Maureen wiped the fog her breath had caused from the mirror and held her head straight, looking at her reflection square on. She placed her fingertips on the top of both cheekbones and pulled her skin back to see what she’d look like if she was one of those Los Angeles types. Sure, even the men were at it over there because she’d an inkling her dear departed Brian’s brother, Cormac had been under the knife. It was likely only a little nip and tuck but he’d been looking very smooth and stretched when he’d been over for Aisling’s wedding, and Maureen had spent a great deal of time trying to spot a telltale scar behind his ears. Several of the ramblers had asked who he was when they’d seen the wedding photographs and when she’d mentioned he was Brian’s older brother they’d gasped and said, ‘Never!’ As for the other man in her life over in Los Angeles, her first born and only son Patrick, his teeth had made her want to sing Blinded by the Light every time he smiled this last visit. The bride was supposed to be centre of attention at a wedding not a set of gleaming, white teeth.
She put Patrick’s obsessive dentistry down to the sunshine and oranges; too much sunshine and vitamin C wasn’t good for an Irishman. His American girlfriend Cindy wasn’t a good influence either because her teeth were the same, like piano keys they were. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if they got a two for one deal at the dentist. Like distant relatives of the Osmond family the pair of them were these days. Marie and Donny’s lost-lost cousins. Then there were the two enormous watermelons attached to Cindy’s chest. They were far too perky to be the set the good Lord saw fit to bless her with and Patrick could do with taking a leaf out of Marian’s book and looking up where his girlfriend was concerned. He always had his nose near the things.
His girlfriend bore an uncanny resemblance to the Barbie dolls the girls had played with when they were young. Come to think of it, she’d caught Patrick doing something untoward with his Ken doll to Rosi’s Barbie once. Rosi had been most put out and she’d snapped Ken’s leg off. Oh, the drama of it all. She could still hear them shrieking and calling each other all the names under the sun. Perhaps that’s where his penchant for blonde women with big bosoms stemmed from. She didn’t want to think about Patrick, though. Not right now.
Her mind flitted in that direction anyway. Ten thousand American dollars she’d loaned him at Christmas and not a word from him about it since. There’d been no time to ask him how his new venture was going when he’d been over for the wedding because he’d been gone again in the blink of an eye. She’d have liked to have known the money had gone to good use and things were going well for him. It would have given her some peace if he’d at least acknowledged the loan and reassured her it would be repaid before the year was out. Then, she might not be feeling uneasy about the whole thing. She hated to think what Rosi, Aisling and Moira would say if they knew. No doubt it would be colourful!
The problem was she only had the one son and the last time she’d not done what he wanted which was sell the family guesthouse and split the proceeds amongst them all, she’d not heard from him for a good while. He’d flounced off to Los Angeles and look what had happened to him since then. He was in therapy he’d confided on this last trip home. Now that was an American thing, if ever she’d heard one. What did a boy with his looks and charisma need with therapy? And if he had a few things he wanted to get off his chest then what was wrong with going down to St Theresa’s, sitting in the confessional box, and talking it out with Father Fitzpatrick? It was free for one thing and you went home with a clear conscience to boot.
No, you got to a certain age in life when you realised what was important and family was everything. You didn’t want to be at odds with them, not when you knew how quickly they could be taken from you. There was Brian, fighting fit one minute and in the ground six months later. He wouldn’t have approved of her parting with their hard-earned money like so either. He’d taken a tougher line with Patrick which was why their son would come to her on the quiet with his woes. Family had to help one another, she liked to say, but the niggly voice in her head would override it with, ‘That’s all fine and dandy, Maureen, but a woman of your years can’t be throwing her money around, either.’
She realised she was still stretching her face in a manner that would have had her saying to the girls, ‘The wind will change and you’ll be stuck like that.’ She inspected this new look and decided she looked like your German cat woman, the one who’d been married to a trillionaire. Her photo was always in the magazines beside captions saying Why you shouldn’t have a facelift. Yer woman had more money than sense and given she could afford the best in the business what hope was there for the rest of them? If she went under the knife, she’d likely wind up looking like the old bint over the way’s Persian cat, Peaches. It had a face on it like a smacked arse and had taken to taunting Pooh. The ball of fluff liked nothing better than to peer around their adjoining balcony rails and stare in at her poor poodle like some sort of
