‘Supposed to be.’ If Phoebe is okay. She might panic about him going away given what happened on Wednesday. And who could blame her?
‘Well, you know what folk my age always say.’ Giles tips his head forward and winks knowingly. ‘Going to a wedding is the making of another. Make sure you catch the bouquet!’
‘Oh God, I swear Cillian would run for the hills, seriously.’
Giles exhales a deep belly laugh. ‘The man would be a fool not to lock you down if he had the chance.’
‘Ah, thank you, Giles. It’s a shame you’re already married.’ I grin. ‘Though with lines like that, it’s not surprising.’
‘Have a good night.’ He bows as I step out into the dark frosty night. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘I’ll get extra chips if it’s before two a.m.,’ I promise.
‘If that’s not wife material, I don’t know what is.’ He winks and waves.
Holly’s friend Savannah, the same celebrity blogger who organised Sunday’s Santa Run, is in charge of the hen night. Which is why a gang of Magic Mike lookalikes are currently delivering our cocktails. The tiny black square material tied over their private parts would hardly pass as a handkerchief, let alone an apron.
Once upon a time, I would have ogled. Now, if it’s not Cillian Callaghan’s, it’s not worth a wank.
We’re in the VIP area of Heaven On Earth, an upmarket wine bar in Dublin’s Temple Bar. It’s absolutely packed with Christmas parties, but we’re cordoned off from the main area, spread out over a long rectangular table decorated with heart-shaped balloons and cock-shaped confetti.
I know a few of Holly’s friends, but not all of them. Savannah is a celebrity in her own right. She started a blog a few years ago, documenting her journey as a single mother to twin girls. Fast forward six years and ‘Single Sav’ is a household name. She has her own kids clothing brand, numerous luxury properties that she rents out, and is paid thousands to advertise prams and other baby items.
Ashley, Holly’s other best friend is the principal of an all-girl Catholic school, St Jude’s. Now I think about it, Phoebe goes to St Jude’s. Ashley must know her. And Cillian. It’s a small world.
Holly’s mother isn't invited, not in a mean way, but she is a self-professed pearl-clutcher. She asked if she could do an afternoon tea with Holly, my mother, and Holly’s pregnant sister-in-law, Clarissa instead. Looking around now, it was the best decision for everyone.
My mother sits to my right, fanning herself with a napkin as she ogles our waiters. Judging by her glassy eyes, she’s hit the sherry hard tonight. ‘My oh my, Frank Jackson is in for it when I get home! I must text him and tell him to pop a Viagra now, so he’ll be good and ready the second I get in the door. It doesn’t make him James Bond, but it does make him Roger Moore.’
She snorts, slapping the table and I roll my eyes, entirely unsurprised. However liberal my parents are when they’re sober, they’re a million times worse when they’ve been drinking. ‘Jesus, Mam. Too much information.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ She swats the air in front of her face, ‘It’s what we were put on this planet to do.’
If I had a euro for every time I’d heard that line, I could start a million dating agencies with no investors.
My sister Natalie sits to my left. She’s texting someone underneath the table. It must be a man. A hot one, because why else would she be looking at her phone, and not the naked granite glutes giving my mother hot flushes.
‘Who are you texting?’ I nudge her ribs and she jumps.
‘No one.’ My sister throws her phone into her hot pink clutch bag and flicks her pristinely blow-dried hair from her shoulder.
‘Liar!’
She trails her fingers over her lips in a zipping motion, twists, then pretends to throw an imaginary key across the room.
‘How’s lover-boy today?’ She leans in closer to be heard over the cackling hens and eclectic Christmas music blasting from the speakers.
‘Good, I think.’ I haven't seen him since Wednesday, but I suppose it’s only Friday. With everything that’s happened I’m sure he has his hands full reassuring Phoebe. ‘Bar a couple of texts yesterday, I haven't spoken to him.’
‘Is he at Nate’s stag tonight?’ Natalie asks over the rim of her salt-crusted margarita glass.
‘No, he didn't want to leave Phoebe after everything.’ I’d already filled Natalie in on the events of Wednesday night over coffee yesterday lunch time.
‘It’s a lot to take on. I know you’re mad about him,’ she smooths down the cerise satin dress rising over her thighs beneath the table, ‘but I’m not sure I could handle all that baggage.’
‘We all have baggage, whether it’s in the form of small people relying on us, or distasteful exes who leave scars on our soul.’ My words come out harsher than I intend, probably because her comments hit a nerve.
After witnessing Teagan leave the other night, I can fully appreciate Cillian’s caution at letting another person into their circle. The pressure feels all too real.
