This Charming Man (11 page)

Nkechi reads from her BlackBerry. ‘Tonight Rosalind Croft. Gala dinner at her house. Conference in Ireland at moment, world debt,
Africa…’ waved her hand vaguely ‘… that sort of thing. Lots of famous people here. Kofi Annan, President South Africa…’ another wave of hand ‘… those types. All main players invited to Crofts’. She’s been insane. Rang me in middle of night, wanted Versace dress she saw in American
Vogue
. Couldn’t get fucking thing, was special creation for catwalk. She told me to fly to Miami to find it. Talked her down, dress selection narrowed to three. Balenciaga, Chanel, Prorsum Burberry. All flown in from London. Matching shoes, jewellery, etc., packed in your flat, ready to go.’

‘Okay.’

‘Tomorrow, ski chic shoot for
Woman’s World
. Usual winter wonderland bollocks. Furry boots, earmuffs, minging knitwear. Following day, evening dress fittings for Tess Bickers.’

‘Who?’

‘New client. Corporate wife. Tons of jingle. Wants kitting out for party season. Called in eighteen frocks. Reckon she’ll take most of them.’

‘You’ve been very busy, Nkechi. I’ll take over, do Mrs Croft this evening.’

‘But –’

‘You’ve been working very hard, Nkechi. Take the night off.’

Time to assume control. Show her who’s boss.

She didn’t want to give in. She has fostered ‘special relationship’ with Rosalind Croft since the time she saved her bacon with scarf from charity shop. Mrs Croft very powerful. Knows what’s hot and what’s shot. Handy person to have on your side.

Repeated, ‘Really, Nkechi, I’ll do it.’

‘… Well, okay. She wants you at the house at six-thirty. Well, she actually wants
me
at the house at six-thirty, but if you insist…’

Nkechi radiating resentment. Giving me ’tude, as she would say. As a rule, do not savour unpleasantness, but imperative to regain upper hand.

Finishing informal meeting with Brown Thomas buyer
Better get skates on. Had to pick up clothes for Mrs Croft and get out to Killiney for 6.30. Lagging behind all day. Still on Knockavoy speed. ‘Speed’ wrong word. ‘Slowth’ would be more apt.

Nipping along South William Street, weaving through people. Car double-parked. Holding up traffic. Knew before I knew, if you know what I mean. Maybe subconsciously I recognized car, or something, because had bad, burny feeling before I knew exactly why.

It was Paddy. Helping a woman – the horse, who else? – into back seat of double-parked car. Solicitous.

I stood and stared. Appalled by scene. I used to be the woman in the back seat of his car. But I had been cast aside, like cheap red dress with cigarette burn on nipple.

Living proof of my insignificance.

Knew I was going to vomit. Beseeched God,
All I ask is don’t let me do it in the street
.

Hogan’s Public House
I lurched towards Ladies like a sailor on dry land, black dots swimming before my eyes. Nick of time. Threw up into handbasin. Sank to knees. Whispered, ‘Sorry,’ to two disgusted girls applying lipgloss in mirror. Who, once they realized I wasn’t stotious drunk, were kindness itself. Gave me a tissue, stick of Orbit and said, ‘All men are bastards.’

They stuck with me while I waited for legs to stop trembling and could take weight of body, then escorted me to street to hail taxi. Kindness of strangers. Just before I drove away, I whispered to them about secret sample sale in Lainey Keogh’s atelier.

My flat
Rushed in. Brushed teeth. Speedily loaded self like packhorse and staggered out to car.

Taxi driver looked at luggage and asked, ‘You doing moonlight flit?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘My wife left me. I came home one day and found all her stuff gone. Cannot be party to woman doing secret runner.’

‘Oh, no, no, just work.’ Then added, ‘Sorry for your trouble.’

Traffic terrible. Rush-hour gridlock. Wedged between man in Nissan Sunny (in front), man in Toyota Corolla (behind), man in Opel Corsa (beside) and man in Skoda Skoda (don’t think they have different types) (facing, going in opposite direction).

Haven’t moved in ten minutes. Am going to be late. Possibly very late. I am never late.

Considering rolling down window and striking up conversation with man in Opel Corsa. Might take mind off my anxiety.

Made the mistake of sharing my pain with taxi driver. He despises Paddy. Says he is ‘ruthless’. Although driver is bitter man – he has never forgiven his wife and swears he wouldn’t trust a woman to give him the right change from a euro – I suppose I agree.

Traffic still terrible. Officially almost late. Should have left town no later than 5.30. Sighting of Paddy and the horse threw me right off schedule. If I hadn’t needed to duck into pub to puke and recover aplomb, would have been fine. Can’t BEAR being late.

