Chapter Thirty-One
We pull up outside the tidy, semi-detached red-brick house in Ringsend.
A religious grotto is opposite, with a statue of the beautiful Virgin Mary.
We look at one another. The white hall door with the long gold brass knocker opens and Amanda stands there, looking absolutely stunning in her bridesmaid’s finery.
‘Grace! You’re here! Deadly!’ She states the obvious, then lifts up her dress at the hem and runs towards me exposing her novelty penguin slippers.
‘Thank you, I—’ is all I manage to say to the confused driver as Amanda begins rapping on his window, waving a fifty-euro note in the air.
He rolls it down. ‘Can I help ya, love?’ he quizzes her.
‘Wanna pay her fare! Hurry up! Haven’t got all day!’ She shoves the money into his hand.
‘There’s no need . . .’ I start to protest, then see her expression. ‘But thanks a million.’ With my sewing basket in hand, I exit the back door of the vehicle into the scalding heat of the early morning.
‘Go on in! Belinda’s upstairs, first room on the left. Ignore the chaos inside. It’s a madhouse,’ Amanda instructs, crouched down at the driver’s window as he counts out notes for her change.
I see Belinda’s BMW outside the house. It has ‘After the Bell’, the name of her after-school programme on it; the signage underneath says, From little acorns grow great things.
What an amazing businesswoman she is, I think as I put my hand on the small black gate that has swung shut.
I push the handle back down. It’s a tiny, square garden surrounded by white railings with gold-painted spiked tops, and a hundred colourful, dancing flowers from the earth.
I walk up the high red cement step and go inside.
‘Holy shit . . .’ I mutter under my breath.
It’s akin to the opening scene from Home Alone.
Adults and children fill every small corner of the house, crossing past one another, circling one another, eating, drinking.
An older man stands in front of the fireplace, singing an Irish ballad, his eyes shut tight.
I stare momentarily, open-mouthed, looking at them all through the square, glass panes on the wooden double doors.
Then I take the curved, narrow staircase, climbing two at a time.
I see the door on the left and knock hard.
‘Who is it?’ a voice yells back at me.
‘It’s me? Grace,’ I return.
‘Come on in!’ the voice bellows again as I swing the door open.
Belinda sits on the bed in her snow-white second-skin body suit, a can of Coke in her hand, and my head screams, Get that away from your dress!
‘Halahfuckinglulliah!’ she cheers when she sees me, then takes a swig. ‘Can’t keep these bad boys in.’ She juggles her bosom with her free hand underneath them. I don’t need to ask what happened. I know. Sadly, I’ve been here many times.
‘Hi! All right. I’ll fix it. No need for panic.’ I raise the orange wicker basket. ‘I have all I need in my magic box of tricks. So, let’s get you dressed. The service is at two, yeah?’ I confirm with her.
‘Yeah.’ She’s actually nowhere near as panicked as she sounded on the phone.
‘Were you planning on being late?’ I ask.
She lifts the red can to her mouth again. ‘No. I don’t do bullshit like that.’
I check my watch. ‘How far is the church?’
‘Ten minutes.’ She stops a burp with a fist to her mouth. Her back jerks up and down.
‘Grand. We’ve just under half an hour to get your wedding dress perfect.
’ I move some make-up, a bottle of Kalms, cotton wool – and what looks like day-old remains of coffee in a cup – off the messy dressing table and place my wicker kit down.
The wedding dress is back on the hanger in my dress bag, swaying on the open wardrobe door.
‘Kathleen and her LA juice detox. It bleedin’ works! I’ll say that much for it.’ Belinda laughs, freely.
‘I would never have taken you for a detox kinda gal,’ I tell her with a sharp shake of my head.
She swigs the Coke again. ‘I’m not! She hypnotised me or something.’
‘How big is the dress? It’s only been a few days?’
‘Big enough that it’s not tight enough to keep me boobs in!’
I zip the dress bag down carefully and remove the dress, just as a soft knock comes to the door.
‘Who is it?’ Belinda screeches again, and I resist putting my hands over my ears.
‘Meeeeeeee.’ An out of place accent sing-songs. ‘Kathleen.’
Kathleen enters, indeed like a beautiful gold Oscar statue.
Her sun-kissed body sparkling with gold-dusted glittering shoulders, striking a pose in her Chanel kitten heels.
The dress sculpts her in all the right places, and that deep V-neck dip is sexy yet classy.
The material swishes as she moves. If I say so myself, it’s a standout dress.
It’s design perfection. Her hair is in a high-up, tight circular bun that makes her cheekbones look even more pronounced.
Minimal make-up, clear glossy lips and drop diamanté earrings.
