Chapter Thirty
Quickly, I swipe my finger across the screen.
‘What’s wrong, Belinda? Happy wedding day!’ I hold my head with my other hand.
‘Fuck a duck, Grace, it’s a bleedin’ disaster!’ Belinda screeches. ‘It’s Titanic meets Brad Pitt headin’ off to work with his packed lunch from Jen Aniston onto the set of Mr & Mrs Smith!’
‘Calm down. Sorry I missed your calls, I nipped out for bread but I’ll be over at twelve o’clock as planned?’ I sit on the chair, tuck my bare feet under me. Belinda’s wedding isn’t until two o’ clock.
‘I can’t calm down! The dress is too big! It won’t stay up! Me boobs are hangin’ out!’ Belinda hollers down the line. ‘I’d put Dolly Parton to shame!’
‘Stop movin’!’ I hear a muffled voice.
‘I’m not movin’, Amanda, you’re pullin’ me!’ A screech so piercing I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
‘Get out of the way, Amanda!’ Another voice.
‘Shut yer hole, Denise!’
‘Hello?’ I say into the speaker.
‘Grace Algar?’ A new voice.
‘Yes?’ I puff.
‘Hey. It’s me. Kathleen. Girl, you gotta come over right now? She’s spiralling, we can’t fix her. Say you’ll come?’
Another shout in the background. ‘Send Peter R. over for her!’
‘Send Da’s sister! She’s eatin’ all the good Kimberleys I left out. Horsin ’em into her. And her after applyin’ for the Ozempic for her diabetes!’
‘What diabetes?’ the same voice hollers.
‘If I can talk?’ I have to raise my voice and it hurts my head. ‘I don’t know what has happened, but I’ll be there in half an hour. Just stay calm.’ I hang up, locate the painkillers and re-book for an earlier taxi on the app.
‘I have to run,’ I tell Mia as she lounges in bed, the sunlight streaming through the window lighting up patches on the white linen sheet. Like glistening pools.
‘Why?’ she asks me.
‘I need to work earlier than I planned. Another dieting bride, I’m guessing.
These forty-eight-hour fasting things they all do.
Rapid pounds fall off. Another shrinking woman.
The world is full of them.’ I shake the fizzing painkillers in my glass of water, knock it back before I jump into the shower.
After I dry off, I return to my bedroom, slide open my wardrobe, pull on the turquoise wrap dress I always wear to dress my brides and tie it at the sides.
It offers a flattering silhouette as I slide my feet into my vintage, wooden Dr. Scholl’s. I check my toe polish.
‘I’ll throw on a face and I’ll fly.’ I turn to Mia.
‘So, it’s a beautiful day and you are finally over Logan.’ Mia pushes herself up and rests on her two elbows.
‘Can you believe it?’ I drag the brush through my knotty hair.
‘Not really, no. But I’m so happy for you.’ Mia narrows her eyes against the blinding morning sun.
I use my comb, split a centre parting, tie my hair back in a low ponytail, pull it tight. ‘It’s all down to Donal . . . Donal . . . I don’t even know his surname.’
I tap a creamy liquid foundation onto my blotchy skin, blend it in in circular motions.
‘You missed a blob.’ Mia points to my chin, I massage it in with heavy fingers.
‘Thanks.’ I rub at it, screwing the top back on the tube. ‘Let yourself out? Are you going back to Dalkey?’ My mouth is open as I wand on lashings of mascara.
‘No. I’m going back to my parents’, and then we will all go over and pack up my stuff. They have to hold onto Charlie while I get settled in Belfast.’
‘That’s good of them.’ I try to speak while applying mascara.
‘Dad’s borrowing his neighbour’s son’s transit van and we’re going to go get all my stuff this afternoon. The newspaper’s organising my accommodation in Belfast, right beside Queen’s University, I believe.’
I hold the skin of my upper lid taut, applying my eyeliner, from the inner corner working towards the outer corner, using light strokes. Then it hits me that Mia won’t be nearby anymore.
‘I’m going to really miss you.’ My voice wobbles.
‘Me too, especially our last-Friday-of-the-month movie and dinner. I’ve lived for them over the last few years.’ Mia pulls on her white trouser suit, two black stains on the knees, a reminder of her skidding across the floor to Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’ last night.
When she’s dressed, she sits back down on the edge of the bed.
‘I’ll come up to Belfast, a lot.’ I sit beside her.
‘I will have to look for a new job, but in the meantime I can use it as a tax write-off, some great shops for materials up there. In fact, if I ever get to rent the premises I dream of for my store, I will deck the rails with Paragon fabrics and The Patchwork Goose. Belfast has the most amazing fabric shops.’
‘Please don’t give up on your dreams.’ Her eyes plead.
‘Sorry we never ended up as sisters-in-law.’ I throw my arm around her shoulder and pull her warm body close to me.
‘I’m not sorry.’ She looks up at me, the smattering of freckles across her nose dancing. ‘Because you always deserved better than Logan. I love him, but I wouldn’t want to marry him, he’s Team Logan first and always. That will never change.’
My buzzer sounds.
‘Taxi’s here. Gotta go.’
She grabs my arm, tightly, her eyes watering. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For being the best friend I could ever wish for. I’m so lucky to have you.
I can’t tell you how grateful I am. And what you said there is wrong.
We are sisters. Now go!’ She releases her grip as I grab my orange wicker sewing basket, jump over the wedding magazines strewn across my bedroom floor, and re-find my footing.
‘See you soon, Grace Algar. I love you!’
‘Love you, too, Mia Hunter!’ I yell back. ‘Find a cinema that shows black-and-white movies in Belfast! We’ll start all over again!’
Then I run down the rickety stairs to the waiting taxi.