This Charming Man (9 page)

Ol’ Prune Eyes is Muslim! Don’t know why I’m so surprised. He is from Egypt, which believe has large Muslim population. Suppose I didn’t think devout Muslim would work in pub. Den of alcohol.

He made casual reference to praying towards Mecca and I asked, ‘You Muslim?’

And he said, ‘Yes.’

No big deal but am suddenly uncomfortable ordering glass of wine from him. Feel he is thinking, Stinking Whore. Whore of the Infidel.

Also ashamed of my beloved Molichino highlights. Not only have I my hair on display but am drawing attention to it with lovely highlights. He is very friendly – seems like lovely man, really – but fear he is faker and in his head he is thinking terrible things about me. Maybe even muttering under his breath. Like this…

‘Hi, Ibrahim.’

‘Ah, hello there, Lola. Stinking whore of the Infidel. How are you today?’

‘Good. You?’

‘Excellent. Considering I’ll be going to Paradise and you haven’t a hope. What can I get you?’

‘Glass of Merlot please, Ibrahim.’

(Big, big smile.) ‘Glass of Merlot, Lola. Filthy Western whore. You will burn in hell, you alcohol-drinking, pork-eating, bare-haired unbeliever. Coming right up!’

Am I racist? Or am I only saying what everyone is thinking? The way everyone used to think all Irish people were IRA bombers. ‘Hello, yes, Paddy, come in, sit down, have a cup of Earl Grey. Tell me, were you good at chemistry at school?’

Don’t want to be racist. But undeniable clash in value system. I like Merlot. Muslims disapprove of Merlot. Would not refuse person a job because they didn’t like Merlot. Would not refuse person citizenship. But want to
enjoy
Merlot. Don’t want to feel afraid that I will burn in hell if have glass with my lunch.

Is it better to acknowledge how uncomfortable Ibrahim makes me? Or just pretend all is fine, no difference between me and him? What is best way to handle multicultural society? Nkechi’s big bottom, Ibrahim’s Armageddon. Such lofty worries. Cripes, don’t know. Exhausting, whole bloody thing.

Cecile has taken over running boutique as well as internet café! Apparently now that season is officially over, owner of boutique (who is also owner internet café, which, don’t mean to be picky, is not actually café at all, as you cannot buy anything to eat or drink) has gone off to Puerto Banus for a month and Cecile is running both all on her own. Or not running. I wanted to surf net but sign on café door saying, ‘In Monique’s.’ And sign on Monique’s door saying, ‘At lunch.’

Between Cecile’s double-jobbing and European-style lunch breaks, is a wonder anyone in Knockavoy gets to send any emails at all.

Remembering my first date with Paddy. Got picked up at flat in car driven by Spanish John. Paddy sitting in the back, wearing a suit. Open briefcase on lap.

‘What you like to do?’ he asked. ‘You hungry?’

‘No, not really. Is a bit early.’ (Was only 7 p.m. Unusually early for date.)

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s go shopping.’

‘For what?’

‘Clothes.’

‘For me or for you?’

I was wondering if he was trying to get styling from me on the cheap. On the free, in fact.

‘For you.’

Didn’t know what to say. Funny sort of date. Cannot usually make man come shopping with me for love nor money. Also had strange suspicion that this wouldn’t be normal shopping.

Next thing, Spanish John opening car door, Paddy’s arm on my back, ushering me up steps, discreet dark-glass door, soft carpeting, friendly woman’s voice welcoming us, feel free to browse. Thought I knew every shop in Dublin. I was wrong. Pools of light highlighting dark shiny items. Closer look. Vibrator. Black satin blindfold. Spanky device. Small onyx things thought were cufflinks, then realized were nipple clamps.

Knickers, bras, suspender belts, satin, silk, lace, leather, spandex, black, red, pink, white, blue, nude, patterned…

Trying to behave like woman of the world – had been in this sort of emporium before; after all, had organized two hen nights, admittedly not in place of this high quality – but had to confess, felt rather uncomfortable. Anxious. Very. Hardly what had expected from first date.

