This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  ‘For what, then?’ Was suspicious. Unlikely Bridie was going to say, ‘Because he still loves you.’

  ‘Was keeping you sweet. Onside.’

  ‘Why Paddy need to keep me sweet?’

  ‘You have stuff on him. Few weeks ago there was lots in papers about that Dee Rossini and her sex life. She nearly had to resign. You could spill the beans to papers about all that peculiar sex Paddy made you do. Would be explosive sensation.’

  ‘Wasn’t peculiar sex.’

  Moral high ground was mine because Bridie had recently admitted terrible shameful secret. Since she got married, ‘relations’ with Barry had taken downward turn. He did end-of-year appraisal (he works in HR) and told her they had had sex only fifteen times in previous calendar year – once a month, plus extra go on his birthday, their anniversary and the day Kildare won All-Ireland football championship. (Strange as neither of them Kildare fans. Perhaps it is bypass related?)

  ‘Oh yes, was peculiar sex, Lola. I admit that, at the time, I felt like sexual dullard compared to you. But looking back… Not a lot of love in that sort of sex you had with Paddy de Courcy. And bet you didn’t tell me half of what went on.’

  Startled. Bridie been taking mind-reading lessons?

  ‘He said he missed me.’ Clutching at straws.

  ‘Course he missed you! Alicia the horse unlikely to indulge his need for kinky sex.’

  ‘Not kinky. Erotic.’

  ‘Kinky. Kinky, kinky, kinky.’

  Bridie strongest-willed person have ever met.

  12.04

  Internet café

  Popped in to see Cecile. (‘Popped in.’ Do not like that phrase. Reminiscent of small-minded yummy mummies wearing pristine, pastel-coloured linen trousers. Will cease and desist from using it again.)

  Had feared Cecile would take agin me when I rejected Jake, especially considering she had brokered our alliance. But her response was complete opposite. Gleeful, she was, as she reported on Jake’s glum state. She informed me it was ‘high time’ ‘that gombeen’ got ‘what was coming to him.’

  ‘The snivelling little gobhawk didn’t know when he was on to a good thing,’ she said. ‘’Tis soft the wool grows on him.’

  Fascinating (if baffling) usage of colloquialisms.

  15.27

  Coming home from town

  Rossa Considine outside his house, ‘tinkering’ with his car.

  ‘Hey,’ I called to him.

  ‘Hey, yourself.’

  ‘How come you not down in potholes like peculiar person?’

  ‘Going tomorrow instead.’

  ‘Right. Listen. Been thinking.’

  ‘About…?’ He got up from his tinkering and walked out to meet me on road.

  ‘Soon be Christmas. We should have Christmas party. Our Friday-night gang.’

  ‘What’s brought this on? Thought you were reluctant participant in cross-dressing – sorry trannie – activities.’

  ‘Am. But was talking to my friend Bridie. She had Christmas party last night. Kept saying she was rough as a badger’s arse. Was taken with the phrase.’

  ‘You can get drunk any night of week.’

  ‘Need an excuse. If start getting drunk without needing excuse, am afraid will be drunk all the time.’

  ‘So what you thinking of?’

  ‘Tuesday after next? Is day before Christmas Eve.’

  ‘What you doing for Christmas?’

  ‘Going to Birmingham for four days. My dad lives there. Then going to Edinburgh with friends Bridie and Treese for New Year. Won’tbe back to Knockavoy until fourth of January, so we better have party Tuesday, twenty-third. Any later is too late. I can organize mince pies, mulled wine, crackers, that sort of thing.’

  ‘But would cause extra work for you. Let me discuss it with the others.’

  The trannies had formed some sort of informal network, where they contacted each other by email during the week. I was not party to it. Was glad.

  ‘SHALLOW BITCH!’

  It was Jake. Had appeared from nowhere and was going past on a bicycle. Was not sure which was most disconcerting. His sudden appearance. Or the fact that he was on bicycle. (Being on bike did nothing for his sex appeal. He was definitely not bicycle person. Few people are.)

  ‘Yes, shallow, but not a bitch,’ I shouted after him.

  Realized he couldn’t hear me, but needed to defend self so turned to Rossa Considine. ‘Am not a bitch,’ I said. ‘Was on rebound.’

