The Lingerie Designer

by Siobhán McKenna

  The Vietnamese worked hard – in the fields and off them. This woman was loaded down with goods for sale, balanced in two baskets that hung, one either side of a long stick, which lay across her shoulders. As the woman walked, the baskets swayed with a hypnotic rhythmic motion. She was quite close before Poppy could see her face clearly – her conical hat shielded her. Poppy wondered whether she was being a typical tourist, so mesmerised by the landscape and repetitive motions of its inhabitants, that she was imagining this woman’s contentment from the gentle glide of her step.

  The Vietnamese woman didn’t look up as another tour bus passed her, kicking up dust as it did so. Her goods weren’t for them. Poppy had smiled to herself as she thought about this land of contrast: the Vietnamese who embraced capitalism in all its vulgarity by doing their best to squeeze as many dollars as possible out of foreigners, to the Vietnamese who shied away from tourists and what they brought, maybe a little distrustful of foreigners, and who could blame them? Being under attack was part of their history – Chinese, French, Japanese – all had wanted Vietnam.

  For Poppy, this woman was the memory she wanted as a snapshot forever imprinted on the canvas of mind. She didn’t want to use her camera. The woman’s skin was smooth and even. Eyes, calm. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, this worker of the land radiated one thing: contentment.

  What was indeed a heavy load, she made look as light as a feather. Her burden was physical, her work looked laborious, she had deadlines but they were largely set by the land, therefore she couldn’t harness them because she could not control them. The circadian rhythm. She didn’t face hours of motorway delays – her mode of transport was her feet.

  They briefly made eye contact as the woman walked past, the peasant worker never missing her stride. Back and forth the baskets swung as she continued on her journey. As her silhouette became smaller, Poppy decided to take a picture after all.

  “It’s a tough life, isn’t it?” Helen came up to Poppy, both set of eyes following the figure on the road.

  “Is it though? She looked more peaceful to me than anyone back home.”

  “It’s just the weight of all that fruit, the walking for miles. Can you imagine being bent over all day with your bare feet stuck in muddy water and all you have to show for it at the end of the week is a pittance?” Helen shook her head.

  Poppy remembered the brief eye contact. “Maybe you’re right, but the funny thing is, I got the feeling she felt sorry for us.”

  “Really, why would she?”

  “We always want more – no matter how much we have, always looking outside ourselves for happiness.” In the dry earthen road, Poppy made a figure eight with her foot. “Like going to Asia, to ‘find ourselves’ as if spirituality is only found in Asia, whereas it’s inside us, no matter where we are in the world. We just need to tap into it.” She looked at Helen.

  “Hey, you’re preaching to the converted!”

  Poppy sighed with contentment. “I’m really loving being here, Helen. Stepping out of my life, my roles and responsibilities, just being myself, even for a couple of weeks. I do miss Lily though.”

  “I know you do and, hey, it is hard being a single parent – you’re doing great. It’s okay to take off on holiday once in a while, just be Poppy, not the mother, the therapist – the nut-job!” Helen smirked.

  “Thanks, Helen, I can always rely on you to say it straight.”

  Another bus trundled past them.

  “Hey, Team Ireland, how’s it going, mates?” The Australian couple, Pete and Lorraine, waved out an open window at them. “Last one to Hanoi buys the beer!” Pete shouted, before his bus went out of earshot.

  Arm in arm, Helen and Poppy got back on their coach, leaving the fields of Vietnam behind.

  The bus blasted its horn at one of the hundreds of mopeds weaving in a zigzag chaos that was not for the faint-hearted. Poppy nudged Helen again to see what time it was. She never wore a watch, as she refused to live her life by one, which annoyed the hell out of her nearest and dearest, because she kept asking them to tell her the time instead.

  “Nearly five o’clock,” Helen whispered, not wanting to wake Jack whose head slumbered on her left shoulder. Sitting on a long lumpy seat at the back of the bus, Helen had never felt so happy to be wedged for hours beside her new American buddy – or son in a past life, if she was to listen to Poppy.

