The Lingerie Designer

by Siobhán McKenna

  “What do you think they’re renting?” Helen quipped. “I’m guessing it’s the two-by-four wooden shed over there with the corrugated tin roof – what do you reckon?” She looked questioningly at Poppy whose brow had wrinkled into a worried frown.

  “Why is there a hose and a bucket outside the door?” Poppy bit her lower lip.

  With that, one of the girls from their group emerged, gasping for breath. Her face had turned a paler shade of green.

  “Oh Lord . . .” Poppy was crestfallen as she felt her bladder hit her throat in protest.

  “Guys, don’t go in there if you value your five senses.” The poor girl managed to point at the cause of the offense, despite being doubled over.

  “And we’ve just had lunch in this joint!” said Helen.

  A scrawny chicken waddled over to Helen’s feet and started pecking at the bare ground.

  “Yes, and you’ve probably just eaten her mother.” Poppy, who had declared vegetarianism since seeing the pig incident, frowned at Helen.

  “Who do you think you’re kidding? You’ll be back eating bacon butties within two weeks of getting home.” Helen had seen Poppy’s attempts at purity fall by the wayside on more than one occasion, usually spurred on by Helen herself. “Okay, I’m going in.” She took a deep breath.

  With trepidation Helen edged open the cracked, timber door. Tears sprang to her eyes as the putrid stench of stale urine punched her. Poppy looked on horrified as she watched Helen’s sun-kissed face turn pallid and contorted. Yet still Helen disappeared into the abyss that was the toilet.

  Helen willed herself not to breathe. She unbuttoned her light cotton trousers with one hand while trying to keep the wooden door closed, by pulling on a feeble piece of string that constituted the handle. It occurred to her she could shout to Poppy to stand guard, but that would involve breathing, a risk she was unwilling to take.

  She almost lost balance when one of her shoes failed to maintain its grip on the slime either side of the hole in the ground. Squatting dangerously close to the peeing hole, Helen silently gave thanks. Thank you, Universe, that I cannot see what it is I’m standing on. And thank you, God, that it’s just a wee and nothing more. With that, she looped her free hand around the waist of her pants, to avoid peeing on them.

  Outside, Poppy edged closer to the loo. There were sizable gaps above and below the swing door, which provided ventilation but also left the occupants feeling exposed.

  “You okay in there, Helen?”

  Helen emerged triumphant, but still holding her breath, and trousers, which she had pulled up but hadn’t fastened yet, saving precious breathing seconds.

  “Hi there!” Water-Boy appeared to emerge from nowhere. “Are you sick?” A look of concern was etched on his face.

  “Loo,” Poppy and Helen both said.

  He nodded his understanding.

  “John, hurry up, Buddy’s starting another card game,” an attractive female companion called to him from the stilt-house.

  “You guys go ahead!” he hollered back. “Sorry about that,” he smiled at Helen and Poppy. “So, the restrooms, that good, hey?” He scratched his stubble, all blond and perfect.

  At that moment, Helen wished she’d buttoned her trousers and she wasn’t flashing her waist-high comfy travel knickers.

  “John, are you and your friends staying on the island tonight?” Poppy asked.

  “They’re not my friends.” He paused. “What I mean is I just met them last night.”

  This answer seemed to please Poppy. “Really? We thought you were all together. Although, now that you mention it, didn’t you say you’d seen John kayaking alone across the bay yesterday, Helen?” Poppy acted confused, putting Helen on the spot.

  Helen feigned a smile, which meant, I will strangle you later, woman. “Hmm, maybe – shouldn’t we be getting back to the others?” she said with wide-eyed innocence.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he said. “You kind of look like you need CPR . . .”

  Is that an offer, Blondie?

  Poppy stifled a laugh, and pretended she was coughing.

  Helen wondered if Water-Boy was tuned into her and Poppy’s humour. She didn’t know him well enough to venture there. Instead she buttoned up her trousers, discreetly tugging at her backside seam as she smiled. Now well adjusted, she lifted her chin and said, “See you back at the bus, John,” before she walked away.

