Belfast Girls

by Gerry McCullough

  “There’s Bloomfields. I hope they’re going to be a big client of Delmara Fashions ... That’s Broadway ... We’re about to pass Central Park ... And this is the Hilton,” he concluded. “Where in future years they will be putting up a plaque to say, ‘Sheila Doherty slept here on her first visit to New York, November 2006.’”

  Sheila laughed.

  The taxi – or she supposed she should call it a cab, over here – stopped. Yes, they were at the Hilton. A very tall, impressive looking building, with a luxurious lobby, thickly carpeted and gleaming with glass and polished metal.

  “We have a press conference scheduled for eleven tomorrow morning,” Francis told Sheila as they shot upwards in the elevator. “Get a good sleep now. I want you looking your best. Just make sure you wake up in time – remember your body clock will be working hard to confuse you. Actually, you’re more likely to wake up too early. New York is five hours behind Ireland. Have you changed your watch? Well, do it now, before you forget.”

  “I slept on the plane,” Sheila reminded him. “In a way, I feel partly as if I’d had my night’s sleep already and partly as if I’d missed a night. But I’m so tired now, I’ll certainly sleep.”

  “Ask for an alarm call,” Francis advised her. “We can’t afford to miss this press conference. Publicity is crucial, beautiful.”

  As always when discussing business, Francis sounded concise and efficient, very different from his usual persona. As a rule this made Sheila laugh inside, but tonight she was too tired for more than a weak private grin.

  The room, with its en suite bathroom, was to Sheila’s eyes the height of luxury. Furnished in a peaches and cream colour scheme, with thick carpet, rugs, colour television and a mini fridge stocked with a range of little bottles, it made Sheila feel rich and pampered. She sank down on the enormous soft bed, then bounced up again. A bath, to get rid of the hot, sticky effect of her long journey would be both useful and pleasurable.

  The bathroom, with cream coloured fittings and cream towels and bathrobe provided, was a match in luxury for the rest. There was even a telephone extension on a little table within arm’s reach of the bath and the loo.

  Pouring in enough liquid bath foam to provide a host of bubbles, Sheila lay back and luxuriated. In fact, she had almost drifted off to sleep when the telephone’s gentle buzz by her ear brought her back to herself.

  It was Francis.

  “I almost forgot to mention, beautiful. Look out for Harrington Smith tomorrow. From the New York News. He’s a real hell hound when it comes to digging out the dirt. Let me do the talking and keep your beautiful mouth shut, right?”

  “There isn’t any dirt for him to dig,” Sheila said indignantly.

  “You’d be surprised! These boys will invent it if they can’t find it,” Francis said. “But don’t worry, they’ll have enough of a story without that just at first. Beautiful Irish model, etc. Just so long as nothing you say sets them off on another tack. So the best way is to say as little as possible, got it?”

  “Okay, Francis.” Sheila was not pleased but the habit of agreement with Delmara was strong. And if he was right, it would be bad to start some speculation in this Harrington Smith’s mind and have him make up a story about some non-existent scandal.

  “Chrissie will call in about ten to make sure you’re looking right,” Francis said, although that had already been arranged. “And you’ll wear the green micro skirt, okay?”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  “Goodnight, beautiful, sweet dreams.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Francis must be more nervous than she had realised, Sheila thought, steeping out of the shower next morning and drying herself in a leisurely fashion. It wasn’t like him to repeat instructions.

  Harrington Smith, who Sheila had imagined as big and burly, turned out to be a slight, innocent looking young man with large brown eyes and long fluttering lashes. He had fair, curly hair which he wore fashionably short and an eager, friendly manner of questioning.

  Sheila felt that if Delmara had not warned her, she would have answered all his questions trustingly and possibly given him material to twist.

  As it was, she said very little and allowed Delmara to give most of the answers.

  The press conference took place in one of the hotel function rooms hired by Delmara for the purpose.

