The Lingerie Designer

by Siobhán McKenna

  “Lily says she’s gay.” Poppy’s voice gave way to tears.

  “I thought she was an Emo!” Helen replied somewhat flippantly.

  “Goth.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Something to do with the shoes, I think.” The conversation wasn’t going the way Poppy had planned.

  “I really should know these things,” Helen said. “I wonder what kind of knickers they wear. Don’t answer that! Anyway, don’t worry,” she went on in a matter-of-fact tone, “Lily’s not gay.”

  Poppy felt a huge surge of relief wash over her.

  “But even if she is, it’s not so bad, is it?” Helen chomped on a mouthful of curry.

  Poppy’s temporary wave of relief came crashing down. She said quietly, “I don’t know. I guess I always dreamed of a normal life for her. Get married, have kids, you know, the fairytale we never had.”

  “But you say all men are goons!”

  “Remind me, why are you my first port of call in a crisis?”

  “Because I tell you the truth,” Helen replied without hesitation.

  “Sometimes it might be nice to be mollycoddled, Helen.”

  “Call someone else then. I do enough bullshit in work, thanks. I don’t need to bring it home.”

  Helen wondered if she should eat the free portion of chips the take-out had given her as a type of loyalty-point reward. “Anyway, as I said, I don’t think she’s a lesbian. You got me barred from yoga class by the way, just when I was getting the hang of it.” She dipped a chip into the curry sauce.

  “How can you be so sure she’s not? It’s not like she’s ever shown any interest in boys.” Poppy was fishing for Helen to throw her a lifeline.

  “Because gays go through years of mental anguish, before admitting to themselves that they’re batting for the other team. When they finally accept themselves, they have to go through the whole torture of telling their God-fearing family. That’s if they ever do. Unless, of course, they get pissed at Christmas dinner and come out over the sherry trifle. That’s just the way it is, Poppy.”

  “Bloody hell, Helen, fifties’ Ireland is well and truly gone. What universe are you living in?”

  “The one where I’m the only person on the planet barred from a yoga class obviously!”

  “Let me guess: the instructor is male. What did you do to him?”

  “I didn’t do anything – you did!”

  “How did I manage that, considering I’m in Dublin?”

  “Oh, never mind, I suppose I can’t blame you for all the times my phone has interrupted the class – I should have remembered to turn the damn thing off – but tonight was obviously the straw that broke the yogi’s back.” Helen took a gulp of Diet Coke. “Look, Lil is young – Christ, she’s still only seventeen. Yes, she might be gay and, if she is, it doesn’t matter as long as she’s happy. But knowing her, by next week it’ll be something else. She’ll probably announce she’s a vegetarian and then you’ll really have problems.”

  Poppy laughed. The crisis now in perspective, she asked, “You home this weekend or travelling?”

  “I’m heading to Hong Kong in the morning. I’ll be back the following weekend.”

  “Will I call on your mum?”

  Even though Helen’s mother drove her nuts at times, she worried about her on the weekends when she couldn’t make it back to Dublin.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “Bring Lily with you – she can tell Mum about her new-found hobby.”

  “Yeah, I can just hear your mother now – ‘That’s lovely, dear. Lesbian, you say? Is that what the young people are doing these days? Would you like a custard cream?’ Can’t you picture it?” Poppy laughed at the imaginary scene.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Helen looked down at her belly and rubbed it, wishing she hadn’t eaten so much. “Right, I got to go, early start tomorrow. Tell Lily I said hi, and that she’s not allowed to turn into one of those scary lesbians that people look at and wonder if they’re a man or a woman. She’d better be a lipstick lesbian – the clothes are much nicer too. Bye!”

  “Wait – you know, I didn’t actually call you earlier – at least I don’t think so – unless I’m going senile . . .”

  “Hmmm . . . maybe. Tragedy it was, Poppy.” Helen paused for effect. “The Universe delivered the man of my dreams, then by a cruel twist of fate took him away again, just as quickly.”

  “Don’t worry, Helen. If he’s for you, he won’t pass you by.”