  The coach pulled up outside a hostel in the seaside town of Cat Ba island.

  “All staying in Lucky Star, please get off here. Have a good night and we’ll collect you here at eight thirty tomorrow morning.” Huy said, beaming even more than usual. The day had gone well and he was depositing his guests while the sun was still smiling.

  The twenty-something Beautiful People got off, not looking overly enthusiastic at the sight of their accommodation. It appeared a day of caves and lack of sanitary facilities had taken their toll, even on the young, who were now facing a night in a hostel. Helen realised that just maybe being a bit older had its advantages. Water-Boy didn’t get off with them.

  “I have three of you in the Princess Hotel and one in Island Resort.” Huy flicked through his clipboard.

  The bus laboured to change direction, and set off only to stop two minutes later.

  “Not exactly a big holiday resort, is it?” Helen wisecracked as she pulled her bag from the overhead bin.

  “Let me get that for you.” John jumped up to get the bag.

  “Thanks – enjoy your evening.” Helen smiled with a pinch of disappointment.

  “Mr John, Miss Helen, Miss Poppy, your dinner is included in the tour. It is served between seven thirty and eight thirty, okay?” Huy looked for confirmation that they’d understood.

  There is a God!

  Keith, who as it turned out was actually a geography professor, looked deflated.

  “You stay in the top hotel, Mr Keith – stay on bus, it is just two minutes away, up the hill.”

  “The Four Seasons of Cat Ba, hey, Keith?” Poppy jested. “Come to our hotel later if you feel like company – right, Helen?” She dug her elbow in Helen’s ribs.

  “Of course, I owe you a drink – if it wasn’t for you, I’d have thought I was looking at a pile of old rocks today,” Helen reassured him, which appeared to work.

  They checked in.

  Helen pressed the button to call the lift.

  “We’re in 221. Do you want to have dinner with us tonight, John?” Poppy asked as only a woman with no interest in a guy could.

  Good girl, Poppy!

  “Unless you’re meeting up with your friends from last night, that is?”

  He grinned. “No, one night was enough, thanks. Sure, I’ll meet you guys in the restaurant later.” The doors slid open, the three got into the tiny space. They rode in silence, watching the digital panel above the door. A ping announced the second floor.

  “I’m 222 – it’s a good number.”

  The girls looked at him.

  “In case you need to call me.” He adjusted his back-pack. “By the way – John, that’s the name on my passport – but my friends call me Jack. Jack Taylor.”

  And then he was gone.

  In their room Poppy looked at Helen. “Stop looking so innocent, you slapper!”

  “What? I don’t know what you’re on about,” Helen said, looking out the window at the promenade and harbour.

  Poppy decided to let her friend off lightly – for now. Jack Taylor was far too young and handsome to be anything but heartache.

  “It’s beautiful here, let’s go out and have a look around.” Helen changed the subject.

  Despite the lack of her usual creature comforts over the past week, Poppy hadn’t seen Helen looking so relaxed in years.

  They walked the promenade of the picturesque fishing village.

  “Is Dublin six or seven hours behind here?” Poppy was thinking of giving Lily a call.

  They were directed to the post-office for phone-calls
and not surprisingly – stamps. They climbed the steps up to the entrance of the state-run building.

  “Hello!” exclaimed the postmistress enthusiastically from behind the brass bars of her caged office. “Can I help you?” She was a very young and pretty postmistress.

  “We want to make two calls, long distance – we were told to come here?”

  The girl pushed a small piece of paper and pencil across the counter. “Write numbers here. How much you want to spend?”

  “This could be manna from heaven, hey? Mary can’t complain if I get cut off halfway through her weather report.” Helen smiled wickedly.

  “Five hundred thousand Dong for the two calls and stamps for postcards to Europe, please.” Poppy counted out how many postcards they had just purchased from the boulevard shop that sold everything from locally farmed pearls to buckets and spades. She made a mental note of which one she wanted to send to Angelo. The one with the funny little monkey on it. “Twenty stamps, please!” she concluded.

