This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  Deflated, I turned away from him and was plunged back into torment. I stared blindly at my screen. I had a full day’s work to do. Even if I could summon the requisite will, how was I going to find time to go to the west of Ireland? I could leave after work but, despite this much-praised Kildare bypass, the journey would take four hours. An eight-hour round trip, and once I got there, God alone knew how long it would take to persuade Lola Daly to spill the beans. Assuming there were beans to be spilled. Assuming she was even there.

  I needed biscuits. Something to fortify me against the forthcoming ordeal. I made my way to the tiny office kitchen, but there was nothing to be had in the whole bloody place. ‘Vultures,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Pigs. Gluttons.’ I pulled open a drawer and spoons rattled indignantly, like I’d woken them from a sleep. Another drawer contained nothing but digestive dust, proof that biscuits had once lived there but were long gone. In the entire kitchen there wasn’t even one meek little marietta. I’d have to go to the shop. I turned and Casey was behind me.

  ‘I don’t mean to brag,’ he said.

  ‘So it’s more like a twitch, then, is it? Or Tourette’s?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve no control over it?’

  He closed his eyes, took a broken breath and said, staring at the wall behind me, ‘I don’t know why I fucking bother.’

  ‘Fucking bother what?’

  ‘I was going to say, I have a friend… with a chopper… says I can use it whenever I want…’

  A chopper? For a moment I thought he meant a bike, the ones with the handlebars. ‘Do you mean a helicopter?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, that would be a big help.’ Then I remembered to add, ‘Thank you.’

  Lola

  Wednesday, 21 January 12.15

  Getting organized. Everything coming together. Final Nkechi shakedown had left me with thirteen clients. Not many, but they were good ones. Even though needed many more ladies, had actually jettisoned some of the more unpleasant and insane ones, sending them Nkechi’s way. Just didn’t have the patience any more.

  Would be returning to simpler, cleaner life in Dublin than one had left behind. Yes, would also be poorer. But would eventually get more work.

  Biggest worry about returning to Dublin was reason had left in first place – Paddy de Courcy. How would I behave when ran into him? And was bound to, Dublin being Dublin. Would there be repeat of the almost-public puking incident? Would I accidentally destroy clothing on shoots?

  No way of knowing.

  12.33

  Helicopter wack-wack-wacked past window, on its way to golf course. No big deal. Choppers always landing on golf course, delivering fat, visor-wearing, rawl-rawl-rawl men for their eighteen holes. Like Vietnam round here.

  But seven to ten minutes later, sudden fearful instinct – cannot describe it as anything other than that – made me leap up, rush to front door, wrench it open and glance out. Horrors! Striding up road, unmistakable figure of Grace Gildee. Purposeful. On unbroken trajectory for Uncle Tom’s cabin. She had me in her sights.

  Why she arriving at Knockavoy in a helicopter?

  The day darkened, like sky had filled up with purple-grey thunderclouds. All light was snuffed out and I was filled with dread.

  Then she saw me, frozen with sick anxiety in the doorway, and gave big cheery wave, as if we were best of friends.

  Not loving her look. Careless hair. Nice honey colour but messy. Could have been from rotors of chopper, but suspected not. Suspected it always that way. Wearing jeans, flat boots, satchel and khaki anorak (perhaps in keeping with Vietnam theme). I could do a lot with her.

  Now she was striding up the boreen, great big smile across her fizzog.

  ‘Lola,’ she said, extending hand. ‘Grace Gildee. Pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘What you want?’ Words emerged hoarse and broken.

  ‘To talk.’

  ‘About Paddy?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  Powerless, I let her.

  12.47

  ‘I know you’re afraid of Paddy.’

  ‘Not. Just because don’t want to do a kiss and tell.’ Pitiful attempt at defiance.

  ‘How often did he hit you?’

  ‘Hit me?’

  ‘I know he hit you because he hits all his girlfriends.’

  ‘Please go away.’

  ‘He beat my sister Marnie to a pulp.’

  ‘Please go away.’

  ‘Alicia Thornton is no doubt black and blue under those Armani suits.’