Officially late and nowhere near Killiney. Gnawing hand with anxiety.

Toothmarks on hand.

Hand bleeding.

Arrive! Through electronic gates, up long drive lit with flaming torches. Front door open, framing frantic housekeeper. ‘Quick, quick. Mrs Croft going mad!’

Hive of activity, canapés, uniformed staff, light glinting on champagne glasses.

Race up the stairs, dragging one suitcase, the housekeeper and unidentified male employee hot on my heels carrying the rest of the stuff. Mrs Croft in silky robe, sitting at mirror in her dressing room, a picture of fretfulness. Hairdresser pacing room, rapping curling tongs against his palm. Sees me. Exclaims, ‘Thanks be to Christ! What the hell kept you?’

I gasp, ‘So sorry, Mrs Croft. So sorry. Traffic terrible.’

‘Where’s Nkechi?’

‘Not coming. Night off. Me instead.’

‘Oh…’

I clunked open suitcases, unwhizzed zips on carriers, while housekeeper and unidentified man begin unpacking things onto hangers.

‘What’s this?’ Mrs Croft picked up a little white angora sweater.

‘… I… ah…’

‘And this?’ Red jumper patterned with snowflakes.

‘And this?’ Stripey knitted hat.

Self baffled. Snowflakes? Then hideous understanding dawned. Hideous, hideous, unbearably hideous. Prickly heat flushed down my body and vomit rose in my throat for second time that evening. This couldn’t be happening. Really couldn’t be happening.

I’d brought wrong clothes.

I hadn’t noticed until now, but Nkechi had labelled them. Clearly said ‘Ski Shoot’.

‘Where’re my dresses?’ Mrs Croft was pawing through the carriers and emerging with padded anoraks with cute furry trims on hood.

‘It’s all anoraks,’ the hairdresser said.

Frisson ran through other staff. Anoraks! But where’re Mrs Croft’s couture dresses? The ones she had flown in specially from London?

Mrs Croft caught me by the shoulders, looking like a soul in hell. ‘Where are my dresses?’ she beseeched me.

‘It’s all okay,’ I said, my voice thin and high and shaking. ‘It’s all okay. Just have to make quick phone call.’

‘You mean they’re not here?’

‘Not just yet.’

‘Oh Jesus! Oh sweet Jesus! What happened? You brought wrong ones?’

‘Mishap, Mrs Croft. So very sorry. All will be well.’

Trying to stay calm because, of the two of us, she was more likely to descend into hysterics requiring slap to face and Pull Yourself Together.

‘Where are my dresses?’

‘In my apartment.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘In town.’

‘IN TOWN? But that’s ten miles away!’

Someone said, ‘Bumper-to-bumper traffic. Three hours to get here.’

Could hardly hold phone, my hand was so sweaty with fear.

‘Nkechi?’ My voice was shaking. ‘Nkechi. Something terrible has happened. I brought wrong clothes to Mrs Croft.’

Long, long judgemental silence.

Out of corner of my ear, I heard housekeeper say, ‘Maybe could borrow Bono’s helicopter.’

Nkechi finally spoke. ‘I’m on my way.’

I snapped phone shut. In tone of hysterical joy, I said, ‘Nkechi’s coming! Correct clothes will be here in no time.’

‘So will my guests!’ Mrs Croft stood up and began gasping. ‘Bono is coming! Bill Clinton is coming! To my house! Here! To my house! And I have nothing to wear!’

Struggling for breath. Began hitting her chest with her fist.

‘Paper bag!’ someone shouted. ‘Bring a paper bag! Mrs Croft is hyperventilating!’

Paper bag appeared and Mrs Croft put it to her face, like a nosebag, and heaved in and out of it.

‘That’s it,’ the housekeeper said. ‘That’s it. In and out, nice and easy.’

Mrs Croft sat down, stood up, took bag from her face, sat down, put head between knees, took it up again, stood up, turned and screeched at us all, ‘Oh God, oh my God! Oh God, Maxwell will kill me!’

A man’s voice intruded into dressing room. ‘Where the hell’s my wife?’

Oh no! Not Maxwell Croft!

Yes. In dinner jacket and dicky-bow. Short man. Enormous chest. Always seemed in bad mood.

He looked at Mrs Croft. Fizzog like thunder. ‘What the hell’s going on? Why you not dressed?’

He took her wrist and pulled her out of the dressing room and into main bedroom.

Me, hairdresser, housekeeper and unidentified male employee looked at the floor, trying to pretend horribleness wasn’t happening.

Maxwell Croft demanding in low menacing voice, ‘What hell’s going on? What you mean dresses not here yet? Why can’t you use reliable stylist? You fucking useless –’

Mrs Croft tried apologizing, ‘Sorry, Maxie, so so so sorry.’