‘Oh. My. God. Wait! Wait! Wait until you see Peter R. He has totally trans—’ Then Kathleen clocks me. ‘Oh, Grace! Hey, there! Now, excuse me, but – and this is fact – before you reprimand me, we had this conversation at your flat, right? About dieting brides?’
‘We did,’ I say, one eye closed as I thread the eye of the needle. I’m straight down to business and actually relieved.
Kathleen snaps her fingers. ‘Girl! I didn’t tell Belinda not to eat anything while she was juicing!
This is not getting pinned on me. I just wanted to help her skin glow.
Beauty comes from within.’ Kathleen plops down, somehow elegantly, on the double bed, crosses her legs, adjusts the gold material over her knees and flexes her ankles.
‘No blame. It’s all right. I’ve done this a million times. You look stunning by the way,’ I tell her.
‘I know. I’ve been Insta-storying in my room. The comments I’m getting are insane! I feel so beautiful and, surprisingly, comfortable!’
‘Good, that’s always my aim! Now, Belinda, put the Coke down. Put the can far, far away,’ I order. A bride with a can of Coke triggers me like you wouldn’t believe.
‘I wasn’t hungry, though, was I? I was stuffed with all dem fancy juices,’ Belinda shoots back at her youngest sister. ‘Plus, I was never off the loo!’
‘But I said one or two juices a day, Belinda, not ten. You were guzzling them!’ Kathleen’s phone rings out in her dainty hand.
‘Ahh, so what, Yogi Bear!’ Belinda turns to face at me.
‘Once I knew you were on the way, the panic left me. I’ve missed ya.
Do you know that? Is that weird?’ She drains the can of Coke, shakes the tin and hands it over to Kathleen, who’s chatting on the phone and sounding very American with lots of, ‘I know, riiiiiiight? I know, riiiiiiight? I know, riiiiiiiight?’ questioning.
‘No, it’s not weird at all. I’ve missed you, too,’ I tell her truthfully, this has never happened to me before. I’ve never grown so attached to my clients.
‘Maybe we can go for a coffee and split a Rocky Road next week?’ she suggests, again holding back a burp.
‘I’d love that!’ I tell her, delighted.
‘Swear it’s not weird that I’m askin’ ya that? Like, I always imagine midwives get invited for coffee loads of times by epidural-infused new mothers?’
‘I swear it’s not weird at all, but I’ve never been asked before.’ I hold the needle aloft.
Her face stretches into the biggest smile. ‘No way? That’s mad? So maybe we do actually have a real bond?’
‘I think we do, Belinda.’ I return the smile brightly at her.
Kathleeen ends her call. ‘You were supposed to come up to my room to do a class with me and Peter R. this morning,’ she tells Belinda.
She pauses to drop the can into a plastic bin bag hanging off the doorknob.
‘He brought a spare mat for you. You were a no-show. Peter R. said it was an omen.’ Kathleen now starts tapping out a message, one-handed, head down, her thumbs ablur.
Belinda’s face clouds over. ‘I can’t listen to him go on anymore about that stupid wagon. He breaks my heart. I’d love to get my hands on her! I’d show her!’ She waves a fist around angrily.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, intrigued as always by the drama the Kearneys seem to have going on at all times in their world.
‘Our brother. He broke up with his girlfriend. We like to be involved in his love life. He does not like it, though.’ Kathleen looks up at me.
‘Who was that you were on the phone to? Was that him?’ Belinda asks her.
‘Come on. Up. Stand up,’ I say now as I equal the lengths of the white thread again. ‘Time to get on with the necessary . . . Gossip later.’
Belinda immediately stands up.
‘No, actually that was a client in LA,’ Kathleen says. ‘A big one. Very interesting convo. Listen, Peter R.’s okay, he’s much stronger than we give him credit for. He had to put himself back out there and he’s glad he did. Now! Wait, oh my God, just wait till you see him, he—’
‘Stop talking about him, Kathleen! I’ll fuckin’ cry and it’ll ruin my make-up!’ Belinda fans a hand in front of her eyes to stop any tears.
‘Girl! You asked me,’ she throws back.
‘Well, don’t answer me!’ Belinda swings her arms.
‘Stay still. Please?’ I implore.
‘He’s a big boy, he can handle it. Stop babying him,’ Kathleen continues.
‘He really liked her! He thought she really liked him, too; the horrible, conniving cow!’ Belinda stamps her foot.
‘Belinda!’ I reprimand her. ‘All is not fair in love and war, we all know that. Now keep still or we will have a Janet Jackson Superbowl peek-a-boob on our hands.’
‘Sorry, Grace. I won’t budge again, hun.’ She stands still, hands now flat by her sides as I concentrate on the job at hand, of literally sewing her in.
‘Step in. Focus,’ I instruct softly as I lift the dress, gather it and hold it down for Belinda to step into.