A Second Chance Summer in Dublin

Chapter One

The brutal reality, that I’m struggling to save my career and deal with a broken heart, is somehow easier to forget for a moment in this glorious Irish heatwave.

‘After you.’ I smile at a young woman as I leave Needles old, frayed denim shorts, sports bra under a white, ribbed tank top and an orange bandana complete my look.

I’m built for comfortable clothes. My unruly auburn hair is scooped up and swinging in a claw clip and my oversized vintage shades blissfully mask the need for any make-up.

‘It’s Britney, bitch,’ my best friend’s voice sing-songs down the line. ‘Or rather, it’s Mia Hunter calling.’

I break into a beaming smile. ‘At last! There you are!’ Sidestepping a reckless, speeding delivery bike while turning a full three-sixty, I watch him zigzag away towards Wicklow Street.

I’d wave my fist if my bags weren’t so heavy.

‘Summer in Dublin’ vibrates from a live band in The Old Stand bar.

I move past. ‘I tried calling loads this morning when your fabulous divorce-party invite fluttered through my letterbox. I’m loving this for a bitta craic.

You’re finally legally free from Moaning Michael, thanks be to God.

’ I refer to Mia’s ex-husband, Michael Brown, who definitely earns the title of ‘Moaning Michael’.

In fact, I’ve often thought Michael Beige would have been a much better name for him, he’s that dull and boring.

They had been childhood tennis partners, then sweethearts, then married in their early twenties, but as Mia’s personality had grown and blossomed, Michael’s hadn’t.

Michael never wanted to do anything, go anywhere.

He literally bored me to tears. I had started to notice a real difference in Mia’s personality, too.

I’d mentioned this fact to her but I’d never interfered in her marriage.

I grip the plastic handles on the bags a little tighter at the memory of Michael’s constant dour expression and his glass-half-empty outlook on life.

Michael had the ability to pull the good out of everything.

He was one of life’s drains, he would suck the beauty from everything, and I was so happy when Mia finally called time on them as a couple.

He’d returned to live with his parents in Monkstown after they broke up, but Mia has magnanimously kept in touch with him, telling me he seems perfectly happy building model aeroplanes back in his old childhood bedroom on the weekends, whilst earning a small fortune as a financial adviser in his multinational corporation in Dublin’s Docklands.

‘Soz! I was in the Convention Centre interviewing a Dancing with the Stars judge about her new collection of doggie knickers called Bitches Panties.’ Mia makes the sound of a panting dog before I hear the old, mottled glass of her home-office door rattle as she closes it.

‘Dogs wear knickers now? I thought it was just coats, jumpers, shoes and booties?’ I ask with a high wrinkle of my not-so-perfect nose, and my shades slip down my face a fraction.

‘Only the bitches.’ She ends with a singular bark.

I shake my head at an approaching chugger – I’ve been charity-mugged in town too many times this week – then throw my head back to manoeuvre the shades back up. ‘Gotcha.’

She’s silent for a moment. A group of teens separate to pass me, their laughter momentarily muted as they savour vibrant ice creams stacked high on top of crisp wafer cones.

‘Legally free from his surname, too. Farewell, Mia Brown: the big fat liar who pretended her marriage was perfect on Instagram while setting all those posts up. As you knew, my life at home was anything but Instagrammable, it was Instamiserable. Why did I do that? I’m still ashamed of myself.

’ She sounds relieved, but I squirm at the ‘big fat’ reference.

Even though I know it’s a saying, I also know it’s an inner dig at herself.

Although Moaning Michael took her request for divorce as well as could be expected, he told her that he wasn’t the only one to blame for their dull marriage.

He said that in fairness she had put on a bit of weight and he didn’t feel as attracted to her as he had.

I could just imagine him saying this to get back at her for rejecting him.

But also, in his inept way, he probably thought he was being helpful. He’d the sensitivity of a rhinoceros.

