I sit at my desk going through the plans for today. I like this desk. Its drawers are full of memories. Photographs, postcards, letters – paper yellowed with age, handwriting a childish scrawl.
I tune the radio into the forecast. We get a few Galway stations here. ‘It’s likely to get a little windy later today,’ the weatherman’s saying. ‘We have conflicting evidence about the Gale-force number, but we can
say that most of Connemara and West Galway will be affected, particularly the islands and coastal areas.’
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Freddy says, coming in to stand behind me.
We listen as the man on the radio announces that the winds will hit properly after 5 p.m.
‘By that time they’ll all be safely inside the marquee,’ I say. ‘And it should hold fast, even in a bit of wind. So there will be nothing to worry about.’
‘What about the electrics?’ Freddy asks.
‘They’re pretty good, aren’t they? Unless we have a real storm on our hands. And he didn’t say anything about that.’
We have been up since dawn this morning. Freddy has even made a trip over to the mainland with Mattie to get a few last-minute supplies, while I am checking everything is in order here. The florist will arrive shortly to arrange the sprays of local wildflowers in the chapel and marquee: speedwell and wild spotted orchids and blue-eyed grass.
Freddy returns to the kitchen to put the finishing touches to whatever food can be prepared in advance: the canapés and hors d’oeuvres, the cold starters of fish from the Connemara Smokehouse. He’s passionate about food, is my husband. He can talk about a dish he’s thought up in the way that a great musician might rhapsodise about a composition. It stems from his childhood; he claims that it comes from not having any variety in his diet when he was young.
I walk over to the marquee. It occupies the same higher land as the chapel and graveyard, some fifty yards to the east of the Folly along a tract of drier land, with the marshier stuff of the turf bog on either side. I hear frantic scurryings ahead and then in front of me they appear: hares startled out of their ‘forms’, the hollows they make in the heather to bed down in. They sprint in front of me for a while, their white tails bobbing, their powerful legs kicking out, before veering off into the long grasses on either side and disappearing from view. Hares are shapeshifters in Gaelic folklore; sometimes when I see them here I think of all of Inis an Amplóra’s departed souls, materialising once more to run amidst the heather.
In the marquee I begin my duties, filling up the space heaters and putting certain finishing touches on the tables: the hand-watercoloured menus, the linen napkins in their solid silver rings, each engraved with the name of the guest who will take it home. There’ll be a striking contrast later between the refinement of these beautifully dressed tables and the wildness outdoors. Later, when we light them, there’ll be the scent of the candles from Cloon Keen Atelier, an exclusive Galway perfumer, shipped over from the boutique at no small expense.
The marquee shivers around me as I do my checks. It’s quite amazing to think that in a few hours this echoing empty space will be filled with people. The light in here is dull and yellow compared to the bright cold light of outside but tonight this whole structure will glow like one of those paper lanterns you send up into the night sky. People on the mainland will be able to look across and see that something exciting is going on on Inis an Amplóra – the island they all speak about as the dead place, the haunted isle, as though it only exists as history. If I do my job right, this wedding will make sure they’ll be talking about it in the present again.
‘Knock knock!’
I turn. It’s the groom. He’s got one hand up and he’s pretending to knock on the side of the canvas flap as though it were a real door.
‘I’m looking for two errant ushers,’ he says. ‘We should be getting into our morning suits. You haven’t seen any sign of them?’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Good morning. No, I don’t think I have. Did you sleep well?’ I still can’t believe it’s really him, in the flesh: Will Slater. Freddy and I have watched Survive the Night since the start. I haven’t mentioned this to the bride and groom, though, in case they worry that we’re crazed super-fans who are going to embarrass ourselves and them.
‘Well!’ he says. ‘Very well.’ He is very good-looking in real life, more so even than he looks on screen. I reach down to straighten a fork, in case I’m staring. You can tell he’s always had these looks. Some people are awkward and unformed as children but grow into attractive adults.
But this man wears his beauty with such ease and grace. I suspect he uses it to great effect, is clearly very aware of its power. Every movement is like watching the working of a finely tuned machine, an animal in the peak of its condition.
