This Charming Man (8 page)

Wrote my phone number on ancient cinema stub.

He looked at it. Said, ‘
Mission Impossible
? Any good?’

‘You didn’t see it?’

‘Never get time to go to pictures.’

‘Why not?’

‘Am politician. Deputy leader of New Ireland. Full-on job.’

Felt had better ask him his name – is what you have to do when people say they are writer or actor or – yes – politician. Almost as if they are
angling
to be asked.

‘Paddy de Courcy.’

Nodded and said, ‘Mmmm,’ to disguise fact had never heard of him.

He watched me shoot past in my red Mini, admiration in his eyes. I looked at him in rear-view. Even from distance could see blueness of his eyes. Coloured contact lenses? No. Coloured contact lenses make eyes strangely starey and dead-looking. Wearers look like aliens. Sometimes clients take a notion to wear them for big night out. (‘I fancy being a green-eyed temptress tonight.’) I always talk them out of it. Tacky. Very… Mariah Carey.

Wondered if Paddy de Courcy would call. Wasn’t sure he would. Suspected he might be married. Also we weren’t, on the face of it, a likely match. I had red Mini Cooper, he had navy Saab. I had sharp-cut, wide-lapelled, teal jacket, he had sober navy overcoat. I had angular Louise Brooks bob and Chiarascuro highlights (colour before Molichino), he had bouffy hair.

Didn’t Google him. That’s how interested I wasn’t.

Early next morning my mobile rang. I didn’t recognize number but answered because could be new client. Some woman said, ‘I’m calling from Paddy de Courcy’soffice. Mr de Courcy was wondering if you are free this evening. He will pick you up at seven p.m. I need your address please.’

I was startled into silence. Then laughed. Said, ‘No.’

‘No, what?’

‘No, not giving address. Who’s he think he is?’

Her turn to be startled. Said, ‘Is Paddy de
Courcy!’

‘If Mr de Courcy wants to make arrangement with me, Mr de Courcy can pick up phone and call me himself.’

‘… Yes… but Ms Daly, Mr de Courcy very busy man…’

Understand busyness. Most of my clients very busy people and usually clients’ assistant, rather than clients themselves, call to set up styling appointment. But that was
work
. This was
not
work.

‘Must go now,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Nice talking to you. Goodbye.’ (Costs nothing to be polite. Also she might want to be styled at some time in the future.)

I wasn’t even indignant. Simply realized had been right to think he wasn’t my type. Maybe that is how some people live their lives, getting their assistants to set up romantic assignations. Perhaps it is considered perfectly fine in certain circles.

I didn’t expect him to ring back and I really didn’t care. When think now of the risk I ran, I go hot and cold all over. Could have blithely thrown it all away. Over before it ever started. Then realize it’s all over anyway, and maybe would have been better off being spared the pain. But couldn’t imagine not having had him in my life. Was the most intense experience. The most intense man. Most beautiful, most sexy.

Anyway, a few minutes later, he
did
call. Laughing. Apologizing for being arrogant asshole.

I said, ‘You politicians have totally lost touch with reality.’ (Light-hearted tone. Banter.)

‘No, haven’t.’

‘Oh really? If so, tell me price of litre of milk?’ (Once, by accident, saw programme where minister of something was shamed for not knowing that. Actually felt quite sorry for him. Not so sure of price myself. But could tell you to the nearest euro, exact cost
of entire Chloé collection
. Wholesale, discounted and full retail. We all have our gifts.)

Paddy de Courcy said, ‘Don’t know. Don’t drink milk.’

‘Why so? Too busy?’

He laughed. Banter going well.

I said, ‘No milk on your cereal?’

‘Don’t eat cereal.’

‘What you have for breakfast?’

Pause. Then he said, ‘Would you like to find out?’

Cheesy. Remembered his bouffy hair. Didn’t want to banter any longer.

‘Sorry,’ he said. Sounded humbled, then he asked, ‘You free this evening?’

‘No.’ (Was, but really…)

‘How about tomorrow… uh, no, can’t do tomorrow. Or Wednesday. Just a minute,’ he said, then called to someone, ‘Stephanie, can you get me out of that thing with Brazilians on Thursday?’ Then he was back. ‘Thursday?’

‘Let me look at appointments.’ I checked, then said, ‘Yes, okay for Thursday evening.’

‘Thursday it is,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up. Seven?’

What was this thing with seven? Why so early?

