Chapter Four
Six hours later, I’ve finally finished the flowing tulle train and I’m almost done tacking Belinda’s hemline.
I fold the raw edge of the white fabric to the new desired length and pin it in place, making sure the hem is even all round.
Placing my needle through the folded edge, I sew the final, small discreet stitches.
Now stiff as a poker, I unfold myself from my Singer sewing-machine seat, stretch with a loud, full yawn. Belinda’s wedding dress is almost finished. It’s a stunning creation of satin and tulle. I do my best work when consumed with thoughts of Logan, he’s my creative muse, for sure.
In my bare feet I cross to my tiny kitchenette, pull open the fridge and take out my reward. The bottle of chilling Sauvignon Blanc. As I pour a generous amount into the waiting glass, a welcome breeze blows in from the door to my rooftop that I have propped open with an ancient wooden footstool.
‘What a day,’ I call out to no one but myself, moving to my two-seater worn velvet sofa.
Slowly, I arch my back, it cracks as I flop and curl my bare feet under me.
Shutting my eyes for a few blissful minutes I replay it all.
Then I swirl the pale liquid by the stem and stick my nose in to inhale the grape.
Mia’s glossy red envelope is where I left it this morning, still propped up against my empty fruit bowl on the table.
Cautiously, I side-eye it. It’s a completely different invitation, now that I know Logan will be there.
My details are written beautifully in glittery, italicised gold lettering.
It’s like the title font you’d see on a romantic movie poster.
Grace Algar
Top Floor Flat
18 Old Camden Street
Dublin 2
If my life was a movie script, I’d be looking for a hot date to bring to Mia’s party to make Logan jealous.
That’s what they do in the movies, right?
The dumpee gets all dressed up, looks her very best and has a date on her arm.
The dumper sees her and realises he wants her back.
I smirk to myself as I glance over again at Belinda’s dress.
I’m great at what I do and I do have that confidence, thanks to Logan, but I’m simply not making enough money to survive.
The thought of not being able to design wedding dresses for a living makes me want to burst into tears.
I take a gulp of wine and pull Logan’s old faded Rolling Stones T-shirt over my knees.
I’m finally going to see him again. What is that moment going to be like?
I lift my phone and reread his text from Portofino. It’s pinned at the top of my messages.
That fateful day, six years ago, replays in my mind. It’s on a constant loop. The very first time I laid eyes on Logan Hunter.
*
‘Did you win the bet?’ a striking blond guy yelled out as I skulked past him outside the rusted gates of Inchicore College, my head down, my confidence on the floor.
I was deep in my own world, feeling insecure and untalented as, yet again, Emma Stark had come top in the class.
I was about to back out of the runway showcase for my end-of-year exam and give up on the coveted bridal internship at Ferguson Brophy Bridal Designs.
I was filled with self-doubt about my abilities to become a bridal designer.
‘Huh?’ I stopped dead in my tracks, looked up, stared over at him.
He made eye contact like we’d been friends forever, but I’d never set eyes on him before.
‘The, eh, long red cape that’s trailing out behind you?’ He grinned.
Immediately, I was transfixed by that cute cheeky smile, his tanned skin and tousled hair.
He was slouching. One leg bent at the knee, propping himself up against the gate as though life never made him hurry.
But it was his expression that struck me the most. Like he knew a well-kept secret about me that highly amused him.
A constant half-smile. This guy was sex on legs and confidence personified, and I was instantly intrigued.
‘And what about it?’ I propped a nervous hand on my hip.
‘You’re wearing it for a bet, right?’ He used his foot to leverage himself off the gate towards me, elbows sticking out, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his faded brown leather jacket, low cut white V-neck T-shirt underneath, dark denim jeans hanging on his hip bones.
‘Logan.’ He extended his hand, lowered one knee, dipped his head in a half bow.
‘Grace.’ I accepted the hand, trying not to grin too madly, a rush of blood to my head. My whole body tingled at his touch. A bolt of lightning not only ran through my veins but left them drained.
