‘Shut up!’ She reached up and patted her rollers. ‘I’m going to try for one of those curly up do’s with a flower.’ Leaning out of bed she lifted her IPad off the bedside cabinet before typing something in and then holding it up. ‘Here, what do you think?’
Grainne stared at the photo of a beautiful model with designer hair and then at Freddie’s mousy crown, rollers coming adrift all over the place.
‘It’s fab. I’m quite good with hair, so if you want a hand…?’
‘Oh would you, only if you’ve got time though?’
Grainne hastily reworked her own morning. She’d been planning something similar for her own hair but looking at Freddie’s face she assigned those plans to the bin. A plait or something would be fine, after all Ruari was only taking her out of charity. It didn’t matter what she looked like or indeed what she wore. She didn’t need the clock to fast forward: She’d always be the pumpkin.
‘No, that’s fine. Can I borrow your rollers though? If I have the first shower then my hair can be doing itself while I work on yours.’
The quiet relaxed morning of trying out new hairstyles and new make-up turned into a frantic rush full of hairpins, hairspray but luckily no hangover or she really wouldn’t have been able to cope.
Freddie’s hair was a nightmare. Too long, too frizzy too everything. If she hadn’t had to set her gran’s hair every week for years she’d have had no chance. In the end it was half past ten by the time she was finally happy. Standing behind her as they both looked in the mirror Freddie’s broad smile was all the thanks she needed. Even the turquoise flower gently resting on the messy bun matched the tone of her Laura Ashley dress exactly.
It only left her with minutes to sort herself out. Rushing to her bedroom she lifted the dress off its hanger, thankful she’d laid everything out the night before.
It was green of course. She’d tell him it was her favourite colour - well what other option did she have? Redheads knew from their mother’s breast that beauty started with the colour green. It was just a shame her genetic profile hadn’t come up trumps with her eye colour.
If anyone asked she’d lie. Pink was her favourite colour, the brighter the better, but when was the last time a redhead had the nerve to wear pink? Her drawers were full to the brim of pink: pink thongs, pink bras, pink teddies. It was a redhead’s way of giving two fingers to the colour police, so what if no one ever saw them – she knew, that was enough.
Sliding the despised frock over her head she remembered the despair at having to finally settle for a boring jade green wrap-over with a muted leaf background – she looked like an advert for an autumnal mini-break in New England. No, she looked like a middle aged woman having a bad hair day from hell.
The shoes made up for it somewhat. She had pretty feet and always spent more money on shoes than anything else. The six inch wedges with matching green bows had nearly cost her a week’s wages but they made her feel a million dollars.
The silk whispered over her hips, but she didn’t have time to check it out in the mirror. Thanking God for the faint tan still visible on her legs she started on her hair. Flinging out the rollers any old how was the easy part, there was only a couple of minutes left to run some wax between her hands and tease her now wild mad woman style into less shocking proportions. Make-up, well minimal was in now wasn’t it? She didn’t have time to do more than frown at her freckles. Eyeliner and mascara were a must as was a slash of lip-gloss. She was stuffing her matching bag with all the things she thought she’d need as she heard the doorbell ping. Lip stick, tissues, comb, a fifty euro note and then the emergency kit she always carried with her just in case. She’d just snapped it closed and was picking up her shawl when Freddie shouted for her.
She was already ten minutes late when she finally descended the stairs, the smell of hastily sprayed Coco Chanel following her like a cloud.
Ruari was standing in the tiny hall fiddling with his tie.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Don’t be sorry, women in my experience are always late.’
‘Really?’ She left it at that. If they were going to have any kind of a nice day together then the cutting retort building momentum on the back of her tongue was best swallowed. She checked on Lizzie, asleep in her furry basket and, with food and water bowls replenished grabbed her keys from the hook by the door: all the time aware of Ruari watching with a smile straining to escape from his lips.
‘Come on then.’ She said, picking up a brightly wrapped present off the floor, shaped suspiciously like a champagne bottle.
