This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  Fecking men! Just when you think they’re opening up to you!

  Decided to go back to sleep.

  15.10

  BEE-BEEP BEE-BEEP. Text noise woke me. Groped for phone. Message from Considine.

  Walk on beach? Kill or cure?

  Novel notion – painkillers, flat Coke, expensive crisps, couch and duvet the normal person’s response to hangover. Nevertheless, replied:

  Y de hell not? Cu20 mins ure gate.

  15.30

  There he was, in serious-looking fleece and stampy-style boots. Hair uncombed, as if he’d just tumbled out of bed, and pale, oh yes, really quite pale. As soon as saw him and his pale-green fizzog, I was seized by paralysing mirth. Forward propulsion halted by it.

  He too was in grip of spasm of hilarity so powerful he was clutching his sides. When – eventually – able to speak, he called, ‘How you feel, Lola Daly?’

  ‘Rough as badger’s arse, Rossa Considine. You?’

  ‘Rough as badger’s arse.’

  One of those hangovers where everything seems funny.

  16.27

  Walk over, thanks be to cripes.

  ‘Feeling miles better,’ Considine said happily. ‘You?’

  ‘No. Have pain in ear from wind and nothing will fix hangover except glass of Fanta and plate of chips.’

  ‘The Oak?’

  ‘Why we not try somewhere different?’ Wanted to save him from own macho posturing, insisting by his very presence in the Oak that he didn’t mind at all, at all, that his girlfriend had left him for Osama. ‘The Hole in One?’

  ‘Would rather set my face on fire.’

  17.03

  The Oak

  On second Fanta. Plate of chips in front of me. Planned to have cheesecake of day (strawberry) next.

  Considine’s phone beeped.

  ‘Text from Gillian,’ he said. ‘Checking I haven’t topped myself.’

  I guilt-flinched. Will it happen every time Gillian Kilbert is mentioned, till the end of my days?

  Considine noticed. ‘What’s up?’

  Had to ask. Needed to know. Made self ask question, like squeezing icing out of cone-shaped force bag. ‘… Did you… and Gillian… split up because of… that business with Chloe and me just before Christmas?’

  ‘No. Keep telling you. Has been dead on its feet for the last Christ knows how long.’

  ‘Did Gillian ever… say anything about me?’

  ‘No,’ he said, but hesitation was there.

  ‘She did!’ I cried. ‘She did! Tell me.’

  ‘What? So you can feel even more guilty?’

  ‘Just tell me, Considine.’

  ‘She said, you know that day of the plunger? That there was… tension, like sexual tension, between us.’

  What? Gillian Kilbert, cheeky bitch! ‘Thinking she can deflect attention from her own adulterous liaison by accusing you and me of tension of a sexual nature!’ I said. ‘Don’t mean to kick a man when he’s down, Considine, but don’t fancy you.’

  ‘She didn’t mean that,’ Considine said patiently. ‘Obviously she was talking about buzz between you and Chloe.’

  ‘But what Gillian base her statement on? Cripes alive, you didn’t tell her about the snog, did you?’ Hid my eyes with my hands.

  ‘No. Especially considering it hadn’t even happened on plunger day.’ He was laughing. ‘She said we were sarcastic to each other.’

  ‘What you say to that?’

  ‘That we were sarcastic to each other because didn’t really like each other. Most obvious solution is usually the correct one.’

  Grace

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Damien said.

  I went cold all over.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said.

  Christ alive. This was supposed to have been a lovely, romantic evening. I’d flown back from London this morning – I’d been there for ages, since Thursday, since Marnie made an alarmingly mad-in-the-head phone call – and Damien had insisted on cancelling his Monday-night poker game, so we could have some rare time together.

  But even though I’d lit my precious Jasmine candle and we’d knocked back a bottle ofred, the romance hadn’t really kicked in. I was too tired and, as the couch was broken, I was in the only armchair and Damien was bolt upright on a hard kitchen chair.

