And thinking of distant, exploited people reminded Margaret of her friend and colleague Maeve, trying to sell her story to the press. She wondered if she’d had any joy. Certainly the local papers might be interested, but the big money would come from the nationals. How keen would they be on the story of a wife whose husband had fooled her into thinking he was going away on bird-watching trips, when he was actually training FARC guerrillas? Not very, Margaret reflected. If he’d been having an affair with some dusky Latin babe, then perhaps they might shell out. But it seemed Redmond O’Boyle was just another ex-terrorist showing entrepreneurial spirit, and they were a dime a dozen.
She stared across the road at Emma Cochrane. It looked so chic. Three-quarters of the women she knew pronounced it chick.
Be confident.
Act like you ‘re in control.
Take no bulls**t.
Margaret had the four label-less Primark dresses in a plastic bag, and an A4 envelope containing twelve of her own designs.
What if they love the Primark dresses, and hate my own designs?
My career will be over before it’s even started.
Sure I’ll make a little bit on the dresses, but that’s not what it’s about.
Margaret launched into her second slice of carrot cake. It was a little sour, and she thought that what had appeared to be orange, wasn’t. But it was still quite pleasant. And she didn’t want her tummy rumbling during her big interview.
Carrot cake.
Why take a chance with the designs?
Sell the dresses, and offer them the carrot of further designs?
Yes! But make them pay upfront. Or offer some kind of a deal. A licensing agreement. A development deal.
That’s the way to play it!
Margaret checked her watch again. Ten minutes to go, but that wasn’t so bad. Nothing wrong with being a little keen. She took the envelope containing her own designs and folded it into the inside pocket of her knee-length leather coat. She was also wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. Smart but casual. Her stomach rumbled. Nerves.
Don’t be over-awed.
You are every bit their equal.
Margaret felt her throat go dry as she approached Emma Cochrane. A trickle of sweat ran down her brow. She opened the door and stepped inside. Emma and Louise, her fashion buyer, were standing behind the counter. There were two customers. Emma’s face immediately broke into a wide smile and she hurried across. She planted a kiss on either cheek.
‘Oh, you are such a joker!’ she exclaimed, nodding down at Margaret’s bag of dresses. ‘A Primark bag!’
Margaret laughed, but inside, her stomach turned over. What a fool I am!
Louise came over and repeated the kiss-kiss routine, while Emma took the bag out of Margaret’s hand.
‘Oh, I can’t resist another moment!’ She opened the bag, peered in, then lifted the dresses out with the delicacy a priest might reserve for the Turin Shroud. ‘Look at them, Louise!’ she cried. ‘Just look at them!’
The two customers in the shop turned to watch.
‘Truly a star is born!’
Margaret smiled. Or she tried to. Her throat was not only dry now, but tight. And her tongue felt thick. She could only manage a mild grimace. She felt cold. Yet she was sweating. God, I don’t handle pressure well at all.
Louise was looking at her now quite oddly. ‘Are you all right?’
Margaret nodded.
‘Your eyes - they look a little puffy.’
Who’re you to talk? You’ve crow’s feet, and legs.
‘Just a late night last night.’ She heard her own voice. It was a dry rasp. She looked at Emma. There were little pings of light flashing about her head.
That’s not right. That’s … really … not … right …
Suddenly she felt very, very dizzy. She staggered. Then she threw up.
Not just threw up. Projectile vomited. It was completely beyond her control.
She was sick on Emma’s legs and shoes. She sprayed poison over the last of the Winter Collection. She stumbled towards the counter, grabbed onto it for support, then boked up over the cash register.
Everything was revolving.
Margaret forced herself to turn round; she tried to utter an apology, but the only thing she could emit was another long stream of stinking fluid, this time over the summer dresses and a fake fox fur.
Her legs gave out then, and she slithered to the ground. In the background, someone was crying. She couldn’t make out who. Her eyes were by now completely swollen shut.
