Page 63 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin

‘Belinda!’ I reprimand her. ‘All is not fair in love and war, we all know that. Now keep still or we will have a Janet Jackson Superbowl peek-a-boob on our hands.’

‘Sorry, Grace. I won’t budge again, hun.’ She stands still, hands now flat by her sides as I concentrate on the job at hand, of literally sewing her in.

‘Step in. Focus,’ I instruct softly as I lift the dress, gather it and hold it down for Belinda to step into.

‘Exactly, Grace. Life isn’t a bed of roses. We all know that. People are mean, but he’s not.’ Kathleen takes Belinda’s other hand to aid her. ‘Look how he took care of us all growing up. He gave up his education to put food on our table. I had a long heart-to-heart with him into the early hours after you went home to get your beauty sleep. He’s good. He’s looking at it as a blessing. He’s gonna concentrate on his house in Fitzwilliam Square. He’s like a new man .?.?. like, literally!’

‘Step in,’ I command again, still down on my hunkers, holding the wedding dress out.

‘Sorry.’ Belinda looks down at me. ‘It’s an unbelievable achievement for someone like him, who was dragged up, to have a house on one of the most beautiful squares in Dublin,’ she says to Kathleen, stepping in now.

‘Concentrate on your breathing,’ I say. ‘I don’t want you out of breath as I’m sewing.’

‘We’ve all achieved beyond what anyone would have expected for us. Thanks to us – all of us – we’ve always been there for one another.’ Kathleen’s half Irish, half American tone is soothing.

‘So it’s true what he’s sayin’? He’s gonna live in it now, not sell it?’ Belinda whispers to her sister now, afraid of my wrath.

‘It is! He is. And I’m so happy. He deserves it. Imagine it at Christmas, B? All lit up? Dickensian.A Christmas Carolwon’t have a patch on it. Remember how he’d gush about Pat Kiely, the Supermarket King who used to give him hot chocolate on Christmas Eve?’

‘And that coffee éclair. Oh, remember how we used to drool over that story when he’d come home? He’d be so inspired by how Pat started from nothing, selling apples from a pram on Moore street as a kid. I still can’t pass a bakery without looking at the coffee éclairs and hearing him telling us that story.’

‘Remember the year I had glandular fever and he brought the éclair home forme!’ Kathleen recalls.

Belinda raises her hands in front of her face. ‘What did I tell ya? Stop! I’ll bawl! I can’t cry this two-hour make-up job off!’

‘I know. Too lovely. But now we can all have Christmas dinner there and all the coffee éclairs we want, thanks to him. I’ll be home, and we can all bring something for the table,’ Kathleen enthuses.

‘What’ll you bring? The ghost of pescetarian Christmas? A fresh cod? A bag a’ carrots?’ Belinda says over her shoulder.

‘I’ll steam some seabass with spring onions and fresh ginger, roast some cauliflower, toss it in butter exactly, and it will be the most delicious food you’ve ever tasted.’ Kathleen sticks out her tongue.

‘Just serve me the turkey and ham with roast potatoes and brussel sprouts and spare me the alternative. But, Fitzwilliam Square is an expensive house to keep, though. I worry about that.’ Belinda shifts from foot to foot.

‘Stay still,’ I chastise to her wriggling back.

‘He’s going to rent out the basement for more income. It has that amazing ceiling. It’s got a separate entrance via the steps down under the house, and he has a brand-new redesign project he’s chasing in Monkstown—’

‘Uncle Barry’s on the rebel songs already,’ Amanda says, storming in through the door in a haze of cobalt blue, sucking on a lollipop. ‘Willie McBride is loud and haunting.’ She kicks the door behind her, still in her novelty penguin slippers.

‘Might be an idea to get everyone into footwear and final checks?’ I say to her, glancing at my watch.

‘Keep that man off the whiskey until the hotel reception,’ Belinda laughs.

I pull the dress in tighter around her cleavage and begin to pin where I need to stitch her in further around the back. She really has lost a few precious pounds and I need to unhook a crystal.

‘Keep who off the whiskey?’ Denise barges in now, catching the door just before it slams shut.

‘Shut the door!’ Belinda and Kathleen shout at the same time.

‘Your Uncle Barry,’ I mumble with a mouth full of pins.

‘Oh, hiya, Grace, love.’ Denise pats me on the back.

‘It’s sorted. Peter R. gave him a Bloody Mary without the vodka. Just added more salt. He’s moaning about the celery, says it’s like eating the bark off of a tree,’ Denise says.

‘W-wha! Why is Peter R. still here? He needs to get himself ready. He’s meetin’ me at the church!’ Belinda gasps.

‘He’s not going in the wedding car with you?’ Amanda’s voice is shocked and high-pitched.