Tales From a Hen Weekend (14 page)

And if you think I’m a pathetic, sad, jealous old bitch for having such uncharitable thoughts about my friend on her own hen weekend, then you’re right. But you also ought to understand one last thing.

You see, when I say she’s got all these other men falling for her, I know what I’m talking about. I don’t care about any of the others. I only care about Greg.

But he doesn’t even notice me.

Like everyone else, he’s only got eyes for Katie.

I’ll be honest with you: I’m slightly irritated by all this.

Don’t get me wrong – I really like Helen. I’ve sat here listening to her, without interrupting, without arguing, and it’s gone four-thirty in the morning now and I’d like nothing better, at this point, than to crawl back to bed; but I’m trying to be nice, trying to be a good listener and a good friend, you know? As usual, as always. But what the fuck is all this about?

This is the trouble, if you ask me, with people like Helen – self-confessed introspectives. They’re always teetering on the brink of self-obsession. Isn’t that what this whole thing sounds like? One long complaint, one long tragic story about Helen, written by Helen, starring Helen, with Helen in every supporting role.

I don’t even believe half of it.

Since when was she in love with Greg? Since when did she even want to
be
in love with anybody? And since when did Greg, of all people, even look at
me
?

‘Greg’s never even looked at me,’ I tell her, leaning back on her bed, watching her get up to put the kettle on again. Fucking hell, I really don’t want another cup of tea. ‘That’s completely ridiculous.’

‘You see? You’re not aware of it. I know you’re not. It’s not your fault.’

‘My
fault
? But there’s nothing…’

‘I’m afraid you’re wrong. He’s told me, you see.’

Well, this at least makes me sit up and wake up.

‘Told you? Told you what? When?’

‘After you go home. Before you get in.’ This, naturally, is a thinly veiled reference to the fact that Helen and Greg both work from dawn to dusk and beyond, while I do a normal nine-to-five with an hour for lunch. ‘He spends at least an hour a day pouring out his heart to me.’

‘
Greg
pours out his
heart
?!’

It’s a revelation to me that he’s actually got one.

‘Yes, he seems to have cast me in the role of some kind of counsellor. Some kind of Mother Confessor.’

The thought of Helen as anyone’s Mother Confessor would probably be hysterical if it wasn’t for the subject in hand.

‘And… what? You’re saying he talks about
me
?’

‘Of course he does. What have I been telling you? He’s completely infatuated with you. He never talks about anything
else
but you.’

‘Helen, stop it. This is giving me the creeps.’

‘Do you think
I
like it? I’ve always hoped… I suppose I was just being silly… but I actually hoped that when he realised you were definitely getting married he’d have to turn to someone else.’

‘You.’

‘Well; it was all I had. That faint hope.’

I get up, put my arms round her. This is a strange new side of Helen, one I’d never imagined existing. A soft side, a romantic side. It’s almost unbelievable.

‘I had no idea – honestly.’

‘I know you didn’t. Maybe I should have told you. Or encouraged him to tell you himself.’

‘Jesus! For God’s sake, it would have freaked me out! He
knew
I was with Matt.’

‘And
I
knew he was in love with
you
, Katie – but knowing these things doesn’t stop us feeling the way we do.’

I can’t think of a thing to say to this. I’m just standing here, shaking my head, staring at her. Unbelievable.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says at length. ‘I shouldn’t have kept you all this time – making you listen to my problems, when you should be getting your beauty sleep.’

‘It’s OK. I just – I think I need a bit of time to take it in. I’m gobsmacked, to be honest.’

She smiles, sadly.

‘You didn’t have me down as pathetic and lovelorn, did you?’

‘I still don’t. Funnily enough I’ve always thought you and Greg were really well suited. I just didn’t think
you
would be interested.’

What do I know? Seems like I don’t notice what’s going on right under my nose.

‘You don’t want another cup of tea?’ she asks, toying forlornly with the teabags.

‘No. No thanks. Try to get some sleep, Helen. See you at breakfast.’

Greg Armstrong. Bloody hell. Bloody, fucking hell!

I’m very late for breakfast. Everyone else has finished when I make it to the dining room. Even Helen.

