This Charming Man (10 page)

Ducked under wire fence thing and tramped through field. Moon spreading reflection across vast area of sea, lighting up whole area. Grass smelt nice at night. Cows in bed.

Not out-of-control fire. Simply bonfire. But unattended. How very strange. Got closer. Sudden shock. Fire being fuelled by clothes!
Black tulle, blue taffeta, all melting. Then horrors! White satin! The wedding dress! Not the wedding dress! Tried to pull it from flames but shower of sparks jumped out at me and heat too great.

Distressed. It pains self to see clothes being abused. (Yes! Also pains self to see children and animals abused! Of course! Am not total shallow fashion type. Care VERY MUCH about children and animals, so much so have to change channel when sad ads come on.)

Had burny thought. If beautiful painting gets knife stuck in it by madman, everyone appalled. Experts come on telly to talk about it. But if perfect frock – which is also work of art – is destroyed, no one comes on telly to protest. Is discrimination. Is because perfect frock is girly concern, whereas paintings are serious, manly stuff, even when done by women.

Sound of approaching feet. Frightened. Who was coming? Outline gradually appeared through flickering gloom. It was the unkempt fiancé carrying an armload of clothes. Was it light from flames causing his eyes to shine or was he – horrors –
crying
?

Alerted him to my presence by saying, ‘Ahem! Hello.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ He nearly dropped his bundle. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But saw flames. Worried was a fire.’

He stared at me. Attitude brooding. Stamped on his fizzog was weary question: If a man can’t burn a load of lovely clothes in middle of night, when can he burn them?

‘I’m staying in Tom Twoomey’s for while. Am Lola Daly.’

Unfriendly pause. ‘Rossa Considine. Didn’t mean to cause scare. Should have warned you but was spur-of-moment thing…’

Mealy-mouthed apology.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘There was a woman… in a wedding dre ’’

‘She’s gone.’ Abrupt.

‘Will she be… coming back?’ (Stupid question, not very likely when her wedding dress was being torched.)

He shook head. Mood dark. ‘Nope. Not coming back.’

Awkward pause. He gave bundle in arms a little shake. Clearly he was itching to get on with his burning.

‘Well, I’ll get back to bed, then.’

‘Okay. ’Night.’

I tramped back through the fields. Other people have tragedies also. This poor man.

Wouldn’t kill him to be civil, though.

Woken by slamming of front door (not mine). Hopped out of bed and into front bedroom. Stared out window. There was Firestarter in his anthracite trainers, going to work. No scorch marks or black stains on fizzog to indicate he had caused conflagration only hours previously.

Still cannot identify the make of his car.

Kelly and Brandon ARE girlfriend and boyfriend! Could have sworn they hated each other! Plucked up courage to ask what had happened with the bread knife.

They’d had sex, Kelly said, then a fight. Brandon was lying on the couch with his willy out in post-coital repose.

I asked, ‘Whose couch?’

‘My parents’,’ Kelly said.

‘And where were they?’

‘In armchairs beside the couch, watching
Winning Streak
.’

‘Were they?’

‘Got you there! No! They were upstairs asleep in bed, where else? Would hardly be doing it with them in the room. If I got caught, my dad would KILL Brandon. Anyway, for a joke I got bread knife from kitchen to pretend was going to chop off Brandon’s willy.’

As you do.

‘But I tripped coming back into sitting room and accidentally got tiny, tiny cut on his lad.
Tiny
cut. He went MENTALIST, said was bleeding to death, would get gangrene and lose lad, wanted to ring for ambulance. I couldn’t stop laughing. Put a Barbie plaster on it. God, was hilarious.’

‘Suppose it was really, looking back on it.’ Brandon gave little chuckle.

Young love. I envy them their uncomplicated happiness.

The Oak
‘Hi, Ibrahim.’

‘Hello there, Lola.’ Stinking whore of the Infidel.

Can’t shake it! Thing is, Ol’ Prune Eyes is so nice. Handsome, twinkly-eyed, pleasant man. Obliging, cheerful, chatty but not pushy. But surely he must disapprove of me. I am many of the things Muslims don’t like. I am independent(ish) woman. With face, hair and sometimes legs on display. Who drinks alcohol. And enjoys smoky bacon-flavoured crisps. It is his
duty
to disapprove of me.

