The Lingerie Designer

by Siobhán McKenna

  “Are you going to invite Keith over?”

  “Lord no – in the cold light of day we both realised we weren’t going to be getting our rocks off – with each other. I’ll text him – he’ll be cool with it.”

  Helen knew that though she and Poppy loved each other, being with one person, that you aren’t bonking, twenty-four-seven got a bit difficult after a while.

  “You’re trying to get rid of me, aren’t you?” She raised an eyebrow and Poppy nodded sheepishly. Helen sighed, Poppy was easygoing but once she made her mind up, she was stubborn as hell, which she often conveniently blamed on her red hair.

  Jack didn’t return to the computer, opting instead to wait in the bar. He thought about Amy, and all the months he’d have given his right arm to hear the words, “I’ve made a mistake, I love you, and I want you back.”

  Now, when he had finally started to feel normal again, she came crashing through cyberspace, to rain on his parade. It was as if she had a sixth sense that he was interested in another woman for the first time since the break-up. Amy didn’t like other women – she used to say she was more of a man’s kind of woman. She was right there. Problem was – she liked all of them.

  He took a gulp of beer and looked vacantly around the room, lost in his world. From the small bar, he could see into a dining area that had more wait-staff than customers. A Western woman was holding a Vietnamese baby, who looked to be about ten months old. The woman, weighed down with baby paraphernalia, was gently bouncing the baby in an effort to ease its crying. The staff tried to help her. The waiter lifted the baby and spoke gently in Vietnamese. This appeared to reassure the baby. The other waiter got something from the buffet, a local dish. Whatever it was, it worked and the baby started cooing.

  “The babies here, they like this. Do you want to take some with you for the journey?” the waiter, now involved in the scenario, asked.

  “Yes, thank you. That’d be great. Is it sterile though?” The woman’s voice was tense. She was about forty and appeared to be alone. Presumably, the baby was her newly adopted son. It wasn’t the first that Jack had seen on his travels here and wordlessly he wished them both well. The woman expressed her thanks to the staff, gave a generous tip and left.

  Her exit left a void – not physically – it was something else. The waiters looked after her and waved goodbye to the baby, who watched them from over his new mother’s shoulder. They stood in silence, looking out the door, long after the woman and baby were gone. It can’t be easy to watch so many of your nation’s babies leave, to start a new life abroad. From the look on their faces Jack detected a mix of hope and regret. Or were they his own feelings?

  “There you are, Jack, thanks for the room, you’re a lifesaver.” Poppy handed Jack back his key.

  “Why the bags? Are you not leaving them there until later?” he asked, his face not hiding his disappointment.

  “I’m afraid I have to love you and leave you tonight, Jack. I’m shattered and I have a headache. Bed, my book and a chat with my daughter on the phone is all I want tonight. We’ve still got tomorrow night in Hanoi, so hopefully I’ll catch you then.” She reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which he returned with a hug.

  “Would you still like to hang out tonight, Helen? I mean, I’m free if you are?” Jack rubbed the back of his head.

  “Of course!” Helen blinked rapidly, giving a visual hint of her heart rate.

  “Right, you two go have fun but help me get these bags into a taxi first.”

  As she was about to get into a taxi a few minutes later, Poppy paused.

  “Oh, I’ll give you Keith’s number,” she said. “You can text him and let him know where you are.” She suppressed a smile – she loved to stir it.

  Helen and Jack remained as silent as two kids caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

  “Didn’t think so,” Poppy said under her breath as she got into the taxi.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she waved goodbye. She sat back, alone at last. She shuddered though. She had an uneasy feeling she couldn’t identify, and it was nothing to do with the headache. This was a feeling of apprehension that she had never felt before. She picked up her phone and called home.

  Chapter 50

  They decided to start the evening with a drink, to take in the lights and life over by the lake, a ten-minute walk from Jack’s hotel.

  As they turned to go, Jack gently put his hand on the small of Helen’s back. A simple touch, but it broke the nervous tension between them as they walked together.