  Just then Jack tried to shift around in the cramped seat but an exposed spring, jutting out from the seat in front, made it difficult. One of his butt cheeks had gone numb which he reckoned was just as well because he’d a feeling another metal coil was straining to release through the cracked imitation leather. He hoped it didn’t spring while he sat there – mortally damaging his manhood.

  “Are we there yet?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to eliminate sleep dribble.

  Helen’s shoulder had made the journey tolerable. At one point, he had opened his eyes to realise how close he was to her cleavage. He felt a needling in his trousers. A spring dug into him – he decided it was safer to sleep.

  The bus crawled along the narrow streets of the Old Quarter and in ones and twos people started to disembark at various hotels.

  Keith stood, his head hung low, too tall to stand straight.

  “Are you getting off here, Keith?” Poppy looked dubiously out at the street.

  “I cancelled my reservation in the Four Seasons, decided to get a feel for the local culture after all,” he said, looking rather pleased with himself.

  “Good for you, Keith!” Helen said.

  “Who knows, you may even see me drinking bia hoi at one of the street stalls. I’m looking forward to having a tipple.”

  The picture of six-foot-three Keith of five-star mentality, squatting down on a tiny plastic stool, at the side of the pavement, made them all smile.

  “Perhaps I can tempt you to join me, Poppy?” he asked.

  Poppy smiled up at him. “Sounds good but we’ve another few days here – I’ll text you.” She patted her breast pocket where earlier she’d placed Keith’s business card.

  “Make sure you get a picture for your album!” Helen called after him, as he made his way back down the bus.

  Without turning around, he waved in acknowledgement before he was out of sight. Keith had survived ‘Irish night’ and was feeling all the better for it.

  Poppy smiled. “Keith told me he only takes a holiday every second year. He saves so he can go somewhere exotic and stay in the best hotels.”

  “Maybe now he’ll downgrade and take a holiday every year. It’s about the experience after all, not the hotel room.” Helen locked eyes with her friend – they both knew it wasn’t just Keith who’d left his comfort zone and enjoyed it.

  “Hong Ngoc Hotel!” Huy called out.

  “That’ll be me. Where are you two staying?” Jack grabbed his back-pack.

  “Well, we were staying in the Hanoi Plaza, a small hotel just at the end of your street.” Helen pointed in the direction of the many terraced hotels there.

  “Awesome, you’re only two minutes from me. I’ll meet you in reception, say about seven?” Jack rubbed his back. He was anxious to get off the bus. Although he liked being close to Helen, he was feeling in need of fresh air after being cooped up for so long.

  “No, we were staying there. We decided to move to the French Quarter – to experience a side of the city other than the Old Quarter. And have a pool.” Helen looked miserable. The itinerary they’d agreed on a few weeks ago back home wasn’t so appealing now.

  “We’ll text you to arrange a time – have we got your number?” Poppy said helpfully.

  “I’ve no phone – I’m on sabbatical, remember? Come to my hotel, when you’re ready – just ask for Mr Jack.”

  And then he was gone. Again. Jack disappeared a lot.

  “That was a bit vague don’t you think?” Helen said to Poppy, looking for reassurance.

  “No, it’s simple enough. We’ll call
to his hotel – if he’s there, great, if not, I’m sure we’ll bump into him in one of the usual tourist haunts. The Old Quarter is compact enough.”

  Helen wasn’t convinced – she preferred definite planning. “I suppose so. I can’t imagine switching my phone off for two months though.” She checked her phone as if to emphasise the point. There were no messages from Eden or anyone for that matter.

  “I think it sounds wonderful! Lord, Helen, I hope our bags were transferred to the new hotel – I’m in dire need of a change.” Poppy flapped her T-shirt to create a flow of air. They had brought the bare essentials (big travel pants included) to Halong Bay, as instructed, due to the amount of jumping on and off boats that took place.

  “Army Hotel!” Huy shouted about ten minutes later. “You ladies are the last! I hope you enjoyed your Tropical Sails tour!” Huy hadn’t stopped smiling for two days – they’d miss him.

  They looked out at a grey building, red-uniformed guards at the gate.

