Chapter Twenty
I’m grinning so widely as I head down towards Nassau Street and around onto Grafton Street, my face hurts.
That was not what I was expecting, I think, as I round a large crowd who have stopped to watch a different busker strumming his rendition of ‘Take Me to Church’.
I make my way up to and inside Bewley’s famous flagship café.
It’s heaving with tourists and locals alike.
The smoky aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and fresh scones baking on-site is instantly mouth-watering. I join the queue.
Anyway, my dream of having my own store one day was just that, a dream. It’s never going to happen and maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe I should put my money where my mouth is and trust in what I just said to Emma, that everything happens for a reason.
‘Number forty-four? Poached eggs, crispy bacon, white batch toast?’ The Bewley’s waitress stands in front of me now in her crisp white shirt, and the black apron over her skirt, a brown tray in her hands.
‘Please.’ I hand her the white plastic number on my table and she unloads the tray for me.
I’d love to call Donal to tell him about Emma, I suddenly think, and I surprise myself, because normally when I want to share stuff, it’s always Logan I think of.
When we’d finished our salads and wine on the rooftop, Donal had suggested we meet in M.
O’Brien’s bar before the party and walk up together.
‘Logan.’ I murmur his name on my lips now. I can still hardly believe I’m going to see him on Friday. Donal has been such a welcome distraction. ‘Donal.’ I murmur his name now too. As opposite as two men could ever be.
I have been thinking about my divorce-party dress, and I plan on starting it this evening.
I unzip my bag and pull out my loose sketches, lay them on the table as I hold my finger on the lid of the pot and pour my tea, looking the four ideas over.
I add a drop of milk, still looking. Then I press my index finger on my tongue, stick it onto a sketch and slide it towards me.
I pick up my cutlery, stab the egg yolk with my fork.
The orange oozes diagonally, towards my thick toast. Picking up a piece of crispy bacon with my fingers, I pop it in my mouth and continue to stare at the sketch.
This is the one. The when-Logan-sees-me-for-the-first-time-since-he-walked-out-on-our-wedding-day dress.
I know the exact material I need to buy in Needles & Pins on the way home. I dip my toast into the yolk, eating hungrily, and as I look up, that’s when I see them walk in.
Donal and a woman.
It’s most definitely a date. I can just tell by his body language.
She is slim and tall, almost as tall as him, in a baby-pink vest top under corduroy dungarees and a glossy black bob, leopard-print-framed shades perched on her head, a gingham backpack on her shoulders.
They join the queue. I crane my head to the side to keep them in my eyeline.
Donal points at the scones and she nods.
He’s dressed up for the date. His hair is in a twisted knot at the back of his head, and he’s wearing a white V-neck T-shirt, black jeans and runners.
I can’t take my eyes off them. I just observe them from the back of the café.
They get the scones to take away, I see Donal add the cream and jam in small round plastic containers to the paper bag, and she lifts their coffees.
He is laughing at something she is saying, and as he holds the door open for her, he extends his hand for her to go first and they leave.
I push my plate away. My appetite suddenly vanishes and I have no idea why.