  Soon they were in a section of Hanoi where the Old Quarter was behind them, the commercial area of the Hoan Kiem district was beside them and the lake by the same name lay in front of them. That is, if they could cross an open mass of thoroughfare, fed by several roads. Cars, bikes, cyclists were honking and weaving their way from the numerous different directions that converged on this one corner. All focused on where they were going but appeared unaware of the other road-users. In the centre of the intersection, petrified tourists clung to each other paralysed with terror, rabbits caught in headlights as the traffic whizzed perilously around them.

  “Oh God, I hate this bit!” Helen shouted above the roar of traffic. She stood precariously at the side of the road, edging a foot out, but stepping back again.

  “It’s pretty awesome.” Jack was enjoying the pandemonium.

  “Is ‘awesome’ an Americanism for certain death?”

  Jack just chuckled.

  “Apparently there’s an art to crossing here,” said Helen. “I read it in The Rough Guide.”

  “I know and it works. Here, take my hand. Whatever you do don’t stop. Walk at a steady pace and keep looking straight ahead. They’ll go around you, but if you stop or hesitate, you’ll either get stuck in the middle of the road,” he nodded towards the tourists to reiterate his point, “or you’ll get knocked down.”

  Charming.

  But Helen enjoyed playing the role of damsel in distress.

  With a deep breath, and not looking left or right they stepped into the mêlée.

  A local woman with two baskets of flowers hanging from her shoulders walked before them, peacefully, with a tick-tock rhythm. Apparently unperturbed by her surroundings, she reminded Helen of the women they’d seen on the country roads early that day. So alike yet it seemed to be a world away.

  “Stick with us,” Jack said to the stranded tourists, still rooted in the middle of the road. They followed in Jack and Helen’s steps and soon all four were safe, by Hanoi standards, on the footpath. Helen took a breath of relief and thought the old saying, Be sure to wear clean underwear in case you get knocked down crossing the road, must have been coined in Hanoi. She thought of her mum.

  Helen and Jack climbed four flights of narrow stairs to the restaurant-cum-bar. They got prime seats on the balcony, overlooking the lake and the road they’d managed to survive. They ordered two cocktails.

  “They’re the same price as a main course, so they won’t mind us hogging a table with a view.” Helen pointed out.

  “You’re all heart.” Jack grinned at her. “I love the way you’re convinced we’re drinking cocktails for the good of the establishment’s turnover.”

  “I can tell you, Jack, I’ve done a lot of charitable drinking in my day: charity lunches, gala balls and what not. It’s tough work, but someone has to do it.”

  One cocktail became two, as they sat for an hour watching the world go by. They laughed at the numerous tourists negotiating the minefield below. They placed bets on which ones would make it and who would get stuck. Sometimes they sat in silence and watched the world go by. The streets were illuminated with street lights, neon signs and colourful street vendors’ stalls.

  “That ring you wear is pretty. It looks old – sentimental value?” Jack asked. He’d noticed Helen absently twisting it since he’d first met her.

  “It was my grandmother’s, on my dad’s side. Apparently he said I was to have it when I cam
e of age, whatever he meant by that.” Helen held out her hand, gazing at her ring.

  She looked content. Jack didn’t pry.

  “He died when I was just a tot. My mum gave me the ring when I . . .” Helen’s voice trailed. “When I was older,” she smiled. “It’s after getting loose on this holiday though, look.” She pulled the ring off easily. “Virtually my sole source of nutrition since I got here has been cocktails and rice.” She nodded, grinning. “Yes, I simplify my diet when travelling – rice and alcohol are least likely to give me Delhi Belly – even in Hanoi.”

  But Jack was more interested in hearing about Helen the woman – not her strange dietary plan.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Jack said simply. “Coming of age – what age is that in Ireland – sixteen, eighteen?”

  “Traditionally twenty-one, but now eighteen is the legal age for voting etc. And, in fact, some have big parties for sixteenth birthdays also.”

  “Any excuse for a party, hey?”

  “What can I say, it’s Ireland,” Helen conceded. “From what my mother told me about my dad, I think coming of age meant something else to him – maturity, not a chronological age.”