‘Amen, sister!’ I holler over a bunch of rowdy tourists aboard the Viking Splash Ship trundling past me, the sun glinting off its reflective yellow paint.

‘Fancy a ride?’ a strong Cockney accent screeches at me from a guy covered in tattoos with his top off. He’s hanging over the edge, banging the sides of the vehicle like some kind of sick mating call.

‘Thanks, but I forgot my sick bag!’ I shout up and his mates all erupt in laughter, slapping him on the back.

‘I’ll never forget you, baby!’ he roars as they all double over, their laughter carrying as they trundle on down towards Christchurch.

‘What’s going on there?’ Mia’s in my ear.

‘Sorry, a crazy stag party with oncoming heatstroke. Our A just need to email this copy to my editor.’

I’m delighted Mia’s having this divorce party, but when I opened the invite this morning and saw the date, I balked a little.

If I’m to be honest, it’s not great timing for me.

It’s the night before Belinda Kearney’s wedding – my biggest bridal commission to date, hence my bags of supplies as the date looms. I’ve not just designed Belinda’s dress, I’ve also designed her bridesmaids’ – her three younger sisters: Amanda, Denise and Kathleen.

They all have big personalities, larger-than-life attitudes, and it’s my most lucrative job yet.

I’m desperately relying on these four women to spread the good word about me as a designer.

One sister in particular – Kathleen – by all accounts, rubs shoulders with the rich and famous in LA and teaches hot yoga at Chateau Marmont.

It’s just I know I’ll be up to my eyes the day before with last-minute alterations, and I’ll also have a total creative-energy crash and only be fit for my couch, reality TV and a Chinese takeaway.

However, I don’t want to take any fizz out of this moment for Mia.

My sweet, wonderful friend, who was brave enough to end a marriage that she was really unfulfilled in and start a new life as an independent woman.

‘You know how proud I am of you, right?’ I step off the path to make room for a woman pushing a buggy with a screaming toddler covered in melted chocolate waving a naked Ken doll, giving her a warm smile of sympathetic solidarity as she rolls her tired eyes.

‘She’s turning out just like me. Men and chocolate. My two biggest downfalls. Well played, karma, well played.’ She snorts a half-laugh and marches on draped over the handles like a weary warrior with criss-cross strap marks on her sunburnt shoulders.

Mia’s soft voice continues in my earbuds. ‘Of course I do, just as you know that I’d probably still be married to Michael and dying of actual boredom if it wasn’t for you. You gave me the confidence to do it.’

Stepping back up onto the path, I think how Mia always says this and I’m not sure I deserve her praise. Mia is one of life’s truly good people. Super smart, fun-loving, good-humoured, with the purest and kindest nature, but marrying Michael was not her best decision.

‘Sent.’ She’s back in my ear.

Speeding up as the next set of pedestrian lights flash orange, I run to cross the road, my bags swinging, my flip-flops sounding like a galloping horse. ‘So who’s coming to the party?’ I pant.

Mia begins to rattle off names of some well-known Irish faces – due to the nature of her job in journalism with XtraGoss.ie, she knows everyone.

The lights turn red. I jab the crossing button with my elbow.

A flamboyant guy on the other side has a tiny dog sticking out of his orange sleeveless top.

Immediately, I picture the dog in Bitches Panties and I smile to myself.

Then I hear it. The one name I did not expect.

My smile evaporates like a popped balloon.

My brain explodes. My stomach lurches like I’ve just missed a step walking down a staircase.

Logan.

Mia’s brother and, once upon a time, my fiancé.

The very mention of his name sets my mind on fire.

A conductor begins to choreograph his orchestra in my head.

A cacophony of sounds. Big bass, booming drum.

The high-pitched note of an electric guitar.

The cello echoing. The single note of a violin that goes on and on and on.

Mia’s voice drifts further and further away in my earbuds, but still I can make out her telling me that Logan will be back from New York for an audition and will be at her divorce party.

Logan is coming home.

Finally.