This Charming Man (72 page)

I rang Damien. ‘Marnie says she’ll do it ifthere are other women.’

I must have sounded as dismal as I felt because he said very gently, ‘Grace, you don’t have to do this.’

‘I gave Dee my word.’ She’d guilted me into saying I’d try to put something together; and when I said I’d do something, I did it, even when I didn’t want to.

‘I shouldn’t have told you about the story.’ Damien was grim. ‘I thought you could just tell Dee. I’d no idea you’d get embroiled in… all this. This de Courcy business.’

‘Maybe I won’t be able to find Lola Daly.’

‘Maybe you won’t.’

Then I could walk away with a clear conscience.

‘Keep me posted,’ he said.

‘I will.’ I hung up, then got to my feet and, with great reluctance, approached Casey Kaplan’s desk.

‘Casey, you know how you told me who John Crown was and I was so grateful to you?’

‘You weren’t that grateful.’

‘You stole my Madonna story. I was as grateful as I could be. Can you help me again?’

‘Try me.’

‘I need to find someone. Her name is Lola Daly, she’s a stylist.’

‘Yep, know her.’

‘You know where she is?’

‘No.’

Fool
.

‘Last sighted in Dublin in September,’ I said. ‘But she’s fallen off the edge of the earth. She doesn’t answer her mobile, but the number hasn’t been disconnected. That’s all I have. I know it’s not much but could you put the word out among, you know, models and those types, socialites, It girls, see ifanyone has been using her?’

Only his eyes moved. He was scanning them over my face in a searching way that I was meant to find disconcertingly sexy. He nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’

‘For real?’ Could he actually find her? Or was he full of shit? I was depending on the full-of-shit option.

‘Might take time.’ He lounged back into his chair. ‘The difficult we can manage. The impossible could take a bit longer.’

I returned to my desk and picked up the phone, then put it down again when I saw Casey approaching.

‘What?’ I said impatiently. ‘I can’t give you any more information. I’ve told you everything I know.’

He dropped a piece of paper on my desk. ‘She’s in County Clare. A backwater called Knockavoy.’

Ten full horror-struck seconds elapsed before I could speak.
‘You know already?’

‘Got it in one. First call I made. Some days you get lucky,’ he added modestly. ‘I met SarahJane Hutchinson last night. She was looking hot. Mentioned she was being styled from County Clare these days. Seemed sorta likely it was by our girl.’

I couldn’t speak.

‘Happy?’ Kaplan prompted.

‘Thrilled,’ I said faintly.

I’d thought Lola Daly would be impossible to locate. In my worst imaginings I hadn’t thought that she’d be found with just one phone call.

I was seized with desperate frustration. Bloody Casey Knows-Everybody Kaplan.
Why
had Big Daddy decided we needed to be sexed up?
Why
had he hired Casey Kaplan?
Why
had my path ever crossed his? Look at the disaster he had wrought on me! I’d have to drive to County Clare. And Christ alone knew what other terrible shite was poised to rain down on me.

I laid my forehead on my desk for a brief soothing moment then, pushing against my palms as leverage, lifted it again. My skull was very heavy.

‘What’s up?’ Kaplan asked.

‘How long –?’ My voice was faint and croaky, so I started again. ‘How long would it take me to drive to, what’s the name of the place? Knockavoy?’

‘Dunno,’ Kaplan said. ‘Only time I went to Clare was by helicopter.’

I mentioned a vague memory of driving there some bank holiday weekend; it had taken seven hours.

‘Oh God, no,’ Lorraine piped up. ‘It won’t take anything like that. Not since they’ve opened the Kildare bypass.’

‘The Kildare bypass is great,’ Tara said.

‘A godsend,’ Clare agreed.

‘I don’t know ifit makes that much difference,’ Joanne remarked.

‘TC?’ I asked. It was odd that TC – i.e. a man – hadn’t weighed in with his opinion of how long a journey would take, boring us all to death with detailed discussions of possible routes, roads, etc.

He wasn’t listening. He was humming to himselfas he aligned handfuls of printouts, knocking them against his desk and punching them with neat holes. He was full of industry, focused on some task that was absorbing all his focus.

‘Leave him,’ Lorraine said. ‘He’s getting ready for his big profile on Friday. You’ll get no sense out of him.’

‘Nothing new there,’ I said, but he didn’t rise to even that.

TC began putting his pages into a beautiful red binder.