The chemistry gods shot every arrow they had directly into my heart, and I fell for him instantly.
Bullseye.
‘Actually, I am. I bet myself that I could make this! And hey-ho!’ I reached around and swished my cape like a fearless matador, stamped one foot, then the other, more than surprised at myself.
‘It’s pretty amazing,’ he said, nodding.
‘Oh, thanks. It was actually my homage to Little Red Riding Hood for my diploma. I’m in my final year. I’m a fashion student. I say “was” because I’m thinking of quitting actually . . .’
I told him I was wearing the cape back to my new flat at Old Camden Street to keep the cotter pins in place.
Over the weekend, I planned to make my final decision on whether to stay or walk off the course and get a full-time job in retail – before I spent my time bent over my trusted 1980s Singer Stylist 814 machine, sewing bronze vintage closure clasps to the opening seams. I had been fully focused on my career and my lifelong dream to open my own bridal store, but the last few months had me second-guessing myself.
‘Well, allow me to notice what beautiful big blue eyes you have?’ He flirted openly. Intoxicatingly. He smelt of rich, musky aftershave, the college hand-soap and spearmint chewing gum. The closeness of him made me stop breathing for a moment.
‘All the better to throw you filthy looks with.’ I flirted back immediately, with a harsh flick and roll of my eyes to the heavens, delighted with myself altogether.
Flirting was not generally something I was good at.
He took my hand and asked me for a drink, and I thought I was in some romantic movie as we skipped across the road hand in hand to O’Donoghue’s bar.
Inside, we took two high stools at the circular bar.
His eyes held mine. ‘So, tell me. With your obvious talent, why on earth are you thinking of quitting fashion design?’
‘Ah . . . a few reasons, mainly her—’ I discreetly gestured to Emma Stark in the far corner of the bar with a few of my classmates huddled around a table.
I hadn’t known they were going for drinks, but I was always too busy anyway – at least that’s what I always told myself.
Emma Stark raised the peak of her baseball cap a little with her index finger, then gave me a small wave.
‘We’re chasing the same internship, but she’s more talented than me, younger than me.
I dunno, I just don’t think I have what it takes. ’
He stood up and lifted the cape from my shoulders, held it in his hand, his fingers caressing the material.
‘This cape is a work of art. If you don’t believe in yourself, you’ve lost your dream already.
I’ve noticed you around, the way you dress, your style.
I think you are a creative genius.’ He kissed his finger and thumb and blew that kiss high into the air above us. ‘Don’t ever give up on your dreams.’
‘Oh. Th-thank you.’ I blushed, terribly thrilled with the compliment. Emma got all the compliments from our tutor, Miss Nesbitt, who never seemed to throw any my way. She got all the compliments from our classmates, too, who seemed to hang on her every word.
‘So you believe in yourself. Right? Trust your talent,’ he told me in a serious tone as he sat back down.
I felt suddenly seen, strangely powerful, and I nodded intently. ‘I will.’
‘I too have a confession, Gracie,’ Logan had told me very dramatically.
‘What?’ I asked, with a small but concerned grin.
‘More of a warning.’ Logan curled his lip. That mouth. It was delicious. Full. Seductive. Erotic.
‘Okayyyy.’ I was barely audible. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘All the better to hear me with.’
I let out a half-laugh, not able to take my eyes off him. ‘Very good.’ There was nowhere in the world I’d rather have been.
‘I need to warn you, I also have a dream. I’m an actor.
A broke actor. That’s my confession. Smashed.
Zero pennies to my name. Just spent the last hundred euro in my bank account on professional headshots.
’ He delved deep into those tight pockets, produced two beer tokens then turned the pockets inside out.
My eyes were drawn to that region. I swallowed with a gulp.
Tingles of attraction erupted all through me.
Shooting around my nether regions like fireworks.
‘Guinness?’ he suggested and I bobbed my head in agreement, my mouth too dry to speak as he slouched over the bar top to get the attention of the bar man.
