Chapter Thirty-Five
I trudge over Ringsend Bridge towards the city centre.
I feel as stupefied as I did that day in Portofino, when I’d hauled myself along the golden sands of Bagni Fiore beach in my lemon kaftan to the nearest bar after Logan had texted me.
I don’t even feel like myself anymore. I’m not sure who I am?
Or what I’ve done to feel so bad? My foot slips out of my heavy Dr. Scholl and I graze my big toe off the cement, chipping the edge of the red polish.
‘Seriously?’ I wave my fist to the blue, cloudless sky, then slip my foot back in and move on at a slower pace.
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that Donal and I would get on so well when I asked him for that cup of coffee in Fallon & Byrne.
I never thought that we’d really like one another, feel so happy in each other’s company.
I stop in my tracks, look over at the rippling water, the sunshine bouncing off it, white foam ripples pirouetting.
I pull my phone out of my bag and dial Mia. She answers after one ring.
‘I just heard about everything. He’s already home,’ are the first words out of her mouth. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ I duck as a dangerously low-flying seagull glides powerfully just above my head. The last thing I need is to be shat on. So I power on, the rubber click-clacking off my heels.
‘I can’t believe Logan did that at the church!’ Mia says, anger peppering her voice.
‘Oh, I can. He didn’t get what he wanted from me last night, so he thought he’d woo me this way, making a public spectacle. He is an actor, after all. He loves an audience.’ A huge lorry belches black smoke as it roars past me. I wave my hand in front of my face to bat away the foul-smelling fumes.
‘But to stop someone’s wedding. Jesus. That’s some ego even for my bro-head brother,’ Mia shouts down the line over the noise.
I continue my walk up towards Pearse Street, index finger in my free ear to block out the traffic.
‘Dad’s in J.P. Carey’s van outside, Grace. He’s only got it for an hour. Marek’s here to help, too. I’m meant to go to clear out my stuff from Dalkey, but I’ll drop all this and be with you in a heartbeat if you need me.’
‘I’m more than a little bit smitten with Donal, I think,’ I tell her.
‘I know, love,’ she says sweetly. ‘I saw it first-hand that day you walked into my house in your green-leaf print dress. You looked a little glassy eyed as you told me about the half a date you had with this confusingly nice guy. And well, last night, then I felt it in your heart.’
I hear a honk of a horn down the line. Then Charlie barks, always at home in Mia’s parents’ house, where he’ll be spoilt rotten until Mia’s settled in Belfast.
‘Go,’ I tell her. ‘Say hi to Marek.’
‘I will. He’s really happy for me to stay in touch, but just as friends. Are you sure you don’t need me?’
I lean against a shelter of a bus stop. ‘I’m sure. I want to be on my own for a while to wallow.’
I hit the red button ending our call. How have I wasted so much precious time pining?
Daydreaming, night-dreaming and fantasising about Logan Hunter?
Then, even more time planning on what I’d say, do and wear when I came face-to-face with him again?
Praying I could get him back. The irony that the time he finally turned his key in our flat door was on his fourth trip back to Dublin makes me angry.
I get angrier as hot tears sprout in my eyes.
I ruined my internship at Ferguson Brophy for him and the anger is only really hitting me now.
I always believed he needed his career more than I did mine. I fume.
Stupid woman.
I cross over the road to Blended café, order a large Americano and start to calm down.
I stare wistfully at the older couple sharing a pot of tea and a scone outside.
It’s the simplicity of their synchronicity.
He smears the cream for both of them, hands her the bigger piece.
They are one. Content. My phone rings, it’s an Unknown Caller so I don’t answer and I send it to voicemail.
Silently, I throw up a prayer it’s a work enquiry.
I’m just not able to deal with anything right now.
A new voice message beeps in as I pay for my coffee.
I smile at the couple and walk the rest of the way home in unsuitable footwear, deep in thought about my shitty life.
When I finally reach 18 Old Camden Street, the appetising smells of the Saturday street-food vendors hits me – fried onions and flame-grilled meat.
I buy a cheeseburger with onions from the truck parked roadside and take it up to the flat with me.
It’s airless inside and absolutely roasting.
I kick off my heavy footwear and drop the hot tinfoil-wrapped burger on the kitchen table.
I push the rusty door to the rooftop open wide, and gasp for a fresh breath as I position my wooden footstool to keep it propped open.
‘I know it’s early but you know you need it,’ I mutter to myself as I upturn a glass on the draining board, go straight to the fridge, pull it open and pour myself a small glass of cold vino from the open bottle I’d bought myself. I add a splash of sparkling water.
With the white wine in one hand and the burger in the other, I step out onto the rooftop and flop onto my hot seat.
My phone rings again from inside but I don’t move.
I just want to wallow in my own stupidity.
Logan’s Rolling Stones T-shirt is still drying in the sunshine.
I’ll cut it into pieces and use it for rags, I decide with a warmth of gumption in my belly.
Unwrapping the tinfoil halfway, I grasp the cheeseburger with the rest of the foil, protecting my fingers from the heat of it.
I let the sun beat down on me and I shut my eyes.
I was just looking for the wrong type of love.
My eyes weren’t open to what a great partner was.
I didn’t know. How could I? I had looked right through the Donals of the world since I was a pubescent teen.
Brainwashed by those Australian soap operas and American boy bands.
I sip my wine. Someone drives down Old Camden Street with their windows rolled down and their stereo is so loud I can hear every word of Taylor Swift shaking it off.
I take another huge bite, the Swiss cheese melting on my tongue.
That should have been my first warning. That very first pint of Guinness we had in O’Donoghue’s when Logan told me he hated Taylor Swift.
His reasoning? She was a successful, self-made millionaire who moaned about men.
But if Taylor Swift had walked into the bar that afternoon, Logan would have been the very first guy up out of his seat to ply her with compliments and tell her how amazing she was.
He’d have licked her boots. Had Taylor Swift showed a romantic interest in him, he wouldn’t have given me a second thought.
Of that, I have no doubt. Logan had no morals.
Taylor’s voice fades away into the distance and I pop the pickle in my mouth then finish the rest of my burger under the glaring sun, licking my fingers clean of the ketchup and mustard.
I drain the wine and hip-hop in my bare feet across the burning rooftop. My kitchen smells of Mia’s perfume, sweet like apricot. I’m going to get my scissors and start cutting up Logan’s T-shirt.
Just as I put my glass in the sink, my buzzer sounds. I jump.
‘W-who the hell is that?’ Except, I know exactly who that is.
Logan. Last chance saloon before he goes back to New York.
Well, I’m done. He is not getting an encore this time!
He won’t like one word of what I’m about to say to him.
I slam the fridge so hard my Dressmakers Do it Best magnet falls to the floor.
I take the rickety stairs two at a time, reef the door open so hard the brown carpet doesn’t even get the chance to stick.
‘I told you no—’ I start, anger forcing my voice.
But it’s not Logan.
It’s Donal.