Bridesmaid Blitz (17 page)

“Hi, Dad,” I say, pulling open the passenger door.

He jumps and clutches his chest. “Amy!”

I climb in and stare at him. “Are you all right? You’re acting really weird.”

He sighs. “Your mother’s hopping mad with me and I don’t fancy being shouted at again, so I’m trying to keep a low profile.”

“Why? What have you done now?”

“She’s annoyed that I blew off your hospital visit yesterday to go shopping.”

“Ah, that.” He’s right; Mum was less than impressed. She used some pretty strong language when I told her.

“I don’t know why I even bothered going. Guess what happened.” He continues without pausing for me to answer. “As soon as we got to Dundrum Pauline dumped me! Sat me down in Butlers Chocolate Café and told me to wait. Said I’d only get in the way. Three flaming hours I was sitting in that café on my own, like an eejit. I ate so many chocolates it’ll take me weeks in the gym to burn the calories off.”

“Shouldn’t have eaten them all, then, should you?” I say, smiling. Leaving Dad in a chocolate café is like leaving Alex in a toy shop.

“I was bored, Amy. I couldn’t help myself. Now and again she’d come back to drop bags off, but apart from that I was on my tod. Read the
Irish Times
from cover to cover, even the letters page and all the small ads.” He sniffs. “Pauline bought loads of cushions for Gracie’s room, pink flowery things. And she never even asked if I liked them.”

“And did you?”

He shrugs. “Amy, men aren’t interested in cushions. I couldn’t care less what Gracie sits on as long as she’s healthy. I just wanted to be asked. To feel involved, needed, you know? It’s the principle of the thing. I had driven her all the way down there!” I stare at him. It’s not like Dad to be such a wuss. “And then when we got back, Shelly pretty much ignored me at dinner,” he goes on. “Spent the whole time discussing color schemes for Gracie’s room with her mum. Pauline doesn’t like the yellow, says it doesn’t complement Gracie’s skin tone and that pink or coral would be more suitable.”

I try not to yawn but fail miserably.

“Sorry, Amy. I know I’m probably boring you rigid, but I don’t have anyone else to talk to.” He stops for a moment. “Anyway, enough about me. How are you? School OK?”

“Fine,” I say with a shrug. I don’t want to talk about it. This week has crawled by like a camel on its knees. Getting picked on every day isn’t exactly my idea of fun.

After a few seconds’ silence, Dad continues, “Look, I am sorry about yesterday.” He runs his hands through his hair, leaving wide finger ridges. “I hadn’t realized you’d be away this weekend until Dave rang and told me about the surprise trip. He had a bit of a go at me about the whole hospital thing too. If I’d known you were so bothered about seeing Gracie, I would have arranged another visit, honest. Why didn’t you say something about Paris?”

“I didn’t get the chance: you texted and asked me not to ring you, remember? You haven’t exactly been Mr. Contactable.”

Silence. Dad stares out of the windscreen. “Sorry,” he says eventually. “Are you annoyed with me too, Amy?”

What am I supposed to say? Yes, I’m completely fed up. School is rubbish and you’re acting like I don’t exist. Gracie is my sister, my
sister
; I’m worried about her and I have a right to see her. But it sounds self-absorbed, and Dad’s already been getting it in the neck from Mum and Dave. He hardly needs anymore aggro from me. Plus, if I give out to him too much, who knows . . . ? Maybe our relationship will become like Sophie and her dad’s, and I couldn’t bear that. No, it’s best not to rock the boat.

“No, not really.” I stare down at my hands and scratch at a hangnail.

Dad smiles gently. “I’m so glad you’ve inherited my calm nature, Amy. Sylvie can be such a hothead sometimes. You never cause a fuss, do you, eh?” He reaches over to ruffle my hair, but I pull my head away.

I know Mum can be a bit emotional, but at least you know exactly how she’s feeling. With Dad, it’s different. There’s always this veneer, like a sheet of ice over his emotions. It’s hard to make out what he’s thinking half the time.

“Did I ever tell you about the time she threw her boots at me in Central Park?” he says.

