This Charming Man (4 page)

Food was delicious. Treese had done a course in classical French cuisine so she could cook the type of food Vincent’s rugby cronies expected. I ate two mouthfuls, then my stomach contracted into a tiny walnut and I had the taste of sick in my mouth.

Bridie was wearing her peculiar green jumper again. Even though I was obsessed with myself and my pain, I couldn’t stop looking at it. As before, it was lopsided, shrunken and
embroidered with jockeys
. What was
that
all about?

I wondered if I should say something? But she liked it. She
must
. Otherwise why would she wear it? So why burst her bubble?

Many bottles of wine later, although not ones from the bottom shelf, as they are Vincent’s special ones and he would be annoyed if we drank them
.
‘Stay the night,’ Treese said to me.

Treese had four spare rooms.

‘You have a dream life,’ Bridie said. ‘Rich husband, fabulous house, lovely clothes…’

‘And the first wife always asking for money! And bratty stepchildren giving me the evils. And terrible worry…’

‘About what?’

‘That my eating disorder will kick in again and I’ll balloon to eighteen stone and have to be cut out of the house and taken away on a flatbed truck and Vincent won’t love me any more.’

‘Of course he will love you! No matter what!’

But, in a secret little chamber in my heart, where I thought my darkest thoughts, I wasn’t so sure. Vincent did not jettison his first wife and children in order to shack up with Jabba the Hutt.

Tucked up in Number One Spare Room. Softest pillow I’d ever laid my head on; magnificent, carved, antique French bed; brocade chairs with bandy legs; mirrors of Murano glass; weighty, lined curtains in luxurious fabric; and the sort of wallpaper you only get in hotels.

‘Look, Treese,’ I said. ‘The carpet is the exact same colour as your hair! It’s beautiful, beautiful, everything’s beautiful…’

I was quite drunk, in retrospect.

‘Sleep tight,’ Treese said. ‘Don’t let bugs bite and don’t wake at four thirty-six a.m. and decide to sneak out and drive over to Paddy’s flat to throw stones at his windows and shout abuse about Alicia Thornton.’

I awake. I decide to sneak out and drive over to Paddy’s flat to throw stones at his windows and shout abuse about Alicia Thornton (‘Alicia Thornton’s mother blows the parish priest!’ ‘Alicia Thornton doesn’t wash her lady-bits!’ ‘Alicia Thornton’s father is cruel to the family Labrador!’). But when I opened Treese’s front door, alarm siren started screeching, searchlights snapped on, and there was the distant sound of dogs barking. Was half expecting a helicopter to appear overhead when Treese came floating down the stairs in a silky, shell-pink negligee (nightdress) and matching peignoir (dressing gown), searchlights glinting silver on her shiny pale coiffeur (hair).

Calmly she chastised me. ‘You promised you wouldn’t. Now you are snared. Return to bed!’

Red-faced.

Treese reset alarm, then glided back up the stairs.

At home
Bridie rang. After an enquiry about my well-being, a strange little silence ensued. Expectant almost.

Then she asked, ‘Did you like green jumper I was wearing Wednesday night and last night?’

I could hardly reply, No, it was the strangest thing I’ve seen in a long, long time.

I said, ‘Lovely!’ Then, ‘Er… new?’

‘Yes.’ Bridie sounded almost shy. Then she blurted out, like someone with a big, thrilling secret, ‘Moschino!’

Moschino!

I had thought perhaps she had purchased it at a sale-of-work at her local lunatic asylum! Good job I didn’t say so.

Although I wouldn’t. Not my way. Mum always told me that if I couldn’t say something nice, to say nothing at all.

‘Where did you buy it, Bridie?’ I was wondering how, with my encyclopaedic knowledge of clothing, I’d never before come across this item.

‘On eBay.’

Cripes! Perhaps fake!

‘It cost me a fortune, Lola. But worth it. Worth it, yes?’

‘Oh yes, yes, worth it! Jockeys very… um… fashion-forward.’

‘I noticed you looking at it, Lola.’

Oh yes, I was looking all right.

Articles about Paddy in all the newspapers. I bought several. (Was surprised by how cheap newspapers are compared to magazines. Good value. Funny the things you notice even when your life has fallen apart.) But the articles said nothing really. Just that he was a hunky ride, the poster boy for Irish politics.

There was no mention of me in any article. I should have felt relieved – at least Paddy wouldn’t be annoyed – but instead I felt bereft, like I didn’t exist.

