Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,
characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the
author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook published 2012
by Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
E-mail: [email protected]
www.poolbeg.com
© Siobhán McKenna 2011
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook
© Poolbeg Press Ltd
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781842235812
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Typeset by Patricia Hope
www.poolbeg.com
About the author
After a career in the international clothing markets, Siobhán McKenna now works as a writer and lecturer in stress management and meditation, through her association with The Chopra Centre. She is a cousin of renowned Irish actress, Siobhán McKenna, and she hopes, through her writing, she will continue the family tradition of entertaining a wide audience. Siobhán lives in County Dublin. Visit her at www.siobhanmckenna.ie and www.perfecthealth.ie.
Acknowledgements
Many people helped me in small or big ways on the road to getting The Lingerie Designer to print.
Thanks to my family: April, Sophie, Mum, Jacqueline and Elaine and Bobby.
To my Chopra Centre family, with special gratitude to Deepak Chopra and David Greenspan. To Jackie Bresnan for encouraging me to enter the Write a Bestseller Competition. Seán Doran for fine-tuning the details of the Vietnam War. Howard Davis for his friendship and encouragement. Jonathon Williams for sharing his vast bank of knowledge and mentoring. June Barrett for her friendship and putting up with me in Vietnam. Also, Joe O’Sullivan, Fred Schelbaum, Michael Keating, Amy Green and Sallyann Collier.
All at TV3, especially The Morning Show and to the team at Poolbeg, especially Paula Campbell. Thank you for choosing me and making the experience so positive. To Gaye Shortland, for her eagle eye and patience – you are fantastic – thank you.
To you, the reader, for picking up my first book. I hope it takes you on the universal journey it took me on, and that it touches your life through laughter or tears and opens your heart to the possibilities that synchronicity brings you.
Finally, there are those who were as dedicated to this book as I was. Marie McKenna – Mum, who personifies a mother’s love. Graziano Boldrini, for the never-ending support and pure belief in me – you never once left my side – Only the Brave. Hannah Tobin, whose loyalty and friendship knows no bounds and, despite being a time-strapped international woman of mystery, still found the time to read, edit and bring me to rugby matches along the way. My guides, Dad, Daniel, Archangel Michael, and my guardian angel, Emma – Aham Brahmasmi. Namaste.
There is an endless net of threads throughout the universe.
The horizontal threads are in space.
The vertical threads are in time.
At every crossing of the threads,
There is an individual.
And every individual is a crystal bead
And every crystal bead reflects
Not only the light from every other crystal in the net
But also every other reflection throughout the entire universe.
The Rig Veda
This book is dedicated to my women. My mother, Marie. My daughters, April and Sophie. My sisters, Elaine and Jacqueline – and my virtual sister, Hannah Tobin.
In Loving Memory of Dad, John B McKenna, who taught me to dream.
Chapter 1
Everyone has a secret. Maybe two. No one was more aware of this than Helen Devine. Lingerie designers know how to hide women’s less sinful secrets by designing underwear that makes boobs bigger and tummies smaller. There’s the padded push-up bra that has left many a man and boob deflated upon its unclasping. There’s the “point & lift” bra, which is akin to a straitjacket and can take a small man’s eye out on a packed Tube ride if he gets too close.
Then there’s the lingerie that’s designed purely to be removed. It screams sex and is sold up and down the high street in its tens of thousands in the run-up to Christmas, to men eagerly awaiting Santa’s coming. Red is the biggest seller at Christmas. It also accounts for the most returns to store in January when women exchange the red micro-floss “I’m a nymphomaniac sex goddess” lingerie, for white functional “I’m going to go to the gym every day and I will lose fourteen pounds” New Year’s Resolution type underwear.
Christmas is also statistically a time of relationship meltdown, often caused by office-party sexcapades or nights of guzzling fourteen pints with the lads. The pints, of course, are washed down with a chicken curry and an extra portion of chips before the party reveller heads home for some loving. Alas, the mouth is writing cheques that the body cannot cash – in reality, the celebrator ends up passing out and farting instead of performing sex. And that’s just the women.
Yes, Helen knew all this from both professional and personal experience. Therefore, she made sure her employer’s st
ores, Eden, were filled with red, black, sequined or feathered high-priced garments in December, to be replaced with sensible and comfy three-for-the-price-of-two pieces in January.