Drifted over to underwear. Expected to receive mild electric shock from shoddy man-made fibres, but quality good. Real silk, satin, lace. Actually some lovely ‘pieces’, as we in fashion world say (when I say that, I sound light-hearted, but believe me, was not feeling light-hearted at the time). Dark blue set embroidered with butterflies, appliquéd with feathers and diamantés. Silky mulberry and black polka-dot knickers with ribbon ties at sides. Demure pink set festooned with pink roses – not embroidered but actual little roses -on bra cups and crotch. Would look terrible under clothes. All lumpy.

Surprised to see nice plain black knickers. Completely unremarkable. Then realized they were crotchless, and jumped back as if burnt. Same with low-cut balconette bra. Seemed very low-cut, so low-cut would hardly cover nipples! Then realized – cripes! – that was the whole point.

Beside me, Paddy’s voice said, ‘Would you like to try any of them on?’

Froze. Stomach curdled. He was dirty pervert. Dirty pervert weirdo. Treating me as sex object. What was I doing here?

But what should I expect when I pick up man in graveyard? Hardly going to take me for pizza and Ben Stiller movie.

‘Lola, are you okay? Is this okay?’ He skewered me with blue gaze. Expression sympathetic, well, sympathetic
ish
. Hint of challenge there also.

Held his look. This is the moment, I thought, where I decide to trust him, or to leave. Teetered on high wire. Looked at door. Could just go. No harm done. Would never see him again. I mean, in sex shop! On first date! I was horrified…

… but a bit excited. If left now what would I miss…?

Looked back into blue gaze, may even have tilted chin upwards in attitude of slight defiance and said, ‘Okay…’

Assistant came to help. Sort of mumsy. She looked at chest. ‘34B?’

‘… Yes…’

‘What ones you like?’

‘These,’ I said, pointing out pretty, most demure set could see. (Pale blue, generously cut, robust-looking crotch.)

‘And maybe these,’ Paddy suggested, indicating saucier stuff.

‘And maybe not,’ I said.

‘Sure, why not try?’ mumsy woman said, ferrying armload of underwear off to changing room. ‘What’s to be lost?’

Big changing room. Almost same size as my bedroom. Rose-coloured lighting, curly-legged brocade chair, Chinese-style wallpaper patterned with winter flowering cherry – and wire grille in wall, like in a confessional… What was that for?

‘Would you like your friend to wait in the anteroom?’ mumsy woman asked.

‘An… teroom…?’

‘Yes, just here.’

She indicated a smaller room next to the changing room, with a chair in it and a grille in wall. Same grille as in my room.

‘Where he can watch you,’ mumsy woman said.

Cripes! Where Paddy de Courcy could sit and watch me try on underwear. Where he could observe me take off current clothes and see me naked, like in tacky peep show! Aghast. Frozen indecision seemed to last for decades, then I crumbled. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Reasons:

While taking off ordinary clothes I flattened self against wall, out of view of peephole. Not sure what to do. Too self-conscious to dance, also no music. Considered walking to and fro, but held back by fear I would look like animal in zoo – lion, maybe – with cabin fever. Might start wobbling head and moaning.

However, once I stepped into teetery-high pair of white fluffy mules and very flattering black silk knickers and bra, felt like a different person. Pretended Paddy de Courcy wasn’t sitting in next room watching me through mesh hatch. Pretended I was on my own. (But if on own, would never lean forward and shimmy in order to shake breasts into bra. Would never lick finger then rub it against nipples so they stood out like rubber stoppers on water wings, then admire self in mirror. Ordinarily when trying on knickers, wouldn’t bother running hand up and down along pubic bone, checking fit just right.)

Leisurely I changed into next set, unhooking bra and slowly removing it, sliding straps down arms, as if I had all the time in world. Next was fifties-style garter and bra, in stiff pink satin. Bra made breasts high and jutty – when leant forward could see nipples. Garter went from waist to top of legs, giving extreme hourglass curve. Rosy glow from fabric made thighs look creamy and smooth and I sat on brocade chair, liking rough feel of fabric against naked bottom. Slowly rolled silk stockings up legs and attached them to rubber suspenders on garter.

Heightened awareness of him behind grille, watching me.

Sexy. Oh so sexy.

Now and then mumsy woman popped head round door, displaying hangers. ‘This lovely crotchless corset,’ she said wistfully. ‘Be gorgeous with thigh boots.’

Or, ‘Would you like to try rubber catsuit? Red one in your size. Be gorgeous with thigh boots.’

Wanted her to go away. She was disturbing mood.

