One
ONE
Saturday mornings were made for lying in, twenty-four-year-old Grace Kelly thought as her bedroom slowly came into focus. It was one of life’s simple pleasures not to be woken by a shrilling alarm, and she luxuriated in knowing there was nowhere she needed to be. The bright light filtering through the thin curtains promised a glorious sunny day. A day that was hers to do what she wanted with.
She’d left the sash window open a crack last night and the chattering starlings on the rooftops, along with people on the street below going about their business, was an urban soundtrack. For a sleepy moment, Grace wondered if Ava would be keen to head to the antique market later, maybe grab a bite from the stall that did those to-die-for filo pastries. Yum! But then she remembered. Her twin sister was in New York with Shane. She was also no longer a Kelly but an Egan since her Christmas wedding a few months ago.
The idea of Ava being married still seemed surreal, but she was living her dream, and Grace was happy for her. Their relationship had shifted and changed over the last year, but she’d finally understood that was the stuff of life. It was a constant ebb and flow – like a tide, she thought poetically, sure her sister would like that analogy. The memory of how Ava and Shane had looked at one another as they’d said their vows in front of Father Sean and the congregation gathered in Emerald Bay’s little church still gave her goosebumps, and she rubbed her arms. day, she hoped, someone would look at her like that, too.
As if she’d yanked the steering wheel, Grace’s mind veered off course as she disappeared into a daydream of herself in a beautiful wedding dress like Ava’s. Shane, however, had been replaced by a certain someone sleeping a few short steps from her room. Oh and she needed to be beside the water, because you should get married somewhere that made you happy, and she wanted to say her vows on the shores of Emerald Bay, not in a church.
Grace had always felt a connection to water, be it the sea, a lake, a river or the bath! Being alongside water was her happy place. Her mam used to say – lifting her, prunelike, from the bath – that she suspected she was half selkie. How she’d loved those stories stemming from the Celts and passed down through her family of the mythical creatures that shapeshifted between human and seal form.
Soft, feminine laughter sounded through the wall connecting her room with his, putting the kibosh on the good part of the imaginary wedding where she got to kiss Chris, and she pulled a face, determined not to think about what might be happening next door.
Sometimes she wished she’d stuck to her guns and not gone to the Bird in the Cage that night in the run-up to Christmas, shortly after Ava had moved out of their flat here in Tottenham and gone home. She laid the blame for that firmly at her friend Sophie’s feet. It was her fault she was now lying in bed imagining herself getting married to her flatmate. A flatmate her family had no idea they already knew – and not only that but one whose father was her dad’s arch-enemy. Yep, it was definitely Soph’s fault. She’d never have gone to the pub that night if not for her. Sophie was a bad influence, she thought, recalling how the conversation had gone.
‘Come on. I know you’re missing Ava, and I’m sorry my moving in didn’t work out, but a boogie will do you good. Doctor’s orders. The Shamrockers are supposed to be great live, and they’ll be right up your alley, being Irish and all,’ she’d urged.
‘You’re not a doctor,’ Grace had shot back, but she was already aiming the remote at the TV to turn it off.
Ava always said she suffered from FOMO, and it was this fear of missing out that saw her telling her friend she’d be at the pub in forty minutes.
Grace squeezed her eyes shut, remembering how the warmth of the pub had washed over her as she’d stepped in from the cold. She’d stood on her tippy-toes and scanned the TARDIS-like space filled with fellow Irish for familiar faces. The band – the Shamrockers, was it? – had been setting up over in the far corner. They’d better be worth it , she’d thought, because her plan had been to spend Saturday night indulging her mopey mood by binging on Netflix while scoffing an enormous bag of crisps. Tesco’s Value brand, of course, because her finances dictated it. Her job as a social media manager with a sideline gig as a personal stylist wasn’t providing her with the lifestyle she aspired to. Not yet anyway.
