The Lingerie Designer

by Siobhán McKenna

  “Such a pity. We wanted you be our guests at dinner this evening. Perhaps next time?”

  “Ms Helen?” Ms Candy reached out with both hands to her. “You leave the sketches, so I can price them for you?”

  Helen closed her leather messenger. She felt like a rugby centre, dodging the opposition with the try line in sight. With a disarming smile she extended her arm to shake hands. “Thank you, Ms Candy, Ms Barbara. We got through so much today. We appreciate all you did for us.”

  The meeting was over, Helen Devine style.

  Chapter 11

  Fred and Helen made the executive floor of the Excelsior Hotel before the end of cocktail hour. Sarah had excused herself an hour before, saying she needed to freshen up. By now, Helen was finishing off her second cocktail – a Singapore Sling.

  “Enjoying that?” Fred asked as he swirled the ice in his Jack & Coke.

  “When in Rome and all that,” Helen replied. She eyed the hors d’oeuvres and decided on a red-caviar-sprinkled prawn.

  “We’re in Hong Kong.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s close enough.” Helen popped the bite-size snack in her mouth. “You know, I named my Golden Retriever after that.” She pointed to Fred’s drink.

  “What – Hugo Boss?” Fred placed a hand on his stomach and flattened his shirt, to reveal a monogrammed buckle.

  “I meant Jack Daniels. I used to drink it in my youth before I moved on to Bacardi and Diet Coke. I figured JD sounded more like a dog’s name than Bacardi. Nowadays, I try to stick to vodka and soda. It’s pure, so it must be better for my body.” She ignored the look Fred was giving her. “Anyway, I couldn’t see your flashy belt under your belly.”

  “Cheeky. At least get the term right, Helen – it’s a beer gut – only women have bellies.” He looked at Helen, her mouth open ready to receive another nibble.

  In a reflex action, Helen pulled in her stomach but, before she could retort, her phone vibrated on the low table between them.

  “That’ll be my mother, with a crime and weather update.” She rubbed her hands together, ridding them of crumbs. She picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Helen?”

  “Hi, Mum, how’s things?” Helen stood to go to a quiet corner in the room. Fred inspected her plate to see what he could pinch.

  “Fine, love – I’m just ringing to let you know not to phone later because I’m going to the pictures with Nuala Flynn,” Mary Devine said, as always calling her friend by her full name.

  “That’s grand, Mum, enjoy it – what are you going to see?” Her mother liked to have a reason to call rather than admit she wanted to talk to her only daughter.

  “I can’t think of the name of it now. Nuala Flynn picked it out – ordered the tickets over the internet. How’s the weather there?”

  Here we go.

  “Well, it’s night-time now but it was cloudy and humid earlier.”

  “Well, it’s a beautiful day here, blue skies, but there’s rain due tomorrow.” Mary Devine hesitated before continuing. “Did you see the news: a tourist was raped, tortured and strangled – over there?”

  Helen wondered how on earth her mother did it. No matter where in the world Helen travelled, Mary had a local horror to tell.

  “No, Mum.”

  “I read it in the paper – shocking business,” Mary went on. “I bet the Chinese are covering it up. Didn’t you tell me they black out the telly when there’s an American news report they don’t like?”

  “That was a CNN report on the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square protests – and I was in Beijing at the time. That’s different.” Helen tried to remain patient. She spotted Sarah enter the room, as did most of the men. She was wearing a low-cut red-silk dress and skyscraper black-patent heels.

  “Just be careful, Helen. Keep your wits about you and don’t get into a taxi on your own.”

  Watch yourself crossing the road and wear clean underwear in case of an accident.

  “I’ve something important to tell you, love. Not over the phone though. Will you be home this weekend?”

  “Yes. Is everything okay with you, Mum. Did you check your bloods today?”

  “Yes, I’m fit as a fiddle. We’ll talk when you get back.”

  “Sounds ominous. By the way, if it’s okay, Poppy and Lily will call in this weekend. I think Poppy could do with a little Devine TLC.” Helen could feel her mother’s spirits lift, even from halfway across the world.