  By mutual unacknowledged consent, we’d eventually given up on conversation and turned on the telly. There was a documentary on about incredibly violent gangs in Brazilian prisons – the sort of thing we usually relished – but neither of us was paying attention to it.

  I was thinking about Marnie, how she seemed to be getting worse, how she had started being a bit peculiar even when she was sober. I couldn’t shake this awful feeling that things were coming to a head.

  Damien too was locked in his thoughts, obviously going through stuff, analysing, sorting and – it must have been because I was so knackered – instead of peppering him with questions like I usually would, I let him do it in peace.

  ‘Grace, I’ve to tell you something,’ he repeated. It sounded like he’d arrived at some sort of a decision and suddenly I was so frightened.

  Was this really happening?

  I realized I’d been waiting for this, without even knowing consciously that I had.

  When I’d let myselfinto the house this evening, I’d thought I felt that strange presence again. It was hard to know for certain, because I’d been flat-out looking for it. I’d wandered from room to room, flip-flopping between thinking, Maybe yes, Maybe no. Unable to decide if something, someone, had been here over the weekend. Someone who shouldn’t have been.

  Now Damien was going to tell me and the fear, I can’t tell you. I was suddenly drenched in sweat.

  ‘Is it…’ My voice was croaky and I cleared my throat. ‘It’s Juno?’

  ‘What?’ Damien frowned. ‘Juno? No.’

  It wasn’t Juno?

  But then what was it? Who was it?

  I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to feel any more afraid than I had twenty seconds previously, but there we are. I did.

  ‘I found out by accident…’ Damien said.

  Found out what?

  ‘But now that I know…’

  Know what?

  ‘It’s about Dee.’

  I was so surprised I couldn’t speak for a few moments. ‘Dee Rossini?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re putting a story together at work. Apparently she’s been harbouring illegals.’

  ‘Oh–’ I knew it was true. I’d seen it myself. But I couldn’t find the words. I was still in the fear.

  ‘They’re going massive on it,’ Damien said. ‘Ifit comes off, she’ll never come back from it.’

  I stared into his eyes searching for… what? A second layer of truths? The stuff he hadn’t said?

  ‘That’s it?’ I said. ‘That’s all you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘I’ve taken the risk of my career telling you th – Why? What did you think I was going to say?’

  ‘… Nothing…’

  ‘Not Juno?’ he said in exasperation. ‘Not still? Didn’t I say that I wouldn’t see her?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

  ‘I don’t know why you think I would ever get involved with her.’

  ‘I know you love me –’

  ‘Yes, I love you, of course I love you. But even ifI didn’t, after what Juno did to me?’ His voice was high with frustration. ‘You know I’d never trust her again.’

  He glared at me and I glared at him, then we both began to laugh.

  ‘Do you want to hear this or don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He set it all out for me. His paper, the Press, had a source who’d come with a story that Dee Rossini was part of a small, clandestine circle who were helping young women, mostly Moldovans, who had entered Ireland illegally. The women were living as slaves, were beaten, starved and pimped by the men who’d brought them into the country, but obviously they couldn’t look fo
r help from the legal system because legally they didn’t exist.

  ‘So Dee and her merry band of do-gooders are helping them. The women get access to a doctor, they get new documents, they stay with one of the do-gooders until it’s safe.’

  ‘Then they go home?’

  That wouldn’t be so bad: if Dee was helping illegals to leave Ireland.

  Damien shook his head. ‘They don’t send them home because apparently it’s just as bad there as it is here. They try to fix them up with live-in employment, as a nanny, that sort of thing. Some of the women they send to the UK. Which will do wonders for Irish-British relations,’ he said wearily. ‘An Irish government minister facilitating the entry of illegals into Britain. I’m fond of Dee, very fond. She’s a true idealist. But sometimes…’

  ‘Who’s putting the story together?’

  ‘Current affairs. Angus Sprott and Charlie Haslett. It’s Code Black.’

  ‘You have codes? You’re all so macho in there in the Press. So how did you find out?’