  Sheila derived some quiet amusement from the duel of wits which took place between Francis Delmara and the journalists.

  Delmara was determined to keep the focus of interest as much as possible on Delmara Fashions, while playing up Sheila’s beauty and popularity as a means of attracting more publicity for his creations, while the journalists’ aim was to provide a lively story about Sheila’s personal life.

  Many of the questions dealt with the now famous picture of Sheila by Sebastian O’Rourke, others with her relationship with Pat Fitzwilliam.

  “Is it true that O’Rourke wanted to paint you in the nude?”asked Harrington Smith.

  “No,” said Sheila briefly, wondering how he could possibly know that the subject had even been raised.

  “Tell us about Pat Fitzwilliam. Is it true that you and he spent a weekend together in a single room cottage in the Wicklow Hills?”

  “No,” said Sheila again. “Pat is a good friend of mine – nothing else.”

  Francis coughed warningly and began to talk about Delmara Fashions.

  “You see, gentlemen, that Sheila Doherty is wearing one of our most attractive micro skirts – the newest of the new in looks. After the mini, the micro.”

  “What next – the belt?” sang out someone from the back of the crowd amid laughter.

  A number of cameras clicked and Sheila automatically took up a suitable pose. She had had some experience by now of posing for the press, but these Americans were louder and pushier than their Irish or English equivalent.

  “Show us your legs, Sheila!” seemed to be the universal cry. Sheila was beginning to feel angry. She raised her chin and stared straight at the photographers without any attempt at a smile, her green eyes flashing. For some reason, this seemed to have an effect. A note of respect crept back into the comments. But Sheila felt relieved when it was all over.

  “Francis, I don’t want any more of that sort of thing,” she said firmly when the press had gone. “I don’t see that it will help your public image either if the present attitude to your models is to assume that I’m a tart!”

  “Americans are like that, beautiful,” Delmara said, shrugging. “I think you got much more respectful treatment than most people, up to and including the Royal Family.”

  Sheila frowned, not convinced. “Wearing the micro skirt was a mistake,” she said. “If I hadn’t been showing my legs, they would have had less excuse.”

  Delmara laughed. “But such lovely legs, darling! It would be a crime not to show them.”

  Sheila laughed too, but reluctantly. She was not looking forward to reading what the press had to say about her.

  But when it came, it was a pleasant surprise.

  Beautiful Sheila, the latest Irish Explosion!

  and

  Top of the morning to the top of models!

  were typical of the headlines in most papers, above large pictures of Sheila which mainly featured her long, slim legs.

  Only the New York News took a different line. Under Harrington Smith’s by-line was a photo which focussed on Sheila’s face, side by side with a reproduction of O’Rourke’s picture of her, and the headline read,

  Ice Maiden knocks them cold!

  The story presented Sheila as beautiful but out of reach, an object of desire who was herself distant and untouchable.

  It was the way Sebastian O’Rourke had painted her and Harrington Smith must have based his approach on this. The text spoke of the broken hearts littering Sheila’s path, featuring O’Rourke and Pat Fitzwilliam in particular, while hinting at many more.

  Sheila was not sure whether to be pleased or angry but Delm
ara was delighted.

  “Image, Sheila. Publicity is all image. The public will see you as distant, unapproachable, desirable. So they will think of Delmara fashions in the same way and they’ll flock to buy them. Just wait and see.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The first show, on the following night, proved the truth of his words.

  The hired function room at the Hilton was crowded, and by the rich and fashionable people whom Delmara needed as his clients.

  The show was a resounding success.

  Delmara was particularly pleased that he had been approached by several of the most upmarket stores who wanted him to supply them with his exclusive range. One store in particular, Dixie’s, wanted him to let them carry not only his originals but also a more middle market range of similar styles.

