The Shoestring Club (30 page)

The edges of her mouth start wobbling. ‘Sorry.’

I feel bad for snapping at her, she doesn’t deserve it. She switches off the console and stands on her tippy toes to kiss me.

‘Night, Auntie Jules. Your eyes are a bit red. Are you OK?’

If only she knew. ‘I’m just tired, pet. And sorry for snapping at you.’

She nods. ‘Mummy gets tired a lot. I’m sorry for annoying you.’

‘You didn’t, honestly.’ I give her the best smile I can manage. ‘Sleep well, Iris. Have good dreams.’

‘Thanks, Auntie Jules. Love you.’

‘Love you to the moon,’ I say, quoting one of her favourite books.

‘And back,’ she adds with a giggle.

As soon as she’s toddled up the stairs, I find Dad’s toolbox, grab a screwdriver and start unscrewing the bolt mechanism on the pantry door. I don’t care what anyone says, it’s perfectly normal to fancy a drink on a Saturday night. Jamie Clear can go to hell.

I tap my glass with my fork. ‘I now call the very first Shoestring Club handover dinner to order.’

Arietty giggles and Pandora rolls her eyes. We’re sitting in the Shoestring Café booth, which is tucked away at the back, beside the courtyard. Dad built it into an awkward space using reclaimed Victorian old church pews, and the wooden seats and backs are scattered with heaps of feather-filled cushions (Pan- dora’s idea). It’s always been my favourite spot, it’s like a cocoon.

Pandora brought the Farenze with her and it’s now hanging safely in the office. It’s Arietty’s turn to wear it next – at her school reunion – and Pandora didn’t want it picking up any food smells during dinner.

The café is doing surprisingly well. It’s only been open for evening meals since the refit, but most of the tables are full and it’s barely 7 p.m. From looking at the reservation book, by eight it will be jammers. Klaudia, Lenka and Draza are doing an amazing job; there are delicious smells wafting from the open kitchen. I don’t know how they prepare such amazing food in such a small space but they seem to be managing admirably.

Bird is delighted with the whole café enterprise and has already offered Klaudia a large chunk of every evening’s takings, which has made her a little less sullen. However I had to laugh when Klaudia pressed her lips together after Bird told her – I was at the counter at the time – and said ‘Good. We deserve a cut. We work hard. Me and my mother, not so much Lenka.’

I sink back against the cushions and smile. ‘I don’t know about you, Arietty, but I’m dying to hear all about Pandora’s ball. She refused to go into details this week, said she wanted to save it for tonight. So go on then, put me out of my misery, sis.’

Pandora straightens the cutlery in front of her. ‘Not much to tell really. It was in the Four Seasons Hotel which is pretty swish. I didn’t recognize a soul, but Declan knew lots of people there, family friends, and the crowd we sat with were pretty nice. Doctors most of them, Hester’s husband is an obstetrician.’

‘What was the ball in aid of?’ Arietty asks.

‘Parnell Maternity Hospital. Buying new equipment for premature babies.’

‘What about the dress?’ I say, cutting to the chase. ‘Did anyone comment on it?’

Pandora smiles broadly, and then laughs. ‘Yes, actually. Several women spotted the designer and one even asked if she could buy it off me.’

‘What did you say?’

‘No, of course. But I must admit I was tempted. And it’s so easy to dance in, you don’t spend half the night hoiking it up your chest, worried you’re going to flash a nipple, like with strapless dresses. Plus Declan didn’t stop complimenting me all night.’

I smile. ‘Did you get a goodnight kiss?’

Pandora blushes. ‘Jules! I’m not telling you that.’

‘You did, didn’t you? When are you seeing him again?’

Pandora rolls some breadcrumbs under her finger. ‘That’s none of your beeswax either.’ She looks up and can’t help breaking into a smile. ‘But if you must know, he’s taking me out tomorrow night. To the theatre. Some sort of Munster Rugby play but it sounds fun.’

I lift my eyebrows. ‘The theatre. La, di, da. How civilized.’ Then I notice my notebook on the table in front of me. ‘Shoot, I meant to take notes for our blog.’

‘What blog?’ Pandora stares at me a little suspiciously.

I haven’t mentioned the blog to Pandora yet; I wasn’t sure what her reaction would be. But she’s in such a good mood this evening I think I’ll chance it.

‘It’s called The Shoestring Club,’ I say. ‘We set it up to find co-owners for the dress. That’s how we found Alex. She’s our fourth time-share partner. I started telling you about her in the shop one day but we got distracted by a customer. Anyway a quarter of the dress belongs to a girl called Alex Cinnamon who found us on the internet via the blog. She lives in Wicklow. She can’t be here tonight, so she suggested we chart the progress of the dress on the blog. Where it was worn, pics of the dress at the event, that kind of thing.’

Pandora’s brow wrinkles. ‘It sounds a bit odd. What do you think, Arietty? In fact, I must apologize for my sister, she hasn’t let you get a word in edgeways yet.’

Arietty shrugs. ‘I don’t mind. And I’m not one for writing, but I like the idea of pictures. Like an online scrapbook.’

‘Fantastic idea,’ I say. ‘We could show all the different ways to style a dress, using the Farenze as an example. Starting with your ensemble, Pandora. Classic yet chic. Did Declan take any photos of you?’

‘Yes,’ she admits. ‘Lots. On his iPhone, but I’m not sure they’d be good enough quality—’

‘They’ll be perfect,’ I say. ‘Jamie said the blog’s getting a surprising amount of traffic for something so new. But we need to start adding more content. He suggested putting up some details of who we all are. He said it didn’t have to be too personal, just our likes and dislikes or something like that.’

As soon as I say the word traffic, Pandora’s ears prick up and she looks at me. ‘Can we link the blog to the Shoestring website?’

I smile. She never misses a business opportunity. ‘’Course we can, sis.’

At lunchtime the following Saturday I’m sitting in the staffroom at Shoestring, flicking through the latest Italian
Vogue
when my mobile pings. Thinking it’s probably Arietty – I’m styling her in the shop before her reunion this evening – I finish the page before checking it. But when I do it’s not Arietty at all, it’s Ed.

A ripple of irritation runs up and down my spine. Bloody nerve. I’ve been trying to contact him for weeks.

‘Go feck yourself, Ed Powers,’ I mutter under my breath, my fingers typing in

Seconds later my phone starts ringing. I check the number – yep, Ed. I throw it onto the table where it vibrates around on the wood like a breakdancer. I let it ring out, but then it starts up again. I turn the ringer onto silence and thrust it into the back pocket of my jeans, determined to ignore it. But it fizzes against my buttock, reminding me. I pull it out again and switch it off. I sit there fuming for a few minutes before Lenka walks in the door.