Very turned on. But turned on by self? Mad?

Tried excellent little bra made with overlapping layers of sheer fabric, like petals of flower. Opened little pearl button on cup and unpeeled petal after petal until nipple exposed. Didn’t know when I’d get to final layer. As much a revelation to me as to him. When it finally appeared, I said, ‘Ooh!’ and looked straight at him. Saw gleam of his eyes in dark room looking back at me and that was it. I was overtaken by unendurable desire and brought matters to an abrupt close. I got dressed, my fingers shaking, wondering how soon I could have sex with him.

When I bolted out of changing room, Paddy asked, ‘Which ones you like?’

Quickly I shook head. Prices out of my league.

‘Let me,’ he said.

‘No!’ Felt like kept woman, mistress, prostitute, all those things.

‘I insist,’ he said.

‘You insist?’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me. I’m one who’ll benefit.’

‘You’re taking a lot for granted!’

He was mortified. Caught out. Apologized profusely. Sounded sincere. Offered again to buy them. ‘For you,’ he said. ‘Not for me. How about it?’

Still uncomfortable. Felt wrong. Didn’t like it. But, in strange, messy mix, also liked it.

So I let him.

Later (in bed, as happened) said to him, ‘You took a big risk. What if I’d been offended?’

‘Then you wouldn’t have been the girl I’d thought you were.’

‘What kind is that?’

‘Dirty little girl.’

Wasn’t sure that I was, had always suspected I was bit of a prude, but nice of him to say so.

Serendipity! Happenstance! At 7.25 p.m. popped into Mrs Butterly’s for some healing flat Sprite and she said, ‘Do you mind if I put on telly?’

Next thing, she put on
Coronation Street
! My favourite! When it finished at 8 p.m. she switched over to
EastEnders
– my other favourite! Then at 8.30 put on
Holby City
. Hospital soap. Never seen it before but prepared to love it.

Veritable orgy of soaps, washed down with Southern Comfort and flat Sprite. Enjoyed it hugely. You’d swear I hadn’t seen proper telly for months!

Mrs Butterly said she had developed a fondness for me and issued an open soap invitation for any night. Then asked me to leave, she wanted to go to bed.

‘Anything else I can get for you, Lola, before I shut up?’

In rush of goodwill, I said, ‘Ah sure, I’ll take a packet of custard.’

Wandered slightly aimlessly round town, carrying my custard, then sat on a wall, facing towards sea. Had been in Knockavoy nearly a week and hadn’t put foot on beach. Took pride in this. Had retained sense of self.

Man walking dog passed me and said, ‘Evening. That’s what I call a sunset.’

I replied, ‘Evening, yes indeed.’

Hadn’t been paying attention but now that I looked, the sun was doing its impression of a great, big, fizzy vitamin B tablet. Sky all orange. Supporting immune system.

Cripes! Just noticed. Heading in my direction was the woman I’d seen walking alone on the beach. Grey-skinned, sunken-eyed, sweats flapping against emaciated body. Been here in Knockavoy for some time judging by condition of her hair.

Instinct was to run away. But she was too near. We’d locked eyes. She was bearing down on self. Homing device.

She stopped and tried to engage me in chat about sunset. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘… Yes…’

Not entirely sure what to say. I don’t have those kinds of conversations – sunsets, nature, etc. Now, if it was
white Stella trouser suit
she was talking about…

She sighed heavily. ‘The sun still sets every evening. Still rises every morning. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

‘… Yes… Must be off now.’

Suspected Kelly and Brandon had told her my story and suspected she was sounding me out for membership of Heartbroken Women’s gang. Didn’t want to sign up. All very well for them doing their painting and poetry and pottery. But not for me.

Although will never love anyone again, don’t want to become bitter. Or creative.

Woken by… something. What was it? Became aware of red glow beyond window. Sunrise? Instinctively knew it was too early. For moment wondered if sun had decided to pop its head back up over horizon so could do encore sunset, seeing as people so pleased with it first time round.

Looked out window. Behind house and also sort of behind next-door was semi-circle of red. Flames. A fire!

Should have rung fire brigade but instead decided to investigate. Such nosiness. Proof of danger of being without distraction of telly! Would never ‘investigate’ anything in Dublin.

Wellingtons, big mohair jumper over pyjamas. Torch. Out into chilly night.