  They bade farewell to Huy and got out.

  “It’s rather glum,” Helen remarked, as they looked up at their new hotel.

  “It’s your uniform fetish we were indulging by coming here. With a pool to boot, it sounded perfect.” Poppy reminded her of the logic behind their decision.

  “What were we thinking? The sodding French Quarter. We can hop on the Eurostar for that,” Helen grumbled.

  “Oh, quit moaning, Helen.”

  “I can’t, I’m Irish – I’m genetically programmed to moan.”

  The Vietnamese army, who were there in large numbers, owned the Army Hotel. Reception was large and functional as was the twin-bedded room the girls had booked. There was also a lot of bugle-blowing.

  “What was that?” Helen pulled back the sheer curtain to open the patio door of their balcony. The room had a view of the pool. An army wedding was in full swing, buffet tables set up around the sun-loungers. There were red uniforms everywhere. The bride wore white.

  “Guess we won’t be using the pool this evening so,” Poppy said.

  “We’ve no swimsuits anyway – look, no bags.”

  Outside, a bugle blasted and caused them to jump.

  “If he blows that bloody thing once more I’ll ram it up his arse.” Helen was tired and ratty.

  A few phone calls revealed that their bags were still in the Hanoi Plaza.

  Even Poppy, who usually saw the bright side of things, was looking frayed. “Look, it’s not the end of the world – we’re heading back over that side anyway.” She rubbed her temples as though trying to stop a headache from taking up residence.

  “But look at us! We look like bedraggled rats. I need fresh clothes, make-up even.” Helen sounded as though she might cry.

  So much for seduction.

  Another blast of a bugle sounded. Poppy grabbed her jacket. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 49

  “Hello, Mr Jack! How are you this evening?” the ever-friendly reception clerk enquired.

  “Great, thanks – better after a nap and shower.”

  “Very good, very good. Can I help you with anything?”

  “I’m just going to access the internet if that’s okay?” Jack cocked his thumb towards the guest computer, which sat off from the entrance lobby.

  “Of course, Mr Jack, be my guest. How was Halong bay – you like?”

  “Highlight of Asia so far, Quan, I loved it,” Jack grinned.

  “You want me to book another tour, Mr Jack, just let me know. Please.” Quan nodded and motioned Jack to the computer seat.

  “Any chance of a beer, Quan?”

  “You got it! Coming up, anything for our favourite guest – good to have you back again, Mr Jack.” Quan patted Jack’s shoulder.

  Jack logged on to his email. He’d promised his mom he’d make contact. “A postcard won’t cut it, Jack,” she’d said. “If you won’t take a cell phone with you, at least email me, let me know you’re safe and how and where I can get in touch with you.”

  Fair enough, he thought. He set about reassuring his mother of his whereabouts and painting with words the beauty of Halong Bay. That was until another email caught his eye.

  Inbox

  From: Amy Forbes

  Subject: Hello

  It hit in his stomach. Every day for the past year, he had thought about Amy. Hell, he’d moved to Dubai to try to forget her. But it hadn’t worked. Jack considered pressing delete. It occurred to him with renewed force that in the last two days he hadn’t been plagued with thoughts of Amy. And now, here she was with a “Hello” and all the old feelings came rushing back, as if he’d only lost her yesterday.

  He opened the email.

  Hey Handsome, How are you? I heard on the grapevine you’re on vacation in Asia. When will you be back in New York? I miss our connection. Jack baby, I feel I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  Helen spotted Jack’s distinctive frame as soon as she entered the hotel. She felt a gush of relief that he was there. Thank you, God, she said silently.

  “Can I help you, ladies?”

  “Hi, we’re here to meet Jack.”

  “Ah, Mr Jack! Of course – there he is.” Quan smiled broadly,

  The best bit of Asia, indeed, Mr Jack, the lucky man.

  On hearing the voices, Jack clicked the x, to shut down Amy’s email. He turned and saw Helen. Little wonder he hadn’t thought of Amy.

  “Wow, what’s with the bags?” he laughed and got up to help the girls with their load. They were still in the same clothes and were laden down with luggage.