‘You’re going like that are you?’
She turned from the door, a hand raised to her Hollywood hair. ‘I ran out of time.’
‘You’re er hair is fine as is the dress – more than fine actually,’ he added, lowering his gaze to her legs.
Surely his eyesight wasn’t so good as to notice she wasn’t wearing stockings? Mother of God, that’s all she needed - some fussy fusspot sending her up to change like a recalcitrant schoolgirl. She quickly ran through a mental checklist of all the things she’d had to remember for the wedding: Hair, make-up, dress, handbag, money (just in case he turned out to be an octopus creepy letch). There was nothing she’d forgotten, that is until she followed his gaze.
‘Very nice too, but they might be quite difficult to dance in with those fluffy round thingy’s jiggling around.’ He paused, a puzzled frown on his brow before breaking out into a smile. ‘That’s it – pompoms. I haven’t seen them since I was a kid.’ He was laughing now with genuine mirth, his head thrown back revealing the thick tendons guarding his throat.
Bloody men! She had the greatest pleasure in cutting his merriment short by thrusting the bottle of champagne at his groin – she might have intentionally missed but it had just the effect she’d intended.
‘Hey!!’
‘I won’t be a sec,’ racing back up the stairs and grabbing the pair of skyscrapers still resting on the bed where she’d left them – they’d wipe the smile off his face.
Chapter Nine
Ruari, one hand on his groin the other clutching the bottle to his chest had to admire both her verve and her aim – a centimetre more to the right and he’d have been toast. He’d probably asked for it, but the sight of those pompoms was so out of character - she’d probably be an asset on a cricket pitch, not to mention a hockey pitch, and as for a rugby scrum….
He managed a smile at hearing two thumps just above his head, presumably where she’d aimed the slippers at the wall. He’d never have thought her as a pink pompom girl in a million years and as for her dress. If he’d known her better, if he’d had any sort of designs on her other than as a platonic partner he’d have wolf whistled as she’d made her entrance. Okay so she was still too thin, but being swathed in silk like that had certainly made his pulse quicken. There were plenty of curves left that, on any other girl would have been worth investigating. Even her face, surrounded by a halo of vivid red seemed softer somehow, despite her mouth still holding its perpetual frown.
He glanced up as she pattered down the stairs holding the highest shoes he’d ever seen, but at least the frown had been replaced by a gentle smile.
God, when she smiled he forgot all about the mediocre looks. He forgot about the sadness that clung to her like the aftermath of a wake. He even forgot about his promise to leave her alone that is until his eyes snagged on her left hand where it curled loosely around the bannister. And then he remembered the capsules of Prozac in the cupboard. Here was a girl with problems and the one thing he couldn’t cope with was a girl with problems – he had far too many of his own.
Grabbing the shawl where she’d flung it on the newel post he gently dropped it across her shoulders, careful not to touch her in the process. He handed her the bottle and, opening the door took the keys from her hand to lock it, getting another sweet smile for his efforts.
‘Er let me guess.’ He watched a mock frown replace the smile and waited for the sharp spiky
comment that he was starting to get used to.
‘The red “In Your Face” Ferrari?’
‘You know me too well.’ He quipped back.
‘No, but I do know they pay you doctors too well.’ She patted the bonnet of her Mini that he’d butted up next to.
‘Well it was either loose women or fast cars and bikes and as I don’t have time for women, loose or otherwise….’
‘Ever the charmer.’ She said, ducking underneath his arm into the passenger seat.’
‘No, I’d never admit to that.’ He turned and offered a brief smile, ‘only too busy at the moment to focus on anything other than work.’
‘You need to be careful there.’
‘What?’ His smile turning to a frown.
‘A man like you with good looks coming out of your ears – they won’t last forever. You might be left on the shelf like the rest of us.’
‘Looks aren’t important in the scheme of things.’ He started the engine, realising for the first time the truth behind his words. She might be plain, but a better nurse you’d be hard pushed to find and as for kindness. His mind rewound to just how stunning Freddie had looked and, if she was to be believed it was all down to Grainne spending most of the morning sorting out that mop of hair of hers. He reached down and squeezed her hand where it rested on the side of the seat.