  ‘Why you say you shallow?’

  ‘Because of my job. Everyone says stylists shallow morons. Once heard great phrase: cocaine is God’s way of telling you you have too much money. Likewise, when enough styling jobs to keep all stylists with roof over head, a country has perhaps become too prosperous.’

  ‘So you getting plenty work at moment?’

  ‘Oh no, but that is my fault. Have lovely client, SarahJane Hutchinson, she referred new client to me, but I couldn’t go to Dublin, so lost new client.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you go to Dublin? Apart from it being total kip of a place?’

  ‘Because ex-boyfriend lives there. Last time I went, saw him with his horse-faced fiancée. Almost puked in the street and that was the least bad thing that went wrong.’

  ‘So just operate out of County Clare.’

  I shook head. ‘West-coast styling never going to be as effective. Most rich women live in Dublin. Most of good shops are in Dublin. Yes, can get things couriered to here, but is lot more expensive than when I physically run around the good Dublin shops, filling up wheelie bags with top-notch stock.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Styling is fear-filled job at the best of times. Yes, honestly, Rossa Considine. Can see from your fizzog you are not convinced. Obviously is not as important as eco-swot job you do. But to the people I help, is important.’

  ‘Hey, who you telling? I know value of what you do, Lola.’

  Looked hard at him. ‘Sarcasm, Rossa Considine?’

  He sighed heavily. ‘Not sarcasm. Tell me more of fear side of job.’

  ‘Wee… ll, if I turn up at session and discover have misread client’s desires or she has lied about size – always happens, they say size ten, because too ashamed to admit size fourteen – there is no room to manoeuvre. In Dublin could run out and get more clothes, but down here, if mistake is made, no opportunity to remedy it. We are stuck with wrong clothes and the session is disaster.’

  ‘See your point.’ Thoughtful, interested look on his face. Unusual response. Well, suppose he is a trannie.

  ‘Cripes, Rossa, better go home, all sensation gone from my feet.’

  We had been standing in the cold for ages.

  ‘You like come in for cup of tea or something?’

  ‘Oh no, no.’ Suddenly shy.

  Monday, 15 December 19.29

  Mrs Butterly’s

  Heart-warming news, courtesy of Mrs Butterly! Osama no longer alone. On Friday nights he will be accompanied to pictures in Ennis by Ferret Kilbert. She has car and will drive him, so he doesn’t have to get bus. Also, it will give her something to do while her boyfriend is dressing up in women’s clothing. (Although Mrs Butterly didn’t say that. That was own private thought.)

  Community spirit in action.

  Tuesday, 16 December 11.22

  Lying in bed, idly having thoughts

  If I was a man, would fancy Chloe.

  Wednesday, 17 December 12.23

  Passing Internet café

  Cecile sees me and beckons hand in invitation. I wave cheerily at her, but continue to walk briskly.

  Shameful to admit, but have started to avoid Cecile, because her County Clare dialect has become too hard to comprehend. Suspect could discern better if she spoke in French. From pitifully few intelligible bits and pieces she told me, it seems that Jake and Jaz have become item. (‘He sez to her, “D’you want to be buried with my people?”’) Very pleased. Hopefully it indicates cessation of Jake’s cycling abuse.


  19.07

  Going down town for my dinner

  Rossa Considine arriving home from work. He called out to me, ‘Operation Badger’s Arse coming together nicely!’

  ‘Good, good.’

  Friday, 19 December

  Rossa Considine had lied to me! Operation Badger’s Arse not coming together nicely at all! Operation Badger’s Arse been hijacked by Natasha.

  ‘Don’t want to spend our Christmas party stuck here watching It’s a Wonderful Life and eating fruitcake,’ she said, with fox-featured defiance. ‘We want to go out dancing.’

  ‘A little sanity, Natasha, I beg of you!’ I cried. ‘We’ll be lynched in Baccarat.’ (Baccarat the local disco.)

  ‘No.’ Natasha shook head. ‘I know venue that is “sympathetic” to our needs. In Limerick.’

  ‘And the problem is…?’