I shake my head. I’m torn. Dad’s being a bit disloyal — I don’t think Mum would appreciate him telling me personal stories, especially ones about her losing it — but then again it does sound interesting.

“Her boots?” I ask.

Dad nods. “Her boots. We’d just had lunch at the Boathouse — where Carrie and Mr. Big used to meet, apparently.”

My eyes light up. “Wow! What’s it like?”

“I don’t really remember. Nice views of the lake, though. I made sure we got the best table. Anyway, I had to take a couple of work calls during lunch and she wasn’t impressed. Didn’t say a word to me until we got outside the door, then she hunkered down, took off her boots, and threw them at my head.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Nothing major. I promised I’d turn off my BlackBerry during lunch, but there was this deal going through. It only rang a couple of times, but your mum seemed to take offense. Even though I took them all outside.”

“How many times, exactly?”

“I don’t know, seven, eight?”

“Dad!”

He puts his hands up. “Hey! Someone has to bring in the money. No deals, no moolah. That’s life, Amy.”

I think of Mum sitting all alone at a restaurant table in New York, waiting for Dad to get off the phone. Poor Mum.
It was only one deal, Dad,
I want to tell him.
And you broke a promise.
But I keep my mouth shut.

“Anyway, how’s Gracie?” I say instead. “You haven’t mentioned her yet.”

Dad hits his forehead with his hand. “What
am
I thinking? She’s doing great. The hole’s closed over and they’re just monitoring her now to check there are no further complications.”

“That’s brilliant, Dad. I can’t wait to see her again.”

“I know, love.” He puts his hand over mine, at the same time as glancing at his watch. “Listen, I’d better get home. Shelly will be wondering where I’ve gotten to, and I’m sure Pauline will have a list of things for me to do.”

“Shelly’s home?”

“Of course. Picked her up on the way back from Dundrum yesterday after the doctor had done a final checkup. Didn’t I say?”

“No.”

“Sorry. I’m very forgetful at the moment.” He leans over and pecks me on the cheek. “Enjoy Paris. Your mum and I were there — gosh, it must be more than twelve years ago now. Second honeymoon. Very romantic.” He gives me a wink and starts up the engine.

“Dad!”

He just grins. “See you when you get back.”

The minute I’ve climbed out and shut the door behind me, he’s driving away. I watch the car for a second before it disappears around the corner, then I begin walking back toward the house.

As I’m crunching up the drive, something occurs to me. Last autumn, when I went on a hockey trip to Wales, he arrived the night before with a bag of sterling coins for the slot machines, plus twenty pounds spending money. This time he didn’t give me so much as one yo-yo to spend in Paris, and we use the same currency. I’m trying not to be mercenary about it, but even a fiver would have done.

I push open the front door, hoping to sneak back upstairs without being spotted but . . .

“There you are!” Dave pops out of the living room as soon as I walk inside, making me jump. (He must have just gotten back from work.)

I give a surprised shriek and he says, “Shush! Evie’s in bed.”

“You’re the one who jumped out at me,” I grumble. “Do you want something?”

He smiles. “Sorry — didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to catch you alone. I spotted you in the car with Art and thought I’d wait to talk to you. Why didn’t he come in? Scared of Sylvie having a go at him, was he?”

I laugh. “Something like that.”

“Now,” Dave goes on, “I just wanted to tell you that once Sylvie’s in bed, I’ll put her suitcase in the cupboard under the stairs for the morning, OK?”

“Where is it now?”

“In the boot of my car. It’s almost packed. I just have to find her shampoo and stuff. What else will she need in the way of toiletries? Shower gel, toothbrush, and toothpaste. Will that cover it?”

I shake my head. Boys really are clueless.

It seems like I’ve just gotten to sleep when I feel someone shaking me, hard. “Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead.” It’s Clover.

“I can’t. It’s way too early. Please don’t make me.” I groan loudly and clamp my pillow over my head.

Ignoring my plea, Clover flicks on my bedroom light and peels the pillow back. “What are you talking about, Beanie. It’s three fifty. Monique will be here in ten minutes, like we arranged. We all have to surprise Sylvie together, remember?”