  “All right, love, I’ll get some groceries in. Lily’s a grand girl, but she has a healthy appetite. I’d better get going myself. I’ve a lot to do, what with the pictures tonight, and now the supermarket in the morning, as well.”

  Helen knew Mary was already running through the mental shopping list for drop-in visitors.

  “Got to go, Mum. The others are waiting on me. Love you.”

  Helen rejoined Fred and Sarah.

  “You look great, Sarah,” she said.

  Sarah simply said, “Cheers.” She was more interested in the potential suitors in the business lounge than making small talk with her over-the-hill bosses. Although for the life of her she couldn’t figure out how neither of them were killed with jetlag. At their age you’d imagine they’d be curled up in bed by now. Although Helen was definitely full of surprises. Having seen her flirting in the bookshop, she’d realised Helen was straight and probably just an uptight spinster in need of a lay.

  “So, Fred, where to – Long Cock?” Helen asked.

  See, as usual I’m right, Sarah thought.

  “The table is booked for seven forty-five.” He pulled back his shirt cuff. “Which means we should be there now.” He drained the last of his drink, just as the waiter arrived with Sarah’s order. “And Helen – let me talk to the taxi driver.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I know when you say Long Cock, you mean Lan Kwai Fong, but lord only knows where we’ll end up if you give the instructions.”

  Fred guided his design team to the exit.

  Chapter 12

  Jack was woken by Tom’s arrival home. He tried to focus. He’d moved around so much recently he often woke disorientated. The glow of the digital clock beside the bed blinked 19:46.

  “Jack?” Tom gave a soft knock on the bedroom door before popping his head in.

  Ah . . . Hong Kong.

  “Yeah, Tom – hi.” Jack propped himself up on his elbow. “I must have dozed off.”

  “No fish market I take it. Just as well – it’s a smelly old place anyway. Good to see you, boy.” His smile was as broad as his hug.

  Despite living thousands of miles away from any blood relative, Tom loved it when one of them stopped by his town, assuming they didn’t stay too long, that is.

  The hug was followed by a slightly awkward pat on the back.

  “Christ, Jack, you look more like your old man each time I see you. How is my big brother anyway?”

  “Good, as far as I know – I haven’t been home for a while.”

  “Dubai kept you busy, hey! Come on, let’s have a drink and you can tell me what the women wear under those burkas.”

  Jack followed him into the living room.

  “I wouldn’t know. My life for the past nine months has been pretty much work and sleep, with a lot more work than sleep. This place really is amazing.” Jack was looking out of the large window again. Hong Kong Harbour looked even more impressive under a night sky.

  Tom checked his watch. “Remember I told you I wanted to show you something? You’ll see it in precisely four minutes. Bourbon?”

  Jack wasn’t a bourbon drinker. Tom was quick to pick up on the moment’s hesitation.

  “Champagne then – a better choice.” He set about popping the cork.

  “Don’t open a bottle just for me, Tom – a beer is fine.”

  “Nonsense, I love this stuff. It’s not often I get to have it at home.” The cork popped. Not a drop of the golden bubbles escaped.

  “I reckon you share a lot more champagne th
an you’re letting on, Tom.”

  “A gentleman never tells, Jack! Not until a few more drinks, at least. Here – a toast.” Tom handed Jack a crystal flute.

  “To family!” Jack said, raising his glass.

  “To family!”

  They each took a sip.

  “And happy travels!” Tom saluted him, taking a larger mouthful this time.

  “And new adventures!”

  “May the road to your Eastern adventures be lined with more chicks than a Louisiana chicken farm!” Tom promptly drained his glass. “Top-up?”

  Tom went to refill the glasses, leaving Jack staring out the window.

  “Hey, Tom! Is this what you wanted to show me?”

  “Something else, isn’t it?”

  Jack watched as the Hong Kong skyline came alive to a symphony of lights.