A call from
Irish Tatler
cancelling a job next week. The message was clear: no one likes a stylist who destroys the collections. Word gets round.

Mobile rang. Thought I recognized number, wasn’t sure, then realized it was that Grace Gildee journalist woman again. Hounding me! I didn’t pick up, but listened to the message. She was pushing for a face-to-face meeting and offering more money. Seven grand. She
laughed and accused me of playing hardball. But I wasn’t playing any kind of ball! Just wanted to be left in peace!

Worst blow to date. Alicia Thornton was on the front cover of
VIP,
with the headline, ‘How I won Quicksilver’s heart’.

The nice man in the newsagent’s gave me a glass of water and let me sit on his stool for a little while, until the dizziness passed.

Twelve pages of photos. Paddy was wearing make-up in them. Silicon-based foundation, with silicon-based primer, so that he looked plastic, like a Ken-doll.

I didn’t know who had styled the shoot, but they’d had a very definite brief. Alicia (tall, thin, blonde bob, quite horsey-looking, but not in nice way, not like Sarah Jessica Parker, more like Celine Dion. Neigh!) in a cream tweed Chanel dress and jacket. Paddy in a statesman-like suit (Zegna? Ford? Couldn’t be sure) sitting at a mahogany desk, holding a silver pen like he was about to sign an important treaty, Alicia standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder, in a supportive-wife pose. Then, Paddy and Alicia in evening wear. Paddy in black tie and Alicia in a long, red, off-the-shoulder Max Mara. Red not her colour. Also a small glimpse of stubble under her right arm.

Worst of all, Paddy and Alicia in matching chambray jeans, polo-shirts with collars turned up, cable-knit jumpers slung around their necks and HOLDING TENNIS RACKETS! Like a cheap mail-order catalogue.

These photos managed, despite Paddy being the most handsome man alive, to make him look like a male model down on his luck.

The interview said they had known each other since they were teenagers, but had been seeing each other romantically, ‘in a low-key’ fashion, for the past seven months. Past seven months!
I
had been seeing him ‘in a low-key’ fashion for the past sixteen months! And no wonder he said we should be ‘low-key’. He said life (mine) would be a living hell if I appeared at his side at official shindigs and red-carpet events. The press would torment me and I’d be obliged to wear a full face of make-up at all times, even when asleep, to avoid photos captioned with, ‘Paddy’s girl is spotty minger’. (During the
summer there had been two mentions of me in gossip columns but Paddy’s press office said I was helping him with clothing, and everyone seemed to believe that.) I had honestly thought he was thinking of my best interests. Instead he was keeping Alicia, his ‘soul friend’ (that’s what he said in the interview), from finding out about me. How thick am I?

VIP
photo-shoot was the final blow. I spent the day analysing the photos and brooding. What had this Alicia Thornton got that I hadn’t? I was flicking through the pages, studying the pictures of him and her, searching for clues. Again and again. Trying to believe this was real. But I ended up staring at them too much so that it didn’t look like him any more, the way if you stare at your own face in the mirror for too long, it goes weird, almost scary.

Angry. Thinking dark, bitter thoughts. Full of bad, burny feeling. Breathless. Suddenly I dashed
VIP
magazine to the floor and thought, I deserve answers!

Drove to Paddy’s apartment and rang bell. Rang it and rang it and rang it and rang it and rang it. Nothing happened but I decided, To hell with it, I’ll stay! I’ll wait until he comes back. Even if I have to wait a number of days. A couple of weeks, even. He’ll have to come home eventually.

Bad, burny feeling made me strong and I felt I could wait for ever. If necessary.

I made plans. I rang Bridie and asked her to bring a sleeping bag and sandwiches. Also a flask of soup. ‘But not minestrone,’ I said. ‘Nothing with lumps.’

‘What?’ she asked, incredulous. ‘You are
camped outside
de Courcy’s flat?’

‘Must you dramatize everything?’ I said. ‘I’m just waiting for him to come home. But it may take a few days. So, like I said, a sleeping bag, sandwiches and soup. And remember: nothing with lumps.’

She was squawking about being worried about me and I had to hang up. Short of patience.

Time passed. Bad, burny feelings keeping me focused. I was unaware of discomfort, cold and need for loo. Like a Buddhist monk.