  ‘We need minivan. Someone needs to be designated driver.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Chloe said. (This week wearing unbelievably stylish halter-neck dress. From Topshop! Ordinary woman’s dress, simply size 18.)

  ‘No, you won’t drive,’ Natasha snapped. ‘Is our Christmas party, us ladies, and if Lola won’t drive, Lola might find difficulty with local welfare payments.’

  ‘Is blackmail!’ Chloe was scandalized. ‘Natasha, Lola was the one who suggested Christmas party in the first place!’

  But Natasha had filled other trannies’ heads with talk of a disco where they could dance freely with their own kind.

  ‘Please, Lola?’ Blanche said. ‘Would love to go.’

  ‘Yes, would love to go,’ Sue said.

  ‘Yes, please, Lola,’ Guard Dolores Lyons begged, with piteous puppy-dog eyes.

  ‘Will do it,’ said grumpily. These bloody trannies…

  ‘No, Lola,’ Chloe protested.

  ‘Is okay,’ I said to her. ‘Is my vocation. Will do it.’

  ‘Was joking when said you had vocation.’

  ‘But it seems to be truth. Saint Lola of the Trannies.’

  ‘Cross-dressers,’ Natasha snapped.

  ‘Trannies, trannies, trannies, trannies, trannies.’ Was in no mood. ‘Shut up or I won’t drive the van.’

  ‘Excuse – !’

  ‘Could I suggest solution of sorts?’ Chloe trying to restore calm. ‘Lola, we could go out another night? Locally, so no need for driver. After Christmas? When you back from Birmingham. Pour drink into you and get you rough as badger’s arse. Doesn’t have to be with the ladies from here. Could be with other Knockavoy pals of yours.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘The surfer? Jake, is that his name?’ Twinkle in Chloe’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, we could invite Jake.’ Laughter bubbling in stomach.

  ‘He could stand on far side of pub –’

  ‘– and shout at us.’

  Dissolving into laughter while Natasha looked on coldly.

  22.13

  Everyone gone except Chloe.

  Habit now for Chloe to stay behind, after others had gone, to help me clear up.

  ‘You think Noel’s wife really believes he’s out with the lads every Friday night?’ I asked, tipping uneaten savoury snacks into bin.

  ‘Hard to say. Maybe easier for her to just pretend to believe.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ I said. ‘Gillian really cool. Not at all bothered.’

  ‘Very lucky,’ Chloe acknowledged, following me into kitchen. ‘Gillian remarkably easy-going. She says if she had choice, would prefer me to give up potholing. Too dangerous, she says.’ Chloe squirted washing-up liquid over dirty glasses, then out of blue, asked, ‘You ever have cross-dressing boyfriend?’

  Pause. Long pause. Too long because answer was a short one.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But…’

  ‘But …’

  ‘… Had a boyfriend who had other … interests.’

  Chloe stopped running hot water into sink. ‘Interests?’

  ‘You know … sexually.’

  Careful face on Chloe. No readable reaction. ‘That sort of thing is fine,’ she said. ‘If you enjoy it.’

  ‘Was … interesting. Is good to push your boundaries, no?’

  ‘Yes … if you are both happy.’

  Had unexpected flash of memory. The time Paddy took me to Cannes. Private plane. Limo to meet us at bottom of steps. Massive suite in Hotel Martinique. On arrival, bed strewn with stiff carrier bags from expensive shops on the Croissette. Me, running about from room to room, squealing, until came face to face with beautiful, cold-faced Russian woman in Chanel suit, waiting in living room.

  What she doing here? For short-lived moment, thought she might be secretary. Paddy might have to do some work over weekend.

  Then he said, ‘This is Alexia. She is going to be our … friend … while we’re here in Cannes.’

  Friend? Friend?

  Oh no. And Paddy said, with wolfish grin, ‘Oh yes.’

  Felt rush of nausea and chill down arms, as I remembered.

  ‘Lola, you okay?’ Chloe asked, concern in voice.

  ‘Yes, fine, fine, just … that boyfriend I mentioned …’

  ‘– Yes …’

  ‘… He made me have sex with a prostitute. Russian one. Then he had sex with her and I had to watch.

  ’… Er … and you were okay about it?’

  ‘At the time, thought I was.’

  ‘But now?’

