This Charming Man (56 page)

She sprinted up the stairs and into Verity’s room. Empty. She wrenched open the wardrobe door; bare hangers rattled. Then she raced to Daisy’s room; bed neatly made and empty. Into her own room, up on a chair, opening the highest cupboard: this would be the proof. What she saw made her actually gasp: all the Santa presents for the girls were gone. Impossible though it was, the emptiness seemed to pulse.

He’d left her, the bastard. And he’d taken the girls with him.

She sat on the top step of the stairs, swallowing and swallowing, trying to wet her dry mouth.

They would come back, they were just trying to scare her. But it was a bad, bad thing to do.

She heard her own shriek and was on her feet, tugging her hand from his, without knowing why
.

A cigarette. He’d put his cigarette out on the palm of her hand. He’d gripped the hand so hard the bones had squeaked, and ground his cigarette into the centre of it
.

Red mist floated before her eyes. She couldn’t see
.

He stared at her palm, at the round red burn, the grains of ash still scattered across it. There was a strange smell and a plume of smoke rose from the wound
.

‘Why… did you do that?’ Her teeth were chattering
.

‘It was an accident.’ He sounded stunned. ‘I thought it was an ashtray.’

‘How?’

The pain was too bad, she couldn’t stay still. ‘The cold tap.’ She stood up and all the blood left her head
.

‘I’ve proper bandages,’ he said. ‘And antiseptic. Don’t let it get infected.’

He dressed her wound, he gave her codeine, he brought her dinner in bed and fed it to her bite by bite
.

He’d never been more tender
.

I quietly opened front door and tiptoed out of house into dark night. Cast furtive look around. No sign of Jake the Love-God, thanks be to cripes. Although he could be out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows, ready to ambush me with his surfy love.

Limbo’d under wire fence and knocked on Rossa Considine’s front door.

‘Right on time,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

Awkward conversation ensued as we sipped beer and waited for
Law and Order
to start.

I cleared throat. Asked, with attempt at cheeriness, ‘All set for trannie night tomorrow night?’

Was only trying to fill silence but my chance remark triggered a revelation – a trannie is not the same thing as a cross-dresser!

‘Trannies are gay,’ Rossa said. ‘Cross-dressers are straight.’

Now
I understood why Noel from Dole continued to eschew the word ‘trannie’ and would only answer to ‘cross-dresser’!

‘To be honest, Rossa Considine,’ I admitted, ‘just thought they were different ways to describe same thing.’

‘Like Snickers and Marathon?’

‘Correct. Like Ulay and Olay.’

‘Like porridge and oatmeal?’

Pause. ‘Please do not say “oatmeal”, Rossa Considine, is irritating word.’

‘Why?’

‘Cannot explain. Just is.’

Sudden strained atmosphere. Rossa Considine focused with hard stare on the telly. Lengthy ad break before
Law and Order
. Taking long time to start.

When Rossa Considine had so unexpectedly shown up as ‘Chloe’ almost four weeks ago, I had been shocked, bewitched, stunned – many emotions. Astonished at my poor powers of observation – had been living next door to trannie (beg your pardon, I mean
cross-dresser)
for some weeks and hadn’t had a clue. Even more astonishing, that taciturn – at times, yes, even surly – man could be transformed into radiant woman, all smiles and chat and perfumed kisses.

Had been quite dazzled by her and readily accepted invitation to view
Law and Order
with, of course, that caveat that if we got on each other’s nerves, we need not repeat the experience. She insisted we exchange mobile numbers so, if required, we could end the arrangement by text. Nicest way, she said.

But! Oh yes, but! The following Thursday night, as I furtively exited the house (by then, Jake’s nocturnal lurking was well under way), and slipped under the wire fence that separated me from Chloe’s/Rossa’s, I realized I felt shy.
Immensely
strange situation, entirely without precedent. Had been invited by adorable Chloe – but unkempt Rossa answered the door and relieved me of bag of tortilla chips and cans of beer. Odd. Like going on a date set up by absent, matchmaker-style third party. Very, very strange, if I thought about it too much. So decided not to. Had other things on mind (which will get to – yes, yes, will get to).

Despite acknowledged tensions between us, the first Thursday had gone well.
Law and Order
watched and savoured and conversation light and pleasant.

