Page 6 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin

I swing my bags. ‘Going anywhere nice on your date?’ It’s incredibly nosy of me, but for some reason I have an overwhelming desire to know more.

‘Not sure. It’s one of those dark, trendy bars I will probably hate. Stare far too long at the sign on the toilet doors to make sure the symbol applies to me. The music will be instrumental and too loud. I’ll leave still hungry. Ah, look, I’m more of a beer and pizza guy than a cocktail and nibbles one.’

It’s none of my business, but I go on. ‘Is it a first date? Or are you like, ya know, dating regularly?’ I redirect my gaze to my flip-flops to appear less nosy.

He laughs lightly. ‘Grace, I’m on a blind-dating app, therefore almost all of my dates are first dates. I don’t get many returning customers, if you know what I mean?’ The claw is out and the red hair is pushed back off his face. Again, the sunlight catches the lighter chestnut hairs in his wild beard. ‘I’m hardly the poster boy for blind dates.’

Suddenly I’m lost for words. It’s so sad. I just stare at him. He holds my eye for a few seconds.

‘I doubt that’s true,’ I say then. But I look away.

He secures the thick black bike lock around the iron bar of the saddle. ‘I’m a big boy, I’ll survive.’ He swings his leg over the crossbar, holds the handlebars. ‘I know my self-worth.’

Suddenly, I feel a little light-headed. It must be the heat of the sun and the caffeine consumption and the news about Logan’s return. I slide on my shades. ‘Bye.’ I snap the word, step down off the path.

‘Right, yeah sure .?.?. See ya, Grace.’ He pedals away standing up from the seat, his long, lean body swaying left to right as he picks up the pace and vanishes around the corner onto Drury Street.

‘Yeah, see ya, Donal.’ Slowly I wiggle my fingers around the handles on the bags, slightly raise them to the empty space he’s just occupied. A slight furrow forms on my brow as I absentmindedly tug at the frayed threads on my shorts, and a vague sense of unease settles in my stomach as I spin around and walk towards my flat on Old Camden Street. This has been the strangest day. I just need to buy that bottle of wine on my way home, finish the train and hemming on Belinda’s wedding dress, pour a large glass and decompress. I click onto my Spotify and select Lily Allen as I tramp the pavements back to OldCamden Street.

Chapter Four

Six hours later, I’ve finally finished the flowing tulle train and I’m almost done tacking Belinda’s hemline. I fold the raw edge of the white fabric to the new desired length and pin it in place, making sure the hem is even all round. Placing my needle through the folded edge, I sew the final, small discreet stitches.

Now stiff as a poker, I unfold myself from my Singer sewing-machine seat, stretch with a loud, full yawn. Belinda’s wedding dress is almost finished. It’s a stunning creation of satin and tulle. I do my best work when consumed with thoughts of Logan, he’s my creative muse, for sure.

In my bare feet I cross to my tiny kitchenette, pull open the fridge and take out my reward. The bottle of chilling Sauvignon Blanc. As I pour a generous amount into the waiting glass, a welcome breeze blows in from the door to my rooftop that I have propped open with an ancient wooden footstool.

‘What a day,’ I call out to no one but myself, moving to my two-seater worn velvet sofa. Slowly, I arch my back, it cracks as I flop and curl my bare feet under me. Shutting my eyes for a few blissful minutes I replay it all. Then I swirl the pale liquid by the stem and stick my nose in to inhale the grape. Mia’s glossy red envelope is where I left it this morning, still propped up against my empty fruit bowl on the table. Cautiously, I side-eye it. It’s a completely different invitation, now that I know Logan will be there. My details are written beautifully in glittery, italicised gold lettering.

It’s like the title font you’d see on a romantic movie poster.

Grace Algar

Top Floor Flat

18 Old Camden Street

Dublin 2

If my lifewasa movie script, I’d be looking for a hot date to bring to Mia’s party to make Logan jealous. That’s what they do in the movies, right? The dumpee gets all dressed up, looks her very best and has a date on her arm. The dumper sees her and realises he wants her back. I smirk to myself as I glance over again at Belinda’s dress. I’m great at what I do and I do have that confidence, thanks to Logan, but I’m simply not making enough money to survive. The thought of not being able to design wedding dresses for a living makes me want to burst into tears. I take a gulp of wine and pull Logan’s old faded Rolling Stones T-shirt over my knees. I’m finally going to see him again. What is that moment going to be like? I lift my phone and reread his text from Portofino. It’s pinned at the top of my messages.

That fateful day, six years ago, replays in my mind. It’s on a constant loop. The very first time I laid eyes on Logan Hunter.

*

‘Did you win the bet?’ a striking blond guy yelled out as I skulked past him outside the rusted gates of Inchicore College, my head down, my confidence on the floor. I was deep in my own world, feeling insecure and untalented as, yet again, Emma Stark had come top in the class. I was about to back out of the runway showcase for my end-of-year exam and give up on the coveted bridal internship atFerguson Brophy Bridal Designs. I was filled with self-doubt about my abilities tobecome a bridal designer.

‘Huh?’ I stopped dead in my tracks, looked up, stared over at him.

He made eye contact like we’d been friends forever, but I’d never set eyes on him before.

‘The, eh, long red cape that’s trailing out behind you?’ He grinned.

Immediately, I was transfixed by that cute cheeky smile, his tanned skin and tousled hair. He was slouching. One leg bent at the knee, propping himself up against the gate as though life never made him hurry. But it was his expression that struck me the most. Like he knew a well-kept secret about me that highly amused him. A constant half-smile. This guy was sex on legs and confidence personified, and I was instantly intrigued.

‘And what about it?’ I propped a nervous hand on my hip.

‘You’re wearing it for a bet, right?’ He used his foot to leverage himself off the gate towards me, elbows sticking out, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his faded brown leather jacket, low cut white V-neck T-shirt underneath, dark denim jeans hanging on his hip bones.