‘I’ll book couple of tables for dinner and you can choose.’

Bridled at way he was calling all the shots, then… don’t know… stopped bridling, is best way to put it.

‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘You married?’

‘Why? You offering?’

Further cheesiness. I said, ‘Yes or no? Married or not?’

‘Not.’

‘Fine.’

‘Really looking forward to seeing you,’ he said.

‘… Yes, me too.’

But wasn’t sure I was. And when I climbed into the back of his car and he was Mr Grown-up in his suit and briefcase, I thought, Oh no, terrible mistake. Stomach did that rolling, tilty nausea thing again. And, of course, things got worse in the shop. But then… undressing for him… everything changed. Started to really fancy him. Never looked back.

Woke up. Had gone back to bed around 6 a.m., when sun was rising.

No longer felt crazed desperation for Paddy. Simply felt of no value. Wasn’t good enough for him. Not good enough for anyone.

Walked into town. Sea mist hanging in air, playing merry hell with hair.

When I reached special spot on bend of road, stopped and gazed up at next-door’s window, hoping to see woman in wedding dress. Intrigued. In fact, maddened with curiosity. But no sign of her.

The Oak
Soup of day, mushroom. Beginning to wonder if any other kind. Cheesecake of day, strawberry. Ditto.

Internet café
Thought would visit couple of nice sites. Net-a-porter. LaRedoute. Gazing upon beautiful things might bring sparkle back into world. But café closed! Crooked handwritten sign said, ‘Gone to lunch.’ Annoyed. These French people with their lunch hours! Stomped off towards home. Decided on seafront route, to get little infusion of magic house, and who did I see, outside magic house, only Cecile! Hooked by her knees, she was hanging upside down on the railings overlooking the waves, giggling with three surf boys in wetsuits.

Her skirt was up around her shoulders, as result of gravity. Her knickers on show. Cute. Cotton. White with red poppies and red trim. Nice for her to be so uninhibited. Actually no… not really a good thing. Was uncomfortable with her exhibitionism… we’re not on Côte d’Azur now.

Semi-circle of surf boys. General impression of wet sand, large bare male feet, tangled salty hair, surfboards, wetsuits unzipped, smooth bare chests, eyes bright from salt water, thin chains around tanned throats, tiny gold rings through male eyebrows. Couldn’t tell any of them apart, just generic cluster of young male yumminess.

‘Cecile?’ I asked.

‘Oui
?’

‘Are you on your lunch break?’

‘
Oui.’

‘When will it finish?’

Even hanging upside down, she managed Gallic shrug. ‘I cannot say.’ She giggled, giving one of surf boys a minxy glance.

Front door of magic house slightly ajar. Glimpse of bare, faded floorboards, old-fashioned banisters, white paint flaking, leading up the stairway to a magic bedroom.

Cecile would be going into magic house to have sex with one of surf boys. Terrible pang. Jealousy. Loneliness. For things lost and things never had. Wished I was young. Wished I was beautiful. Wished I was French.

Trying alternative bars to Oak. Cannot face another bowl of mushroom soup. Also didn’t want to get too dependent on the Oak. It might burn down or something and where would that leave me? Look what happened the last time I depended on someone (Paddy).

Stuck my head into golfing bar, called Hole in One, or some such dreadful golfing pun. Couldn’t go in. Packed to gills with men (and one or two women who should have known better) exchanging posh insults about how badly the other man played. (You know how men are. Can only bond by being horrible.) Noisy. Shouty. Rawlrawlrawl. Like politicians in Dail. And such bad clothing! Yellow sweaters. Spats. Visors! I ask you. Not even useful, not in Ireland, not enough sun. Is… is…
wilful
bad taste.

Tried Butterly’s. Very small place. Size of a front room. Flagstoned floors, bare wooden counter, three high stools at it. Small television on overhead shelf. Smiley old woman behind bar, looking keen as mustard. (Margery Allingham phrase.) Otherwise place empty. Wanted to back out, saying, ‘Sorry, looking for chemist! My mistake!’ But was too polite. Did running jump, like pole vaulter, to seat self on high stool. (Can’t abide high stools, so uncomfortable. Too high, to begin with, and nothing to hold on to, nothing to support your back, nothing for your feet. You are quite adrift. Breakfast bars, there they are again! Why would I choose to start my day wobbling atop a high stool when could sit on a normal-height chair? And why only for
breakfast?)

