Chapter Eight
My mind is working overtime as I stroll home from the cinema.
Crossing Portobello Bridge, a low-flying heron glides over my head and lands gracefully on the canal.
As I follow it with my eyes, I catch sight of a beaming bride and groom beside the statue of Patrick Kavanagh, sitting on the bench on the canal bank having their photo taken.
It immediately shifts my thoughts to the fact I still have no other jobs booked in after the Kearney wedding.
The financial worry returns like a familiar tune.
It’s not like I can even move home for a while to save on rent as my parents live in the south of France.
They sold up three years ago to run a really cool Irish bar in Bordeaux.
I need to figure out how to get more clients.
There must be a way? I’m a really great dress designer, I know that.
I slow my pace and my thoughts. The heat in Dublin makes people smile more, youngsters are jumping in the canal, splashing with glee, scattering the swans.
I stick my earbuds in and select an album – The Tortured Poets Department.
Taylor Swift – the ultimate businesswoman – makes me pick up my pace again as I sing along in my head to ‘I Can Do It with a Broken Heart’, trying to thrash out how the hell I can save my business.
*
First thing I do when I get back to my flat is down a tall glass of water and prop open my rooftop door.
Wasting no more time, I get straight to work at the sewing machine, putting the finishes touches to Kathleen Kearney’s gold dress, lost in creating, listening to the rhythmic whirring as the motor runs, the soft clacking of the needle moving up and down through the fabric and the gentle thump as my foot presses down on the pedal.
From the table, my phone makes an unusual sound.
‘What’s that?’ I say to myself as I reach across for it and look at the screen.
You have 1 new message from Beyond Looks
‘What? Oh!’ I press it open as that tiny white butterfly lands on my table.
‘What’s this, then?’ I say to its delicate, flapping wings as it takes flight again, circling my airless flat. I read the message. It’s the administrator and owner of the site, Rebecca, who has sent me on a message. It appears in two lines:
I’m a decent guy with simple pleasures. I like a laugh, great movies, spicy food, cold beer, very old buildings and interesting conversation. I’d like to meet for dinner and drinks.
Rebecca is the go-between. No names. No personal information. Tentatively, I click on the picture he has willingly uploaded. My brain whizzes. Immediately my feet uncurl and hit the floor with a thud.
It’s him. His deep, green eyes. The long, fiery red hair. The bushy, ginger beard . . .
Donal!
‘W-what? What is going on here? That’s nuts!’ My eyes are wide, my jaw almost on the floor. Oh! My head starts to nod. ‘Now I can ask you to come with me to the party, as a friend!’ I say out loud.
I remind myself that, physically, Donal isn’t my usual type, and that’s fine because I’m not after a new boyfriend.
But I see our interactions in my mind’s eye, squint my eyes tighter, lean in closer to the phone screen.
It’s hard to see Donal’s actual lips through the ginormous, ginger beard and sideboards, but I’ve seen them in the flesh.
In the photo his long hair hangs over his eyes so those expressive green eyes aren’t visible.
I enlarge the photo to full screen. But I know that in the flesh Donal’s eyes are intriguing.
He reminds me of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming, honking, out-of-control, zigzagging juggernaut.
His eyelashes, spiky and lengthy. The photo does emphasise his elongated nose in a less than flattering angle.
In real life, it’s strong, manly. He is decent and kind .
. . and he wants to meet me again for dinner and drinks.
It’s perfect. I’m more than happy to and he already knows my Logan tale.
After we have our date I can ask him to Mia’s party and tell him my reasons why.
I look at my own full-length picture that Mia uploaded.
In fairness, it’s a truthful picture. I’m holding the tall glass trophy I was awarded as runner-up for Best Bridal Designer 2023 at an exhibition in The Galmont Hotel in Galway.
My hair is styled in a slicked back mid-ponytail, I’m in my favourite always-flattering black wraparound dress and high red wedges.
My staple red lippy and my small gold hoops.
My nose is also a little prominent and slightly crooked at certain angles, and I never did get a brace to fix my two pointed incisors.
I interlink my fingers, raise my hands behind my head and rest my head in the crook.
I’m going to make a red dress for the party.
It was always Logan’s favourite colour on me.
I’m going to make it as sexy as I can get away with.
I unkink my fingers, reach across and pick up the envelope, sliding out the invitation. Its gold glitter sticks to my fingertips like reminders of my ex-relationship that I can’t peel off.
When Mia and I first met, she’d warned me her brother was a player.
Mia was at UCD studying journalism at the time and we converged in the Ilac Centre library and bonded over the September issue of Vogue that we both reached for at the same time.
It was instant friendship. I knew she had a brother but she always called him ‘Brohead’ when she mentioned him, which was rarely.
Later, when we realised I was dating her brother and she could see I had fallen head over heels in love with him she’d warned me.
‘He’s a player, not a settler. It’s infatuation, please be careful.
Our Logan’s selfish. Always has been. Listen to my words, because they aren’t easy to say about my own brother, but he’s a narcissist.’
Dear Grace,
You are invited!
Please come and celebrate a new chapter in my life.
Date: Saturday 28th June.
Time: 8 P.M.
Location: House Bar, Leeson Street.
RSVP by 20th June.
Dress code: Be Yourself!
Mia Hunter x
I slip the card back into the red envelope, gazing at Donal’s profile once more.
I’m not trying to make Logan jealous, either, that’s not my vibe.
I just don’t want to walk in on my own. I won’t lie to Donal, I’ll be honest with him.
I just want to walk into House with someone, get a drink, sit down and wait for Logan to approach me.
Or, go to the bar and let him follow me up.
And he will come after me, I know that for sure.
The little white butterfly still hasn’t flown out of my rooftop door and it flutters above my head.
Belinda arrives tomorrow afternoon and chaos will ensue, but the thought makes me smile.
‘Right, Donal, let’s meet again.’ I talk to his image as I hold my phone in both hands and my fingers hit the letters.
Hi Rebecca. It’s a ‘Yes’ to the date, please. I’d love to meet him for dinner and drinks. I’ve a crazy work schedule coming up this week and I know it’s very short notice, but is tomorrow night any good for him? His choice of venue, city centre, preferably. Let me know?
I hit send.