‘Grace Algar, howrya?’ Emma Stark had eased her way in between me and Logan, in her red New York Yankees baseball cap now turned back to front, a camouflage three-quarter-length coat with red suede thigh-high boots.
‘Hi, Emma.’ I smiled at her.
‘Weird seeing you in here. We always think you’re far too busy for beers, like?’
I stood up from the stool. I was a few inches taller than her. ‘Not today.’
‘This is your Red Riding Hood.’ She felt the fabric. ‘Cape is great, impressive weight, it will drape beautifully.’
‘So are you nervous for the showcase?’ I asked her as bottles tinkled into a skip from the side door.
‘Me? No, not my style, I’m very self-assured like, and –’ she drummed her fingers off the bar counter ‘– I just got an RSVP from Ferguson Brophy Bridal Designs. They’re coming to see my Whiter Shade of Pale showcase! Can you actually?!’
‘Oh, congratulations. They’re coming to see my Brothers Grimm showcase, too,’ I told her triumphantly.
Her expression shifted and her brow furrowed. She took a step back, made a small blow hole with her mouth. ‘Oh? Seriously? I wasn’t aware you were going to intern, being that bit older, I mean?’
‘No, I am.’ A riotous cheers from the table behind us. Glasses tinkering off one another.
‘Not that you’re old, like, that’s not what I meant, like.’ She had to raise her voice and her lilting Cork accent made me smile.
‘That’s okay.’ At twenty-six I was older than the rest of the class by at least seven years. I’d worked in retail, freelance dressmaking while saving to put myself through college.
‘See you next week, so. May the best woman win the internship at Ferguson Brophy.’
‘Bye.’ I turned back to Logan. The muscular curl of his biceps as he folded his arms across his chest made my eyes dip, dart up to his big brown eyes, then dip again.
I really didn’t know where to look. I could barely listen to a word he was saying.
Logan was so altogether arousing. The proximity of him was electrifying.
He gave me a burning stare. Made me determined to stick it out at college, beat Emma Stark and any other competition to the internship I’d been chasing and working so hard towards for years.
‘One day, you’ll be a very successful wedding dress designer – you gotta put it out to the universe, right?
And one day, I’ll be a famous theatre actor.
Wealthy. Top of my game. The West End. Broadway.
A Tony award, the whole shebang. Fame. I’ll find it.
I’ll get it. I know I will. And I won’t give up until I do. ’
I found him completely inspiring.
He leaned in even closer on his stool, inches from my face, so close I could see a tiny chip in his front tooth and a pimple patch on his chin. My heart ran laps around my pounding chest. The juke box had started with a burst and Tracy Chapman sang slowly about a fast car.
‘I’ll do it! I’ll finish the course. My graduation showcase is in a few weeks, and it’s so important my collection is the best it can be because of that internship . . . My future career is depending on it!’ I wiggled my lacerated fingertips to show him.
Logan took my hands and studied the bloody tips. He held them so close to his face that for a spilt second, I thought he was going to kiss them.
‘Th-the Brothers Grimm . . .’ I stuttered.
‘Fairy tales. That’s the theme of my collection.
Again, hence the Red Riding Hood cape. Actually, I need a Rumpelstiltskin for my runway show.
’ I thought I was going to faint at his touch, so I tried to be funny, but he nodded, then released my hands as the barman placed two pints of settled Guinness on beermats up on the counter.
Logan lifted his pint, deadly still, no bubbles rising merrily to the top.
He swallowed, ran the back of his left hand across his top lip, swiping the foam away.
‘I’ll do it. I’ll be your Rumpelstiltskin,’ he said, leaning across, oh-so slowly, and kissing me softly on my right cheek, turning my whole world upside down.
*
Subconsciously, I rest my cold hand on that right cheek, as though Logan’s kiss is still somehow lingering there all these years later. Forever indented in my memory. I drain my wine.