‘Where d’you get that lovely folder?’ I asked, seizing on the diversion. ‘I’ve never seen one like that in the stationery press.’

‘Correct,’ he said brightly. ‘You wouldn’t have. Bought it myself. With my own money.’

He smoothed his hand lovingly over the soft red cover and I asked him, ‘Who’re you interviewing? That you’re going to all this trouble for?’

‘The most beautiful girl in the world.’ He smiled dreamily.

‘And she is?’

‘Zara Kaletsky.’

He continued to hum and stroke his red folder. Lorraine was right: I’d get no sense out of him today. I stared in his direction for a few more seconds, unwilling to accept that I hadn’t been able to annoy him, but he was impermeable.

Deflated, I turned away from him and was plunged back into torment. I stared blindly at my screen. I had a full day’s work to do. Even if I could summon the requisite will, how was I going to find time to go to the west of Ireland? I could leave after work but, despite this much-praised Kildare bypass, the journey would take four hours. An eight-hour round trip, and once I got there, God alone knew how long it would take to persuade Lola
Daly to spill the beans. Assuming there were beans to be spilled. Assuming she was even there.

I needed biscuits. Something to fortify me against the forthcoming ordeal. I made my way to the tiny office kitchen, but there was nothing to be had in the whole bloody place. ‘Vultures,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Pigs. Gluttons.’ I pulled open a drawer and spoons rattled indignantly, like I’d woken them from a sleep. Another drawer contained nothing but digestive dust, proof that biscuits had once lived there but were long gone. In the entire kitchen there wasn’t even one meek little marietta. I’d have to go to the shop. I turned and Casey was behind me.

‘I don’t mean to brag,’ he said.

‘So it’s more like a twitch, then, is it? Or Tourette’s?’

‘What?’

‘You’ve no control over it?’

He closed his eyes, took a broken breath and said, staring at the wall behind me, ‘I don’t know why I fucking bother.’

‘Fucking bother what?’

‘I was going to say, I have a friend… with a chopper… says I can use it whenever I want…’

A chopper? For a moment I thought he meant a bike, the ones with the handlebars. ‘Do you mean a
heli
copter?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, that would be a big help.’ Then I remembered to add, ‘Thank you.’

Getting organized. Everything coming together. Final Nkechi shakedown had left me with thirteen clients. Not many, but they were good ones. Even though needed many more ladies, had actually jettisoned some of the more unpleasant and insane ones, sending them Nkechi’s way. Just didn’t have the patience any more.

Would be returning to simpler, cleaner life in Dublin than one had left behind. Yes, would also be poorer. But would eventually get more work.

Biggest worry about returning to Dublin was reason had left in first place – Paddy de Courcy. How would I behave when ran into him? And was bound to, Dublin being Dublin. Would there be repeat of the almost-public puking incident? Would I accidentally destroy clothing on shoots?

No way of knowing.

Helicopter wack-wack-wacked past window, on its way to golf course. No big deal. Choppers always landing on golf course, delivering fat, visor-wearing, rawl-rawl-rawl men for their eighteen holes. Like Vietnam round here.

But seven to ten minutes later, sudden fearful instinct – cannot describe it as anything other than that – made me leap up, rush to front door, wrench it open and glance out. Horrors! Striding up road, unmistakable figure of Grace Gildee. Purposeful. On unbroken trajectory for Uncle Tom’s cabin. She had me in her sights.

Why she arriving at Knockavoy in a helicopter?

The day darkened, like sky had filled up with purple-grey thunderclouds. All light was snuffed out and I was filled with dread.

Then she saw me, frozen with sick anxiety in the doorway, and gave big cheery wave, as if we were best of friends.

Not loving her look. Careless hair. Nice honey colour but messy. Could have been from rotors of chopper, but suspected not. Suspected it always that way. Wearing jeans, flat boots, satchel and khaki anorak (perhaps in keeping with Vietnam theme). I could do a lot with her.

Now she was striding up the boreen, great big smile across her fizzog.

‘Lola,’ she said, extending hand. ‘Grace Gildee. Pleasure to see you again.’

‘What you want?’ Words emerged hoarse and broken.

‘To talk.’

‘About Paddy?’

‘Can I come in?’

Powerless, I let her.

‘I know you’re afraid of Paddy.’

‘Not. Just because don’t want to do a kiss and tell.’ Pitiful attempt at defiance.

‘How often did he hit you?’

‘Hit me?’

‘I know he hit you because he hits all his girlfriends.’

‘Please go away.’