  “Do we know that many people?” Helen looked dubious.

  “First number, your call will be in booth number six.” The postmistress-cum-telephone operator pointed to a line of wooden telephone booths that stood the length of the post-office wall. It appeared they’d entered a time-warp, the scene reminiscent of an old black and white movie. Gregory Peck could appear any moment, cigarette in hand.

  “Second number,” she said, looking at Helen, “please go to booth three.” Smiling she added, “May I wear your sunglasses while you on the phone, please?” Only the postmistress’s shoulders and head were visible behind the heavy marble counter top and large brass poles. She was either very small or her chair was set low – it was probably a bit of both. Taken aback, Helen took her black oversized Prada sunglasses off her head and handed them to her before heading for the booth.

  “Hi, Mum, how’s it going there?”

  “Helen, where are you now, love?” Mary’s excited voice echoed down the line.

  “A beautiful little island town. It’s a bit like Howth, without the BMWs.”

  “Nuala!” Mary shouted out to her friend in the background. “It’s Helen ringing from Vietnam – she was put through by an operator. Imagine they still have operators there! Nuala just popped in for a quick cup of tea, love – Lily popped home to pick up a few things – other than that I haven’t seen anyone.”

  There was a lot of popping going on, it seemed. By ‘anyone’, Helen assumed her mother meant Cyril.

  “How’s the weather over there, Helen? It’s raining here but it’s to clear up tomorrow.”

  “The sun is setting now, it’s just perfect.”

  “That’s good, love, but mind yourself – wasn’t it terrible what happened to that poor unfortunate tourist over there?”

  “On Cat Ba Island? Seriously, Mother?”

  “No, in Vietnam, I’m sure it was Vietnam, no, was it India? Nuala, where was that Sky news report from?”

  The operator came on the line – they’d one minute left, saving Helen from the news report, but giving her enough time to interrupt Mary’s flow and say “I love you, Mum”. Sure enough, seconds later the line went dead.

  Poppy and Helen emerged from their booths more or less at the same time, and laughed at what they saw: a beautiful but tiny face trying to keep designer shades on, the girl’s face held high in an effort to keep them from falling off as she pursed her lips as a little girl dressing up might do, in an attempt to look sophisticated.

  “You look good, may I take a picture?” Helen got her disposable camera at the ready – the Vietnamese girl obliged with a Hollywood pout.

  Laughing, Helen and Poppy left their new friend at the post office, with a promise to post the picture. The setting sun had turned the spotless pavements golden. Fishing boats were silhouetted against a canvas of tangerine sea and a firecracker sky.

  “Wow!” was all Poppy managed to say.

  “I know, it’s amazing.”

  “But I was talking about the sunset, Helen,” Poppy grinned.

  Helen hadn’t seen Jack walking towards them.

  “Hi, Jack!” She smiled broadly at him.

  “Hi there, something else here, isn’t it?” Poppy said to him.

  “Stunning.” Jack wasn’t looking at the harbour.

  Jack’s professional-looking Nikon camera was hanging around his neck.

  “Would you like us to take a photo of you?” Poppy asked, indicating the camera.

  “Thanks, that’d be great. I’ve just come down from the mountain – I got some amazing shots.” He carefully removed the camera and handed it to Poppy who equally carefully hung it around her neck. “Will you get into the picture with me, Helen?”

  “Don’t be silly! In a few weeks’ time you’ll be wondering who that stranger in the photo is.” Helen brushed him off as the blood rushed to her face.

  “Nah, come on, I’d like you to – please?” Jack held out his hand to her.

  “Oh, okay so.” Helen smoothed down her T-shirt. “Take one with mine as well, Poppy.” She handed over her battered disposable camera.

  Jack and Helen stood against the water’s edge. Jack slipped his arm around Helen’s waist and pulled her closer to him. Her shoulder fitted perfectly under his. She could smell him now, his skin scented with citrus wood cologne, and a tinge of fresh perspiration from his hike up the mountain.

