Page 44 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Right on time,’ I say to Donal, pulling the door free from the carpet as the low-hanging evening sun momentarily blinds me in a golden haze. He stands completely still, long arms dangling by his sides and his mouth clamped shut.
‘You all right?’ I ask him, looking up as I try to step out past him, still holding the doorknob, my arm outstretched behind me. He takes a long stride back.
‘You just .?.?.’ He laughs softly, pinches the bridge of his long nose. ‘I didn’t think it was a thing but youliterallyjust took my breath away.’ He lets out a long breath, coughs. ‘I swear to God. I can’t be this uncool?’ He shakes his head, tucks his long hair back behind his shoulders in a twist.
‘Why, thank you.’ I grip the bottom of the short, crimson-red dress and perform a dignified curtsy. I’m delighted with how the dress looks on. Bandeau top, tight, exposed gold zip up the back, and it grips my body just above the knee. I’ve teamed it with high, red-tie criss-cross wedges and a silver metallic bag with chain strap. I’ve pleated the bandeau in layers so the material hides any lumps and bumps I don’t want on show for this evening. I’m deeply tanned from this glorious Dublin summer and wearing silver hoops in my ears, my hair loose. I’ve put on lashings of black mascara and that red lip Logan likes. I feel good. Ready to face him.
‘Red is definitely your colour – and that lipstick, you’re like a beautiful, exotic Spanish dancer,’ Donal says, sweetly. ‘Youdefinitely pull off the red better than I do.’ He tugs at his hair.
‘You look really nice yourself, Donal.’ I shut the door behind me with a double bang, kicking my leg back to make sure it’s shut tight.
‘I don’t think anyone has ever told me I look nice before.’ He laughs. ‘Hungry?’
I suddenly want to ask him if that tall woman in the dungarees with the glossy bob didn’t tell him he looked nice, because he really did that afternoon. ‘Starving,’ I say instead as we fall into step together. He’s wearing the same runners he wore on his lunch date with her, jeans and a khaki shirt, which I can immediately tell is brand new, because the tag is still hanging out the back. I say nothing just reach up and yank it off without thinking. It’s the muscle memory of a designer – I’ve yanked many tags in my life. If this were a movie, I’d break the third wall right now, I’m thinking, and I’m just about to say that to Donal, who I know will get it and laugh, when he turns to me.
‘I was going to return this shirt,’ he says, aghast.
‘Oh, shit! I’m sorry.’ I hold the tag in my hand. ‘Oh—’
‘I’m messing,’ he cuts me off with a grin. ‘Sorry. Sorry, as you now know, my sense of humour can be a bit warped.’ His lengthy top half shakes as he laughs. I notice the really cool, vintage, brown belt with the enormous square gold buckle around his waist. There is excess leather on the belt around his, I’m guessing, thirty-two-inch waist. A quick flash again of his white underwear.
‘Asshole!’ I poke him in the ribs; he’s so thin I can feel the rack of them.
‘Ow!’ he exaggerates.
‘Careful, or I’ll put you over my knee.’ I smack my own backside, slightly shocked at what could be perceived as flirtiness. It’s been a long Logan minute since I felt the desire to flirt with anyone. Where has this come from? We look atone another. Look away. Look at one another again. Look away again. Walk on. I tell him all about how he inspired me to go see Emma and how now I’m no longer jealous, and as I talk he just nods knowingly.
‘I mean, I’m still insanely jealous of that glossy dress bag, but hey, it’s a small price to pay to be free of all the rest.’
‘Good for you,’ he says and gives me a thumbs-up.
‘I do really like your shirt, though,’ I say. It looks good on him. I notice the thick links on the tight silver chain around his neck, above the open top button. ‘The cut is amazing, where’s it from?’ I glance at the tag still in my hand, as I wait to pass a green bin to dump it in. ‘Alexander McQueen!?’ I say, shocked, knowing this shirt was well over a thousand euros, and popping the tag into my silver bag. I love to collect a good designer tag.
‘Why are ya shocked? Don’t you think designers send me clothes all the time?’ Donal stops, strokes his fingers through his thick ginger beard, then lifts his arms out wide, flexes those unexpected muscles.
‘Well, the designer of your shirt is sadly no longer with us,’ I tell him, as he dawdles beside me. Donal takes life at his own pace I realise. He’s his own man. It hits me that what he doesn’t need is anyone’s approval.
Hands in his pockets again. ‘Oh. My sister sent it to me for my birthday all the way from the Fashion Days outlet. I think it’s been in the wardrobe about three years. I don’t have the need to dress up much.’
‘Oh! I thought you were going home to change?’ I stop dead, put my hands on my hips.
‘Into what? A .?.?. suit?’ Poor Donal looks horrified.
‘Gotcha!’ I poke him again.
He slaps his leg. ‘Balls.’
‘No balls, remember?’ I wag my finger.
‘Wagon!’ He gently pushes my shoulder, delighted with me.
A couple walk towards us holding hands, and Donal has to sidestep them. When they’ve gone past, he looks back over his shoulder at them.
‘I so wanted to play Red Rover with those two. Remember that?’
‘Not really?’ I say.