Butterly’s was the oddest-looking bar had ever seen, offering most peculiar selection of drinks – all seemed to be sweet sticky liqueurs.
Also sundry other items for sale, to wit: cans of marrowfat peas, boxes of matches, packets of instant custard. Like when playing shop when small. (All same, might be handy to know. Some night, might be halfway through glass of red wine and get sudden unbearable craving for custard, which needed immediate gratification.) (Sarcastic.)

The old woman was Mrs Butterly herself. Nice to be in proprietor-run establishment. Ex
treme
ly chatty. Said the bar was her parlour and she only opened it when she felt like company and closed it again when she didn’t.

Though my hopes weren’t high, I asked, ‘Do you do food?’

She pointed at strange collection behind bar.

‘I meant… something… could eat now.’

Had horrible fear she would offer to heat up can of marrowfat peas. Even
look
of marrowfat peas makes me want to take my own life.

‘Could make you little sandwich. Will see what’s in fridge.’

She disappeared into other room, presume it was kitchen. Returned with processed ham piece between two slices of woolly white bread. In strange, retro way, quite satisfying. When I finished, she made us both a cup of tea and produced a packet of Hobnobs.

I tried purchase a glass of red wine but she said, ‘Don’t carry wine. How about Tia Maria? Or what’s this here? Cointreau?’

Closest thing to a normal drink was Southern Comfort. No ice available so had it with a dash of the flattest Sprite have ever had. From a 2-litre bottle that had been on shelf for oh, about sixty years. Not a bubble left in entire bottle.

Cajoled Mrs Butterly to join me in a drink. Invitation accepted.

Revised original impression. Mrs Butterly had woven web of charm around me. Liked it. Liked it all. Best bit of entire bar was neon green poster, saying, ‘No Stag Parties!’

Stag party wouldn’t
fit
! They would have to be refused in instalments. Would have to send delegation of two or three in to be barred, then leave and let next tranche in to be turned down.

When I was leaving, Mrs Butterly refused to take money for the food. She said, ‘Only couple of Hobnobs, for the love of God.’

‘But Mrs Butterly, the sandwich…’

‘Only couple of slices of bread, for the love of God.’

Kindly. Very kindly.

But no way to run a business.

DVD shop
Wanted to ask about Kelly and the bread knife, but shop thronged. Many people visiting. Tourists for weekend, their baskets filled with frozen pizzas and six-packs of lager. I resented their presence, as if I live here.

Brandon distracted but recommended
Goodfellas
.

Enjoyed
Goodfellas,
not saying I didn’t. Don’t mean to be picky. Much violence, but no actual
revenge
as such.

Realization. Why I felt so comforted in Mrs Butterly’s. It was the flat Sprite. Flat Sprite is a convalescent’s drink. Mum used to give it to me when I was sick. She used to heat it up to cleanse it of all bubbles, so it wouldn’t hurt my sore throat. Flat Sprite makes me feel loved. As no one is handy to administer it to me, will do it myself.

Woken by slam of next-door-neighbour’s front door. I hopped from bed, into other bedroom to look out front window, hoping to see Wedding Dress girl in her civvies. But no girl, just her boyfriend -fiancé, I suppose – alone. Studied him. Interested to see what kind of man had bagged the Vera Wanged beauty. At quick glance, not exactly kempt. He would need haircut before wedding. Out-doorsy-loving-style clothing: jeans and big, thick navy fleece suitable for North Pole. Footwear, however, cause for interest: trainers in anthracite colour – in fashionista circles anthracite known as ‘Black for risk-takers’. He got into car – couldn’t be sure what kind it was -banged door shut, drove away.

I returned to bed.

Town busy. Day-trippers. Blue skies, sunshine, heat, weather very nice for September, apart from never-ceasing, hair-destroying wind.

My attention caught by woman on beach, walking alone. Had half-noticed her over previous few days and just knew she was one of the heartbroken painters or potters or poets. Even from distance, her face was stiff, the way heartbroken faces are. What is it about being rejected by loved ones that locks face muscles into inactivity? Special enzyme? (Possible scientific discovery. You know how dumpees don’t smile? Everyone puts it down to them having nothing to smile about. But perhaps it is as result of special enzyme which means they
cannot
smile. This is the sort of discovery that wins prizes.)

DVD shop
Brandon recommended
Kill Bill,
vol. 1. Excellent. Revenge – 10 out of 10.