Chapter Thirteen
I hear the thunderous noise of the DART trundling down the tracks at Tara Street station towards me.
Sweating commuters jostle on the platform as it slows, then stops.
The doors part with a hiss and I step on.
I’d tossed and turned all night, the humidity in my flat relentless.
Despite my best efforts to open it, my window is still stuck shut, so no air is possible.
I’d such vivid dreams, about my reunion with Logan and my dinner with Donal, where I’d been unable to speak as my words would not come out.
Logan was carrying a newborn baby, telling me the baby was mine, and Donal had been there, too, telling me not to believe him, that he was a liar. I’d woken with a jolt.
I find a seat by the window and lean my head against the hot glass of the train and close my tired eyes. I know I don’t really know Donal at all, but somehow he’s so familiar and I just know he never puts himself first, not like Logan.
*
‘Who said you can’t do other work on Macbeth while you are an intern at Ferguson Brophy?’ Logan asked, pouting as we stood on either side of the black drapes on the stage. He was half dressed in just leather chaps over jeans, like some sort of gladiator god.
‘They both said they don’t encourage it. Listen to what I’m saying!’ I repeated, recounting the meeting I’d just had in the stylish offices of Ferguson Brophy Bridal Designs on Suffolk Street, where I’d been interning for three glorious, illustrious months with Marian and Patricia.
‘The thing is, Grace,’ Marian had said, ‘ideally we want someone who can focus solely on Reign so innovative, so inspiring, so unique.
‘Obviously, your goal is to set up your own business, and we are here to assist with that in the long term. We knew as soon as we saw both of your Cinderella dresses at your showcase, you will fit in here perfectly as part of the team. That pre-ball gold dress was ethereal.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I’d beamed.
‘You never know, you might even wear it for your own prince one day,’ Marian had suggested.
‘Or princess,’ Patricia added.
That prince was the reason I was standing there, being confronted by my bosses.
‘Look, creatively you have it in spades, Grace. Your sketching designs, your sewing and creating physical pieces, your dexterity, your in-depth knowledge of fabrics . . .’ Patricia went on, looking to Marian, who’d nodded like a bobbing dog head and picked up the baton.
‘Right! You gave us everything in your showcase: cotton, chambray, damask, chiffon, jersey, silk, denim, flannel, gingham, brocade. We just need to see your work ethic now. How you work with us and others is vital. Your commitment especially.’ Marian had raised an eyebrow, her hair severe, gelled back, but she’d smiled warmly at me.
Outside, the rest of the office was bustling with the new bridal-season collection fast approaching, and I’d just asked them for a couple of weeks off to design the costumes for Logan’s production of Macbeth at The New Theatre.
‘Grace, you need to be here all the time; you can’t dip in and out.
It’s a full-time internship. You are in charge of the fittings.
Helping to dress the models, ensuring gowns fit properly before they step onto the runway.
We have to trust you will be there on time.
We know it’s a token wage, but we can discuss it after the showcase, if it’s that?
’ Patricia twisted the lid from her miniature see-through water bottle and sipped.
‘Oh no! No . . . it’s not that, it’s amazing you’re paying me to intern, I know loads of other ex-students who aren’t getting paid at all,’ I’d told them, gratefully.
‘Take me, for example!’
I’d spun around to see Emma Stark leaning in the door frame, head to toe in tight red leather.
‘Emma! You’re here again! God bless you, grab a cappo from the machine, we’re just finishing up with Grace before she has to leave,’ Marian had said gleefully.
‘Emma was telling us that she’s not even getting expenses at Bespoke Bride. Ridiculous and that should be illegal, with her talent!’ Patricia replaced her water bottle in her stylish belt holder.
‘Ahh, do you have to rush off again, Grace? That’s a shame, like.
Be great to catch up at some stage?’ Emma said.
And then, to Patricia and Marian, ‘Take your time, you’ve got me all night.
I am one hundred per cent all yours.’ She flicked her wrist where her dozens of silver bracelets jingle-jangled.
‘Emma, what are you doing here . . .?’ I’d trailed off when I saw the cagey look cross her ambitious face.
‘I dropped by last week one evening after hours to see if the guys needed an extra pair of hands. You’d just gone home for the day, as a matter of fact . . .’ She looked over at Marian, arms hanging loosely by her sides.
‘We set her up at your station, she’s been a godsend,’ Marian told me in a voice that said, ‘Read between the lines, Grace.’
‘Oh, that was really nice of you,’ I mumbled.
‘Nothing nice about it, I’d move heaven and earth to get my foot in the door here, I’m obsessed with Marian and Patricia’s talent.
I’m fangirling every day!’ Emma had removed her leather box jacket and given me a little noisy wave.
I watched her for a moment as she headed straight to my station outside and draped her jacket on the back of my chair.
‘So, how can I make thirty-two costumes and intern full-time staying on late?’ I asked Logan later that night, holding him at arm’s length.
But he sweet-talked me and I’d worked nineteen-hour days and was completely out on my feet.
I made Logan’s costume for Macbeth out of paper-thin leatherette and silver biker studs, it was very rock and roll, which was my theme throughout.
Bare-chested (hairless and spray tanned) and barefoot with his toenails painted black, he looked like a Rock God.
Lady Macbeth’s costume was inspired by Britney Spears’s skintight red latex catsuit, which I teamed with a latex hood, long black leather gloves and Spice Girl-type platform runners.
Macduff in a Reservoir Dogs-inspired sharp, black suit with faux fur cape embedded in big brass buckles.
I worked so hard and the entire cast looked like they were about to shoot a music video. Logan was ecstatic. I rarely saw him.
I ran between the two jobs, literally sprinted.
Inside, Ferguson Brophy was manic. Well-known models walked around butt-naked and the most exquisite fabrics were strewn across every available space, Point d’esprit, Dupioni, Batiste, Charmeuse, Dotted Swiss, Gazar, Mikado, Shantung.
Fabrics I’d been dying to work with all my life.
I’d caressed them and held them to my face, inhaled them; I was in heaven, but I was so tired.
Twice, Marian asked me if I was okay. I lied, said that I had terrible period pains.
I knew they weren’t impressed with me, I’d tried so hard but I was exhausted. I knew I was an idiot.