopeful.

“Definitely.”

“Then I’ll do it. See you soon, Amy.”

I’m just topping up my lip gloss when the doorbell rings. I bound down the stairs in my black skinny jeans, sparkly silver Converse (Clover just bought herself a ruby-slippers pair and gifted her old ones to me), black-and-white-striped tee, and one of Dave’s old black leather waistcoats.

I swing open the door. “Hey, Seth,” I begin, but it’s not Seth — it’s Shelly!

OK, when she said, “See you soon,” I didn’t realize she meant
that
soon. She looks like she’s been in some sort of natural disaster — black roots are sniggling down her hair, she’s not wearing any makeup and her skin is pale and blotchy, and though I hate to say it, she’s not exactly fragrant smelling either. But most frightening of all, I can see a flabby muffin top flopping over the waistband of her purple Juicy tracky bottoms.

“Gracie’s in the car,” she says. “You were right; she finally nodded off. Amy, I partly came over because I never got to say thank you in person at the party. For getting me to the hospital and everything. Here, this is for you. Art was supposed to give it to you yesterday, only with all the commotion, he forgot.” She pulls an O2 bag out of her enormous designer changing bag.

I peer inside, fish out a silky smooth black box, and open it. A brand-spanking-new iPhone in glossy, gorgeous white.

I grin at her. “Thanks, Shelly. I’ve wanted one for ages.”

“We both might have died if it weren’t for you,” she says, and her eyes well up. Then she yawns so deeply I’m almost sucked into her mouth. “Would you get Gracie for me? Please, Amy? I think I’ve done something to my back.” She hands me the car keys.

“I’m kind of busy, Shelly. . . .” I say, but she just lumbers past me, shoulders lopsided with the huge changing bag she’s carrying, and walks into the living room.

I sigh. I guess she did just give me an iPhone, so I go outside to fetch Gracie. She’s fast asleep in her little car seat. I unclick it carefully and carry the whole thing inside. Putting it down gently on the hall floor, I stand back to stare at her little face.

Gracie’s fluffy mop of strawberry-blond hair is welded to her pink cheeks with dried tears. She’s still so tiny I catch my breath just looking at her.

Just then the doorbell rings again.
DING DONG.

Her eyes flicker and then open. Oops. She opens her rosebud mouth and starts to wail.

“Shelly,” I call into the living room. “Shelly!” Nothing.

I open the door. This time it is Seth. He walks in and stares at Gracie, his eyes hidden behind dark aviator glasses. “Has Evie shrunk?”

I chuckle. “It’s Gracie. Shelly couldn’t get her to sleep and drove over here.” I make a face. “Sorry.” Then turning, I shout across the hall again, “Shelly!” Still nothing.

“Just a second,” I tell him and walk into the living room. I find Shelly stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed.

I shake her shoulder. “Shelly, Gracie is crying again.”

She peels open one eye then the other. “I think I’m going to die if I don’t get some sleep.”

Be charitable, Amy,
I tell myself. “Why don’t I take her for a walk?” I hear my nicer self saying. “You can have a nap on the sofa.”

“Really? I’d kill for a nap. That’s so sweet of you, Amy. And, and . . .” She breaks off. “Sorry, I wanted to say something else, but I’ve forgotten.”

“Baby brain,” I say. “Mum used to forget everything when the babies were small. It’s your body’s way of slowing you down, apparently.”

“Baby brain,” Shelly repeats, then yawns again, her eyelids fluttering.

“Go to sleep,” I say gently, putting a blanket over her waist and legs. “Gracie will be safe with me.”

Shelly’s snoring gently before I’m even out of the room. I go back out into the hall. Seth is bent over Gracie’s seat, rocking it with his hand.

“Not exactly a contented baba, is she?” he says.

“No. Look, I’m really sorry: I told Shelly I’d take her for a walk. She’s not fit to drive, and I don’t want her crashing with Gracie in the car. Guess I’m stuck babysitting — for a change.”

He shrugs. “’S OK. Sun’s out. I’ll come with you.”

We walk down Silchester Road toward the shops, Gracie strapped to my chest in Evie’s tie-dyed baby sling. (Shelly, genius that she is, didn’t think to pack Gracie’s pram.) She seems to like the sling. She feels warm and is snuggled against me like a little bush baby. She’s found her thumb and is sucking away. And hallelujah, she’s finally stopped crying!

At the shop, we buy ice creams and walk along the seafront.

“So how’s Polly doing?” I ask, after I’ve munched the last of my Iceberger.

“Good. The drugs they’re giving her are pretty strong, but so far she hasn’t had too many side effects. She’s tired and she’s having hot flushes, but that’s pretty normal, apparently. Dr. Shine is pleased with her first week’s progress, and Dave seems to think everything’s looking pretty positive so far.”