  ‘No.’ Voice choked and whole body trembling. ‘All of sudden, think it’s appalling. Shameful. Humiliating. Can’t believe I did it. Not pushing boundaries. Not being sexual adventurer. Simply let myself be humiliated.’ Voice getting higher and faster. Gasping for air.

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  In living room, she took me on her lap, like mother with small child, and held me so tightly that I eventually stopped shaking. I grabbed air with my mouth, forced it down into lungs, until breathing became normal again. Leant against her. Great, great comfort in the way she held my weight, and I thought, How nice and big her hands are.

  ‘Could have refused him.’ I gulped. ‘Suppose I should have.’

  ‘But you couldn’t. Because if you could, you would have.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ So grateful she understood. ‘Was afraid to. Afraid he would… mock me. Afraid he would not love me. Afraid… just afraid.’

  There were other times, other terrible things too. Didn’t know why that particular event was so outlandish that it had to rush up from my gut and out of my mouth.

  0.44

  In bed

  Couldn’t sleep.

  Thinking about admission had made to Chloe. About how having a threesome with a prostitute had seemed almost normal.

  But now didn’t seem normal. Seemed sick and strange.

  In fact, obvious to me now that right from beginning sex with Paddy had been sick and strange. Imagine that I had thought being taken to sex shop on first date was erotic! Saw now that it was a test. He was checking me out, to see how much I’d take. And he decided I’d take anything.

  Even though went through with the business in Cannes, I must have known it was wrong because had never told anyone else about it. Time was when I had boasted about sexual shenanigans I got up to with Paddy.

  But point came when I had stopped telling Bridie and the others. Had detected change in their attitude. They’d stopped being impressed and jealous and were becoming something else. Concerned, I think.

  Saturday, 20 December 8.33

  En route to Christmas party styling job in Tipperary

  Rossa Considine getting ropes and that sort of stuff out of car boot.

  He came over to dividing fence and asked, ‘How you today?’ Very kindly expression on face and for moment I wondered why. Had forgotten that had told him about Paddy and Alexia. Because, of course, hadn’t told him. Had told Chloe.

  Felt angry that he knew. As if Chloe had broken confidence and told him, like Rossa was her twin brother.

  ‘Good. Must go now.’

  He could keep his sy
mpathy and kindly eyes and all the rest of it. If I had wanted kindness off Rossa Considine, would have told Rossa Considine.

  19.17

  Passing the Dungeon

  ‘Ho, Lola Daly! A word, if you please!’ Boss on the lookout for me.

  Stepped inside, accepted quick drink.

  ‘Is it true,’ Boss demanded, ‘that Ferret-Face Kilbert is keeping Osama company on Friday nights while rest of ye are running around wearing ladies’ clothing?’

  Aghast! Utterly aghast! ‘How you know about ladies’ clothing? Is meant to be secret.’

  ‘No secrets in town like this, Lola Daly. Not for long. Never really believed your revenge-clothing movie-club story, so last night spied on ye. The three of us hid outside and looked through windows. Surprised you didn’t hear us laughing, the scarths and screeches that were coming out of us.’

  ‘Almost slipped another disc,’ the Master said. ‘Laughed so much.’

  Cripes above!

  ‘Am hurted you didn’t trust me, Lola,’ Boss said. ‘Thought we were friends…’

  ‘Are friends, Boss, yes, we are friends.’ Shamed. Has been kind to me, bullying me to get dole, buying vitamin B capsules, etc. ‘But not my secret to give away.’

  ‘Know exactly who every one of your “ladies” are. Ran check on licence plates.’ Tipped his head at Moss. ‘Moss is “connected” that way. Found out names and addresses.’

  Oh God. If Noel knew that his Friday-night activities were public knowledge, he would have conniption (whatever that is). And one of my ‘ladies’ was officer of the law…

  Laid my hand on Boss’s arm, not something would usually do, except in time of crisis. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone,’ I beseeched. ‘I beg of you… These poor men… it’s only outlet they have.’

  ‘Who would I tell?’

  ‘Everyone, of course!’

  ‘Sure, what harm are ye doing? Not like ye’re making snuff movies up there. And haven’t you given the rest of us great oul’ laugh.’