  “Squishy tomatoes!” Poppy shouted and snapped them with Helen’s disposable. The handsome couple before her broke into genuine smiles. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought they were life-long lovers. She handed the camera back to Helen and snapped them again with Jack’s.

  “Thanks for that, Poppy,” he grinned.

  “A pleasure. Who’s for cocktails?” She handed back his camera.

  “Sounds good.” Jack put the lens cover back on.

  “What about across the road?” Helen pointed to a bar. On its terrace were little round tables, covered with green-and-white tablecloths.

  “The Green Mango – looks good,” he said.

  “To be honest, Jack, we did a little recce earlier and they’ve the best, actually the only, cocktail menu in town!” Poppy laughed.

  “I like your style, ladies! I figured the flora and fauna of the island was its chief highlights – guess I got that wrong.”

  They crossed the road.

  “We’re more into soaking up the local culture than scenery,” Helen said, enjoying the view just fine. With that, a blast of European pop music echoed from a neighbouring bar. “Except for the karaoke, that is,” she added. She picked up a menu. “Don’t even think about going there, Gloria,” she said to Poppy, without looking up.

  Thankfully, once seated, the potted plants and soft, piped music of the Green Mango protected them from the high-decibel competition.

  “Welcome to the Green Mango, would you like to see our food and cocktail menu?” a portly man with impeccable English said, as they were settling into the best table on the terrace.

  “Is that really a Munster rugby jersey you’re wearing?” Helen asked.

  “Are you Irish?” The owner’s face lit up.

  “Yes.”

  “My Cork friends sent this to me – they were on holiday here last year,” he said with pride.

  “Of all the bars, in all the world . . .” Helen laughed.

  “Only the Irish,” Jack laughed. “It’s incredible – for such a small population, you guys get everywhere.”

  “Please, you must have a drink, on the house,” the jovial owner said.

  And so the night began.

  Chapter 46

  They missed dinner. Willingly strong-armed into ordering a tequila cocktail, Jack raised the oversized balloon-shaped glass to his lips, taking the opportunity to observe Helen. Since he’d first spotted her, she’d been smiling. There was something about her smile that illuminated everything around her and made you want to smile with her. It was kind of infectious, he reckoned. He loved this place, t
his moment with this woman. Up-close he could see a few freckles across her sun-tanned cheeks. Usually quite reserved, he didn’t know why he had pulled her towards him for the photo earlier, other than a sudden urge to hold her. He knew one thing though – he had to struggle to take his eyes off her.

  Suddenly her eyes were on him: his stomach somersaulted. Had she noticed him looking at her? Her smile appeared more seductive than before – maybe he should slow down on the cocktails.

  “So, what brings you here, Jack?” Keith’s voice interrupted his reverie. They had spotted the geography professor wandering the promenade and called him in.

  The candle on their table flickered in the soft breeze. He thought about Amy.

  He looked into his glass, as though it held the answer. “Oh, just this and that really, I’m moving to LA – I decided to take the scenic route.” He tapped his foot rhythmically under the table.

  “LA via Cat Ba – I like it!” Poppy grinned.

  “I suppose that would depend where you were coming from?” Keith pushed his glasses farther up his nose.

  Jack shifted his weight, a little uncomfortable being the centre of attention.

  “I was working in Dubai on a contract. I thought I’d like to see some of Asia, take an extended vacation. There was no plan as such – I could just as easily be in Laos now. It just happened that the flight to Hanoi had a better connection.” He kicked back and rubbed the back of his head.

  He looked at Helen again.

  She looked back.

  The fine hairs on Helen’s arms stood on end. She had goose pimples. It was probably just the light wind coming in from the bay.

  Until he looked at her again.

  “What were you working at in Dubai?” Helen asked abruptly, breaking her rule of never asking what people did for a living.

  “I’m an architect. I was working on a few new-build projects. How about you guys, what do you do back home?” Jack cleared an imaginary tickle from his throat.

  “Lingerie designer with Eden, a UK chain.” She scanned Jack’s face. His brow furrowed as if he was trying to remember something.

  “Masseuse, amongst other things.” Poppy held up her hand.