She considered this as she sat in her design studio in London’s West End. Twirling a piece of marabou fluff around her fingers, she wondered how she could reinvent the wheel or, in this case, the knicker. Get it right and her design would become a bestseller – get it wrong and it would end up in the bargain-basement sales.
“Do you think the dye kills any possible germs?” she asked, blowing on the entwined, delicate red feathers.
Sarah Ross, Helen’s assistant, wiped her fringe out of her eyes – tiny beads of sweat had formed on her hairline. She fanned herself with a fabric swatch. “We really ought to have air-con.” She eyed Helen over the pile of lace and ribbon samples strewn between them. It was true: the studio was airless, stuffed full of rolls of fabric and endless rails of garment samples. Sketches, memos and pattern pieces were pinned to every inch of wall space.
Without responding, Helen walked over to a large sash window and pushed it up. “Ah . . . an Indian summer breeze!” she said, inhaling.
The design room filled with the din of London traffic and the putrid smell of a dumpster in the narrow street three floors down.
“Welcome to the real rag trade, Sarah,” Helen said, trying not to breathe too deeply. “Anyway, we’re lucky to still be in this building, unlike our competitors who work out of a state-of-the-art concrete block near Heathrow.” She returned to her desk. “Hopefully, Eden won’t follow suit.”
“Wouldn’t you like that convenience though?” Sarah hesitated, before adding, “Don’t you hot-tail it out of London every weekend, leaving the centre of the universe just as it starts heating up on a Friday night?”
“Dublin is a great city too, you know,” Helen said tersely. She sometimes wondered if Sarah realised there was life beyond being a blonde, twenty-something Londoner. Or was there? Helen had been all those things – once. Maybe, unknown to herself, she was feeling the heat of the young Sarah nipping at her heels. Helen reasoned that at least she was still blonde, albeit thanks to her colourist. And she was a Londoner, sort of – surely, two out of three ain’t bad?
“I prefer the Paddington Station kind of convenient, Sarah. Fifteen minutes gets you to Heathrow and at least it’s located in civilisation,” which loosely meant being within walking distance of fast food and a pub.
Sarah shrugged. “That fluff has been certified, by the way.” She handed Helen a fax, changing the subject from the possibility of a cost-cutting relocation.
“Certified mad?” Helen smiled.
“Certified free from bird flu, because it comes from China.” Sarah frowned, lightly scratching her head. “Chinatex faxed through the cert last night. Wasn’t it Mad Cow Disease, not Mad Bird Disease – or was there that too?”
“No, that’s right – we just needed a cert for bird flu. Unless we start making leather underwear, we don’t have to worry about the cows – or pigs for that matter,” Helen replied, but her smile had faded. They had hired Sarah because her portfolio had impressed Helen. The boss, Fred, on the other hand, liked her other attributes, in the form of double Ds.
“Well, at least there hasn’t been a Mad Silkworm outbreak!” Sarah said, beaming.
Helen’s face remained deadpan.
“That I’m aware of.” Sarah bit her lower lip.
“We’ve a lot to get through today. Let’s hope we don’t have an EU directive telling us to label our Christmas stock ‘Certified Bird Flu Free’. Now, that definitely wouldn’t fan the flames of passion.” Helen shivered. “Even the thought of more European red tape makes me feel as though someone’s walking on my grave.”
Before Sarah could respond, Helen’s mobile buzzed under a mound of papers.
Sarah’s face was still flushed from the implied rebuke as she watched Helen, who was pushing strands of fair hair behind her ear as she spoke quietly into the phone.
Helen had earned the reputation of a being a world-class lingerie designer. She had increased Eden’s sales by thirty per cent with her first range for them. At the time, the company had ranked fourth in UK lingerie sales. With Helen at the helm, within two seasons Eden was the leading retailer of women’s knickers across the country. Often the media referred to Eden as the UK’s answer to the US lingerie moguls, Victoria’s Secret.
If Helen pushed to get air-con in the office, air-con she’d get. And that’s exactly why Sarah had to stick with her: she liked being on the winning team. Sarah would watch and learn or at least imitate, if the learning proved too tiresome.
She sketched a silhouette of a woman on a piece of paper. Across the desk, Helen still had the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, reassuring someone that she’d be careful while she was in Hong Kong. It didn’t take a genius to guess she was talking to her mother. Sarah discreetly studied her boss.