Second Thursday could also be deemed a success. Also third Thursday. However, here we were on fourth Thursday – perhaps no longer on our best behaviour? – and it seemed, as a result of my oatmeal comment, we might be running into difficulties.

I asked, ‘You going to sulk now, Rossa Considine?’

‘Why would I sulk, Lola Daly?’

‘You are quite sulky, as a rule.’ Had a thought. ‘At least
as a man,
you are. But as a woman, you are charm itself. Perhaps you should be a woman all the time.’

‘Couldn’t go potholing in high heels.’

‘That is defeatist attitude. May I ask you further questions about this trannie/cross-dresser dichotomy?’

‘Please do not say “dichotomy”, Lola Daly, is irritating word.’

‘Wh –? Oh is joke. Careful, you almost smiled there.’

His lips were definitely turning upwards.

‘Come on,’ I coaxed reluctant smile, ‘show us your teeth.’

‘Am not a baby,’ he said gruffly.

‘Very well. Now. Will employ frankness, Rossa Considine. All my “girls” are straight, i.e. cross-dressers. But I like the word “trannie”. What am I to do?’

‘Sue is gay.’

‘Really?’

(Sue was new. Noel/Natasha had located her on chat-site and invited her along the previous week – much to my dismay. ‘No more, Natasha,’ I had begged, when they showed up together. ‘No more.’ But Noel regards our Friday nights as cross-dressing homeland. Everyone welcome, by dint of their cross-dressingness, regardless of how much – little, actually – room there is.)

‘Okay,’ I began again. ‘All my girls
except Sue
are straight, i.e. cross-dressers. But I like the word “trannie”. What am I to do?’

‘Learn to live with it.’

‘No. Don’t think I will.’

‘No matter what I said, you would have done the opposite.’

Pause while I considered his comment. About to deny it then realized would be proving him right. ‘So it would seem, Rossa Considine, and I am at a loss as to why. So yes, even though it is wrong description, I will continue to call them all trannies.’

‘They won’t like it.’

‘No one is forcing them to visit me on a Friday night.’ I was flexing power muscles. Like Mrs Butterly barring those people she doesn’t like the look of.

‘Power corrupts,’ Rossa Considine said.

‘So they say. And absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ Quote from someone. ‘Who said that?’

‘Confucius?’

‘John le Carré?’

‘Duran Duran?’

‘Someone,’ we were agreed upon. ‘Definitely someone.’

End of
Law and Order
Excellent episode, we both agreed. Dark, gritty, compelling.

I got to my feet. Brushed away tortilla crumbs from my dress, watched them sprinkle onto the rug. Flicked glance at Rossa Considine. He was also watching tortilla crumbs sprinkling onto rug.

‘I will have to clean that up,’ he said.

Knew it, knew it, just
knew
he’d be sulky! ‘Apologies, apologies, please give me sweeping brush. I will do it myself right now.’

‘No need, no need, guest in my home.’

‘Only you seem riled.’

‘Not riled.’

‘Sulky, perhaps?’

‘Shut up, Lola Daly.’

‘Thank you for sharing your television with me,’ I said. ‘Sorry about your rug. See you tomorrow night when you will be a trannie?’

‘Cross-dresser. No need to rush off immediately, Lola Daly.’

‘Oh yes, need, I think,’ I said. ‘Let’s not push our luck.’

Safely back in own house, without confrontation from Jake the Love-God
Wiping toner over face when phone rang and every nerve in body leapt. At this stage, poor bastards ragged and exhausted from all the leaping.

Checked caller display. Not Paddy. That was all I needed to know.

Since the night of his unexpected phone call, almost four weeks ago, had been bag of nerves, almost as bad as when news first broke that he was getting married.

When had answered phone to discover was him on the line, swearing how much he missed me, I simply
could not believe
it.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he’d said, into my flabbergasted ears. ‘Little Lola, I treated you so badly. The way you found out about Alicia… I’m so sorry. The press got hold of rumour and whole thing blew up before I had chance to talk to you.’

Every word I had ever fantasized about him saying was issuing from his mouth.

‘Even Alicia didn’t know she was getting married until she heard it on the news.’

Wasn’t so interested in hearing about Alicia.

‘I miss you so much,’ he said. ‘In all these months, haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.’

Is this happening? Is this actually, really happening
?

‘Can I see you?’ he asked. ‘Please, Lola. Will I send Spanish John for you?’

‘You still getting married?’ I asked, not quite the malleable fool I used to be.

