Page 61 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin
We pull up outside the tidy, semi-detached red-brick house in Ringsend. A religious grotto is opposite, with a statue of the beautiful Virgin Mary. We look at one another. The white hall door with the long gold brass knocker opens and Amanda stands there, looking absolutely stunning in her bridesmaid’s finery.
‘Grace! You’re here! Deadly!’ She states the obvious, then lifts up her dress at the hem and runs towards me exposing her novelty penguin slippers.
‘Thank you, I—’ is all I manage to say to the confused driver as Amanda begins rapping on his window, waving a fifty-euro note in the air.
He rolls it down. ‘Can I help ya, love?’ he quizzes her.
‘Wanna pay her fare! Hurry up! Haven’t got all day!’ She shoves the money into his hand.
‘There’s no need .?.?.’ I start to protest, then see her expression. ‘But thanks a million.’ With my sewing basket in hand, I exit the back door of the vehicle into the scalding heat of the early morning.
‘Go on in! Belinda’s upstairs, first room on the left. Ignore the chaos inside. It’s a madhouse,’ Amanda instructs, crouched down at the driver’s window as he counts out notes for her change.
I see Belinda’s BMW outside the house. It has ‘After the Bell’, the name of her after-school programme on it; the signage underneath says,From little acorns grow great things.What anamazing businesswoman she is, I think as I put my hand on the small black gate that has swung shut. I push the handle back down. It’s a tiny, square garden surrounded by white railings with gold-painted spiked tops, and a hundred colourful, dancing flowers from the earth. I walk up the high red cement step and go inside.
‘Holy shit .?.?.’ I mutter under my breath. It’s akin to the opening scene fromHome Alone. Adults and children fill every small corner of the house, crossing past one another, circling one another, eating, drinking. An older man stands in front of the fireplace, singing an Irish ballad, his eyes shut tight. I stare momentarily, open-mouthed, looking at them all through the square, glass panes on the wooden double doors. Then I take the curved, narrow staircase, climbing two at a time. I see the door on the left and knock hard.
‘Who is it?’ a voice yells back at me.
‘It’s me? Grace,’ I return.
‘Come on in!’ the voice bellows again as I swing the door open.
Belinda sits on the bed in her snow-white second-skin body suit, a can of Coke in her hand, and my head screams,Get that away from your dress!
‘Halahfuckinglulliah!’ she cheers when she sees me, then takes a swig. ‘Can’t keep these bad boys in.’ She juggles her bosom with her free hand underneath them. I don’t need to ask what happened. I know. Sadly, I’ve been here many times.
‘Hi! All right. I’ll fix it. No need for panic.’ I raise the orange wicker basket. ‘I have all I need in my magic box of tricks. So, let’s get you dressed. The service is at two, yeah?’ I confirm with her.
‘Yeah.’ She’s actually nowhere near as panicked as she sounded on the phone.
‘Were you planning on being late?’ I ask.
She lifts the red can to her mouth again. ‘No. I don’t do bullshit like that.’
I check my watch. ‘How far is the church?’
‘Ten minutes.’ She stops a burp with a fist to her mouth. Her back jerks up and down.
‘Grand. We’ve just under half an hour to get your wedding dress perfect.’ I move some make-up, a bottle of Kalms, cotton wool – and what looks like day-old remains of coffee in a cup – off the messy dressing table and place my wicker kit down. The wedding dress is back on the hanger in my dress bag, swaying on the open wardrobe door.
‘Kathleen and her LA juice detox. It bleedin’ works! I’ll say that much for it.’ Belinda laughs, freely.
‘I would never have taken you for a detox kinda gal,’ I tell her with a sharp shake of my head.
She swigs the Coke again. ‘I’m not! She hypnotised me or something.’
‘How bigisthe dress? It’s only been a few days?’
‘Big enough that it’s not tight enough to keep me boobs in!’
I zip the dress bag down carefully and remove the dress, just as a soft knock comes to the door.
‘Who is it?’ Belinda screeches again, and I resist putting my hands over my ears.
‘Meeeeeeee.’ An out of place accent sing-songs. ‘Kathleen.’
Kathleen enters, indeed like a beautiful gold Oscar statue. Her sun-kissed body sparkling with gold-dusted glittering shoulders, striking a pose in her Chanel kitten heels. The dress sculpts her in all the right places, and that deep V-neck dip is sexy yet classy. The material swishes as she moves. If I say so myself, it’s a standout dress. It’s design perfection. Her hair is in a high-up, tight circular bun that makes her cheekbones look even more pronounced. Minimal make-up, clear glossy lips and drop diamanté earrings.
