This Charming Man (12 page)

‘Really think you’re overreacting.’

‘Point is, Lola, you in no fit state to be back.’ She spread hands on table. ‘Look, Lola, have… proposition.’

Bad sinking feeling.

‘You, Lola, have been good to me. Decent pay. Responsibility. Learnt
a lot while your assistant. But while you going through your broken-heart stuff, you are out of control.’

‘It was only because actually
saw
Paddy yesterday!’

‘Dublin small town,’ she said. ‘Danger you could see him at any time. Then will mess up whatever you’re working on. If continue like this, Lola, you will have no clients left at all.’

‘Not true! One mistake!’

‘One
terrible
mistake. Anyway, more than one. Lots.’

She became a little shamefaced. Said, ‘Look, Lola, I always planned to set up on own, you know that.’

Hadn’t. Suspected. Knew she was ambitious. But never actually articulated. However, nodded wearily.

‘What I propose is to cover your clients until end of year.’

Excuse me?

‘Will keep your business strong. At end of year, I will set up on my own. Whatever clients want to come with me will be mine. Whatever ones want to stay with you will be yours. Client list growing all the time. Will be enough for both of us. Win–win.’

I was staggered. Speechless. I found voice. Croaked, ‘And in meantime what will I do?’

‘Take yourself out of circulation. Go away. Back to Uncle Tom’s cabin, if you like. But –’ Nkechi held up index finger –‘do not tell people you are gone to rural place, they will think you loser. Say you’re going to New York for work. Research. Scouting out new designers. Okay?’

I nodded.

‘Now, ching ching!’ She rubbed fingers together in international ‘money’ gesture. ‘Obviously am doing work of senior stylist AND saving your business. Also need to pay Abibi. Need more jingle in my pocket. Have scribbled some figures.’

Spreadsheet shoved across table. All laid out for me. Nkechi very clever girl.

Shoved it back at her. Said, ‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’ Sounded like she expected more of a fight.

But was beaten. Broken.

‘Okay, okay. Okay to everything. Right, we’d better get going.’

‘For what?’

‘Ski chic shoot.’

‘You’re not going, Lola. Remember?’

Oh yes, remember.

Walking home
Only twenty minutes had elapsed since I’d met Nkechi. A short time for a life to be completely filleted.

Reminding me of other terrible time in life when younger. Twenty-one. Mum dead, Dad in Birmingham, boyfriend I’d had for two years in college had kicked self to kerb and gone to New York, full of talk of taking on Wall Street. (As happened, he developed severe cocaine habit and came back to Ireland several years later in disgrace and penury, which, if had known, would have been balm to pain, but at time, all I knew was had been abandoned.) Only thing had going for me back then was my job. Working with Freddie A, top designer. However, after only three weeks, he gave it to me straight: ‘Lola, you are good, but not good enough.’

Confirmed what had begun to suspect myself. Had been afraid of going into work in case would make unfixable mistake. Having recurring dream that catwalk show about to start and none of the clothes made. Me frantically sewing in massive warehouse filled with bales of fabric and models in their bras and knickers clamouring for outfits.

‘Mr A, will work harder! I promise!’

‘Not a question of hard work, Lola. Is question of talent. And you haven’t got enough of it.’

He did his best to be kindly, but devastating blow. Had always loved, loved clothes. Would cut out patterns for dolls and sew own stuff, even as twelve-year-old. Friends Bridie, Treese, Sybil O’Sullivan (not friends with her any more, had terrible falling out, can no longer remember about what, but rule is must hate her, and whenever any of us catch glimpse of her, must say, ‘She has really let herself go. Gone very fat and hair in terrible condition’) would ask me to shorten skirts and suchlike. Ambition from very young age to be a designer.

Now admitted, not talented enough.

Last rope anchoring self had gone. Felt like utter failure.

(All worked out in the end, I suppose. Went back on anti-depressants and went to counselling. While wondering what to do with life, accidentally fell into being stylist. Because knew so much about clothes, got odd freelance gig being assistant on shoot. Worked very hard. Maximized every opportunity given. Spent long hours concentrating, concentrating, concentrating. In what way can I make this outfit more original? More beautiful? Slow climb. Bad money. Uncertainty. No job security. But people began talk about me. Odd mention. ‘Lola Daly is good.’ Like way people say it about Nkechi now.)

‘Best thing if you go back to Knockavoy, just for a while,’ Treese said.

‘Yes, best thing to go back to Knockavoy,’ said Jem.

‘But how will she manage for money?’ (Bridie, keen grasp of practicalities.)