  “Goodbye, Poppy,” Helen said firmly, unwilling to hear her friend’s synchronicity theory again. She hung up, before Poppy got a chance to obsess again.

  Helen decided she’d need to walk off the effect of the curry if she was to have any chance of sleep that night. Damn, why didn’t she just say no when they offered the free portion of chips, she wondered as she pounded the pavements. But there were babies starving in Africa. It was a shame to throw good food in the bin. She wondered why it was that every time she tried to be wholesome and healthy, temptation appeared with her name emblazoned on it. This reminded her to pick up the voicemail that had caused her ejection from the yoga class – another stab at releasing her pure side squashed. It turned out Poppy wasn’t to blame.

  “Ms Devine, Jack Taylor from Allen Bernstein Architects. We finished our call so abruptly earlier that I forgot to tell you that today was my last day in the Dubai office. There should be no problem acquiring the specific unit you want but if you’ve any concerns or further questions, please call my colleague Bill Redmond. His direct line number is . . .”

  Helen pressed ‘end’ on Jack’s voicemail. I could bloody strangle him, she thought. Her architect had been the one who got her barred from yoga with his conscientious phone call. It must have been nearly midnight in Dubai when he’d called. His last day and he was still burning the midnight oil. Why wasn’t he out getting drunk with his former colleagues like a normal person instead of getting her kicked out of class? Helen decided Mr Jack Taylor was definitely not her type of guy.

  “All right, Helen, darling?”

  She was jolted from her mental rant by her local barman, who was standing outside the pub on a fag break.

  “Oh hi, Tommy, I didn’t see you there – in a world of my own.”

  “I can see that, love. You coming in?” The old-timer barman stubbed out his cigarette. Tommy was a kindly man in his late sixties who gave up what he called his disgusting habit of smoking every Monday morning.

  Helen could see that he hadn’t had much success kicking the habit this week either. Maybe next week he’d fare better.

  “No, Tommy, not tonight. I’ve an early start in the morning.”

  “Ah, come on, my lovely, it’s quiet as a church in there, I’m bored out of my mind. Tell you what, why don’t you just have a half and you can tell me all about what’s troubling you?”

  Helen hesitated. She did enjoy chatting with Tommy, who she’d got to know during many a lonely London night.

  “Okay, I’ll just have the half – to keep you company.” She followed him inside.

  Chapter 6

  Helen arrived at the Cathay Pacific desk in Heathrow’s Terminal 3, wearing a large pair of black sunglasses. She was annoyed that, having successfully walked off the effect of the curry and rejection from the yoga class, she had somehow ended up in the pub. Tommy and his promise of just a half! She didn’t even drink lager and well he knew it. She hadn’t meant to walk in the direction of the pub – it was as though she was on automatic pilot and the pub had some sort of homing device. As she handed over her passport and e-ticket printout, she decided that the pub had Bermuda Triangle-type powers, sucking in well-intentioned walkers. Therefore it had nothing to do with her lack of willpower.

  Pleased with her deduction, Helen smiled at the petite Asian check-in clerk behind the business-class desk, oblivious to the wistful glances coming from the long line of people queuing up for the economy cabin chec
k-in.

  “Thank you, Ms Devine.” The airline girl stood, and with a slight bow of her head she handed Helen a boarding pass with both hands.

  Helen had travelled in Asia long enough to know this was a sign of respect and cordially accepted the documents with both hands in return.

  “I have allocated you seat 2A as requested, Ms Devine. Your colleagues . . .” the girl hesitated as she glanced back at her computer monitor, “your colleagues, Mr Giltrap and Ms Ross, have not yet checked in, but I have allocated them seats on the same row as you.” The girl beamed at Helen, as if she had just delivered the best news of her career. “Do you know where our lounge is?” She settled back into her seat and looked up at Helen.

  “Yes, thanks, I do.” Helen smiled back. She stuffed her boarding papers into her handbag and rummaged for her mobile.