Intermittently I rang Paddy’s bell, as much for something to do as anything else. Then I realized bad, burny feelings must have abated slightly as I was finding this quite boring. I rang Bridie again. Asked, ‘Could you also bring the new
InStyle,
a sudoku book and my biography of Diana Vreeland?’

‘No!’ she said. ‘Lola, please! Please come away from there. You have lost your reason.’

‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been so sane in my life!’

‘Lola, you are
stalking
him. He’s a public figure, you could get into trouble! You could –’

Had to hang up again. I didn’t savour being rude but I had no choice.

Entertained myself by ringing Paddy’s doorbell a few more times, then my mobile rang. It was Bridie! She was at the gate! She couldn’t get in because she didn’t know the code!

‘Have you a sleeping bag?’ I asked her. ‘And soup in a flask?’

‘No.’

‘Is Barry with you?’ (Barry was her husband.)

‘Yes, Barry’s here beside me. You like Barry, don’t you?’

Yes, but I had visions of her and Barry manhandling me into their car and driving me away. Not having it.

‘Lola, please let us in.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

Then I switched my mobile off.

I continued to ring Paddy’s bell, not expecting any result, when, all of sudden, the outline of a man appeared behind the textured glass door.

It was him! It was him! He’d been there all along! I was relieved, excited – then darker thoughts occurred: Why didn’t he come down before now? Why must he further humiliate me?

But it wasn’t him at all! Instead it was Spanish John, his driver. Knew him well because he sometimes collected and delivered me to Paddy. Although he had never been less than cordial to me, was quite frightened of him. A big, bulky type, who looked as if he could snap your neck in two as if it were a chicken wing in barbecue sauce.

‘Spanish John,’ I beseeched, ‘I need to see Paddy. Let me in, I’m begging you.’

He shook head and rumbled, ‘Go home, Lola.’

‘Is she up there with him?’ I asked.

Spanish John was a master of discretion (and not Spanish). All he said was, ‘Come on, Lola, I’ll drop you home.’

‘She
is
up there!’

Gently, almost kindly, he steered me away from the door and towards Paddy’s Saab.

‘It’s okay,’ I said huffily. ‘I’ve my own car, I can drive myself.’

‘Good luck, Lola,’ he said. With finality.

Such finality emboldened me to ask the question which I’d always wanted to know the answer to.

‘By the way,’ I said, ‘I’ve always wondered. Why do they call you Spanish John when you’re not Spanish?’

For a moment I thought he would step forward and do a very painful karate chop on me, then he seemed to relent. ‘Just look at me.’ He pointed to his red hair, white fizzog and many freckles. ‘Did you ever see anyone who looks less Spanish?’

‘Ah.’ I understood. ‘Irony?’

‘Or possibly sarcasm. Never sure of distinction.’

That was it, had been turned away from Paddy’s door, like a smelly beggar.

Sanity returned like a bucket of cold water thrown in my face and I was scandalized by my behaviour. I’d been like a mentally ill person.
Deranged
. Stalking Paddy. Yes, Bridie was right.
Stalking
him.

And I was appalled at the way I’d treated Bridie. Asking for a flask of
soup
. Where would Bridie get soup? Then refusing to tell her the gate code and hanging up on her. Bridie was a concerned friend!

I saw how mad I’d been, and the worst thing of all – while in the grip of my lunacy, I’d been convinced that I was perfectly sane. The final blow.

Couldn’t go on like this, not eating, not sleeping, making a shambles of work, treating friends like servants and driving around the city without due care and attention…

I drove to Bridie’s house. She was in her pyjamas and glad to see me.

I apologized profusely for the sleeping-bag business, then the gate-code business.

‘Accepted,’ Bridie said. ‘Accepted. So what’s up?’

‘I’ve made a decision,’ I said. ‘Have decided to pack up my life and move to the end of the earth. To a place with no reminders of Paddy. You have a globe, haven’t you?’

‘Er, yes…’

(From studying geography when she was at school. She never throws anything away.)

On Bridie’s globe the end of the earth (from Ireland) was New Zealand. Fine. That would do. I believed they had lovely scenery. I could go on a
Lord of the Rings
tour.

But Bridie was the voice of reason. ‘New Zealand is costly to get to,’ she said. ‘Also very far away.’

‘But that is the very point,’ I said. ‘I have to get far away from here, so I don’t see Alicia’s picture every time I go to buy a bar of chocolate, or hear about Paddy on evening news, not that I watch evening news – God, it’s so depressing, apart from that thing about the hens, did you see it?’