I said, ‘I’ve worked in pubs. Can pull pints, collect glasses. Or am not above cleaning in hotel.’

‘How long you think you’ll stay there?’ Treese asked.

‘For ever,’ I replied. Then, ‘Don’t really know, let’s play it by ear.’

Parting words from Treese. ‘Forget Paddy de Courcy,’ she said. ‘He’s not worth wrecking your life over. Even Vincent doesn’t like him.’

I closed door, then thought, What she mean,
even
Vincent? As if Vincent is kindly man like Nelson Mandela who sees good in everyone!

Paddy and Vincent met only once and it was indescribably appalling evening.

Treese held dinner party for me, her, Bridie and Jem and our partners. Like grown-ups. Soon as we arrived, Vincent took immediate interest in Paddy. Thought he was being kind because Paddy was new to gang, but should have known.

Without asking what he would like to drink, Vincent gave Paddy glass with inch of red wine in bottom. ‘What you think of that?’

With his meaty frame, big hair and neck as big as my waist, Vincent looked like malevolent ox. Especially compared with Paddy’s sexy, good looks.

Paddy sniffed, swirled wine, took sip, other sip, squirted it noisily round in mouth, like mouthwash, then swallowed.

‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Yes, excellent.’

Jem and Bridie’s Barry watched with expectant little expressions, like puppies hoping for kindly word from master, but they were not offered any of this special red wine. (Nor were Bridie, Treese, Claudia or I, but it was joke to even consider it. Vincent a ‘man’s man’.)

‘What is it?’ Vincent asks Paddy. Challenge.

‘Wine?’ Paddy says, with laugh. Hoping to charm his way out of not having clue.

‘What kind of wine?’ Vincent asks impatiently.

‘Red?’

‘You’re showing your ignorance, my friend,’ Vincent said loudly, so we all could hear.

Jem and Barry suddenly very relieved not to have been offered any.

‘Is Côtes de Something or other,’ Vincent boasted, ‘1902, from cellar of Counte Some Frenchbloke. Paid —’ (he mentioned extortionate sum of money) ‘for it at auction. Beat Bono. Only box of its kind in Ireland.’

Vincent happy. He had got one over on Paddy and the night had hardly begun.

All night he chipped away. Soon as starter was cleared, he said belligerently, ‘You so-called New Ireland will never win election while woman is leading party.’

‘Never stopped Tories under Margaret Thatcher,’ Paddy said politely.

‘That was in Britain, my friend. I think you’ll find Ireland’s a bit more conservative.’

‘Not any more –’

‘– yes any more! Irish women will never vote for a woman. If they vote at all – and they don’t – it’s for a man.’

Vincent was leaning across the table at Paddy. Paddy also leant forward, so they were almost forehead to forehead.

Paddy said, ‘We’ve had two female presidents.’

‘Presidents!’ Vincent did fake chortle. ‘Shaking hands with trade delegates from China. But real power? Not to a woman.’

It was awful. The rest of us sweating with tension. Paddy having to be pleasant because a) was politician and had to be pleasant to everyone so they would vote for him, b) was guest in Vincent’s home.

Treese wasn’t there to rein Vincent back in. She was in the kitchen, taking tinfoil off catered food (this was before she’d done her cookery course), and secretly cramming chocolate after chocolate into her mouth from 500 g box of Butler’s which Jem brought. She returned, all flustered and guilty-looking, with gin and tonic sorbets in eggcups. Asked, ‘Vincent, can you change CD?’

‘Certainly, love.’ Then ‘In the Air Tonight’filling the room.

Vincent came back to table and Paddy was laughing energetically. But fake mirth. He said to Vincent, ‘Phil Collins? You’re showing your age, my friend. Why not Cliff Richard, while you’re about it?’

‘What’s wrong with Phil Collins?’

‘He’s shit.’

But Vincent not to be deterred. Ranted, ‘Phil Collins consummate artiste.’ (Pronounced it ‘arteeste’.) ‘Has had more number one records… highest-selling artist in thirty-two countries… How can you argue with that?’

‘All it means is a lot of people are prepared to buy shit.’

‘Well, you’d know all about that.’

Atmosphere terrible. I was desperate to leave. But long wait. Many courses. Treese had gone for de luxe, most expensive version. Amuse-bouches. Palate-cleansing sorbets. Mini-desserts before the real ones.

At one stage I thought to self, Ah! I understand now – I have died and am in hell. I will be trapped here for ever, my boyfriend being insulted, air toxic with hostility.