‘I tried to wake you,’ says Jude, who’s sitting at a table with Lisa and Mum, having a cup of tea. ‘But you told me to fu…’ She glances at Mum and grins. ‘You were very rude and told me to go away.’

‘Did I? Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep.’ I glance across the room at Helen, who’s chatting to Emily and seems to be avoiding meeting my eyes.

I order myself sausage, bacon, and eggs. I don’t care if it’s greasy, high in cholesterol and is going to make me fat while it clogs up my arteries. I need fuel. I need to eat my way out of my hangover, or tiredness, or whatever’s causing the stupor I’m in this morning, to clear my head and try to make sense of everything. What’s happening here? Everyone I thought I knew really well has suddenly decided to turn themselves inside-out for me. First my family, now my work colleagues. Helen – of all people! In love with Greg? Greg in love with
me
? It’s ridiculous. It can’t be true. I’m not having it.

I’ll have to leave.

This thought comes to me, like a white-hot stab of clarity, as I take my first mouthful of fried egg. How can I carry on working with the pair of them now? I cut a rasher of bacon into pieces, fiercely, crossly. This isn’t fair. I like my job, and now I’ve got to leave. This situation isn’t of my making. I wish Helen hadn’t told me. I glare at the back of her head as I chew the bacon, thinking about how selfish she is. I thought she was my friend! Why couldn’t she keep her stupid loved-up nonsense to herself?

But then again, how much worse would it have been if I’d found out from Greg! How embarrassing would that have been? I’d have died on the spot. I’d have had to walk out without even giving my notice. I’d have been traumatised for life.

‘What on earth’s eating you this morning?’ says Lisa, mildly. ‘The sausage is already dead. You didn’t need to murder it.’

I look up with a guilty start from stabbing the sausage with my fork.

‘Sorry.’ Mum and Jude have gone, and I feel the need to say something to somebody. ‘Spent half the night talking to Helen. About…’ Ah, shit, it’s no good. I can’t tell her. ‘About work.’

‘Work? For God’s sake!’ She glances over at Helen. ‘What the hell’s the matter with her? Talking to you about
work
on your hen weekend!’

‘Oh, just about … a few issues. Things that were worrying her.’

‘Well, she should have damn well worried about them on her own. Can’t she ever switch off? I knew it was a mistake to invite her.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say, wearily. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I stuff a piece of sausage into my mouth and add, through the chewing of it, ‘You know what it’s like, Lisa – when you’ve had a couple of drinks. All sorts of things come out, that you might not have chosen to discuss this particular weekend.’

She’s silent for a minute. Then:

‘OK, yes. Point taken. I’m sorry I blabbed the other night.’

‘Well, I wish you’d told me before, to be quite honest. It’d be nice to think you could have confided in me.’

‘I thought you’d disapprove. In fact, I thought you’d have been disgusted.’

‘Why? Am I such a prude, or what?’

‘No, of course not. But you’re such a
romantic.
I didn’t think you’d be able to accept the idea of me having an affair. Falling out of love with my husband.’

‘Love?’ I splutter, scraping the last of the fried egg off my plate and throwing down the knife and fork. ‘Beginning to wonder about it all, Lise. Really beginning to wonder.’

‘That’s not what I’d expect to hear you say, so close to your wedding,’ she says, reaching out to touch my hand.

The touch nearly does for me. I’m so close opening up to my sister at this point, to telling her a load of stuff I’d only regret mentioning later on, that I have to sit up straight, take a swig of coffee and turn my head away.

‘Katie?’ she says, quietly.

‘OK!’ I say, brightly, turning back to give her a smile. ‘Come on, that’s enough of all this deep and serious stuff. It’s a hen party, so let’s bloody well
party
! Where are all the others?’

‘We’re meeting them in half an hour in reception,’ she says. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

But I’ve already got up from the table and I’m walking ahead of her out of the dining room, pretending I can’t hear.

‘Have y’all got your flat shoes on and your cameras packed?’ says Tour Leader Jude Barnard half an hour later.

We have. We’ve already had our instructions.

‘I’ve got a rare treat for you all this morning, girls, so let’s get going, before the sun goes in. We’re getting some fresh air and exercise, so we are!’

‘I thought you said it was a treat?’ whinges Karen half-heartedly.

‘Yeah, can’t we just exercise ourselves as far as the pub?’ laughs Emily.