Physically Helen was still an attractive woman, despite being old, thought Sarah. She guessed her to be around thirty-five. Although not a conventional beauty, Helen had quite a striking appearance. Her hair, in honey-coloured waves, framed porcelain skin. But it was her emerald eyes that were most arresting. As always, in the office, she was dressed in black which gave her look the connotation of another Irish classic – a pint of Guinness.
Sarah continued drawing, pencilling the outline of a bra onto her nude and, in doing so, turning her doodling into a work in progress. “You’ve got to love this job,” she muttered as she admired her handiwork. But her thoughts returned to Helen and what had made her a successful lingerie designer. In spite of Helen’s curves, it was as if she had the mind of a bloke. Just last week, Sarah went to see a movie that Helen had recommended to her. Within five minutes of the titles rolling, twenty people got shot, blown up or decapitated. Helen had described it as terrific.
As her sketch took on its own life form, so did the movie playing in Sarah’s imagination. So what did she know about Helen Devine? She thought like a man, yet she never talked about men. She’s was nearly middle-aged, yet remained unmarried. That’s when it stuck her – just last week, she’d seen an email Helen had left open on her computer. Someone called Poppy had signed off with a long line of kisses. There was nothing else for it – Helen Devine must be a raving lesbo! Convinced this was now fact, Sarah wrinkled her nose. She’d be spending the next week travelling Asia pressed up against Helen, on planes, trains and automobiles. Helen on one side, Fast Fingers Fred on the other – and Sarah, the Heinz spread in their sexual sandwich.
She stood to get water from the cooler, deliberately walking with a little extra swagger in her hips. She took a quick peek over her shoulder and caught Helen checking her out.
“Sorry, Sarah, now where were we . . .” Helen had been hanging up the phone when she noticed Sarah walking rather oddly. Perhaps she’d pulled a hamstring at the gym or something. Maybe she’d been a little hard on her. Taking a friendlier approach, she said with a smile, “My mother thinks that every time I go to the Far East I’ll never come out alive or I’ll end up like that guy in the movie Midnight Express.”
“Midnight Express?” Sarah asked blankly. Another man’s movie, no doubt.
“Before your time. Never mind.”
“But what about your brothers and sisters – does she fret so much about them?”
“I don’t have any – just me.”
“Oh.”
Silence fell between them. Surely someone of Helen’s age must come from the usual Irish condom-condemning family of ten?
“My dad died when I was a baby,” Helen went on. “Mum never remarried – she always said that she was lucky to have found the love of her life, even if she only got to share the briefest time with him.”
“Helen, that’s so romantic!” Sarah said, clasping her hands over her heart.
“Funnily enough, I never thought that being made a widow at twenty-five was romantic.”
“How did your fathe
r die?” Sarah asked, wide-eyed, oblivious to Helen’s sarcasm.
Helen looked away, reading an email that had flashed up on her computer screen. “Fred’s on his way over. He wants reassurances we’re ready for Hong Kong tomorrow. He says if our baggage is overweight, we’ll have to pay the excess charge ourselves.”
Sarah’s shoulders slumped. “But we’ve so many files and samples to bring, how will we fit in our own stuff?”
“Bring the lingerie designer’s best friend – a chic black outfit.”
“Black? That’s hardly inspiring.”
Helen grinned. “Trust me on this one. Twice yearly, the lingerie trade convene in Paris to forecast the hottest colours for the coming year while getting bombed on champagne from plastic cups. It’ll be a convention centre of women and men in black. There will probably be a few extraterrestrials hanging about too, disguised as Italian fabric salesmen.”
Sarah looked bewildered. She picked up a colour card they were working on. “So the hours of working on colour coordination is a waste of time?”
“Not at all. We coordinate the high street with a pallet of colours from the Exotic Nights forecast, or the Himalayan Plum collection, telling people what colours they should be wearing, but we the designers sit about, top to toe in mourning black.”
“Do they have plums in the Himalayas?” Fred Giltrap, managing director of Eden, said, as he popped his head around the studio door.
“It doesn’t matter if they do or not. Artistic licence prevails over truth,” Helen replied. “You got here quickly, Fred. Your gym sessions must be paying off.”
Fred sucked his stomach in, running his thumbs along the top of his strained waistband as he walked into the studio with his familiar seesaw gait.
“It’s a mood board. It captures the theme for next season’s collection,” Sarah said.
“I don’t give a rat’s arse. Will it make us money?” Fred rubbed the top of his shiny head. He did that when he talked about money – as though he were summoning a genie from a lamp.
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