Three women came into Mrs Butterly’s while we were watching
East-Enders
. Without missing a beat, Mrs B says, ‘We’re closed.’

‘… But…’

‘Yes, closed. Goodbye.’

‘… Oh, well, right…’

‘What is the point,’ she says, ‘of having your own pub if you do not exercise small amount of power every now and then?’

Sun setting. Walking home after soap orgy at Mrs Butterly’s. Firestarter’s car parked outside his house. Tiptoed up rough-hewn boreen to take closer look. Unfamiliar car. Prius. What did I know about it? Aha, yes! Eco-swot car. Could run on electricity.

What worthy person he is.

Internet café
Someone already in there talking to Cecile. A man. I came to involuntary halt at door. Internationally good-looking – long, salt-tangled blond hair, deep smooth tan, one of those special mouths also owned by Steve Tyler (when young), Mick Jagger (also when young).

He was lounging across two chairs. Relaxed. The kind of man who stops people in their tracks. Like a god.

Felt slightly uncomfortable, like I might be interrupting something.

‘Hi, Cecile. How are you?’

‘
Bien,
Lola. Pulling ze divil be the tail.’ Whatever that means. ‘Lola, this is my friend, Jake.’

He looked at me with silvery eyes – and I blushed! Was simply too much. So sexy, he was almost feral creature. As if had been brought up by good-looking wolves.

He nodded and said, ‘Lola.’

‘Jake,’ I replied.

Question. When people call their boy-children names like Jake, how do they know they’re going to grow up sexy? Nature or nurture? If someone is called bog-standard name like Brian or Nigel, will they grow up to be bog-standard person? If they are given sexy-hero name like Lance or – as in this case – Jake, do they feel they have a duty to live up to it?

He muttered in low, deep voice, ‘I’ll be off, Cecile.’

Then he nodded at me again. ‘Nice meeting you, Lola.’

‘… You too… Jake.’ And I blushed for second time! Blood had barely departed face from first time and almost met itself coming back.

I let a few minutes pass after his departure. Didn’t want to seem too avid.

‘… So, ah… Cecile, was that your boyfriend? The one you’re crazy in love with?’

‘Jake? No! My little turtle dove is Zoran. Jake is Zoran’s friend.’

‘Where is Jake from? Serbia also?’

‘Jake? No, Cork.’

‘You mean he’s Irish?’

‘As Irish as Guinness.’

Unexpected.

New soup of the day at the Oak! Mixed vegetable. Lots of lumps, so cannot stomach it. Nevertheless, mild thrill.

Grace Gildee rang again! Thought she’d lost interest in me. Didn’t answer, of course, and took every ounce of courage simply to listen to her message.

‘Hi, Lola, me again, Grace Gildee. Just wondering if you’d made up your mind about doing the interview. You can trust me, I’ve known Paddy long time.’ (Laughs.) ‘I know where all his bodies are buried!’

If that is the case, then she can do interview with herself!

Fall into emotional slump. Why was I not good enough for Paddy? Was it because I didn’t show enough interest in his job?

He used to come in and throw himself on couch, in bad mood, and complain bitterly about minister for something or other doing something he shouldn’t have. He would rant and rant and eventually would say, ‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’

‘No.’

I thought that’s what he liked about me!

I thought I was his escape from all that.

And, after all, how much did he know about Roland Mouret frocks?

But it was obvious, in retrospect, that I should have massaged his temples and plotted with him to overthrow minister for health or inveigle Taoiseach into compromising sexual situation with a herd of goats.

Funny thing is that always, all my life, my worst fear is of being abandoned, and it keeps happening. When I was a child, I used to say to Mum and Dad, ‘Can we all die at same time?’ Mum promised yes, we could. But she was liar. Went ahead and died all by herself when I was fifteen. But, to be fair, she couldn’t help herself. About a week before she died, she blurted out, ‘It’s breaking my heart to have to leave you, Lola. I hate not being there for when you grow up. I hate not being able to mind you and I hate not knowing what’s going to happen to you.’

Realized then that she might be on the way out. No one had told me.

Looking for comfort, rang Dad.

He asked, ‘Are you still shook up over that scut?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let that be a lesson to you, Lola. Never trust a politician.’

‘Thanks, Dad. Bye.’

Internet café

‘Hi, Cecile. How are you?’

‘
Bien,
Lola. On the pig’s back.’