  “Have an enjoyable flight, Ms Devine,” the Cathay Pacific girl said, but already a harried-looking businessman wearing a charcoal-grey suit and a lemon-sucking face had placed his bag on the conveyor belt. He appeared unaware that Helen was still standing at the desk. As she moved out of his way, she noticed that he was carrying an unusual briefcase: it was straw, almost a slim-line picnic basket, and it looked out of place. She shuddered, perhaps reacting to his stress levels after the staff’s graciousness. It dawned on her that some of the most discourteous passengers she met travelled business class. She smiled as she thought of her mother, who had a saying for every scenario. “All fur coat and no knickers!” was one of Mary’s favourite declarations, when referring to people with money but not much else.

  A high-pitched voice interrupted Helen’s thoughts.

  “Helen!” an out-of-breath Sarah called out.

  “Mother of God!” Helen said, as she looked at the trolley Sarah was attempting, to push. She’d obviously packed the kitchen sink. And was that really a yoga mat, rolled up on top of the pile?

  Fred Giltrap came into view behind Sarah. He was carrying a cabin-sized black leather weekend-case, with a matching laptop holder attached to it.

  “How is it men can pack so little?” Helen asked. Fred just shrugged.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sarah said. “Were you worried?”

  Before Helen had a chance to respond, Fred said, “I bumped into Sarah outside, good job too. Blimey, all topsy-turvy she was, may well have gone to Terminal 4 – Terminal 4! She could have ended up in Holland, God forbid.”

  “But I did! Go to Terminal 4, I mean, not Holland obviously. That’s why I’m late. I got off the express train too early – then had to make my way back.” Sarah paused as she looked up. “Helen, why are you wearing sunglasses – inside?” She looked around at the other passengers to see if it was some kind of fashion statement she wasn’t aware of.

  “Migraine,” Helen sniffed, pushing the glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose.

  “That’s Helen’s codeword for hangover, Sarah,” Fred said.

  “No, it’s not.” Helen took the glasses off but didn’t make eye contact. “Relax, Sarah. Look, there’s no one at the desk, go over and pick up your boarding pass now.”

  After Sarah had left, she added, “How on earth am I going to put up with your charm for the next nine days, Fred?” She put her glasses on top of her head, using them as a hair-band. “I’m going to hit the shops, I’ll see you in the lounge.”

  “Pick me up some mints, will you, Helen?” Fred half-heartedly reached into his trouser pocket for change. “I don’t want to go around stinking of garlic all week.” He began sorting out some coins.

  “You’re all right, Fred. I think I can afford a packet of sweets. Even on the salary you’re paying me.”

  “Honestly, the abuse I have to take!” Fred shook his head.

  “I’ve checked in.” Sarah held up her lounge pass, to prove her point.

  “That was quick – I hardly noticed you go,” Fred said.

  “You want to come with me, Sarah, or are you staying with Fred?”

  “With you! Will we still have time to go to the lounge though? I’ve never been in one before.” She looked at the gold-coloured invitation she held.

  “Don’t worry, my girl, I have this walk down pat. Follow me.” With that, Helen turned on her red heels and headed straight for the large yellow sign with a pointing arrow and the magic word ‘Shops’.

  Once out of Fred’s earshot, Helen decided that her young assistant needed to learn that there was more to the business of being a lingerie designer than knicker-elastic. If Sarah was going to last the pace, not only would she have to know where to notch a pattern, she would have to learn the art of shopping and drinking. And not necessarily in that order.

  “Okay, Sarah, tactics are required. If we do this right we can get our shopping done and still have time for pre-boarding cocktails in the lounge.” Helen’s face said she meant business.

  “But it’s only ten a.m.”

  “Mistake number one! It is six in Hong Kong. We need to pre-empt the jetlag by getting into their time zone asap.” Helen spoke as if this was gospel.

  She took Sarah’s elbow and guided her towards Boots.

  “First things first: we stock up on every legal drug, for all possible ailments. Anti-flu capsules for the colds that will be brought on by freezing air-conditioning,” she picked up a basket at the shop’s entrance, “lozenges for sore throats, caused by Karaoke Night – there will be at least one of those during the trip. Cherry or lemon flavour?” She held up two packets to Sarah, who shrugged. “Good idea, we’ll get both,” she continued to her bewildered assistant. “And, of course, plasters for blisters from killer heels.” Her basket was filling up at lightning speed. “Finally, fast-acting, double-strength Ibuprofen, for generalised pain – also known as a hangover. It is tough work, this business travel.”

