Page 36 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin

I criss-cross the road towards South Anne Street, sidestepping a swerving e-scooter. I’m feeling super positive this morning after making my decision. I slept like a baby for the first time in months, thanks to Donal: a big feed of his leftovers and the fact he fixed my window. A cool night breeze finally floated into my bedroom. Bizarrely, I didn’t dream of Logan at all. A busker outside Kehoes pub sings ‘Falling Slowly’, softly strumming her acoustic guitar.

I stop in front of the sleek, red-brick corner store.

‘Here we go,’ I murmur, removing my shades to get a clearer look. I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand, staring at the building like I’ve done a million times since the day she opened it.

I focus on the emblazoned silver lettering,Emma Stark Bridal Couture. The dress in the window is an ivory, A-line, taffeta creation, surrounded with three burnt-orange, adorable flower-girl designs. Tiny butterflies in blues, greens, reds and iridescent colours sit on slim, tall green rods, decorated in between. I’ve run past Emma’s store on the opposite side of the road too many times without going in to congratulate her. I’ve been jealous of her for too many years, and after discussing her with Donal at length out on my rooftop, I’ve decided to make my peace with her. Logan always hated her and told me to avoid her for the rest of my life, never congratulate her because she robbed me. Donal’s advice was the opposite. Donal said I should put itbehind me and make my peace with it.

Move on.

Donal was all about moving on.

Donal was quite right, the jealousy is eating me up. Has been eating me up for years. Let her have her store and her glossy dress bags. I want closure, so I need to tell her, ‘Well done. Congratulations.’ Yes, she did indeed take my internship when Marian and Patricia fired me, but I’d sealed my own fate withFerguson Brophy, she’d just seized the opportunity. So I drop my shades into my bag and, with a step up the kerb in my flip-flops, push open the baby-pink and gold-painted door.

A bell tinkles. Inside instantly smells a little overpowering, of incense, and dozens of expensive-looking candles burn on a round table in the centre of the shop. The tinkle of piano keys plays low from the speakers above. Immediately, I feel underdressed, awkward and out of place.

‘Good morning, may I help you?’ Emma steps out from behind the high-topped glass counter wearing a hugging white sleeveless dress draped in swinging navel-length gold chains, and towering black heels with that red sole, and she stares at me.

‘Oh. My. Gooood. Grace Algar! Hiiiiiiiii!’ she exclaims, her face not moving much.

‘Emma?’ The accent is so new I’m thrown for a spilt second, but she nods. ‘Hi!’ I move to embrace her but she steps back and just extends her hand.

‘Are you in the market for a white dress?’ Her face contorts somewhat as we shake and she looks for a ring on my finger.

‘Oh, no .?.?. no.’ It takes me a second to decipher her words; her accent is so posh. ‘I still design .?.?. I’m still a bridal designer, I just – I was passing. Wow, your store, it’s .?.?.’ I can’t speak, ‘it’s beautiful, Emma, congratulations on all your success,’ I manage, feeling my face flush a little.

‘Totally tried to friend request you on Facebook years ago?’She folds her arms, looks more than a little put out.

‘I stopped doing social media, it overwhelms me, just business stuff, and only when I have to,’ I explain my non-accepting of her unseen request. I haven’t checked my Facebook account in years.

‘You do Insta, right? Unfortunately, my Insta is super private, verrrrrry important clients on there.’ She unfolds her stick-thin arms, twirls a miniature diamond in her ear, crosses one thin leg in front the other. Her ankles seem very unsupported in the towering heels.

‘I just use Insta for business, really, my own designs. Mainly, I just share the stories my bride and bridesmaids tag me in on theirs.’

Already I’m starting to regret coming in. This is not how I imagined it.

She checks the phone in her hand.

‘I don’t look at other people’s lives online either, I have no desire .?.?.’ I trail off, looking around me at the stylish wallpaper of trees and rivers that is a bit too busy in design. It’s like looking into one of those kaleidoscopes I used to get at Christmas when I was a kid.

Let’s be clear, Emma and myself were never ‘friends’. Back in college she sported masses of spiralling dark curls that she usually kept hidden under her red New York Yankees baseball cap; heavy on the black eyeliner and pink blusher, she was a bit of a rock chick. I can see immediately that she has changed: her lovely, lilting Cork accent has completely disappeared to make way for posh, clipped boring tonality.

She holds up her phone to me. ‘Sorry. A very important client .?.?. So, I’ve seen some of your dresses on Insta, they’re totally charming.’ She looks away from me again, smiles over at a young woman with whom I’m assuming is her mother. It’s hard to tell. With the Botox and fillers, they could be sisters asthey flick speedily through the sparse rails. ‘Just let me know if you need any help with anything, guys? I have some more resting Vera’s out back,’ Emma says to them, sickly sweet, turns back to me. ‘Um, sorry, eh, where is your shop? I’m not sure I know?’ Again she peers at the phone in her hand.

‘Oh, I’m still working out of my flat, unfortunately. One day I hope. Saving and searching for a place. Listen, I’m not staying, just wanted to say well done on the store. I should have come in before now.’ I extend my hand to her. ‘It’s some achievement.’ We shake quickly. ‘Well done .?.?. again.’ I turn back towards the door, my heels clicking off the back of my vintage flip-flops.

‘Marian and Patricia really helped me,’ she says, and I’m at the door but I turn back around. She doesn’t beat around the bush. ‘They gave me so much creative freedom on their collections, like, I just adore them, I wouldn’t be here without them. In fact they found this place for me, helped me get in.’

‘They’re great,’ I say, truthfully.

‘They really are. They send that ladder back down for sure.’ Emma’s enlarged lips purse together and she looks tired under the heavy, fluttery, fake lashes.

‘Good for them.’ I nod my head, smiling.

‘You didn’t get on with them? Back in the day, right?’ Emma pops a finger over her lips, her expression reads as though she’s really confused about something.

I smile at her, fix my hand on the doorknob. ‘No, I did, I really liked them, actually. I was just a bit immature .?.?. I made the wrong choices.’

Emma has a less than a warm look in her eye now. ‘You were waaaay older than the rest of us though, right?’