‘What would you like?’ I ask Laura. ‘I’m getting these.’
‘You’re not,’ she replies. ‘I’ll get them. You’d a big day.’
‘Wise up! Just tell me what you want! You got them the last time.’
‘Becs, just go and sit down and I’ll bring them over…’
There is only one way to end this coffee-related stand-off. I need to act. Fast. I give her a gentle shove out of the way and barrel my way through to the counter, from where I grin at her triumphantly. I get a filthy look in return before she rolls her eyes and informs me she’ll have a cappuccino.
Neither Niamh nor Laura have to tell me they also want a slice of cake. You can’t be friends with women for close to four decades without knowing that they always, always have cake – and none of that extra fibre, low sugar, wholemeal flour, birdseed-topped healthy option stuff either. It’s go big-and-covered-in-chocolate or go home.
Once we are all seated with our tasty treats, Niamh urges me to ‘get to the bloody point’.
‘As if Paul’s reaction tothe situationisn’t enough to try my patience, it’s a Tuesday in January and the heating was on the blink in the school today so my nice-girl persona has already been tested enough for one day,’ she says as she scoops a partially melted marshmallow out of her hot chocolate and swallows it. ‘And yes,’ she adds, ‘this is my second hot chocolate. It’s also my second slice of cake but I dare either one of you to say anything.’
We both raise our hands in a ‘surrender’ pose. ‘I’m not that brave,’ I say, and I mean it. Niamh had texted me earlier to ask me to recommend a good divorce lawyer. I’m only about 90 per cent sure she was joking.
‘Me neither,’ Laura says. ‘Have as much cake and chocolate as you want. This is a judgement-free zone. I raided Robyn’s leftover selection boxes over the weekend when thePMShit hard, and had to replace the bars before she noticed.’
‘It’s medicinal. Anyway,’ Niamh says before turning her attention back to me and glaring pointedly.
I put my cup down. ‘Okay! First of all, yay! I got the gig! It’s only a column once a month and it doesn’t pay much. So now we have cast-iron proof that Carrie Bradshaw was a lying baggage with her fancy shoes and New York apartment all funded by her column-writing career. But still, I’m going to be paid to write about something I really want to write about.’ I can’t help but smile.
Niamh grins. ‘That’s brilliant. I am absolutely delighted for you. But if I hear you saying it’s only a column again I’ll not be responsible for my actions. It’s a bloody column in a well-known, well-read magazine. And as for payment – as long as they’re not taking the piss and being ridiculously stingy then it doesn’t matter that it’s not enough to live the Carrie Bradshaw life. She’s a train wreck anyway. Never should’ve let poor Aidan go and chosen that Mr. Big gobshite instead, if you ask me.’
I should’ve remembered that Carrie Bradshaw is on Niamh’s List. Niamh’s List is a thing of legend and once you find yourself on it, nothing you do can or will ever do can get you removed from it. To earn a place on it, all a person has to do is annoy Niamh in one of countless ever-changing ways. This can include being mean to her in her dreams, not saying thank you after she holds a door open for them, ever having appeared onLove Islandand, of course, being Carrie Bradshaw.
‘I’m so happy for you,’ Laura adds, reaching across and giving my hand a squeeze. ‘And fair play to you for making it happen! I’m proud of you and my mum would be proud of you too!’
A lump forms in my throat. I really hope Kitty would be proud.
‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice breaking like a thirteen-year-old boy’s.
‘There’s no better reason for cake!’ Niamh brings a fork-full of chocolate fudge cake to her mouth before devouring it as if she hasn’t eaten in a week. I wait until her semi-orgasmic noises have died down before I drop my next bombshell.
‘There’s more,’ I tell them. ‘As well as the column, Grace asked me if I would write a feature on a new retreat that’s going to be run in Donegal.’
‘Ooooh! Is it going to be all luxury spa treatments and delicious organic food, and only the best non-hangover-inducing wine?’ Laura asks, her eyes wide.
‘Not quite.’
‘Tell me it’s not some sort of wacky survivalist shite where they make you plunge into ice water and drink some sort of hallucinogen which makes you boke your anatomy and go on some sort of spiritual journey?’ Niamh might be a fan of yoga, but you’d be wrong to assume she is in anyway a hippy chick. And as for ‘survivalist shite’ – she is very, very clearly not a fan.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘It’s not that either. At least I don’t think so. The details are a bit sketchy, butNorthern Peoplewouldn’t be interested if it was a complete shite-hole. I’d say it’s probably somewhere in between the two? It’s a retreat for women of our age who are looking to empower themselves and embrace the next stage of their life.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ Laura says. ‘So kind of a Crones Are Us type of thing?’
‘Who are you calling a crone?’
‘Crone isn’t a bad word, Niamh. We’ve talked about this before. The three stages of womanhood? Maiden, Mother and Crone? All centred in Celtic mythology and the belief that older women are wise and powerful. Like the Bean Feasa.’
Laura seems to have an increasingly unlimited knowledge when it comes to the folklore of ageing women. It seems to have become her special interest since her mother’s death. I imagine it’s because she saw that strength in Kitty, and she’s determined that we’ll hang on to it too.
‘Bean Feasa?’ Niamh asks.
‘That’s the Irish for wise woman – an older lady imbued with knowledge and healing powers.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ I add. ‘It’s a weekend retreat. There will be some meditation, but as far as I know no hallucinogens.’