‘Would you listen to the pair of you? Sure you’d be going home from Ireland tomorrow without seeing a single corner of it outside of Temple Bar if I didn’t put me foot down with you. Dublin’s a beautiful city, so it is, with the mountains behind it and the sea in front of it – it’d be a crime altogether to miss seeing some of that.’

‘OK. Very lyrical, Jude. Mountains and sea – fair enough,’ says Karen.

‘Actually, it’s a lovely day outside. Jude’s right, some fresh air would be good, and I quite fancy seeing the sea,’ I agree.

‘Well I’m glad that’s settled, then,’ says Jude, leading us out of the hotel. ‘We’ll be getting the DART along the coast as far as Killiney, and…’

‘What’s the DART? It sounds painful.’

‘It’s just a train, for the love of God … and we’ll have a walk on the beach…’

‘Yay!’

‘Yeah – the beach!’

‘Cool!’

‘You see, now?’ Jude smiles back at us all smugly. ‘I knew the lot of you would come around to my way of thinking.’

‘Beach is
good
, Jude. Beach is
holidays
.’

‘And we’ll walk back along to Dalkey, where there’s a grand little pub.’

Ah! Now you’re talking
!

The DART, it turns out, is a railway that runs the entire length of Dublin Bay. We get on the train at Tara Street station and after a few stops we’re following the coast. We’re all looking out of the window and getting excited as if we’re little kids who haven’t been to the seaside for a year. I’m only hoping it doesn’t start Mum off about Southend again, but I think that’s unlikely now.

Our loud English cackling is getting us a few looks from people on the train.

‘Don’t trouble yerselves about this shower of savages,’ Jude says cheerfully to a couple of elderly ladies sitting near us. They were probably looking forward to a nice peaceful Sunday morning ride. ‘They’re not as frightening as they look.’

‘We’re not frightening at all!’ exclaims Emily. ‘This one here’s getting married soon, that’s all.’

‘God bless yer heart, me darlin’. Rather you than me!’

We’re in good spirits when we finally get off the train at Killiney. The DART station’s right on the coast and we run down to the beach, whooping and shouting with excitement as if we’ve never seen the sea before in our lives.

It’s midday by now and the sun is, unexpectedly, quite warm – for Ireland in April – and it’s not long before we’ve all got our shoes and socks off and the legs of our jeans rolled up and we’re skipping over the sand and shingle beach to have a paddle. All of us except Jude, who’s standing back on the beach watching us with a smile like an exasperated parent whose children are being very silly. I wish she’d lighten up. I suppose she doesn’t want to get the bottoms of her jeans wet, or her hair splashed, God forbid. Even Mum and Auntie Joyce have got their shoes off. How much harm can a little paddle in the sea do . . .

‘Oh! Oh, fucking hell! Oh, Jesus, Jesus Christ – it’s
cold
!’

I’m screaming it at exactly the same moment as everyone else. I look around and they’re all doing the same as me – running back out of the sea full pelt, looking over their shoulders to make sure the freezing waves aren’t following them.

Jude walks down the beach to meet us, laughing out loud.

‘Did you think it was the Mediterranean, you mad eejits? And were you thinking of walking to Dalkey with your feet freezing the arses off you and squelching sea water in yer shoes, were you now?’

We all stand, shivering from the shock of the cold sea, hanging our heads like the silly children we seem to have become, shrugging to each other and waiting for Jude to announce that the walk’s now off and we’ll have to go, barefoot, to the nearest pub instead to warm up. Shame.

‘Sure and isn’t it a good job
one
of us has come prepared?’ she adds, smugly, pulling a towel out of her rucksack. ‘I just brought the one. You’ll have to share!’

Once we’ve passed the towel around and dried off, we’re all laughing and chasing each other along the beach to warm up again. Jude, whose neat little pink girlie rucksack seems more like a Boy Scout’s expedition kitbag every minute, has, amazingly, produced a Frisbee out of it now and we’re skimming it to each other, making each other run, narrowly missing the sea several times, shrieking and insulting each other and generally acting like a day trip for disturbed teenagers. If we notice that Jude’s strolling along with Mum and Auntie Joyce and not joining in our nonsense, we’re not going to mention it. Not after the freezing sea episode!