‘… Yes…’

She keeps saying all these bizarre rural Irish greetings – like, ‘Sucking diesel, please God.’ And, ‘Mighty, mighty!’

Even I do not know what they mean and I am Irish!

‘Oh Lola, you ’ave a hadmire-air.’

‘A hadmire-air?’

‘Yes. A man hadmires you.’

‘Oh! An admirer! No! Really?’

‘My friend Jake. ’E says you har cute.’

Jake? The Love-God? No! He couldn’t. He could have anyone! Said as much.

Cecile shrugged. ‘You are holder woman. ’E likes holder women.’

‘How much holder? I’m only thirty-one.’

‘’E is twenty-five. Also ’e ’as slept with every other woman in Knockavoy. You har “fresh blood” ’.’

Cripes! You ever have something to sell? Don’t let Cecile do it.

Deflated, got on with my business of checking emails. But Cecile wasn’t finished.

‘Lola,’ she said, ‘what will I tell him?’

What will you tell him
? Are we back at school? My friend fancies your friend?

As fast as it had arrived, ire of indignation snuffed out.

‘Nothing to tell,’ I said. ‘Anyway, going back to Dublin on Wednesday.’

Two men tried to have drink in Mrs Butterly’s.

She said, ‘We’re closed.’

‘But you’re not.’

Pushy types.

She said, ‘Are you stag party?’

‘No.’

‘Dutch?’

‘No.’

‘Golfers?’

‘… Er, yes…’

‘Cannot serve you. Golfers barred. Have had trouble with your type before.’

‘You’re refusing to serve us?’

‘Yes.’

‘… but that’s…’

‘By order of the management. Unless you would like takeaway? Can of marrowfat peas? Box of matches?’

Ready to go back to Dublin. Was like being on holidays here– first day or so, ants in pants. Then calming down, then enjoying it. Establishing regular routine, then days speeding up, until circle completed, back to start, ants in pants.

Agony about Paddy had levelled out. No longer felt curiosity or desperation to see him or even (rare) indignation that he discarded me so easily.

Not cured, of course. In a way, worse. When I was all tangled up in hope and shock and bad, burny feeling, couldn’t see full picture.

Overwhelming feeling now is that I am worthless. All my confidence gone.

Also feeling bad loneliness. Paddy was my one big love and I will never meet anyone else. I know everyone says that when their heart is broken and people roll their eyes at display of naked self-pity and say, ‘Don’t be so silly!’ But he was a unique man. A one-off. Never met anyone like him before. Never will again.

This is my burden. I accept it. My work will be the saving of me. Intend to devote rest of my life to doing missionary work – making women of Ireland look spectacular for very reasonable cost.

Leavetaking
Visited all my Knockavoy friends – Ol’ Prune Eyes, Mrs Butterly, Kelly and Brandon, Cecile.

‘Yes,
oui,
goodbye, leaving Knockavoy, returning to metropolis,
lovely, yes, thank you, you too, pleasure, if ever in Dublin. No, no plans to return.’

Drove up the hill, watching Knockavoy get smaller and smaller in rear-view mirror, wondering when – if ever – I’d be back.

Home
Could hardly get into my flat. Full of suitcases, suit-carriers and clothes. None of them mine. Nkechi had been busy. Calling in lots of stuff. Storing it in my flat.

Phone rang. Bridie. ‘How long did journey take you?’

Said, ‘Three hours twenty.’ (But had no real idea.)

‘I seeeee,’ she said. ‘Three hours twenty? Slap bang in middle of table. Mean journey time three hours twenty-seven.’

Heard clicking of keys, like she was inputting something.

‘Bridie, are you keeping
record?’

‘Yes. Graphs. Pie-chart. Spreadsheets. Lovely software. Such variety of different ways to present things.’

Martine’s Patisserie
Bright and early. Fresh start. Meeting in ‘office’ with Nkechi. As usual, Nkechi late.

Nkechi swans in, braids piled high on top of her head. Long, shapely neck. Very elegant. Walks like queen. Lazily swings her bottom into seat. Asks, ‘Nice break?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said breezily. Implying, That beastly (Margery Allingham) business all behind me now. I am restored to old efficient self.

‘So!’ I say, trying to sound dynamic. Even clap hands together in attitude of zeal. ‘What’s happening?’