Once I knew it was hell and not real life, I cheered up.

And then… Blue Mountain coffee. Petits fours. End in sight!

Relaxed too soon. Tricky, tricky moment. Vincent said to Treese, ‘Let’s have some of chocolates Jim brought.’ (Vincent always called Jem ‘Jim’. Knew what his name was, just did it to be unpleasant.)

‘No!’ Bridie, Treese, Jem and I said together. Even Claudia joined in, for once allied with us instead of standing against us. ‘Full!’ we exclaimed. ‘No need for chocolates!’

‘Would puke if saw one,’ Bridie said.

‘Yes, would puke!’

We knew Treese had eaten most of them.

‘Get them,’ Vincent said to Treese.

‘I’ll get them,’ I said. Then simply went and got my jacket and Paddy’s coat. Could take no more.

‘Was wonderful evening,’ I said, sounding hysterical even to self. ‘But late. Must go now. Come on, Paddy!’

Paddy, all smiles, until final goodbyes said and front door had closed behind us. Then sudden change. Stiff-backed, he strode ahead of me to car. Got in, and slam of door closing was like thunderclap. I got in beside him. Anxious. We revved away in shower of gravel. (Spanish John on rare night off.) Drove in silence, Paddy looking straight ahead.

‘Sorr –’ I started.

But he cut across me. Bit out the words, voice low and full of fury. ‘Don’t ever do that to me again.’

Back in Knockavoy. Greeting old friends. ‘Hello, yes,
oui,
back. Unexpected. Hahaha, yes, life full of surprises.’

Mortified
.

Asking in local hostelries for work. Started with hotel. But they were closing end of month. Invited me to come back next April when they reopened. No good to me, but appreciated their positive attitude: 7 out of 10 for courtesy.

The Hole in One. Golfers’ pub. Manager quite mean. ‘It’s September,’ he pointed out. ‘End of season. We’re laying people off, not taking them on.’ Scornful: 2 out of 10 for pleasantness.

The Oak. Ol’ Prune Eyes, blunt but sympathetic. Just enough work for him. However, 9 out of 10 for kindness.

Mrs McGrory’s pantry. Peopled with young surfy men eating all-day breakfasts. (Did quick scan, no sign of the Love-God.) Dopey youth said he thought they might have a job. Made me wait fifteen minutes while he went to ask someone called Mika, but Mika sent word back that there were no jobs until next May. Nevertheless, 7 out of 10 for effort.

The Dungeon. Dark, charmless place, peopled with day-long drinkers. All men, who laughed cruelly when I enquired about work, then offered to buy me drink. About to refuse, wavered, then accepted. Why not? Sat on high stool, with a trio of men I later discovered were collectively known as Alco’s Corner.

Immediately they began bombarding me with personal questions. What was my name? Why was I in Knockavoy?

Played coy for a few minutes, but when spilled story about Paddy, they admitted they already knew. No secrets in a town this small. Chief questioner, a lively man called Boss, with many, many broken veins, and mad head of springy grey curls, like Art Garfunkel gone to the bad, was father of Kelly in DVD shop. Kelly had told him everything.

‘Dying to meet you, so I was,’ he said. ‘Sorry for your trouble, but poor judgement. What you expect from Christian Progressive?’

‘Paddy de Courcy not Christian Progressive. Member of New Ireland actually.’

‘He was Chrisp before New Ireland. Will always be Chrisp. Not something you can wash off.’

‘Oh no, not something you can wash off,’ agreed man next to Boss. Fat, shaved head, 98fm T-shirt, name of Moss.

‘The soap that could wash away stench of Christian Progressives not invented yet,’ said third man, a small, intense, stale-smelling individual in black suit shiny with age.

‘Will be stinking Christian Progressive person until end of his days.’

‘Will go to his grave as filthy Chrisp.’

Boss said, ‘Would have been different if Paddy de Courcy had been from Nationalist Party of Ireland.’

Chorus of agreement: ‘He wouldn’t have let you down if he was Nationalist. Nationalist Party of Ireland, your only man.’

Suspect they are supporters of the NPI. (‘Nappies’ for short.)

‘But Nationalist Party very corrupt, no?’ Repeating what little I had learnt from Paddy.

‘Oh yes! Corrupt! Yes, good. You get nothing done in this country without little corruption. Keeps the wheels turning.’

I had another little titbit of information for them. ‘I heard Teddy Taft –
leader
of the Nappies and Taoiseach of this country – doesn’t change his underwear every day. Paddy says he turns them inside out to get second day’s wear out of them.’