‘He beat my sister Marnie to a pulp.’

‘Please go away.’

‘Alicia Thornton is no doubt black and blue under those Armani suits.’

‘Louise Kennedy. Please go away.’

‘You think you’re special because he hit you, that he cared so much about you, but you’re wrong.’

She was wrong. Didn’t think was special. Not any more. Maybe once upon a time had been stupid enough to think that because he hurt me, it indicated strong passion for me.

‘Did he do the cigarette thing to you?’ she asked. ‘Stub one out on your hand?’

Couldn’t hide shock. Was – well –
amazed
that she knew.

Opened mouth to deny it but could only manage, ‘– Ah –’

She grabbed my right hand. There it was, right in the middle of my palm, a small, pink circle, skin shiny and peculiar.

She gazed at it, her face so radiant and amazed that I wondered about her earlier confidence, when she informed me with such conviction that she knew Paddy hit me. Suspected she’d only been guessing. But it had paid off. Audacious.

‘Seems to be his trademark,’ she said. ‘A form of branding.’

‘You’re lying.’ (Stupid thing to say when so obviously wasn’t true, but was desperate for none of this to be real.)

‘Not lying! How would I know about it?’

Was silent for long time. Head awhirl. Had thought I was the only one. In the whole world.

‘You swear it’s happened to others?’

‘Swear.’

‘Not committing to anything, Grace Gildee, but what you want from me?’

‘Come with some of the other women and have it out with him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s stitching up Dee Rossini and he needs to be stopped. Dee Rossini leader of New Ireland.’

‘Know who she is.’ Irritable. She take me for a total know-nothing?

‘Will threaten to take story to press if he doesn’t back off.’

‘But what’s Dee Rossini to me?’

‘Nothing, I guess, except good decent woman who wants best for people. But might make you feel better to have it out with Paddy.’

‘How many women are there?’

‘Three, at least.’

Thought about coming face to face with him – actual, real, live Paddy de Courcy – and was gripped by fear so dark and paralysing, made me want to whimper. Once read about a man who’d been locked in a van with three hungry pit-bulls. Possibility of being in a room with Paddy filled me with same kind of terror.

Ashamed to admit it. ‘I’m scared of him.’

‘All the more reason to have it out with him.’

Easy for her to say. She didn’t even wear lipgloss. She was obviously fearless.

‘No, you don’t understand,’ I whispered. ‘Am so so scared of him it
makes me want to… to… Am shaking even thinking about it. Good luck with it. But you must go now.’ Needed to get her out of my house before I imploded.

‘In order for evil to succeed,’ she said, ‘all that is necessary is for good people to do nothing.’

‘Yes, of course, quite so, good luck.’ Standing up, moving to door, hoping she’d follow.

She stared into my eyes. ‘There is nothing to fear but fear itself.’

I stared back into hers. ‘But fear very frightening. Goodbye.’

Night of appalling, interminable dinner party at Treese and Vincent’s was first time. After we finally managed to make our escape, we drove away from house in tense silence. Spanish John on night off and often wondered if it would have happened if he’d been there. Conclusion – maybe it would have. He had to know what Paddy was like.

Quiet road. Paddy pulled the car over. I – idiotically – thought he was stopping for snog. He turned to me, held my shoulder with one hand, then punched me in the face with the other. Quick and efficient. ‘Don’t ever do that to me again,’ he said.

Pain was bad. Shock was worse. Almost vomited. But, in way, didn’t blame him. Was horrible night, horrible. Wouldn’t have subjected worst enemy to it.

Then, almost straight away, he was lovely. ‘Let’s get you home and cleaned up.’ Gave me hanky to soak up stream of blood from nose. In his flat, he located well-stocked First Aid box, tenderly wiped away my blood, applied antiseptic to burst lip. ‘This is going to hurt.’

‘You should have said that before you punched me,’ I said.

He was stricken. ‘I’m sorry, Lola. I’m so sorry. Don’t know what came over me. Just stress, such stressy job, night out, wanted to relax, that wanker Vincent goading me, I just snapped.’ Put palms of his hands on his cheeks and pulled face downwards. Groaned. ‘God Almighty. I can’t believe I hit you, my lovely Lola, my little flower. God, how could I? I’m an animal, a fucking animal.’ Getting progressively more worked up. Looked at me with desperate eyes. ‘Please forgive
me, Lola, I’m begging you. I swear to you it’ll never happen again. On my mother’s memory, it’ll never happen again. Can you forgive me?’