‘Oh Lola.’ Heavy sigh. ‘You know I am. Have to. She is right woman for my job.’ He sounded so bleak that for moment genuinely felt his dilemma. ‘But you are woman I really want, Lola. Is impossible situation. Am torn in two. Will be quite honest, this is the best I can offer you.’

I let this information settle. At least he was being straight with me.

‘Will I send Spanish John?’ he asked.

‘Am not in Dublin.’

‘Oh?’ Change in tone. ‘Where are you?’

‘County Clare.’

‘Clare. Right. But you could drive to Dublin. How long it take?’

‘Three hours. Maybe three and half.’

‘That long? Even with Kildare bypass?’

They speak about Kildare bypass as though it was magic hole in hyper-space. Funny the things you think about when in shock. Was also thinking something else. Was thinking that it was 10.30 at night. Earliest time I would get to Dublin, even if drove like the clappers and got speeding tickets and points on licence and appearance before magistrate and name printed in local paper, would be 1 in morning. Too late. Not right.

‘Paddy.’ Reaching deep into self, rummaging around in drawer containing rarely used emotions and locating and dusting off self-respect. ‘Is already ten-thirty. Ring me again in the morning and we’ll make arrangement for better time.’

‘Oh… right… I see.’ Sounded startled.

Pleased with myself.

‘Grace Gildee still bothering you?’ he asked.

‘… Um…’ Abrupt change in conversation. ‘No. She stopped long time ago.’

‘Good. Tell me, Lola, do you hate me?’

Sometimes I did. Flashes of bad, burny hatred. But now that he had rung, with such anguish in his voice, all bad, burny feelings were gone. ‘Don’t hate you, Paddy.’

‘Good. Great. Better let you go now.’

Wanted to stay talking to him, wanted to hold on to this precious, precious chance for ever. But knew that best way to hold on was to let go. (Paradox.) ‘Yes. Talk to you in morning, Paddy.’

‘Yes, talk to you in morning.’

Straight away, incandescent with triumph, I rang Bridie. Who made me repeat entire conversation word for word. She listened without interruption and when I finished I said, ‘What you think?’

‘What I think?’ Bridie said. ‘What I think is he won’t ring in the morning. Or ever again,’ she added.

‘Unnecessary brutality, Bridie!’ I exclaimed.

‘Cruel to be kind.’

‘You may stick your kindness!’

‘You will thank me for this.’

‘Words of comfort, please, Bridie, I insist on words of comfort!’

‘Only words of comfort I have for you, Lola, are “Heavy doses of vitamin B.” Especially B6 and B12. Also maybe B5. And B2. Your central nervous system will be worked to the bone every time phone rings for next two weeks, setting up false – yes, entirely false – expectation that it is Paddy de Courcy on the line. Vitamins may prevent you from having breakdown.’

‘He will ring me tomorrow.’

‘Lola! It was BOOTY CALL. It is OBVIOUS.’

‘He said he misses me.’

‘He misses having someone to handcuff to his bedpost, to act out his rape fantasies. You don’t think horse-face lets him do that, do you?’

‘Horse-face repressed. I am sexually evolved.’

‘One way of putting it.’

‘Am sorry now I rang you to share my good news. Goodbye, Bridie.’

I hung up, and lay on couch, eating savoury snacks and thinking about strangeness of things – life, trajectories of romance, shape of Monster Munch. One minute had been rejected by two men – Jake, Paddy – and the next, both were prostrating themselves and requesting forgiveness. What’s it all about? Universe is contrary diva.

Mid-reverie, my phone rang again and I almost levitated above couch, every nerve ajangle.

It was only Bridie. She said, ‘Did I say B5?’

‘Yes, yes, yes. Get off line, please, you are blocking Paddy de Courcy from ringing.’

‘Strongest dose in the chemist, remember.’

The following morning, I awoke at 6 a.m., waiting for Paddy to ring.
Knew
he would. I had held out, had refused him. He liked what he couldn’t have.

When phone rang at 9.16 a.m., although hair stood briefly on end, smiled to self. Last night’s sacrifice had been worth it.

But no! Last night’s sacrifice had not been worth it! Was only Bridie.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Let me guess. Your heart is pounding, your blood is racing, your mouth is dry. If you
knew
what all that was doing to your poor central nervous system. Is your synapse endings I feel for.’