‘You’re knight in shining armour will come and whisk you off one day, it’s not as if you’re old or anything,’ a question in his voice.
‘Old enough - twenty eight.’
‘The perfect age: Old enough to know your own mind, young enough not to take life too seriously. I’m thirty four, so well past it.’ He paused, ‘although a good looking well past it apparently. I don’t think anyone’s called me that before, except perhaps my mother and she’s probably a little biased.’
They arrived outside Dublin City Hall with only minutes to spare. Rushing up the steps of the impressive Georgian building set within the shadow of Dublin Castle they joined a group of about forty family and friends all standing about aimlessly, eyes pinned to the road ahead. Ruari walked across to a nervous looking man and, slapping him on the back left his hand there as he watched a bright green VW camper van emblazoned with funky rainbow flowers circa 1960’s screeching to a halt outside. What was a sombre group full of anticipation and sense of occasion quickly turned into a laughing one.
‘Bloody hell, I knew she was up to something yesterday.’ Paul shook his head in near disbelief, a broad smile splitting his face in two at the sight of Sorcha stepping out on the arm of her father in something cream and frilly.
Ruari, his eyes still glued to the bride made his way back to Grainne’s side.
‘She looks stunning, doesn’t she?’
A real fairy-tale bride.’ She said, but her voice belied her words.
‘All brides are beautiful.’
‘True, especially if they’re wearing a dress like that.’
He pushed his glasses back in place, peering from Grainne to Sorcha a frown piercing his brow. God, he’d never understand women: Not that he was meant to or anything. Every comment he’d made today had been thought through from every angles and still he was managing to get it wrong. It wouldn’t be so bad if she’d at least give him some sort of clue as to why she looked so bloody disappointed. Well he had news for her – he was only a mere man and, as such he hadn’t a clue what drivel was running through her mind. It was only a bloody dress and to his inferior male brain not important in the scheme of things. It was what was in the dress - that was the important bit surely?
He allowed his eyes to wander up and down the frock, focusing in on the way the tight bodice flared out into layer upon layer of flimsy material, reminiscent of those Austrian blinds his mum used to have in the downstairs loo when he was a kid - all the rage at the time and the best way known to man to catch flies. If truth be known what she was wearing was a bit too frilly for his liking and what was it with all those tiny buttons running down the back. It was a good job Paul didn’t wear glasses, but even so he was going to have a job trying to consummate their nuptials unless he’d the farsightedness to bring a scissors.
He heaved a silent sigh of relief at the sight of the group following the happy couple inside. Grabbing her hand they headed for the entrance. ‘Come on, we don’t want to miss Paul being put through his paces – another good man bites the dust.’
Chapter Ten
Another good man bites the dust – What a bloody typical comment.
She’d thought better of him, but then again she didn’t really know him. What about the woman? No comment about her being trapped into a marriage for ALL the wrong reasons.
She allowed him to draw her into the large impressive rotunda and settle her on one of the white wooden chairs at the back. Shifting her position she took stock of her surroundings. It was more like a museum with all those impressive Grecian style columns and Roman statues heralding the romantic proceedings ahead. Her eyes snagged on the corner of Sorcha’s train, but she kept her head averted. She couldn’t look. To look would be too hard. To look would be to admit defeat – her defeat, her failure, her shortcomings. If she’d been different, prettier, maybe less clingy she’d be on her honeymoon now with a ring on her finger, instead of sitting here with a chain wrapped around her heart.
She focused upon the statue ahead. Examining his pale white head, no doubt set in the hardest of marble she let the words of the ceremony flow over her. She’d never been to a civil ceremony. She’d never been to a wedding where the wind hadn’t blown up her dress setting her teeth chattering. She’d never been in a building so beautiful…. A building so beautiful that if she didn’t concentrate on something other than the words droning on and on like blades piercing her flesh she’d scream – and screaming wasn’t a good sound for a wedding.