  ‘Charlie hacked into my files. I wondered why he couldn’t have just asked me for whatever he needed. The obvious conclusion was that he was working on something dodgy.’ He shrugged. ‘How could I resist?’

  ‘It can’t be that Code Black, then, ifyou were able to just hack into the file.’

  ‘His new baby is teething. He isn’t getting much sleep. I guess he forgot to secure it.’

  ‘How far advanced are they? When are they planning to run the story?’

  ‘As soon as they’ve got pictures.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘The next time one of the women is spirited into Dee’s house. Photographers are watching the place twenty-four-seven.’

  I was shocked. Dee under constant surveillance? Like a terrorist?

  The question that always cropped up whenever Dee was in trouble, cropped up again. ‘Who’s doing this? Like, any idea who the source is?’

  ‘The source?’

  ‘Right. I know.’ The identity of sources was never revealed because then – duh! – they wouldn’t be sources any more. ‘Keep your knickers on.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Anyway, the Chrisps have to be behind it because it’ll knock out not just Dee but the entire New Ireland party. There are rumours that a general election will be called soon. Probably in March. Like last time, the Nappies won’t win enough seats to form a government on their own. But if New Ireland is in disarray, they won’t have a coalition partner – leaving the way clear for the Chrisps.’

  ‘Damien, I’ve got to tell Dee.’

  ‘Why do you think I told you?’

  ‘But ifanyone finds out it came from you…’

  He’d lose his job.

  He paused. ‘I’ve thought about it. Let’s take that chance.’

  ‘Damien, you’re… you’re very good.’

  ‘Dee, who knows about it?’

  I’d managed to get her early in the morning, before work, in her office in Leinster House, and I made her sit down then I told her what Damien had told me. The blood receded from her beautiful face and she became waxy and immobile. ‘How…?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you. Who knows about it?’

  She undid her topknot and ran her fingers through her loose corkscrew hair, then she rounded it all up again, bringing stray springy strands into the fold, and twisted it back onto her head, even tighter than before.

  Finally she spoke. ‘Only the girls themselves. And a handful of other people. But there’re so few of us and we all want the same thing…’ She suddenly focused on me. ‘And you know, Grace, but as you’re here warning me, I presume it’s not you.’

  ‘What about the other people? Damien said there’s a doctor? And a person who does documents? Could it be one of them?’

  ‘They’ve got as much to lose as me.’

  ‘Who could have accidentally found out? Who comes to your house? Have you a boyfriend?’

  She shook her head sharply.

  ‘You said that to me before and you did have one.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that but I really don’t have one now.’

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘She lives in Milan.’

  ‘A cleaner?’

  ‘You’ve been to my house. Does it look like I’ve a cleaner?’

  ‘Friends? You have friends over for strange-looking pasta. You had Damien and me.’

  She placed her palms flat on her desk. (Again, very attractive nail polish. A type of dull heather shade. As was the case with all Dee’s nail varnishes, it was nicer than it sounds.) ‘Look, Grace, this is how it works. It’s planned. Helping a girl get away isn’t easy and the window of opportunity is quite specific. I always have advance notice, usually a few days, when a girl is coming. So I clear the decks. Make sure no one else will be in the house at the same time.’

  ‘But Elena –’

  ‘Elena was an emergency. They don’t happen often.’

  ‘The fact is, Dee, that someone knows and someone has told.’

  ‘They’re only children, you know,’ she said sadly. ‘Young girls. You wouldn’t believe the appalling things that are done to them. They’re raped, starved, beaten, their bones are broken, cigarettes are stubbed out in their vaginas –’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘I couldn’t not help them.’

  ‘Dee, I’m on your side, but you’re breaking the law! I’m not saying it’s not a cruel law but you’re a government minister. Ifyou don’t want to lose your job and your career and your political party – and you will ifthis comes out – you’d better find out who’s behind this. And find out quickly because the Press are keen to run the story.’

  ‘It’s got to be Bangers Brady and his Christian Progressives.’

  ‘That’s the obvious conclusion. But who in the Christian Progressives?’