  “Every night at eight, the beauty of Hong Kong lights up with the laser show. I’ve seen it countless times – and I’m still awestruck.” Tom handed Jack a fresh glass of champagne and they watched as the stunning illumination, bursting with multicoloured beams, danced above and around the skyscrapers.

  “A belly dancer in a harem, and we’ve got the best seat in the house,” Tom said.

  Jack wondered where Tom got his unusual analogies.

  “Hong Kong really is the New York of Asia,” Jack said, as the show climaxed to its celebration finale.

  “Better than New York!” Tom emptied his glass again, with a quick gulp. Hiccupping, he said, “Okay, let’s rock and roll! Time you experienced Hong Kong, not watched it. New York, get set for some ass-kissing!”

  Chapter 13

  “Now, that’s what I call soakage.” Fred wiped his mouth with a napkin before throwing it on top of his plate. He took an appreciative sip of his full-bodied Bordeaux.

  “Desserts anyone?” his host asked.

  Fred had neglected to mention to Helen and Sarah that they had accepted an invitation to dinner from a French bra supplier, Liselle. They were now making small talk with four European ex-pats living in Hong Kong and working for the well-known French label, whose factories were in Mainland China. It had been a long day.

  Eager to finish the dinner service, to allow the restaurant to make its transformation into a karaoke bar, a waiter removed the last of the dinner plates and replaced them with dessert menus. Fred, who had just finished a sixteen-ounce steak, was contemplating his next course.

  “This looks like it could be a fun place later,” Sarah said, disappointed at the dinner: an offering of burgers, chicken-wings and man-sized steaks.

  The dark interior of the restaurant-cum-bar could have been anywhere in the world. The theme was The Beatles and 60’s music. Everything from the menus to the placemats and even the plates, was fashioned to the image of 33-inch vinyl LPs.

  “Check out the suits.” Helen gave Sarah a subtle nudge on the hip. The two women were wedged together on a red-velour couch. She was referring to a group of businessmen, propped up on barstools close by. Two of the men were Western, two were Asian. They were joined by a couple of petite Chinese women in very short skirts.

  Sarah shrugged and looked at Helen as if to say, so what?

  “I’ll put money the story goes like this. The Asian men are suppliers – the other two are their clients. The Asians generally don’t drink too much. They’ll have brought the clients to a nice restaurant earlier, where the Westerners will have polished off copious amounts of wine, while the suppliers sat and sipped politely on theirs.” Helen paused for effect and then knocked back her own drink. She put her elbows on the table and supported her chin with one hand, leaving the other hand free to discreetly point, emphasising her detective work. “Note how the lads are knocking back beers and shooters while the suppliers are cradling one bottle of beer, creating the illusion that they too are drinking and partying.” She looked at Sarah as if that proved everything.

  Sarah tried to look without being noticed, which was easy enough, as a four-piece band were setting up within feet of their table.

  “Is this another lesson in designer-drinking?”

  “It’s all about patterns, Sarah. Paper ones are just for office hours.”

  “But the girls appear to be knocking back a couple of shots too, so that kind of negates your theory – whatever it is,” Sarah said.

  “Looking at that pair – who can blame them?” Helen made a face, as if she had just whiffed a rotten egg. She would have to spell it out for Sarah. “It’s simple. The Asian men just want to go home. For God’s sake, look at yer man! His eyes are glazing over. And the other one just keeps nodding agreement. The girls are the entertainment – they’re the suppliers’ get-out-of-jail card!”

  Sarah still wasn’t sure what the revelation was.

  Helen went for the jugular. “They’re prostitutes, for heaven’s sake – corporate entertainment for the clients!”

  Sarah’s face slowly registered what Helen was saying. “No way!”

  A look of satisfaction glowed on Helen’s face. “Yes, my girl: dinner, drinks and hookers. Welcome to the world of corporate entertainment.”

  Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I think I prefer the biscotti and truffle-oil hampers the Italian suppliers send us.”

  Helen and Sarah looked to the bar, both pretending to be studying the array of bottles behind the bartender. Both businessmen wore pinstripe suits. The first one was small with a fine bone structure. He had thick-lens glasses, his hair was thin and receding. He talked incessantly, all his attention focused on the scantily clad girl sitting beside him. He was the cat that had got the cream. His colleague also had a girl in pole position.