  ‘Louise Kennedy. Please go away.’

  ‘You think you’re special because he hit you, that he cared so much about you, but you’re wrong.’

  She was wrong. Didn’t think was special. Not any more. Maybe once upon a time had been stupid enough to think that because he hurt me, it indicated strong passion for me.

  ‘Did he do the cigarette thing to you?’ she asked. ‘Stub one out on your hand?’

  Couldn’t hide shock. Was – well – amazed that she knew.

  Opened mouth to deny it but could only manage, ‘– Ah –’

  She grabbed my right hand. There it was, right in the middle of my palm, a small, pink circle, skin shiny and peculiar.

  She gazed at it, her face so radiant and amazed that I wondered about her earlier confidence, when she informed me with such conviction that she knew Paddy hit me. Suspected she’d only been guessing. But it had paid off. Audacious.

  ‘Seems to be his trademark,’ she said. ‘A form of branding.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ (Stupid thing to say when so obviously wasn’t true, but was desperate for none of this to be real.)

  ‘Not lying! How would I know about it?’

  Was silent for long time. Head awhirl. Had thought I was the only one. In the whole world.

  ‘You swear it’s happened to others?’

  ‘Swear.’

  ‘Not committing to anything, Grace Gildee, but what you want from me?’

  ‘Come with some of the other women and have it out with him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s stitching up Dee Rossini and he needs to be stopped. Dee Rossini leader of New Ireland.’

  ‘Know who she is.’ Irritable. She take me for a total know-nothing?

  ‘Will threaten to take story to press if he doesn’t back off.’

  ‘But what’s Dee Rossini to me?’

  ‘Nothing, I guess, except good decent woman who wants best for people. But might make you feel better to have it out with Paddy.’

  ‘How many women are there?’

  ‘Three, at least.’

  Thought about coming face to face with him – actual, real, live Paddy de Courcy – and was gripped by fear so dark and paralysing, made me want to whimper. Once read about a man who’d been locked in a van with three hungry pit-bulls. Possibility of being in a room with Paddy filled me with same kind of terror.

  Ashamed to admit it. ‘I’m scared of him.’

  ‘All the more reason to have it out with him.’

  Easy for her to say. She didn’t even wear lipgloss. She was obviously fearless.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ I whispered. ‘Am so so scared of him it makes me want to… to… Am shaking even thinking about it. Good luck with it. But you must go now.’ Needed to get her out of my house before I imploded.

  ‘In order for evil to succeed,’ she said, ‘all that is necessary is for good people to do nothing.’

  ‘Yes, of course, quite so, good luck.’ Standing up, moving to door, hoping she’d follow.

  She stared into my eyes. ‘There is nothing to fear but fear itself.’

  I stared back into hers. ‘But fear very frightening. Goodbye.’

  Trip down memory lane

  Night of appalling, interminable dinner party at Treese and Vincent’s was first time. After we finally managed to make our escape, we drove away from house in tense silence. Spanish John on night
off and often wondered if it would have happened if he’d been there. Conclusion – maybe it would have. He had to know what Paddy was like.

  Quiet road. Paddy pulled the car over. I – idiotically – thought he was stopping for snog. He turned to me, held my shoulder with one hand, then punched me in the face with the other. Quick and efficient. ‘Don’t ever do that to me again,’ he said.

  Pain was bad. Shock was worse. Almost vomited. But, in way, didn’t blame him. Was horrible night, horrible. Wouldn’t have subjected worst enemy to it.

  Then, almost straight away, he was lovely. ‘Let’s get you home and cleaned up.’ Gave me hanky to soak up stream of blood from nose. In his flat, he located well-stocked First Aid box, tenderly wiped away my blood, applied antiseptic to burst lip. ‘This is going to hurt.’

  ‘You should have said that before you punched me,’ I said.

  He was stricken. ‘I’m sorry, Lola. I’m so sorry. Don’t know what came over me. Just stress, such stressy job, night out, wanted to relax, that wanker Vincent goading me, I just snapped.’ Put palms of his hands on his cheeks and pulled face downwards. Groaned. ‘God Almighty. I can’t believe I hit you, my lovely Lola, my little flower. God, how could I? I’m an animal, a fucking animal.’ Getting progressively more worked up. Looked at me with desperate eyes. ‘Please forgive me, Lola, I’m begging you. I swear to you it’ll never happen again. On my mother’s memory, it’ll never happen again. Can you forgive me?’