The tiny rented terrace house might not have been in her and Ava’s preferred location of Hackney – which they’d fallen in love with after arriving starry-eyed in London from their home on Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way – however, the rent was still a killer, and since Ava had moved out, Grace had been struggling to make ends meet. She could have blamed that on Sophie too, she thought, studying the patch of mould on the ceiling. She’d been all set to move in to Ava’s old room until she’d had a better offer, closer to where she worked.
That night, she’d spotted her friend’s blonde hair gleaming under the lights, and by the time Sophie had finished hugging her, as though it had been months since they’d last caught up instead of yesterday lunchtime, her fug had been shaken off. She was there now and planned on enjoying herself.
‘It’s Millie’s round,’ Sophie had said pointedly once she’d released Grace, taking a swig of her pale-yellow drink. ‘And your hair looks gorgeous. But you’ve got lipstick on your teeth, babe.’
She could always count on her friend to boost her morale and be brutally honest, Grace had thought, rubbing at her teeth.
‘So does yours,’ she’d replied truthfully, because her friend had hair befitting her profession as a hairdresser, and she knew it. Just quietly, though, Grace had seen a white pony in a field on her last trip home to Emerald Bay tossing its mane about, whinnying and the like, and had instantly thought of Sophie. Not that she’d tell Soph that. Either way, it paid to keep your distance when she had her eye on a fella and started with the hair flicking.
Then, seeing Millie blow the mothballs off her wallet, Grace had said, ‘I’ll have a G&T, Mill. Double , please,’ she’d added, knowing Millie would order her a single otherwise. As Nan would say, Millie was great craic, but she was tighter than a tuppence.
It was Sophie who’d cottoned on to her sneaky way of always disappearing to the loo when it was her round, and these days, they all made sure their friend paid her way. Their motto where Millie was concerned was ‘No G&T, no wee’. Mind, a quick glance at what Chloe, also from Ireland, and Sophie were slurping on made her debate pulling a Millie when it was her turn. There wasn’t a cheap pint of ale in sight, because the four of them were tarred with the same brush and had champagne tastes on beer money. Another of Nan’s favourite sayings.
Millie had disappeared into the mix, and Chloe had started chattering over the din about an annoying colleague who insisted on eating their morning tea at their desk and sounded like a cow masticating over her muffin.
Sophie had taken a pensive sip of her peach-coloured Alcopop, and the way she’d looked toward the stage from under her eyelashes had warned Grace to take a step back from her friend. Any minute now, she’d begin flicking her hair.
On cue, she’d done just that. ‘He’s cute. What do you think? The lead singer. He reminds me of Liam Hemsworth.’
Grace had swivelled to see who she was talking about, and her blue eyes had landed on the fella tapping the microphone. She was right. He was cute. Why did he look familiar though and not just in a Hollywood-movie-star way? she’d wondered.
He’d looked up from the mike then, and his eyes had locked on Grace’s. Two sets of blue eyes had connected simultaneously, widening with recognition.
‘Jaysus, I don’t believe it,’ Grace had stated as Christopher Dorrance, from her Emerald Bay school days, jumped down from the stage and approached her.
‘You know him?’
‘From home.’
’But you always make Emerald Bay sound like some little backwater with banjos playing, not a village home to hotties like that.’ Sophie had then started to do an appalling version of Humphrey Bogart’s famous line from Casablanca .
‘Soph, shut up about gin joints, would you? Uillean pipes maybe, but not banjos, and he wasn’t a hottie when I knew him,’ she’d hissed as a very different Christopher Dorrance from the gawky lad who’d lived next door to her best friend, sang in the church choir and played the piano materialised before them.
‘Princess Grace.’ He’d flashed a big smile, using the nickname she’d occasionally been called by her classmates. ‘I wasn’t sure it was you. I don’t believe it.’
‘Christopher Dorrance. And I don’t either.’ What were the odds of running into someone she knew from Emerald Bay in her local Tottenham pub? Above average apparently, because there was no doubt it was him, only a much fitter version who’d lost his milk-bottle glasses and filled out his shirt and jeans well. He smelled like he should be on one of those moody men’s aftershave adverts, she’d thought, side-stepping Sophie’s swishing hair.