She didn’t glance at the other guests, she didn’t guess at where their dresses had come from or snipe silently at who was wearing the largest hat. She didn’t even check out the best man or the odd usher or six, all decked out in sombre grey with matching cravats in the same champagne tones as the bridesmaids dresses. She ignored all these things as she continued to stare at the only man in the room that couldn’t hurt her. She thought she’d left hurt behind. She’d thought its memory had faded enough for her to make a new life and then she’d seen that blasted dress.
So silly, so stupid to get upset over what was essentially a few metres of fabric and frills. A few metres of fabric and frills that she’d hunted high and low for across both sides of the Atlantic. It had to be cream to compliment her hair and it had to be fairy-tale - her one chance of both looking and feeling beautiful; the second being more important than the first. She’d finally found it, not in one of the expensive bridal stores dotted around Ireland with their plush carpets and even plusher sales assistants. No, she’d found it in a little independent dress shop specialising in one off designs. One off designs never to be repeated or replicated: one off original designs with one off original price tags that had pretty much cleared out her emergency nest egg. But she hadn’t cared. Her wedding was going to be perfect; after all, the perfect groom deserved to see her in the perfect dress.
Squeezing her lips together in a last ditch attempt to hold in the hysterical laughter welling up like a volcano her eyes frantically followed the hard curve of his cheek, his staring gaze, his cool lips that would never feel the warmth of another’s pressed up against them - his hard skin and, underneath that sterile breast a heart that could not beat, a heart that could not be broken, a heart that could never experience pain. She forced her eyes to close, her long lashes spanning across her face leaving shadows in their wake.
Wasn’t it sod’s bloody law she was wearing that dress – her dress. She wondered how it had happened, her eyes unable to stop the pictures from playing out under her lids. She’d bundled it up in a black sack and left it outside Oxfam on the same day she’d found him in bed with Clara. There could be no going back - getting
rid of the dress would make that an impossibility.
‘You’re not asleep are you?’
She felt his breath warm against her ear, just as she felt her hand being touched and encased within his. Opening her eyes she was surprised to see everyone shuffling out of their seats to herald the new Mr and Mrs Merrien. She felt the weight increase on her hand as he helped her out of her chair and, arm now moved to her waist allowed him to lead her outside to the waiting photographer. Forcing a smile onto unwieldy lips she stared ahead, narrowly avoiding looking at the dress again as they joined the thongs milling about to congratulate the happy couple.
‘Come on.’ He turned her within his arms and manoeuvred her towards the door. ‘They won’t miss us for half an hour and, I don’t know about you but weddings always make me thirsty.’
She followed him because she had no choice for didn’t he still have her by the shoulders propelling her away from the crowds towards the door. She didn’t see him catch Freddie’s eye or indeed the concerned look that passed between them, but if she had she wouldn’t have cared. Her mind, still careening in the past wasn’t worried about what was happening in the present.
She found herself seated beside him before she even realised.
‘Hey - won’t they think we’re being ru….’
‘No they bloody won’t!’ He turned sideways in his seat to face her. ‘That’s the third wedding I’ve been to in as many months. I only get every other weekend off as it is with staff shortages, so no – they won’t mind and I don’t care if they do.’
His sudden temper was enough to bring her out of her fugue and dump her back into the reality of Dublin city centre on a busy Saturday afternoon. She’d never seen so many people apart from outside of Penney’s post-Christmas sale. She’d heard of wall to wall carpets, but ‘pavement to pavement people’ was a new one on her.
Reaching out a tentative arm she gently curled her hand around his forearm before returning it to the safety of her lap. ‘I don’t think I’m up to a pub Ruari –in fact…’ She paused then, catching sight of his stiffened jawline before continuing, her voice almost spitting out the words in an effort to release them. ‘In fact I think I’ll just go home – you can leave me at the nearest bus stop.’
Girl Descending (Irish Girl, Hospital Romance 2) Page 6