‘Leave me out of it,’ Roisin muttered, having no wish to be reminded of the trauma.
Aisling sniggered glad to have the heat off her. ‘Ah God, I remember. Mammy was on about taking you to the doctors to see if he would lance it. You were supposed to be going on a date with yer man, Ewan, the one with the motorbike, Rosi, and you rang to cancel but he never got your message and turned up here anyway. Sure, it was a great craic when you opened the door and he caught sight of you.’
The memory, even now, made, Roisin wince.
‘Toothpaste is good for pimples, Roisin,’ Cindy drawled, having come up for air from the peanuts. ‘Just a dab before you go to bed and voila it’s disappeared by the time you rise and shine. Works for me every time. You can’t afford to have ‘em in my business.’ Cindy was an actress who’d apparently been in a crowd scene on Baywatch which was why she had an enormous bosom and extremely white teeth. As to why Patrick had matching teeth, the sisters didn’t know but he’d made his joy at Cindy having such an enormous bosom clear on more than one occasion since they’d turned up unexpectedly for Christmas.
‘No, I suppose not and thanks for that, Cindy, but I don’t tend to suffer from them these days. Aisling that could be worth a try on your cold sore,’ Roisin said snarkily. ‘Why don’t you go squeeze half a tube on it and see if that helps?’
‘It’ll be gone by tomorrow.’ Aisling brushed Roisin’s barbed suggestion aside. ‘And, I put that much concealer on you can hardly see it, anyway.’
‘No, you’re right it’s grand,’ Moira muttered. ‘You’d hardly notice you’ve sprouted a third lip.’
‘Aisling O’Mara, stop poking at it. You’ll make it infected and then you’ll be sorry,’ Maureen called over, emptying the packet of crisps into a bowl.
‘What flavour are they, Mammy? Aisling dutifully dropped her hand.
Maureen picked the bag up and inspected it. ‘Salt ‘n’ vinegar. And I thought you were on a diet.’
‘I am and I was only asking. You don’t need to eat the head off me.’ Aisling wasn’t good when she was hungry. Arms folded across the chest of her green party dress, she turned her attention back to Moira. It was her fiancé Quinn’s favourite dress. He said it set off the copper highlights in her hair to perfection, which was quite flowery for Quinn, so she’d decided to wear it even though she preferred her blue one with the side splits. She was hoping it would distract him from her lip. ‘And you,’ it was her turn to point at Moira, ‘you’re supposed to be a poor student. You were only after telling me the other day you won’t be paying for your bridesmaid’s dress. What are you doing splashing the cash on the likes of Chanel when the rest of us girls, who are actually earning, use Boots No. 7?’
Roisin flapped her hand to shush them both. ‘Would the pair of you shut up, I can’t hear what Pat’s saying.’
‘Rosi, you nearly had my eye out then.’ Aisling was getting heated.
‘It’s all about priorities, Aisling,’ Moira stated. ‘Only Chanel does that particular shade of vampish red therefore I prioritise my finances in order to be able to afford to buy it. And, it is so the herpes. Poor Quinn.’ She shook her head. ‘Has he seen it yet?’
That was the final straw. ‘Mammy, tell her!’ Aisling shouted over to the kitchen where Maureen O’Mara was now helping herself to the crisps.
‘Sure, you’re as bad as each other.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything, it was her who came in accusing me.’ Aisling was wounded.
‘I don’t care who started it, I’m ending it. D’you hear me?’
Five hours and forty-five minutes until midnight...
CAROL’S NAME MEANT song of joy or song of happiness and she liked to think her dear old mammy and daddy had picked her name well. She hoped she had spread happiness and much joy throughout her many years and tonight, on the eve of not just a new century but her eightieth birthday, she planned to sprinkle a little more. She just hoped Sarah took her performance in her stride. She put down the lipstick she’d been applying to inspect her carefully applied stage make-up. Her eyes were her best feature, they’d always given people cause to comment. She gave herself a mental pat on the back for the good job she’d made with the false eyelashes; a must if eyes were to have oomph under the bright lights and no easy task to apply when one normally relied on glasses. Thank goodness for her steady hand. Fluttering her lashes for effect and to check they were firmly in place she blew a kiss at her reflection before retrieving the blonde Monroe wig, securing it over-top of her own sparse white hair.
She wore her hair short these days partly because it was the more flattering option and partly because it had simply stopped growing. A most peculiar thing hair. It refused to grow where you wanted it to and grew like weeds where you didn’t. There was one last thing needed to complete her toilette. She reached for the bottle, taking out the stopper and dabbing her signature Femme Rochas behind her ears. The rich dark plum and sandalwood notes burst forth making her feel like the femme fatale figure the fragrance had been designed for. Her first experience of the French perfume had been a gift from an admirer over sixty years ago who’d told her the shape of the bottle had been designed to resemble a woman’s curves. She’d fancied he was spouting what the girl on the perfume counter at Brown Thomas had told him but she hadn’t cared. She was flattered. It was the first of many gifts she was to receive during her time