‘I’m pleased you slept well,’ I say.
‘Ah,’ he says, ‘although we discovered a slight issue on going to bed.’ ‘Oh?’
‘Some seaweed under the duvet. The ushers’ little prank.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ I say. ‘I’m very sorry. You should have called Freddy or me. We would have sorted it out for you, remade the bed with new sheets.’
‘You don’t have to apologise,’ he says – that charming grin again. ‘Boys will be boys.’ He shrugs. ‘Even if Johnno is a somewhat overgrown one.’ He comes to stand beside me, close enough that I can detect the scent of his cologne. I take a small step back. ‘It’s looking great in here, Aiofe. Very impressive. You’re doing a wonderful job.’
‘Thank you.’ My tone does not invite conversation. But I imagine Will Slater isn’t used to people not wanting to talk to him. I realise, when he doesn’t move, that it’s even possible he sees my curtness as a challenge.
‘So what’s your story, Aoife?’ he asks, his head tilted to one side. ‘Don’t you get lonely, living here, only the two of you?’
Is he really interested, I wonder, or simply feigning it? Why does he want to know about me? I shrug. ‘No, not really. I’m what you might call a loner anyways. In the winter it just feels like survival, to be honest. The summers are what we stay for.’
‘But how did you end up here?’ He seems genuinely intrigued. He really is one of those people that has you convinced they are fascinated by your every word. It’s all part of what makes him so charming, I suppose.
‘I used to come here on summer holidays,’ I say, ‘when I was little.
My family, we all used to come here.’ I don’t often talk about that time. There’s a lot I could tell him, though. Of cheap strawberry ice lollies on the white sand beaches, the stain of red food colouring on lips and tongues. Of rock-pooling on the other side of the island, filleting through the contents of our nets with eager fingers to find shrimp and tiny, translucent crabs. Splashing about in the turquoise sea in the sheltered
bays until we got used to the freezing temperature. I won’t tell him any of this, obviously: it would not be appropriate. I need to maintain that essential boundary between myself and the guests.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think you had the local accent.’ I wonder what he expects. Top o’ the morning and to be sure, to be sure and shamrocks and leprechauns?
‘No,’ I say, ‘I have a Dublin accent, which perhaps sounds less pronounced. But I’ve also lived in different places. When I was younger we moved around a lot, because of my father’s job – he was a university professor. England for a bit – even the States for a while.’
‘You met Freddy abroad? He’s English, isn’t he?’ Still so interested, so charming. It makes me feel a little uneasy. I wonder exactly what he wants to know.
‘Freddy and I met a long long time ago,’ I tell him.
He smiles that charming, interested smile. ‘Childhood sweethearts?’ ‘You could say that.’ It’s not quite right, though. Freddy’s several
years younger than me and we were friends first, for years before anything else. Or perhaps not even friends, more clinging to one another as each other’s life rafts. Not long after my mother became a shell of the woman she had once been. Several years before my father’s heart attack. But I’m hardly going to tell the groom all of that. Besides everything else, in this profession it is important to never allow yourself to seem too human, too fallible.
‘I see,’ he says.
‘Now,’ I say, before the next question can form on his lips, whatever it may have been. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d better be getting on with everything.’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘We’ve got some real party animals coming this evening, Aoife,’ he says. ‘I only hope they don’t cause too much mayhem.’ He pushes his hand through his hair and grins at me in what I think is probably intended to be a rueful, winning way. His teeth are very white when he smiles. So bright, in fact, that it makes me wonder if he gets them specially lightened.
Then he moves a little closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re doing a fantastic job, Aoife. Thank you.’ He leaves his hand there a beat too long, so that I can feel the heat of his palm seeping through my shirt. I am suddenly very aware that it is just the two of us in this big echoing space.
I smile – my politest, most professional smile – and take a small step away. I suppose a man like him is very sure of his sexual power. It reads
as charm at first, but underneath there is something darker, more complicated. I don’t think he is actually attracted to me, nothing like that. He put his hand on my shoulder because he can. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it. But it felt like a reminder that he is the one in charge, that I am working for him. That I must dance to his tune.