  Jack watched as Helen revealed another layer. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to know about her. Her phone buzzed.

  “Sorry, Jack, it’s the office. I want to set up a meeting for a Vietnamese factory – do you mind if I take this?” Helen pointed to the phone – Jack waved her on.

  Helen stood in a quiet corner as she talked. Jack stole quick glances at her. She fiddled with her hair a lot as she spoke. He admired her commitment to her job – he reckoned it showed her loyalty. He wondered why she wasn’t married – so far, what he’d seen of Helen Devine indicated she was the ideal woman. She seemed wise beyond her years yet had the vivaciousness of someone young at heart. She pressed a hand over her free ear and turned further into the corner, her back to him. And she had a cute butt too.

  Helen rejoined Jack. “Where to next?”

  They drained the last of their drinks as they stood.

  “Fancy a jazz club?” Jack asked.

  Jazz agreed on, they headed back down to street level.

  “Taxi?” A cyclo-driver had pulled up beside them.

  “How much to Pho Luong Van Can?” Jack haggled.

  The driver – or more accurately, the cyclist – quoted a crazy price. Jack started to walk away. True to form, a minute or two later the two men agreed a price. The driver pretended to be disappointed and Jack knew he’d paid too much.

  Helen and Jack climbed into the red upholstered carriage attached to the front of the bike.

  “Are you sure he’ll be able to move with both of us on here?” Helen was dubious.

  Jack had to stoop as he sat to avoid his head hitting the flower-printed canopy. The driver’s spindly legs pushed the pedals and the cyclo was propelled into the throng of the traffic, with apparent ease. The driver kept pinging the lever on the bike’s bell, though it was impossible to hear it amongst the din of traffic.

  “I had a bell like that on my bike when I was about five!” Helen laughed.

  Soon they were back into the narrow streets of the Old Quarter. The street kitchens smelt inviting, and the driver agreed to stop to let them eat. No more Dong were required for his wait time, if they would order from his sister’s stall. Agreed, they set off in the opposite direction.

  “The best bun cha in Hanoi!” the driver reassured them, which was just as well as it turned out the only thing she served was bun cha, a noodle dish of vegetables and barbequed meat. Helen and Jack sat with the driver and his sister and chowed down, kerbside. Helen didn’t ask what type of meat it was.

  “Where you go after, I wait for you,” the driver insisted as he dropped a full-bellied Jack and Helen at the jazz club.

  “Thanks, man, but I intend to take my time.” Jack smiled as he peeled off an extra note as a tip. The driver gave Jack a knowing smile, pinged his bell and cycled away.

  “I love it!” Helen said as they hit the smoky interior of the club.

  They sat on two high stools at the bar. Having had his year’s supply of cocktails in the past forty-eight hours, Jack ordered a beer. Helen decided not to mix her drinks and ordered vodka, figuring it to be the basic roux of all cocktails.

  “I feel like we’ve stepped into a time warp,” Helen said with child-like enthusiasm as she scanned the room.

  The clientele were an eclectic mix of genres and age groups. A young Vietnamese girl danced as if she was the only person in the room and no one was watching her. Her black hair cropped tight, it stood out in spikes thanks to strong-hold hair gel. She wore a short skirt and her feet were bare – she was lost in the beat. She reminded Helen of a pixie were it not for the cigarette in her right hand. Also Helen wasn’t sure if a pixie would be stoned.

  At a table next to the band sat a group of people in their mid-fifties. There was a tall, elegant Western woman in the group. Her hair was naturally grey but rather than aging her, it gave her an air of cool sophistication. She wore bohemian jewellery and clothes that hinted at a hippy-spent youth. She pulled on her cigarette and tapped her foot in time to the bass. The main man in the band appeared to have eyes only for her.

  “I think it’s the prohibition vibe that makes it feel old-world.” Jack leaned closer to Helen. Her hair tickled his nose.