  The second man’s suit was similar, but he had finished it off with a flamboyant silk tie. He was probably someone from the Inter Textile Trade Fair that was taking place, Helen reckoned. A stocky build made him appear as though he had once played rugby, before après match and family commitments replaced the playing fields. Fat replaced fitness.

  By now, a few other ladies turning tricks had wandered into the bar. These women were more classily dressed and were harder to spot, except for the over-made-up faces and the way their eyes scanned the bar for potential clients.

  “You two are as thick as thieves!” Fred interrupted Helen and Sarah’s reverie. “Anyone for a drink?”

  “Yes, please – I’ll have a shot!” Sarah piped up.

  “Off you go!” Fred gestured towards the bar. “Take your pick of that lot up there.” He cocked his thumb towards the impressive selection of drinks that lined the mirrored wall of the bar.

  Sarah wavered.

  “Put it on the Liselle tab,” Fred added.

  This cheered up Sarah, who swiftly offered drinks for everyone at their table. There were no takers.

  Embarrassed by Fred’s behaviour, Helen smiled at the sales director of Liselle, whose credit card was held behind the bar. Mark, tall and broad as an ox, had a placid manner, which had earned him the nickname of the Gentle Giant. He moved into Sarah’s place. It became a tight squeeze on the couch.

  “Did you say something, Helen?” he asked, leaning his ear towards her in an effort to hear now that the band was belting out cover-tunes.

  “No, I’m just laughing at Fred – he never changes.”

  “He prefers not to move the venue – here in Abbey Road we’ve got food, bar and music, without having to leave our chairs.”

  “Correction. Despite my best efforts I did have to move to make way for the band,” Fred interjected. He pushed the belt of his trousers farther under his stomach, to allow for the swelling that was taking place from the waistline up.

  Sarah tried to make up her mind which drink to pick. She stood beside the businessman with the brightly coloured tie who was chatting up his corporate hooker. The man held up a wallet – an accordion of clear plastic, containing family photos, fell from it.

  “This one is my eldest daughter, Laura – she’s nine – and that’s my son, Charlie – he’s six. Then there’s the baby, Ch
loe – she’s about twenty months now.”

  Maybe Helen had got it wrong, Sarah thought.

  The Asian girl smiled politely and nodded.

  “And that’s my wife. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “You have lovely family,” the girl dutifully replied.

  “Yes, I do. But they’re back in the UK and we, baby, are here!” He squeezed her thigh.

  The girl took a quick glance at her watch. She’d been paid a flat rate to give him sex. The sooner he shut up and took his trousers off, the sooner she’d get home.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked Sarah.

  She was trying to give the businessman a filthy look but he had no eyes for her.

  “A shot of sambuca and a vodka and Coke,” she snapped.

  “Any vodka in particular?”

  “That goose one, whatever it’s called – that’s good, right?”

  “It’s expensive, but yeah – I guess.”

  “I’ll have that one then. Make it a large one.”

  “Anything else?” the barman asked when he’d set down the drinks.

  Sarah picked up the shot and knocked it back. “Yes, put it on the Liselle tab, please.” She glared at the suit and said, quite loudly, “The world is a sad place. People like that – just out to get what they can.” She picked up her drink and walked away.

  The lead singer of the band announced a break. They would be back for a second set, after the karaoke.

  “Would anyone like to start the karaoke with a little Queen?” he called out.

  Unbeknownst to Helen, earlier Fred had had a word in the lead singer’s ear. Helen was set to perform whether she wanted to or not.

  “She’s over here!” Fred shouted, pulling Helen’s arm into the air.

  “A big hand, everyone, for the beautiful Helen Devine, Britain’s top lingerie designer!” the lead singer announced.

  “Come on Helen, we’re up!”

  “Not on your life!” Helen struggled to stay seated. However, the announcement had piqued a lot of male interest and the wolf-whistles and applause gained momentum.