‘You look wonderful,’ Bertie said, as always springing to her aid.
Rosie turned to Grace, as though her point was proved.
‘Except…’ Bertie began.
Rosie turned back, bracing herself.
‘Perhaps a teensy-weensy… now just a smidgeon, not really at all, but perhaps a minuscule amount and no more, old-fashioned…’
‘A bit nineties,’ agreed Grace, firmly.
It was okay for Grace because she wore what she liked, long flowing dresses, big stripy jumpers, dungarees. She had turned up to work once wearing what could only be described as someone auditioning for clown school, and now an array of kaftans so billowy that you could fall out of an aeroplane wearing one and land gently onto the ground. But Grace looked effortless and she clearly was able to express herself through her clothes. Rosie was unable to contemplate ever wearing anything but her navy suits – she had various skirts, matching jackets, trousers, all dry-cleaned regularly and hung up every evening. Without them, she’d be just her. With them, she was a hotel manager.
‘In my humble opinion, and from what I’ve witnessed on hotelier conferences recently,’ said Bertie, ‘is that hotel managers of the female persuasion are not required to wear the old skirt suit any longer.’
‘What are they wearing?’ Rosie was confused. A skirt suit was work attire, wasn’t it? It was the epitome of competence which was all that guests wanted from her.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Bertie. ‘Florals, colours, linens…’ He motioned to his own suit. ‘What is called, I think in current parlance, business casual.’
‘But you’re in a suit,’ said Rosie.
‘But I am a man of a certain age. Perhaps one day, as the onslaught of business casual becomes unassailable, I too will be in chinos and polo shirts.’ He shuddered briefly. ‘But until then, I’m in Irish linen.’
‘But I like a uniform,’ insisted Rosie. ‘It’s one less thing to think about.’
‘You can still have a uniform,’ said Grace. ‘Just make it business casual.’
‘I thought navy was flattering to everyone…’
Grace shrugged. ‘I suppose dark is practical,’ she conceded. ‘Can’t see the blood. Or vomit. Or…’ She paused, thinking of something dreadful that could be found on Rosie’s clothes. ‘Baked beans.’
‘What do you think I’m doing with them?’ Rosie’s voice became slightly shrill, which was most unlike her. She hoped her clothes would never be a point of discussion again.
‘Do you ever think it will get cool again?’ asked Grace. ‘Do you remember we used to wear actual jumpers once upon a time, made of actual wool?’
‘Don’t,’ said Bertie. ‘The thought of a jumper is making me even hotter.’
‘Remember scarves?’ said Grace. ‘And things like socks?’
‘Stop it,’ said Bertie. ‘I’m going to combust.’
‘Thermal underwear,’ said Grace, giving him a look.
‘You’re evil you are,’ hooted Bertie. ‘But I think the weather will break, I’m sure of it. Mark my words.’
‘We haven’t had rain in weeks,’ said Grace. ‘And we certainly can’t have rain this weekend. It can rain on Monday, when it’s all over. And anyway, all the apps are saying sunshine.’
‘I don’t rely on the apps, whatever they are,’ said Bertie. ‘I rely on Teddy. And he said that rain is on the way.’
Grace whipped out her phone and quickly consulted the six different weather apps she had become obsessed with as the wedding had drawn closer. ‘See!’ She thrust her phone at Bertie. ‘It’s all little suns.’
‘Teddy’s got good bones,’ said Bertie. ‘My money’s on Teddy.’
‘And mine is on science,’ said Grace.
‘Let’s quickly talk about the weekend,’ Rosie said, glad to be off the topic of her clothing, even if perhaps the threat of rain wasn’t doing much to ease her worries about the wedding. ‘Grace, will you bring us all up to speed, please?’
Grace nodded, contemplating her clipboard. ‘The bride, Niamh, will be arriving soon, with her matron of honour. The groom, Seán, is collecting his brother at the airport and they will be here shortly. More guests arriving later today,’ said Grace. ‘The marquee will start being erected this afternoon. Tomorrow, Thursday, is the beach barbecue in the afternoon, Friday we have the garden party and then the rehearsal dinner in the evening. We have caterers coming in on Saturday for the wedding meal,’ she continued, ‘but François is making canapés to serve with drinks. He is obviously doing all the catering for the rest of the weekend, including the beach picnic and the garden party. Martin Moore says he will be around to fix any electrics or other issues. And what else…?’ Grace checked her clipboard. ‘And then the big day on Saturday. There will be what I am calling the altar, close to the marquee, beside the edge of the cliff…’
