Chapter Two
‘Been dreading telling you all day – that’s why I didn’t answer your calls earlier.
Scoffed an entire party-size bag of peanut M&M’s on the DART before I rang you back.
Didn’t even suck the shells, just bit right in.
Like a rainbow conveyer belt into my big gob.
Say you’ll still come, though, Grace? Please.
I didn’t know he’d be home for an audition when I posted the invitations on Wednesday .
. . I would have waited. Like I said, I couldn’t have done this without you – finally asked Michael for a divorce.
’ I can picture Mia’s blonde curls covering her face as she chews on her thumbnail like she does when she’s nervous.
My heart rate keeps time to the bleating sound of the pedestrian crossing.
I’ve been through hellish, humiliating heartache. I can tell you that much.
Catching my reflection in the long glass of Oliver Bonas, I see my mouth is hanging open.
I gulp to draw some moisture back into my mouth and my throat muscles contract.
I stifle a cough, keep walking. I feel like everyone who passes me knows I’m in shock.
The traffic sounds louder in my ears. The seagulls squawk in a deafening pitch above my head.
‘Have you keeled over?’ Mia asks in lieu of anything else to say.
I’m barely able to comprehend this news. ‘No, but I’m spiralling like Will Smith at the Oscars.’ Stopping abruptly outside Fallon & Byrne on Exchequer Street, I put my bags down between the bicycles-to-rent, slapping my hand on my heart to try and slow it down.
‘That’s not great.’ I can hear her teeth are gritted through her muffled words.
I rest my hands on my bare knees now and bend over to try and catch my breath.
But it is great!
Little does Mia know but I’ve been desperately waiting for this day for a year and a half.
It’s nineteen months and eleven days since Logan ran out on me on our wedding day in Portofino.
Five-hundred and ninety days, to be exact, since he left me in our bougie villa ready to put on my unique lace and silk organza wedding dress, and jumped a flight to New York to follow his dreams and pursue his acting career.
Mia’s divorce party will be the day Logan and I come face-to-face again.
The fact consumes me entirely. I’m literally weak at the knees.
‘Grace? Speak to me.’ Mia’s apprehensive in my ear.
‘Gimme a sec,’ I croak. With my palms pressed on my knees I push myself up, try to straighten my back, clear my throat.
I’ve dreamt about our reunion almost every night since he left me.
You see, even though Logan ran out on me in that despicable way, I cannot stop loving him.
Logan showed a romantic interest in me when no other guys seemed to.
He was everyone’s dream guy in college, and it still blows my insecure mind that he chose me.
All I want is him back. I want Logan Hunter back so badly it keeps me awake at night.
I loved his passion, his ambition, his drive, I loved how he made me want to be that person, too.
He lit a fire in me that no one else ever has.
But for Logan, I’d never have had the confidence to be a wedding-dress designer.
I was about to quit design college the day I met him but he inspired me, drove me on, told me not to give up.
Logan convinced me I was good enough, that I could do it.
He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
He’s still like electricity to me, like a hunger no amount of food will fill.
I crave his smell, his touch. The thought of him finding someone else makes my stomach swirl and my head spin, it’s like a form of heartbreak vertigo.
‘Are you hyperventilating?’ Mounting concern frames Mia’s words.
I shut my eyes, try to breathe through my nose. ‘Not quite.’
‘Just take your time, I know it’s a shock.’ Mia exhales loudly in my ear. We never talk about her brother. It’s healthier for our friendship. It’s essential for our friendship.
In fact, and for obvious reasons, I have not admitted my wanting Logan back to a single soul.
It’s my dirty little secret. After he left Portofino that day, Logan had sent a load of texts begging my forgiveness.
I never replied, but nor did I block him.
I didn’t want any communication, bar face-to-face.
I just wanted him to come back to me, physically.
Soon, the texts stopped and I waited for his key to turn in the door of our flat.
I still wait. I wipe the perspiration from the back of my wet neck.
And maybe now I will finally hear his key turn again.
Oh, Logan has his faults, but underneath his desperate desire to be famous, he’s a good person. He’s just na?ve.
Mia’s sweet voice propels me back. ‘Hello? Grace? My love? You still there?’
I wipe my hands down my shorts. ‘Sorry. Just needed that minute – you’re right, I just got a shock, but yeah, of course I’ll be there!
