Page 37 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin

‘Not really, no. Felt like I was ancient at the time, all right, but it was probably only five years or so.’ It was more, but she’s annoying me now. ‘Business good, anyway?’ I change the subject and ask her as I twist the knob on the baby-pink and gold door,letting her know time’s up.

‘Reaaally good. Do you know Kathie King? The celebrity?’ Emma enthuses, stepping closer.

I shake my head. ‘’Fraid not.’

‘You don’t knowKathie King?’ She does this weird half-snort.

‘Nope.’ I step out of the way of the daughter as she crosses the shop and I’m engulfed in that citrusy scent again; I try not to sneeze. Her phone rings and she begins a very loud conversation.

‘Omigod! Like, she’s a massive influencer, like, gigantic traction on her reels. Numbers are in-saaaaaaane.’ Emma hit the IN and sang the SANE. ‘Anyway, I’m doing her wedding, eighteen bridesmaids, all her BFFs, in Rome,’ she says Rrrrrome in an Italian accent, grits her teeth.

‘Wow, a wedding and then some. Not to mention a lot of best friends. She must be a very special person, most of us are lucky to have one best friend.’ But suddenly I’m so glad I came in. In fact, I wish I’d come in years ago! I’m not remotely jealous. I don’t want to be Emma Stark. I don’t want this store. I finally have closure. The realisation makes me feel giddy. I have to supress a laugh.

‘You?’ She stabs a bony finger in my direction. ‘You say you’re busy designing gowns in your .?.?. flat?’

I hold my hand over my mouth to steady myself for a second. ‘Yeah, mad busy, out the door, actually. Do you know,’ I check over my shoulder at the mother and daughter, inch closer to Emma, my hand still on the doorknob as I lower my voice to a whisper, ‘the Kearney sisters?’ I hiss, open my make-up-free eyes wide.

‘I don’t think so, should I?’ she hisses back, shaking her head, her eyes darting around.

‘From Ringsend, originally?’ I arch an eyebrow.

‘Oh.’ A downturn of the mouth. ‘No. But what do they donow?’ Emma is more than intrigued.

‘They make a difference in the world. Gotta fly,’ I say and pull open the door but she’s fast.

‘Terrible thing that happened to you with that actor, Logan Hunter. I remember him from Inchicore, quite the flirt.’ She gives me a generous eyeroll.

I step one flip-flop over the threshold, and over my shoulder I breezily throw back at her, ‘I believe that everything happens for a reason. See ya, Emma, take care of yourself. Congratulations again.’ I pull out my sunglasses, slide them back on and hold my hand up behind my shoulder as I step out of her stuffy store and hear her call after me:

‘Good luck with your little business. Call in anytime!’

‘No chance,’ I whisper to myself and release the happiest of sighs.

Chapter Twenty

I’m grinning so widely as I head down towards Nassau Street and around onto Grafton Street, my face hurts. That was not what I was expecting, I think, as I round a large crowd who have stopped to watch a different busker strumming his rendition of ‘Take Me to Church’. I make my way up to and inside Bewley’s famous flagship café. It’s heaving with tourists and locals alike. The smoky aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and fresh scones baking on-site is instantly mouth-watering. I join the queue.

‘Two poached eggs and crispy bacon with white batch-bread toast and butter, please,’ I order from the friendly server. I collect my tea and my order number, locate a seat and await the delivery of my breakfast. Sitting down at the back of the café on the soft-backed seat, I think Emma can keep her store, and her snobby attitude. That’s not who I am, atall. I can’t believe I’ve wasted so many years envying her. Wishing Iwasher and salivating over her store and her dress bags. I would hate that store. In my dreams, my store was like stepping back in time. Special. Unique. Exciting. Holbein carpet with walls full of black-and-white photos of wedding dresses, going back to the very first recorded image of the wedding dress in 1406, when Princess Philippa of England first donned the white dress. I dreamt of an Anthropologie full-body mirror, vintage Baroque décor, an old-style chandelier. I wanted to create a unique experience for my brides and bridesmaids. I wanted them to feellike this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I wanted to design a range of bridal dresses that were affordable to all. I wanted every bride to feel relaxed and special. It was their space. All I felt in Emma’s store was snobbery and superiority. I wish I’d had Donal in my life years ago to talk some sense into me.

Anyway, my dream of having my own store one day was just that, a dream. It’s never going to happen and maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe I should put my money where my mouth is and trust in what I just said to Emma, that everything happens for a reason.

‘Number forty-four? Poached eggs, crispy bacon, white batch toast?’ The Bewley’s waitress stands in front of me now in her crisp white shirt, and the black apron over her skirt, a brown tray in her hands.

‘Please.’ I hand her the white plastic number on my table and she unloads the tray for me.

I’d love to call Donal to tell him about Emma, I suddenly think, and I surprise myself, because normally when I want to share stuff, it’s always Logan I think of. When we’d finished our salads and wine on the rooftop, Donal had suggested we meet in M. O’Brien’s bar before the party and walk up together.

‘Logan.’ I murmur his name on my lips now. I can still hardly believe I’m going to see him on Friday. Donal has been such a welcome distraction. ‘Donal.’ I murmur his name now too. As opposite as two men could ever be.

I have been thinking about my divorce-party dress, and I plan on starting it this evening. I unzip my bag and pull out my loose sketches, lay them on the table as I hold my finger on the lid of the pot and pour my tea, looking the four ideas over. I add a drop of milk, still looking. Then I press my index finger on my tongue, stick it onto a sketch and slide it towards me. I pick up my cutlery, stab the egg yolk with my fork. The orange oozes diagonally, towards my thick toast.Picking up a piece of crispy bacon with my fingers, I pop it in my mouth and continue to stare at the sketch. This is the one. The when-Logan-sees-me-for-the-first-time-since-he-walked-out-on-our-wedding-day dress.

I know the exact material I need to buy in Needles & Pins on the way home. I dip my toast into the yolk, eating hungrily, and as I look up, that’s when I see them walk in.

Donal and a woman.

It’s most definitely a date. I can just tell by his body language. She is slim and tall, almost as tall as him, in a baby-pink vest top under corduroy dungarees and a glossy black bob, leopard-print-framed shades perched on her head, a gingham backpack on her shoulders. They join the queue. I crane my head to the side to keep them in my eyeline. Donal points at the scones and she nods. He’s dressed up for the date. His hair is in a twisted knot at the back of his head, and he’s wearing a white V-neck T-shirt, black jeans and runners. I can’t take my eyes off them. I just observe them from the back of the café. They get the scones to take away, I see Donal add the cream and jam in small round plastic containers to the paper bag, and she lifts their coffees. He is laughing at something she is saying, and as he holds the door open for her, he extends his hand for her to go first and they leave.

I push my plate away. My appetite suddenly vanishes and I have no idea why.