  Of course I forgave him. Everyone entitled to make one mistake. He was so distraught I thought, God, he really loves me.

  No kinky sex that night. Fell asleep in each other’s arms. Well, he fell asleep. I was awake most of night because every snuffly breath I took through my punched nose felt like inhaling razors.

  Next day, he sent two hundred white roses to my flat. Didn’t have enough vases to house them all. Had to use saucepans, wastepaper bin, empty wine bottles. Like the evacuation of Dunkirk.

  The next time was different. He opened his front door to let me into his flat and suddenly I was tumbling against the walls, crashing into the cupboard in the hall and cracking my skull against the hardwood floor. Actually saw stars, a big burst inside my head, like fireworks.

  Lay on floor for a time, stunned and incapable, Paddy standing above me, breathing like a bull. The cupboard had toppled over and everything – books, keys, all kinds of stuff – had spilled out of it.

  Paddy helped me up – my head was ringing like church bells on a wedding day – and led me through cupboard debris into living room. Began shouting, ‘Lola, don’t fucking interfere with my SkyPlus settings.’

  ‘What?’ Hardly knew where I was. ‘Didn’t.’

  ‘You did. Had it set to record me on PrimeTime and you cancelled it.’

  ‘Paddy, didn’t touch it.’ Something was dripping down the side of my face. Blood. Must have cut myself. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Jealousy. You resent time I have to devote to work.’

  Was true, as it happened, but hadn’t touched his SkyPlus. Held my sleeve against my cheek to soak up blood. Bones hurting. Especially shoulder. ‘Maybe you forgot to set it, Paddy.’

  ‘Forgot! Is important! How would I forget?’ Very, very angry.

  ‘You pushed me!’ I said, sort of just realizing what had happened.

  ‘I what? You fell! Christ, this is all I need. You fuck up my recording, then start accusing me of stuff! You fell! Okay? You fell!’

  Unexpectedly the downstairs doorbell rang. ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ Paddy demanded. Out into the hall, quick conversation on the intercom, then he was back in the room, more enraged than I had ever before seen him. ‘It’s the police.’

  The police!

  ‘You fucking stay in here,’ he hissed.

  Next thing he was out in the hall, opening the door. ‘Hello, officers, what can I do for you?’ Nice as pie.

  Deep pompous-bogger voice said, ‘Neighbours reported a disturbance.’

  ‘What neighbours?’

  ‘Anonymous call. May we come in?’

  Thought Paddy would get rid of them. Charming, persuasive, good at that sort of thing. So couldn’t believe it when two peelers sidled into the room. A man and a woman. Uniforms, fluorescence, terrible, terrible shoes.

  They looked at me. ‘You like to tell us what’s going on?’

  The woman was kindly. ‘What’s your name? Lola? What happened to your face, Lola?’

  Paddy loomed behind them and said, ‘Officers, can my friend and I have a moment alone?’

  The two peelers gave each other a look.

  ‘Please,’ Paddy said, with air of great authority.

  The two peelers gave each other another look. Female peeler shook her head softly but male peeler said, ‘Okay, one minute only.’ Female peeler glared at male peeler, then she sighed and they backed out from room.

  Through rigid jaw and with eyes alight with fury, Paddy said, ‘Now look at what you’ve done.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You have any idea how serious this is? You say a single word to either of them and I’ll be arrested.’

  Arrested!

  ‘I’ll be up in court. It’ll be all over the papers. I’ll be sent to prison.’

  Prison! Prison! I couldn’t send him to prison. This was the man I loved.

  But he had pushed me…

  If it hadn’t happened to me, if it had happened to some woman and I’d heard her on the radio or whatever, I would have thought, Why didn’t she tell the peelers? Why did she just let her boyfriend hit her a clatter whenever he felt like it?