‘Ah, don’t be calling me Christopher.’ His denim-coloured eyes had glinted with a hint of mischief. ‘I only ever get called that when I’m in trouble. It’s Chris. And I’m not, am I?’
‘In trouble?’ Is he flirting with me? she’d wondered.
‘Yeah.’
‘Should you be?’ Grace had arched an eyebrow, matching that glint.
A particularly vicious hair swish from Sophie had brought her to her senses then. What was she doing engaging in flirtatious banter with Christopher Dorrance, of all people?
‘So you lost the glasses?’
He’d grinned. ‘Contacts these days.’
Next to her, Grace had been able to sense Sophie’s annoyance at not being introduced, but before she could do so, Christopher had asked, ‘What brings you to London?’
‘I moved over a year ago. It was time for a change of scene. And you?’
‘Well, the short version is I moved to Dublin as soon as I finished school and enrolled at the music school there. I sing as well as play the piano. That’s where I met Joe, who’s on the drums there.’ He’d pointed to the stage, and Grace had glanced up at the bearded fella behind the drum kit. ‘He was looking for a frontman for his band. I met the rest of the lads, and we all got on. Then, after playing the Dublin scene for a while, we got offered a couple of gigs in London.’ He’d shrugged. ‘And we never left.’
‘I’m looking forward to hearing youse play. I’ve heard good things.’
‘I hope we live up to what you’ve heard. Is this your local, then?’
‘Yeah. Where are you based?’
‘Hackney, although the flat I’m in has just sold, so I need to find a new room to rent like yesterday and one that won’t break the bank. It’s a tall ask in this city. I put a note on the pub noticeboard this evening, because I want to stay in the Hackney/ Tottenham areas. I’m hoping something comes of that.’
‘Grace has a spare room going, and the rent’s reasonable by London standards. I looked at it myself, but I needed to be closer to Tottenham’s High Road for work.’ Flick, flickety, flick went the hair. ‘I’m Sophie, hi.’ She’d stuck her hand out.
Christopher had shaken her hand with a bemused expression then turned his attention back to Grace, his eyes alight as he’d asked, ‘You’ve got a room going?’
The toilet flushing down the hall distracted her from her memories, and that was when the annoying realisation hit. She would have to get out of bed, because she needed the loo.
She threw the covers aside and slipped into her dressing gown, not bothering with slippers now the weather was warming up. Summer was around the corner! She ventured out of her bedroom and was still knotting her dressing gown about her waist when the door to the bathroom opened, revealing a half-naked man. Instinctively, she pulled her robe sash tighter, trying not to notice Chris was scratching at his chest like a Neanderthal and yawning. A hot Neanderthal, granted, and that was the problem. She’d thought her initial attraction to him would wear off once they saw each other, warts and all, on a daily basis – her Big Mac theory, as she’d explained to Sophie. You enjoyed the burger when you only indulged a handful of times a year, but if you ate them all the time, you’d soon grow tired of them.
That theory had since been tossed out the window.
She wished they’d sat down together when Chris first moved in to write down a list of house rules. If they had, then not walking about in your underpants would have been at the top of it and underlined. She could, of course, broach this predilection of his with him. Her flatmate was not only house-proud and a great cook who did far more than his share but was also easy-going. He wouldn’t take offence, but how could she word it in a way that didn’t make her sound like a complete prude? She could hardly come right out with it and say the sight of him scantily clad like so each morning was giving her impure thoughts!
‘Morning, Princess Grace.’
Grace nodded, not meeting his eye and ignoring the old nickname as she muttered a good morning back. By the time she’d locked the bathroom door behind her, leaning her head back against it, she could hear him padding about down the stairs.
You didn’t move to London to shack up with someone from Emerald Bay anyway, Grace , she consoled herself. And especially not Christopher Dorrance.
The day promised to provide a decent taste of the summer ahead, but she shivered at the thought of what Liam Kelly would say if he knew who she was house-sharing with. Chris’s dad and hers were worse than the Corsicans with their blood feuds, only they drew the line at using guns.
Either way, all of this was a moot point, because Chris already had a girlfriend.
***