  “I know we’ve just met and all but I was thinking . . .” Helen teased but then reddened. Was she imagining it, or was he distracted, disappointed to see her?

  “Don’t mind her, Jack, there was a cock-up,” Poppy said and she blew air on her face. “Our bags were left at our last hotel down the road. Can we borrow your room for ten minutes to change?”

  “Sure, no problem.” Jack rubbed the back of his head.

  “This hotel is lovely – I thought you said you were backpacking around Asia,” Helen said.

  “I like it here and they gave me a great rate. Besides, it’s good to mix it up. Little bits of comfort between the hostels. Here, let me help you with those.” He picked up both bags and made for the elevator.

  Quan looked on, bemused at the interaction. Mr Jack and the two pretty women disappeared out of sight, headed for Jack’s room. Lucky, lucky man.

  The lift was minuscule and Jack had to push up against Helen to fit in with the luggage. He smelt good and she could get the same scent as soon as she stepped into his room. The room was small, neat and decorated with carved dark-wood furniture, traditional Vietnamese style. There was a small balcony that looked out on the buildings opposite – pressed together they looked like crooked tubes that might crumble at the slightest touch. Yet somehow they held each other up, as a group of drunks might, TV aerials and washing lines dotted along the rooftops. The heavy red drapes and fine furnishings of the room seemed a world away from the scene outside.

  Jack put the bags down. “The bathroom is in here.” He flicked on the light.

  “Great, thanks,” Poppy said, already unzipping her bag.

  Helen and Jack looked at each other. Suddenly, the double bed felt like the only item in the room. Helen sat on the end of it and loosened her ponytail. She began to brush her hair.

  Jack watched her for a moment before he looked away.

  “I have to finish sending an email, so take your time,” he said as he headed out the door, lightly bumping into the frame. “I’ll leave the key with you in case you need it.”

  “Thanks, Jack, fifteen minutes tops,” Helen said.

  “ It’s okay – I’ve got a sister – I’ll see you in an hour.” He smiled, closing the door behind him.

  Helen looked around the room. There was a notebook, a travel journal maybe, on the nightstand, but that was all. Jack kept the room neat, evidence of personal belongings minimal. She wa
ndered into the bathroom. Jack’s wash-bag was on top of the toilet cistern – unzipped. Helen hovered over it, to see what she could see, without actually touching it. Is that where the condoms are? Stop, Helen, be nice!

  She distracted herself by getting washed. As she brushed her teeth, her eyes wandered back to the bag. She used the handle of her toothbrush to open it up a little further, as if not touching it directly made it less of an infringement of privacy. The bag contained the usual guy stuff as far as she could make out before her conscience got the better of her and she stopped. Why she wasn’t tempted to touch his diary, yet was fascinated by his toiletries, was beyond her. Until it dawned on her.

  Damn it. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and the truth stared back at her. She had fallen for Jack Taylor. Fallen hard.

  “What are you doing?” Poppy stood in the doorway.

  Helen jumped. “Bloody hell, can I not pee in peace!”

  “I’d say you were having a good old-fashioned nose around.”

  “I know, I know I shouldn’t have.” Helen spat into the sink. “He’s very tidy for a bloke, isn’t he?”

  Poppy knew Helen well enough to know that despite her protests she liked this guy, which made what she wanted to say easier.

  “Helen, would you mind if I bailed on tonight?” she said, wincing.

  “Why, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, just a headache is all. I was going to say it earlier but we’d to come over to get the bags and everything.”

  Helen swallowed hard. “It’s alright, Jack will understand. Maybe we can catch him tomorrow instead.” She looked away.

  “Honestly, Helen, I’m a big girl, I’d feel awful if you missed out on your night. I’d book in here in a heartbeat but we’ve left our day bags back in the Army. I don’t want to get court-martialled.”

  “I’d feel weird letting you go off on your own when you’re not feeling well.”

  “I’m grand, it’s only a headache and no offence but I’m feeling out of sorts and could do with some alone time.” She scrunched her face as though preparing for an onslaught of coaxing.