  “Or Paris, in the twenties – decadence after the war years!” Helen lifted her glass. “Whatever it is, it works. I salute it.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  They were sitting very close. Their knees touched – neither moved away. Helen’s eyes sparkled, a little girl at a funfair. She chatted, laughed and moved her hands a lot in big gestures. She was warm and funny – Jack felt at home with her, at home here.

  Strange, he thought, how things can change when you least expect it. Who’d have guessed that sitting with a woman who’d been a stranger a mere two days ago, listening to Vietnamese sounds mixed with classic jazz, in a communist country, would feel like home?

  Chapter 51

  “Yeah, Mum, sure, see you next week, eh, love you too.” Lily put down the phone.

  “Is your mum gone already? I was hoping to talk to Helen.” Mary Devine came into the living room, drying her hands on a chequered teacloth. “She sent me a text saying she and Poppy are committing to Save the Pig. And that was all was said – what am I to make of that? I think she’d had one too many myself. Honest to God, they should have breathalysers on mobile phones, stop people sending cryptic texts like that. They’ve every other useless bell and whistle on them as it is, at least a breathalyser would be handy.”

  Lily giggled but her eyes remained on the TV.

  Mary’s brow creased. “Is that some kind of modern lingo – Save the Pig? I don’t know what the young ones are saying half the time these days.”

  “Not that I know of – but Mum and Helen are kind of on their own unique wavelength. Helen wasn’t there anyway. Mum stayed in because she was tired or something. I think she’s homesick. She was even asking about Angelo – the coffee in Vietnam must be lousy.” Lily tucked her feet under her bum and flicked on the TV remote for day-time television.

  “So who’s Helen out with?” Mary twisted the tea towel in her hands.

  “Think Mum mentioned Freddie. That was it – Freddie Kruger,” Lily joked, more interested in flicking between Judge Judy and MTV.

  “Don’t be so cheeky, madam!” Mary pretended to hit her with the towel. “You’re not too old to get a clip around the ear.”

  Lily raised her arm in self-defence. “Hey, we’ve got Childline these days, you know!” she laughed.

  “Honestly, Helen should have stayed in with your mother rather than going gallivanting around a communist capital at night. That girl will be the death of me!” Mary sighed. “Tea?”

  “No thanks, Marma.” Lily had resumed channel-hopping.

  “Oh, I’ll wait and have a cup with you in
a while then.” Mary liked having the teenager stay even if it meant Cyril had to take a back seat for a few weeks.

  As she moved to the door, quite unexpectedly, a wave of nausea came over her and she stumbled on her feet.

  “You okay, Marma?” Lily got a fright as she saw the colour drain from Mary’s cheeks.

  “Fine, love, just a bit dizzy.” Mary steadied herself against the settee.

  “Here, sit down, I’ll make the tea.” Lily jumped up. “Did you do your bloods today?” She took hold of Mary’s arm and led her to the armchair.

  “Look at you clucking like a mother hen – yes, and they’re fine.” Mary’s colour returned. “I do quite enjoy Judge Judy, though. I’ll just watch this one programme.” She adjusted a cushion to get comfortable. “Maybe I will have that cuppa, nothing like a good cuppa to make you feel better I always say. Do you know how to make tea, love?” She looked up at Lily, who had relaxed a bit.

  “Yes! I love a cup of tea when I come in from school, with a Moro dipped in it. I’m not my mother, you know – I can make tea.” Lily smiled. “Though now I’ve been going to Angelo’s place, cappuccinos are kind of what I’m into.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t we go to Angelo’s for our tea this evening?”

  “Lethal.” Lily left the room.

  “Not too strong!” Mary called after Lily. “I like my tea weak and my men strong!”

  “Too much information, Marma!” Lily shouted out, as she put the kettle on.

  Chapter 52

  In Hanoi, the jazz club was swinging. Helen and Jack enjoyed their seats, with full view of the live band, but away from the core of the action.

  “How come you’re here, Jack? Are you not lonely travelling alone?”

  “Sometimes. I like my own company though. I wanted to see a bit of the world before heading back to the US – I might never get the chance again. Not until I’m retired anyway.” He smiled down at her.