This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  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.

  19.57

  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. Extremely 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.

  21.59

  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.

  0.57

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

  1.01

  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.

  Saturday, 6 September 8.01

  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.

  13.10

  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.)

  20.10

  DVD shop

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

  Sunday, 7 September

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.

  14.38

  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.

  Trip down memory lane

  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, sympatheticish. 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:

  1) Had been waxed to kingdom come. Only hair on body below waist was small square on pubic bone reminiscent of Adolf

  Hitler’s moustache.

  2) Pink lighting flattering.

  3) Didn’t want to seem like prude.

  4) Was undeniably excited. Conflicted but excited.

  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, wo
uldn’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.