But Mr Croft not listening, speaking over her. ‘You know who’s downstairs? Bill Clinton. Bill fucking Clinton. Alpha male of all alpha males. And you are making fucking holy show of me. You should be down THERE, you are fucking hostess!’

‘Will wear other dress,’ Mrs Croft said nervously.

‘No, you fucking won’t. Wear an old dress for Bill Clinton? What you want people to think of me? Think I can’t afford to buy wife new season couture? Oh thank you, Rosalind. Nice one.’

Then it all went quiet and hairdresser mouthed, ‘Is he gone?’ Gave me shove in the back and whispered, ‘You take a look.’

Stuck my head around wall for little peek, but surprised to find them both still there, locked in odd embrace. Then saw. Horrors! Mr Croft holding Mrs Croft’s wrist between both his hands and giving her Chinese burn! (Quick aside – in these PC times are we allowed to say ‘Chinese’ burn?) Stretching and twisting poor Mrs Croft’s skin. Long mew of pain from her. Then Mr Croft let go, gave her rough push and barrelled from the room.

Waiting for Nkechi. Mrs Croft trying discreetly to rub her smarting wrist, us pretending not to notice. Bad ‘burn’. Perfect bracelet of little red dots, burst blood vessels. Conspiracy of silence. Although others hadn’t seen what had happened, it was as if they knew. Regular occurrence?

Mrs Croft began to cry softly.

Waiting unendurable.

I rang Nkechi. ‘Where are you?’

‘Two minutes away.’

‘Two minutes away? HOW?’

Arrival of Nkechi like the Rapture. People almost fell to their knees and began blessing themselves. She strode into house and straight up stairs, accompanied by another Nigerian girl, her cousin Abibi.

I asked, ‘But how you get here so quickly?’

‘Public transport,’ she said. ‘Luas, then Dart. Abibi picked me up from Killiney station.’

This caused astonishment. PubLIC
transport
! How clever of her!
Public transport
. Asifshe’d said, ‘Angel descended from heaven and gave me piggy-back over the gridlock.’

Immediately Nkechi took control. Like a paramedic, all short, efficent gestures and snappy orders. (BP 60 over 90 and… CLEAR!)

She took one look at Mrs Croft’s hair and said, ‘The Balenciaga.’

Clicked fingers at Abibi and said, ‘The Balenciaga.’

I said, ‘But the Chanel –’

‘There’s no time!’ Nkechi bit out the words. ‘Mrs Croft would need change of hairstyle if wearing Chanel.’

Of course she was right.

‘You!’ Nkechi rapped knuckles on suitcase and clicked fingers at me – me! ‘Underwear,’ she said. ‘Sort it.’

‘You!’ She clicked fingers at Abibi. ‘You’re on jewellery. I’ll do shoes.’

Like a heist.

‘Quickly!’ Nkechi said to me. ‘Can’t do anything else until underwear on!’

My fingers trembling, I sorted through cornucopia of ‘smalls’. Old-fashioned, I know, but good underwear is the key to looking fabulous in couture. Sturdy foundation garments, your only man. Knickers which go from under bust to tops of knees. Yes, really. In tough, barely stretchy fabric. Exhausting to wrestle with when going to the loo, but worth it.

Also slips. Special laughter reserved for slips. Fuddy-duddy joke, but they hide a multitude.

I threw robust knickers to Nkechi, who caught them like a professional catcher, then manhandled Mrs Croft into them. Gown slipped over Mrs Croft’s head and slithered down her body. Magnificent piece. Ivory crêpe silk, inspired by toga. Off one shoulder, falling in soft pleats from brooch on other shoulder. Very thin belt at waist and slight flare when it reached floor. Queenly.

At its beauty, everyone breathed, ‘Oh!’

Like little elves, we scurried around Mrs Croft, Nkechi slipping her shoes onto her feet, Abibi fitting pendant around her neck, hairdresser winding renegade curl on tongs, me nimbly adjusting tit tape so not visible. Then ready.

‘Go! Go, go, go!’

Taxi back into town. Mood deeply subdued. Mrs Croft would never use me again.

But she might use Nkechi.

Mobile rang. Nkechi. Asking for a meeting before today s shoot.

Martine’s Patisserie
Nkechi already there. Slumped self into chair. Said, ‘Sorry about last night.’

‘Last night? That could have caused international incident. What if my mobile was switched off? What if no way of getting dress there in time? And Mrs Croft couldn’t host dinner? Kofi Annan and all those types could have thought slur! Snub! Insult on behalf of Irish people. Deal brokered could have fallen apart.’