  “I’ll need to give it some thought,” he told Sheila. “The attraction for the rich who are my normal clients is in the individuality of my designs. They don’t want to see an off-the-peg copy for sale. But a new range with the same style but not exactly the same designs – I think it might work. I’ll think about it.”

  He had also, to his satisfaction, sold quite a number of frocks and outfits on the first night, mostly to the sort of clients he wanted.

  These people would wear his clothes to fashionable venues where the Top Four Hundred, and the newer arrivals whose celebrity status gave them the entrée, met and partied.

  Delmara Fashions would become even better known as a result.

  “It’s all a matter of getting your name known,” Delmara said to Sheila as they drove in his hired car through Central Park. “Once people have heard of you, the battle’s nearly won. All you have to do then is come up to their expectations. That’s the easy part!”

  It was a crisp winter day with a hint of snow in the air, and already the shops were full of Christmas. In spite of the snow, there was enough warmth in the air for Francis to have put the hood down and the fresh breeze blew pleasantly round their faces, sending Sheila’s red gold curls, caught back in a silk scarf, fluttering in all directions.

  Central Park looked like fairyland. On all sides the trees were decorated with snow. It made Sheila feel excited and expectant and perhaps that was why she smiled at Delmara so warmly.

  Whatever the reason, it was a mistake.

  Delmara pulled the car up abruptly under a fir tree and ran one hand with its long delicate fingers through the black hair which was falling forward over his face.

  “We’ll stay here for another month,” Delmara said. “That will give me a chance to get really established with the people who matter. Then we’ll go home, and you can take the rest of December and early January off. You’ve been working for me for over a year now, time for a little break, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll be able to spend Christmas with my family,” Sheila said with satisfaction. “Good. Thanks, Francis.”

  “Then, in January,” Delmara went on, “I want to make a big impact on the local scene. With Dublin, Paris and New York on our track record, the local customers will come running. There’s nothing impresses the Irish like a success somewhere else.”

  Sheila smiled. She knew this was true.

  “I’ve had shows before in Belfast,” Delmara went on, “but on a fairly small scale. Two years ago, when I was starting out. Now we’re moving into the big time. I want to take somewhere really flashy in the centre of the city and give it maximum publicity. I’ll aim to have all the media folks there and as many of the wealthy and well known as possible. They’ll come out of curiosity.

  “I’ll get the Telegraph to do a main feature a week before the show, emphasising the success in Dublin and New York, with lots of photos of you and the clothes. That, and the offer of free food and drink will bring most of them. The rest – well, I have a few contacts. I’ll work them for all they’re worth.”

  “Where are you thinking of booking?” asked Sheila. “There aren’t too many possibilities.”

  “No,” agreed Delmara. “There’s the King’s Hall, of course. But I don’t think it has exactly the right ambiance. No, on the whole, I think there’s probably only one really suitable place. I just hope we can get it. The Magnifico. And sometime near the end of January, I think. Perhaps the 21st.”

  He sounded vague, as if his mind was wandering to other things. Sheila looked at him in surprise. Why was he getting so side-tracked? He was really quite a sweet person, she thought. She’d always liked him. She smiled encouragingly, meaning only to show friendliness.

  “Sheila,” he said suddenly, turning to look at her. “Hell, you’re beautiful.”

  He leant over to her, put his arms round her and began to kiss her.

  As always when Francis kissed her, Sheila experienced a floating sensation, and only wanted it to go on.

  But this time something dragged her back sharply to reality almost at once.

  She pulled back.

  “Francis,” she said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Francis, listen! We can’t do this. How can we have a business relationship that works, if we’re – well, lovers? It wouldn’t work, Francis. You know that!”

  Francis still looked miles away.

  Then suddenly he laughed.

  He snapped back to his Delmara persona.

  “Sheila, you are so right! You shouldn’t be so beautiful, darling. Good for business, of course – but a man can’t always have a cool business head!”

  Sheila smiled gratefully but not quite so invitingly as before.