  ‘They’re a big party. It could be any number of them.’

  ‘No, Dee, you have to focus. Someone has it in for you.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Every day of my life I know that lots of someones have it in for me.’

  ‘What I mean is, Dee, you’re so used to being pilloried from all quarters that you’ve forgotten that terrible things don’t happen simply because of random forces of evil swilling around in the ether, but that terrible things happen because individual human beings make them happen.’

  I thought it was a very good speech actually. I wondered ifshe was impressed.

  She looked like she was fighting back a smile. And this was no smiling matter! Briefly I had a spy-film, betrayal-all-around, no-one-can-be-trusted moment when I wondered if Dee herselfwas the source. It was like seeing double, but in your brain.

  ‘Dee?’

  ‘Grace, I’m not laughing. I’m very grateful. I’ll go through everything I have, I’ll talk to the others, I’ll find out who’s done this.’

  ‘Dee, you need to find out fast and get them to stop the story. And in the meantime you can’t have anyone – any of the girls – showing up at your house. Once the Press have photos, they’re running the story.’

  ‘Morning, morning, morning, morning, morning,’ I greeted TC, Lorraine, Clare, Tara and – yes – even Joanne.

  ‘Still freezing out there?’ TC was keen to moan about life in general and usually he would find a willing accomplice in me.

  ‘Still freezing,’ I replied briskly, scanning the deluge of press releases in my mailbox. Without wasting time wondering ifthey were good or bad, I picked out five possible stories to pitch to Jacinta whenever she came in, then, watched with extreme suspicion by TC, I began to write names in a random fashion on my jotter: Dee Rossini; Toria Rossini; Bangers Brady; Toria Rossini’s husband, whatever his name was; Christopher Holland; Me; Damien; Paddy de Courcy; Sidney Brolly; Angus Sprott; Scott Holmes, the journalist who’d done the horrible piece with Christopher Holland.

  Anyone I could think of who had been connected with Dee over the past six months, I scattered their names around the page.r />
  ‘What are you up to?’ TC asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ I shielded the page with my arm.

  I was doing something that I’d read of detectives in Val McDermid novels doing: they write down everything they know about a case, including all the confusing loose ends, and they look for a pattern or a connection. But maybe it doesn’t happen in real life. Maybe real detectives can’t break into houses with a credit card either. Maybe real detectives in Hawaii never say, ‘Book him, Danno.’

  But I didn’t know any other way. I bounced my pen off my page. Who else? Dee’s ex-husband, of course. As I sightlessly scanned the office, seeking inspiration, David Thornberry unfolded himself from his desk and grabbed his cigarettes. There’s another one, I thought, and scribbled his name down. He’d had an exclusive on ‘Dee’s daughter’s unpaid wedding scandal’, which Big Daddy hadn’t let him go with. While I was about it, I wrote down Coleman Brien’s name too.

  Then I scribbled a series of questions, scattering them around the page, trying not to overthink them. ‘Who painted Dee’s house?’ ‘Where was her daughter’s wedding held?’ ‘Who recommended the hotel?’ ‘Where did Dee meet Christopher Holland?’ ‘Who was his previous girlfriend?’ ‘Who was Dee’s previous boyfriend?’ ‘Who told Dee about the Moldovan girls?’ ‘Who did the documents for them?’ ‘Did they know someone in the Chrisps?’ ‘Did they know Christopher Holland?’

  The page was pretty full. Maybe I was going to have to go to the stationery cupboard for a bundle of index cards and write stuff on them, then fling them around the floor to see what story unfolded in the formation they landed in. But maybe real detectives don’t do that either.

  I stared at the page, dense with writing. Assuming I’d included everything that was relevant – and Christ alone knew whether I had or hadn’t – somewhere in there was a connection which should hint at the person or persons who were gunning for Dee.

  I drew arrows, connecting names to statements, trying to stay open-minded, trying to let a different energy guide me.

  But I don’t believe in energy. I don’t believe in intuition. I don’t believe in hunches.