Page 9 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin
‘No idea that’s why I’m asking you .?.?. thought you might help me? Just a friendly guy? One of your work associates, maybe? Or some drop-dead gorgeous underwear model with sharpfeatures?’ I say twirling the wine glass in my hand.
Chaos in the background now as the pop of bottle caps erupts. ‘Sure. You know I just spoke to this woman who was telling me about her business .?.?. maybe you can .?.?. actually I have an idea .?.?. leave it with me, it’s very loud in here. Oh, by the way, the cute press photographer guy, Marek, the one with the multiple piercings I was telling you about, has asked if he can get me a cocktail.’ It’s like she needs my approval.
‘So what are you on the phone to me for? Go get a spicy margarita, Señorita!’ I shout back.
‘You don’t have to talk to Logan at the party, you know that? No one will blame you if you just blank him. It’s a very large basement. You can fully avoid him.’ Her concern lingers.
I take a sip, the sharpness of the grape serenading my tongue. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Now go, have fun!’ I end the call but the reality that I’m going to see Logan soon overcomes me and I feel uncertainty as I clutch my phone too tightly. The torturous wait is almost over.
With a shaking hand I set the empty glass down. Butterflies bash around my belly. What is Logan thinking right now? How is he feeling about seeing me again? Has he been thinking about this moment all this time just like I have? Does he still even think about me at all or am I totally delusional?
‘You’re freaking out, spiralling thoughts!’ I give out to myself. ‘Stop it.’ Even my knees feel wobbly as I fix Belinda’s chapel train. It’s draped on my old mannequin, pooling onto the floor. The tulle, dotted with specks of silver, glitters brightly. My hands continue to shake. I’ve conducted myself with dignity. I’m proud of that part. I didn’t jump on the next flight out of Portofino and chase him across the skies to New York, begging him to come back. I stood firm. If you love somebody set them free, that had been Mia’s advice as I’d sobbed on her shoulder on the plane home from Italy. So I did. I let him go do his thing. Patientlywaiting for him to come crawling back. He hadn’t, yet .?.?. but I haven’t given up hope. It’s not like we hadn’t been happy – we had. He had just become more and more consumed with his career and I was terrified I’d lose him to some brilliantly beautiful, sickeningly toned actress so I kept pushing him into marriage. It’s not like he had ever lied to me, I always knew becoming a successful actor was the most important thing to him. I just never factored in how much an effect it would all have on me and my life.
Chapter Six
I reach for my orange wicker basket on the top shelf and remove some yellow-topped pins to tack the train up to the back of Belinda’s bodice. I wish I could be more like Belinda, I think, with a half-smile creeping across my lips.
Although she is veering towards bridezilla behaviour, I’m completely mad about her. She’s the type of friend every woman wants – no filter, brutal honesty and hilariously funny – that cutting, dry wit. She’s a woman’s woman. As we near her wedding, her and her sisters are spending more time in my flat, and it’s wonderful. They are real, a breath of fresh air. But Belinda keeps changing the height of her shoes – dramatically, from ballerina flats to towering stilettos – and it’s driving me crazy. I’m a perfectionist when it comes to hemming. But she’s also my only client right now, and because her three sisters want to wear individual styles not ‘generic Monsoon muck’, I have to shut up, suck it up and obey the Almighty. I also finished attaching the most delicate crystals onto the bodice this evening and the tips of my fingers are still burning from it. I desperately need to book some clients off the back of these four stunning gowns, so I’m putting my heart and soul into creating each one. Stepping back, I admire my work as my stomach rumbles.
I head over to my tiny freezer, pull the handle and see nothing but a heavy frost inside. A noticeable cloud of cold air escapes and it’s welcome. The ferocious sounds of drum and bass rise with a crescendo, up through the creaky floorboards from thearcade below. I jump like a scalded cat as the slot machine hits the jackpot. I’ve lived above MacMan’s Arcade for six years now, but that sound never ceases to make me jump. When Logan lived with me, we’d both jump then high-five each other and scream:
‘We did it! We hit the jackpot.’
Then we’d kiss. It was a silly, childish nod to how we each felt about the other. We couldn’t get enough of each other. It was thrilling, visceral, physical, all brand-new emotions – and I thought I’d died and gone to boyfriend heaven.
With my hand on my growling stomach, I pick up my phone, press speed dial.
‘Can I order a seventy-three, with egg fried rice and a portion of curry sauce, please?’ I ask the girl on the other end taking my order. She asks for my address. ‘Top Floor, eighteen, Old Camden Street.’ It’s too late to go out and get something, and while I can’t really afford this, I’m starving. I was sure I had at least fishfingers in the freezer.
She tells me it’ll be twenty minutes, so I take myself off for a cool shower.
Turning my body under the slow jets, all I can think about is the moment Logan and I are going to stand face-to-face again. What am I going to say? What am I going to wear? What am I going to feel?
‘Oh, hey Logan,’ I say, trying out my tone in the noisy shower as the jets hit my face.
‘Hi! How are you? Long time, no see.’ I manage a high-pitched laugh as I lather the coconut-scented body wash over me.
‘What’s the story? How’s things?’ Bright and breezy.
I’m not angry anymore – I know the part I played in his running away. Like I said, I pushed him for the ring, I forced him into a marriage proposal when I knew that wasn’t what he wanted.
But he walked out on you on your wedding day.
And there she is. That little voice that never really leaves my head. I’ve been waiting for her all day, since Mia told me Logan was coming home.He dumped you by text.
I scrub my hair now with shampoo. Ignore her. I could try breezily sarcastic.
He hasn’t tried to see you since.
‘You’re late, Logan.’ A curl of my lip, a jut of my hip.
‘Ohthereyou are!’ A playful wink as my fingers knead my scalp and I ignore that voice of hers in my head.
My shower is very unreliable and the water turns suddenly ice-cold. I add conditioner and quickly rinse. I just need to focus on looking my best on the day – and that idea of bringing a date. After that, it’s up to Logan. For all I know he has a girlfriend and she might be with him. I shiver all over and I’m not sure if it’s the cold water or the thought. I turn off the shower, step out and dry quickly. Feeling revitalised, I slip back on my denim shorts, pull on a sports bra and back out to the kitchenette. I pour a small glass of wine to go with my takeaway and head out to the welcome warmth of the rooftop.
The night is positively balmy, and although it’s almost nine o’ clock, it’s still fully bright. With my hair dripping wet, I sit on my deckchair and look out over the comings and goings on Old Camden Street. A gentle breeze floats across the night sky as mouth-watering smells drift up on this temperate night, the rows of restaurants along Camden Street below me delivering fragrant spices, all that garlic, ginger, soy and caramelised sugar. Once a rundown, unloved street of derelict tenement houses, it’s now one of the trendiest and hippest streets Dublin has to offer. Young people sit outside bars and on the roadside kerbs under the glowing streetlamps, drinking craft beers, in clouds of rising vapour, making merry. Camden Street has an agreeable, relaxed vibe. The locals welcomed me with open arms.
Lifting my weary legs up onto an old crate, I cross one bare foot over the other and settle in to people-watch.