  “It’s worked for us up to now. Let’s just forget the last ten minutes, shall we?” she suggested.

  “Easier said than done,” smiled Delmara ruefully. “But certainly wise. Okay, it didn’t happen. If you had wanted it, I think we could have worked something out. But clearly you don’t. All for the best, I daresay.”

  He gazed out through the windscreen for a few moments. Then he looked back, laughed, sat up, and said, “At least this time I didn’t end up soaking wet.” He opened the car door, stepped out and lit a cigarette, looking up at the branches of the tree above them.

  With a soft sigh, the branch trembled and, with an inappropriate grace, bent slightly in the warm breeze and slid its considerable load of snow gently down onto Delmara’s upturned face.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The shot rang out, cutting through the still, frosty December air. O’Brien lowered his revolver and walked over to inspect the target. Right in the gold. His hard, impassive face showed no particular pleasure. He removed the half smoked cigar from his mouth and examined its tip before tapping the ash carefully into the ashtray set at waist height on a beautifully engraved brass stand by his side.

  Behind O’Brien stood his white, charmingly proportioned Georgian house, incongruously civilised, set in perfect perspective and situated far enough away from the city to allow him the maximum of privacy. Before him, the immaculate grounds, expensively planned by the leading garden designers of the day and kept in order by more gardeners than were employed at Hillsborough Castle, were stretched out on every side.

  Tall beech trees, now seeming to grow taller and more stark with the fluttering release of the last of the brown and golden leaves of autumn, lined the cultivated lawns and gardens. Beyond the trees stretched the wilder but still beautiful grounds, where bluebells and violets blossomed in spring, fungi and chestnuts appeared in profusion in autumn, a mass of broadleaved trees grew like a forest throughout the year; and in the distance could be seen the watery, silvery gleam of the lake.

  “So, you see, Danny boy”, O’Brien said softly, “if it turns out to be necessary, it wouldn’t be too hard for me to put a bullet through you, would it, Danny boy? Right in the gold, just wherever I picked on. Just like that.”

  He prodded his companion lightly in the groin.

  Danny, a smaller, younger man, skinny but strong looking, emitted an unintentional yelp. He stuttered, “Yes, Mr O’Brien! I mean, right you are, Mr O’Brien. No way it’s go
ing to come to that, Mr O’Brien.”

  “So you’re in, Danny? Good boy.” O’Brien smiled and for a moment looked even more frightening in Danny’s eyes than when his face was impassive.

  “There’ll be five of us altogether, but two of them’ll only be doing the driving. You’ll get a bigger cut, you and Charlie. Plenty for all of us, mind you. We’re talking big money here, Danny boy, big money.”

  He strode back to the line and sent another shower of bullets into the target. Danny, who hadn’t removed himself hastily enough, yelped again as he felt one bullet whistle by only a few inches from his cheek. He dodged aside and tripped against the brass ash stand, almost knocking it over.

  O’Brien laughed.

  A smoothly dressed man in late middle age appeared from the house and crossed the beautifully tailored lawn, carrying a tray of drinks. Reaching O’Brien’s side, he bowed his head slightly and offered O’Brien a glass already containing a tawny coloured drink – which Danny knew would be O’Brien’s favourite undiluted single malt whisky – murmuring, “Sir,” as he did so.

  O’Brien took the drink, immediately swallowing half of it, and the servant, setting the tray of drinks gently down on a white painted iron table nearby, disappeared into the house as unobtrusively as he had come.

  Danny ventured to ask, “But, Mr O’Brien, don’t the drugs bring us in more than enough to do well on? I’ve never done anything like this before, Mr O’Brien. Tell you the truth, I’m not much good with guns, never really used them –”

  O’Brien looked at him, saying nothing.

  “And what about Mrs Magic?” Danny burbled on. “Her down in Dublin, I mean? The Celtic Tigress? Won’t she be mad if you start pulling something different, something that she’s not in on, like?”