‘They’ve got hats on.’ Quinn pointed out. ‘And I bet they’ve got socks on too. I didn’t picture myself wearing a hat and socks to bed on my honeymoon or freezing my arse off on a bed made of ice for that matter.’
‘There’s such a thing as body heat.’ Aisling waggled her eyebrows at him.
‘There is that.’ He grinned.
Sensing weakness she warmed to her theme. ‘And, it’s not just a hotel.’
‘I can see that. It’s a fecking igloo too.’
She elbowed him. ‘It’s a living breathing ice art gallery.’ She’d stolen that bit from the small print in the brochure. ‘Imagine telling our children that’s where we spent our honeymoon.’
‘What children? My little swimmers will be frozen forever if you make me go there.’
‘We could sip schnapps that would warm them back up and watch the Northern Lights.’
‘Isn’t it the Germans who drink schnapps?’
‘The Swedes do too, I looked it up, but alright then, we’ll have a hot toddy of Swedish glogg if it makes you happy.’
He looked at her blankly.
‘It’s like mulled wine.’
‘Ah.’ He liked the mulled wine and the body heat side of things but he was still having a hard time with the hats and socks.
‘We could go for a sled ride through the pine forest too.’
‘And will Rudolph be there, Aisling?’
‘Ha ha, it’s huskies that pull the sleds not reindeer.’
Quinn could see he was fighting a losing battle. It wasn’t looking likely she’d agree to the B&B in Kerry he’d been going to suggest and he wanted to keep his bride happy. He played his last card even though he knew he’d lost. ‘It looks expensive.’
Aisling laid down her hand and it was a blinder. ‘It’s not that bad when you think of what an experience it will be. What price do you put on a memory that will last us a lifetime, Quinn?’
‘Feck it, Aisling, you’d better by me some thermal socks, then. And if they do a budget ice suite that’s the one you’re too book, alright?’
‘Yay!’ Aisling gave a little cheer before planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she said, giving his thigh a meaningful squeeze ‘I’ll make sure you have a good time, big boy. You won’t feel the cold on my bedtime watch.’
Quinn coughed, ‘Er, Ash.’
She looked over to see Mr Cleary, not quite a snappy Jack Russell more of a droopy eyed bloodhound, standing in the doorway of his office.
‘If you’d like to come in, when you’re ready,’ he said, giving a little cough.
Chapter 2
Two days had passed since Quinn and Aisling’s successful visit to the bank. Despite the less than auspicious start, Mr Cleary, who had insisted they call him Michael, had been quite accommodating in the end and they’d left with the promise of sizable loan when the time came and a brand spanking new account in both their names. Now though, the good mood Aisling had been floating about in at the thought of stargazing near the North Pole was dissipating. To be blunt, Aisling O’Mara was in foul humour. She could hear Mammy’s voice in her head telling her, ‘You always are a moody madam when you’re hungry.’ And, Aisling was hungry.
She eyed Bronagh’s drawer, the guesthouse’s receptionist had nipped to the loo and the custard creams she knew Bronagh had tucked away in there called to her. Eat me, eat me, eat me, Aisling, they whispered. It was like a scene from the Little Shop of Horrors, so it was. She glanced toward the bathroom and saw the door still closed. Her hand reached forward and grasped the knob of the drawer but the sudden glint of blue light saw her snatch it back as though burned.
A diamond solitaire engagement ring, oval cut set in white gold no less, was better than any Weight Watchers meeting or Slimmer’s Club get together. The most beautiful thing she’d ever been given in her life was right there on her ring finger reminding her that in a few weeks, she, Aisling Elizabeth O’Mara would become Mrs Aisling O’Mara-Moran. How many times had she practiced introducing herself like that these last few weeks? Yes, hello there I’m Mrs O’Mara-Moran. Mrs O’Mara-Moran is the name. Aisling, Aisling O’Mara-Moran pleased to make your acquaintance. For some reason when she said it in her head, she sounded posh, plummy like Joanna Lumley. She thought it might be because she was going to be the proud owner of a double-barrelled surname.
Mammy had been perturbed when Aisling had said she wanted to keep the O’Mara. ‘Aisling that’s the sort of modern thing Moira would do to be different,’ she’d said and Aisling had replied. ‘It’s for Daddy, Mammy. I want to carry on our surname for him.’ She didn’t add that her brother, Patrick was over in America so he was hardly doing his bit for carrying on the O’Mara name in Ireland. Mammy had cried hearing this and said Aisling was a wonderful daughter. Five minutes later she’d accused her of eating the last Snowball she’d been saving and had planned on savouring as she watched Ballykissangel later that evening. Aisling had said she wouldn’t and hadn’t but the coconut flakes on her sweater had given her away.
‘What are you doing?’ Bronagh’s waspish voice made her jump.
‘Nothing. I was about to go through the diary to see what guests we’ve got arriving today, that’s all.’
The receptionist’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘I know what was on your mind. I can read you like a book so I can, and you’ll not find any biscuits in there. I’ve hidden them. I’ll not have it on my head when the zip gets stuck halfway up your back on your big day. Nobody will be able to say Bronagh Hanrahan had her own best interests at heart. Or accuse me of sabotaging your chance to lose weight for my own financial gain.’
Aisling tried to look innocent, hoping the rapid blinking and widening of her