“Ten minutes?” I wail. “I’ll never be ready in ten minutes!” (I haven’t even finished packing.
Siúcra!
)

I roll over and push myself up. My head throbs and my eyes feel all dry and itchy. I rub them with a knuckle and yawn so deeply my jaw almost dislocates.

Clover’s just standing there, smiling. “You’re such a lazybones.”

“Why are you grinning at me like a mentaller?” I moan. “It’s too early to be happy.”

“I’m hyperexcited. Paris, Beanie.
Paris!
” She hugs herself.

“But you hate mornings too.”

“It’s not morning to me, ’cos I haven’t actually been to sleep. Clever, eh? I pumped myself full of Gramps’s tar-thick espresso last night. Seven cups. I’m still buzzing.”

I squint at her. “Are you sure you’re in a fit state to drive?”

“
Perfecto.
Made it this far, didn’t I? The rest’s mainly motorway.”

Now that my eyes have finally focused, I can see that hers are darting around the room and she’s jiggling up and down like a toddler on a bouncy castle. An
über
hyper Clover: just what I need when I’m feeling like a giant sloth.

“Throw your clothes on, Beanie. Chop, chop.”

“Would you mind giving me some privacy?” I say, a little primly. “Turn around.”

“Oooooh,
privacy
,” she teases. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. I used to change your nappy, remember?”

“When you were five, Clover? Really?”

“Well, maybe not. Still, no need to be shy, Bean Machine.”

I glare at her and she says, “OK, OK. I get the message. You’re
so
not a morning lark. I’ll wait outside.”

As soon as she’s gone, I shudder into action. I grab the pile of clothes I sorted last night and throw it into my travel bag. There’s no time to think about coordination: I’ll just have to make do with what I have and hope Clover will let me borrow some of her clothes. She’s bound to have overpacked. Next I zip up my makeup bag and wrap it in a hoodie like Clover taught me, so it won’t get smashed by the baggage handlers.

I’m just doing up my case when Clover pops her head around the door again. “Beanie!” She scowls. “You’re still in your pajamas.”

“I thought I’d wear them on the plane: nice and comfy.”

She looks at me as if I’m mad.

I roll my eyes. “I’m joking.”

“Good. Monique just texted me. ETA: three minutes.”

“Get out and I’ll be ready in two seconds.”

“You’d better be,” Clover warns, shutting the door. “Otherwise, I am bundling you into the car in your PJs. We’re tight on time as it is.”

I grab the first clean things I can find and get dressed in record time.

When I open my bedroom door, Monique is standing in the hall beside Clover. She’s wearing a floaty black-and-white-striped top over red skinny jeans and looks remarkably awake for this hour of the morning.

She grins at me. “Hi, Amy,” she whispers. “Ready to surprise your mum?”

I nod and yawn again.

“Got your CD player?”

“Oops.” I fetch it from my room and plug it in at Monique’s feet.

Clover crouches down, slips a CD in, and presses
PLAY.
“All shipshape and ready to go, Captain Monny.” She salutes her finger to her temple. “Link arms and let’s rock this joint.”

Monique throws one long arm around Clover’s shoulder and the other around mine. As soon as the music starts playing — not too loudly: we don’t want to wake the babies — I open Mum and Dave’s bedroom door and we shuffle inside and stand at the foot of the bed.

“Now, girls!” Monique says, flicking on the light.

We start kicking our legs in the air and singing along to the French cancan music. Clover and I are giggling so much we can hardly keep up with Monique. “Da, da, da-da-da-da, da, da . . .”

Mum opens her eyes, shuts them tightly, and then opens them again. “Am I dreaming?” she says, pushing herself to a sitting position. “Girls, have you gone completely crazy? What’s happening? Have I forgotten my own birthday?”

We stop dancing and Monique says, “Sylvie, you’re off to Paris! Now. With us. Flight leaves in less than three hours.”

Mum stares at her. “Paris? What are you on about?”

“Your bridesmaids are kidnapping you, Sylvie,” Dave says with a monster grin. He’s chuckling away to himself, enjoying Mum’s confusion. “It’s all arranged. Your bag’s ready and waiting — it’s in the cupboard under the stairs — and I’ve taken time off to mind the kids.”