  Helen hauled her remedy basket to the till.

  “But I thought you said there were great chemists in Hong Kong?” Sarah said.

  “There are. We’ll restock there for Mainland China. That reminds me – you might want to buy some fake tan – all their creams have bleaching agents in them. They want to make themselves whiter, while we spend our time bronzing. Isn’t the world a funny place? We always want the opposite of what we have. Okay then. Magazines and books. You’ll be amazed at how much hanging around departure areas there’ll be, once we hit the mainland.”

  “When you said shopping, I was thinking more of Monsoon and Accessorize, Helen.”

  Like any woman on a mission, Helen was already making a beeline for the bookstore, undeterred by the swarms of fellow travellers in the aisles. She headed to the magazine section first.

  “We’ll make sure we buy different ones so we can swap,” she said, looking intently at the endless array of titles in front of them. “Let’s start with the quality reads: Heat and National Enquirer. Which ones do you want?” She remembered all too well that when she was a trainee she considered magazines a luxury buy.

  “American Vogue.” Sarah perked up.

  “Good choice.” Helen grabbed the magazine, putting it on top of her pile without batting an eyelid at the price.

  “Hi, Helen!” Fred popped his head over her shoulder.

  She quickly placed a copy of National Geographic over her choice of glossies, in a lame effort to conceal her true identity. “Fred, I thought you were in the lounge,” she said, looking a little embarrassed.

  “I’m on my way there now. You coming?” He looked from Helen to Sarah, and back again.

  “Yep, I just want to pick up a book,” said Helen. “I’ll follow you in.”

  Fred eyed the library load in Helen’s arms, looking amused. “Okay, I’ll see you in there, but remember it’s only a twelve-hour flight.”

  Two pink dots appeared on Helen’s cheeks.

  Sarah had watched the interaction between Helen and Fred. Was there a spark between them or was it something else? Maybe she’d misread Helen on the lesbian issue. In the four months Sarah had worked with her she’d only ever seen Helen
blush when she was angry or hot.

  “I need two books,” Helen said to Sarah, now that Fred had left them.

  She headed for the “just published” aisle, picking up a James Patterson paperback without much thought, before heading to the Mind Body Spirit shelves.

  “Books aren’t really my thing. Maybe I should have followed Fred,” Sarah muttered, taking out her mobile. “Great, now she’s in the sad fucks section!” she texted Debbie in Accounts.

  “Did you say something, Sarah?” Helen asked.

  “Eh, can I hold something for you while you’re deciding?”

  “You’re a star, thanks.” Helen offloaded the pile of magazines and the thriller, leaving her hands free to compare two books.

  “Will you get to read all this stuff? Shouldn’t we get going?”

  “Of course I will. I have to satisfy both the devil and angel in me, you know. I love the serial killers – Patterson never fails to provide lots of murder – always a psychopath on the loose in his books. But now I need one Mind Body Spirit type book for the development of my higher self.”

  Sarah went back to texting: “Confirmed, boss is a nut-job. Her father was murdered yet she buys books about bloodthirsty sickos. Glad I’ve got my own room in HK.”

  “Mind you, I’m still waiting for some of the other books I’ve bought on the Law of Attraction to deliver Brad Pitt, the Lotto and a villa in Marbella, but I haven’t given up hope yet.” Helen turned her attention to the books in hand. “Synchrodestiny – How to Manifest Your Life’s Desires.”

  Sarah raised her eyes to heaven and continued to type into her phone.

  “That’s a great book,” a man’s voice interrupted Helen’s reverie.

  She noticed his straw briefcase. “You’ve read it then?” She looked up at him. It was the man who had been at the check-in desk earlier. His face looked softer now, less lemon-sucking and more peachy. She was pleasantly surprised to find a businessman revealing his interest in New Age philosophy. With his coal-black hair and unusual eyes, she had to admit he was somewhat attractive, in a shy sort of way.