’ I’m talking too loudly to cover up the choking sensation I’m still feeling.
It’s affecting my voice. I sound like a cartoon character.
Leaning far back under the shade of the blue-and-white striped awning I steady myself.
‘With single bells on! Gotta fly, I’m heading to Stillorgan for some exposed gold zippers .
. . Oh, here’s my bus,’ I lie, hitting the red button to kill the call and stepping out onto the path.
Then I see her.
Ohhhhh, come on! I curl my toes into my flip-flops and clamp my eyes closed so tightly they sting behind my shades.
Speaking of me almost quitting design college. There, crossing the road, is the reason!
Emma Stark.
She is coming directly towards me, her pelvis tilted so far back it looks like she is bending backwards, nose in the air, jutting cheekbones.
Her arm raised, with her finger hooked into the crook of a purple-velvet hanger and the glossy ivory dress bag swinging.
Emma Stark Bridal Couture emblazoned across it in a dazzling black display font.
It still hurts like a carving knife ripping across the skin of my stomach that she stepped into my shoes, even after all these years.
She got to live my dream. I could have been the one with the beautiful bridal store on South Anne Street.
Not that I’ve ever been brave enough to step foot inside it, but I just know it’s beautiful.
Emma is getting nearer . . .
. . . nearer . . .
. . . just a few feet away.
‘Shit!’ I’m still frozen to the spot. My flip-flops seem glued to the hot tarmac underneath me.
She’s no more than ten steps away from me now. The Jaws theme tune starts to play in my head.
‘No-No-No-No-No . . .’ I finally manage to get my brain to function and grab for my bags, but one is too full and a load of bugle beads spill out, hundreds of them rolling across the hot tarmac, sounding like wind chimes as they collide with one another.
I drop to my knees, just in the nick of time, as she passes me by in a gulf of expensive-smelling citrus.
I’m at eye level with that dress bag. It’s so beautiful that I almost reach up to touch the nylon casing.
I’ve had so many daydreams about having a dress bag like that for By Grace Algar.
Copping myself on, I heave a sigh of relief and concentrate on gathering as many beads as I can into my hands when suddenly I hear a calm, low male voice.
‘Here, let me help you.’
I just nod, afraid to look up. I hear a kerfuffle, then see two large white hands grab for the scattering beads.
They scoop and drop handfuls into my bag at an impressive speed.
There’s an open Claddagh ring on his right hand, a silver link bracelet on the left.
I keep my head down as those long lean fingers gather more swiftly and efficiently, chasing after every solitary bead.
A pair of oxblood-red Doc Martens circle me, the short laces undone.
‘Think that’s the lot,’ he says moments later in a slightly breathless pant as I lift my chin. Slowly, I remove my shades.
There is a lot to notice about this man, but the first thing that strikes me are his eyes. The deepest green, a vivid intensity. They are framed by the longest, darkest eyelashes, making them even more hypnotic. But it’s fair to say he’s the most unusual-looking man I’ve ever seen.
Unconventional.
Lanky.
Shockingly bright red hair and a wild ginger beard.
His locks are shoulder length and hang down around his oval face.
It’s like this man hasn’t seen a barber in years.
He’s dressed in a loose, sleeveless, V-necked grey T-shirt with a slogan I can’t make out and tight-fitting blue jeans with those boots.
He holds his height well, doesn’t slouch.
He curls his long fingers on his right hand into a type of claw, then drags his long hair back off his face.
He picks up his own bag – a black-tie suit-hire bag – but still he holds my eye.
I don’t know what it is, but there is a certain vibe about him. An intriguing aura.
‘Thanks a million.’ I blink a few times, scrambling to my feet and grabbing my bags by the plastic handles.
I’m still acutely aware that Emma Stark has just passed me by.
I return my gaze to his for a split second before I turn away quickly.
What if she’s watching me right now? What if she comes back?
I haven’t spoken to her since we left college.
I keep my head low as he lifts his bike, an old silver racer, up off the path.
I take a swift glance up to see Emma turning the corner at the end of the road onto South Great George’s street.
‘No worries,’ he says and hangs the bag off the handlebar.
I exhale with a puff of my cheeks, utterly relieved as they deflate slowly. ‘You’re so very kind,’ I murmur.