  But when you’re in the middle of it, there’s a world of difference. I loved Paddy.

  Sometimes – often, yes, often, in fact nearly always – he was lovely to me and the idea of me getting him arrested was… actually… inconceivable. Like him being abducted by aliens. People like me did not get our boyfriends arrested. It was so far outside what was normal in my life that I simply couldn’t imagine it.

  Up to me to convince him to stop. Not to involve the police.

  Paddy stepped forward, picked up my hand and kissed it. Laid his forehead on it and whispered, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I won’t say anything,’ I said. ‘But you must promise you will never do this to me again.’

  Kissed my hand again. ‘I promise,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I promise, I promise. I’m so, so sorry. This job so stressful. Little Lola, you don’t deserve this. Will never, ever do it again, I swear on all I hold dear, if you’ll only forgive me. I couldn’t bear to lose you.’

  ‘On your last chance, Paddy,’ I said. ‘Touch me again and I’m gone.’

  The peelers were permitted to re-enter the room and Paddy gave them a smooth story about me up on a chair, trying to reach something on top shelf of hall cupboard, when I slipped, fell off and landed on my face, bringing cupboard down with me.

  They knew we were lying. Male peeler cheery enough. ‘We’ll leave yiz to it, so.’ But woman peeler concerned. Kindly eyes. Reluctant to go.

  Next day several hundred more flowers arrived at my flat. Neighbours complaining of smell.

  Was adamant in own head that would break it off with Paddy if he did another violent thing to me, but next time was when was sick with flu and he’d insisted on having sex. Because I was always game for kinkiness, decided wasn’t his fault for thinking not even a bout of flu would put me off.

  The time after that – the cigarette incident – was even more confusing. Of all the things that happened while I was with Paddy, that was the one that made me most doubt my sanity. How could anyone mistake a human hand for an ashtray? How likely was it?

  But he was so insistent that it was an accident that I half believed him.

  Next time, however, there was no doubt. I was waiting in his apartment for him to finish session in Dail. When heard his key in door, I just knew I was for it. ‘Where are you?’ he shouted, striding through flat. Found me in the bedroom, pulled me out of bed and
threw me against the wall. I slid to the ground and he kicked me in my stomach. I vomited from force of it.

  Discovered later that a bill proposed by New Ireland had been defeated in Dail. Hadn’t been aware that they were putting it forward. Should have known. My duty to know. This time no flowers. Next time no flowers either.

  Worried and worried and worried about situation. Contemplated talking to someone, Bridie, perhaps. But – mad, I know – felt disloyal telling someone else about Paddy. Needed to protect him. He was complex man with abnormally stressful job.

  Bridie would insist I broke up with him and I wasn’t ready for that. Everything simple in Bridie World – man hits you, you walk. But situation was complicated. I loved him and he loved me. Surely we could address the issues, try to fix them?

  I had to take some responsibility for what was happening – takes two to tango. Needed to be more supportive of his work. Yes, it bored me, but was my duty to help him.

  Also was ashamed, so deeply ashamed of being hit and of staying with him, that the words wouldn’t let themselves be said.

  Then everything was lovely again. Relief, relief, oh merciful relief. Paddy adoring, tender, smiling. Sex, dinners, presents, weekend in Cannes, shopping, more presents, all of them kinky, champagne, sex. With Russian prostitute, admittedly. Threesome. Back home to Ireland. All well. New Ireland lost by-election. No one got hit. Everything back on track. We’d lost our way briefly, but was all in the past. Moving on, no need to tell anyone anything. Was elated.

  One night we were having sex. Paddy was groaning, moving me up and down on him. Suddenly he stopped. He was looking at the point of contact. ‘You have your period?’

  Hadn’t known. It had come early. And so what?

  ‘Dirty bitch.’ He punched me in my throat. Couldn’t breathe for so long, I blacked out and it hurt to swallow for a full two weeks afterwards.

  He was right, though – it was gross.

  That incident was first in new phase when he began hurting me again, more frequently than in past. No longer considered leaving him or confiding in Bridie or Treese. I had changed. My indignation had died and the time when I was strong enough to leave him had passed.