Margaret lay flat out on Emma Cochrane’s soiled floor, too ill to even begin contemplating the scale of the disaster.
Emma Cochrane herself, flecks of sick across her blouse and dripping from the Primark bag in her hand, stood over her. ‘Would you like a tissue, darling?’ she asked.
15
The Eye of the Beholder
All in all, after a shaky start, it wasn’t turning out to be such a bad week for Walter North. He had a job offer. The fact that it was quite a dodgy job offer was neither here nor there. It was an offer; somebody valued him. It was a light at the end of the tunnel, even if it was a tunnel he chose not to venture down. After all, who in their right minds would want to work in Office 12, the Department of Disinformation within the Department of Education? Of course he’d made all the right noises. Oh yes, I’ll think about it. But no, it wasn’t for him.
It was still a good sign.
Now he was taking another step in the right direction. He was never going to look like Brad Pitt, but every little helped. Get the eyes sorted out, then the rest could follow. Psyclops Surgeries was housed in a plush private hospital on the Malone Road. A plaque outside was like a Who’s Who of top Indian surgeons. Psyclops not only specialised in laser eye-surgery, but also plastic surgery. It had Ear, Nose & Throat Specialists, a children’s ward with a McDonald’s franchise and also claimed to house Ireland’s top private Allergy Research and Confinement Suite. The carpets inside were so thick you could have used a Strimmer on them. And the women behind the counter were gorgeous. Walter told them he was here for a consultation about his eyes, and they gave him a form to fill in.
This time he told the truth. He was through with lying. He’d learned his lesson with Margaret. He’d lost her because he’d been cavalier with the truth on his form for the Let’s Be Mates website. Besides, there was nothing to be gained by lying about his health. That said, he shaved a couple of pounds off his weight, and rather exaggerated the amount of exercise he took. There wasn’t a specific question about gravy-ring consumption.
While he waited to be called, Walter picked through the magazines on a table in the waiting area and settled on a copy of Big Houses. It had a strapline which said, Properties You Probably Can’t Afford. Walter wasn’t sure if it was meant to be ironic. He flicked through, growing more and more depressed. His big idea, to get out of the Civil Service, was to become a property developer. To buy houses, do them up, sell them on. Or rent them out. But he had managed to squirrel away precisely nothing during his long years ticking boxes in the Department of Education. Walter sighed. These houses were huge. Five bedrooms minimum. Swimming pools. Snooker rooms. Tennis courts. When was he ever going to have enough money to get his foot on the property ladder? Unless … Office 12?
‘Mr North? Mr Benson will see you now.’
Walter stood and followed the pretty nurse down a short corridor and into a small room packed with hi-tech equipment. A teenager in a white smock smiled hello and told him to sit on a leather couch. While Walter made himself comfortable the boy examined Walter’s form. Then he looked up and said, ‘Relax, Mr North. This is just a preliminary consultation. And I’m sure we can get that nose sorted out for you.’
Walter’s mouth dropped open. ‘It’s not my—’
The boy smiled. ‘Only rakin’.’
‘That’s not funny,’ said Walter. ‘I’m nervous enough as it is.’
‘Sorry. No offence. Let’s ta
ke a look, eh?’ As the boy moved closer, he reached up and began to move a piece of equipment on a mechanical arm towards Walter’s eyes.
‘Shouldn’t … shouldn’t we wait for the optician?’
‘I am the optician.’
‘Seriously?’
Benson cleared his throat. ‘Yes, Mr North.’
‘Are you some sort of child prodigy?’
‘No, Mr North.’
‘But you only look about twelve.’
‘I can assure you, I’m fully qualified.’
‘Okay. All right. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.’
‘There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s only an examination.’
‘I know that. I’m sorry. You just look so young.’
‘Healthy living. Now, if you’ll just move your head forward a little … and yes, rest your chin there …’
‘And I’m sure you have all the certificates and all. You know. In case anyone wanted to see them.’
‘Yes, I do, Mr North. They’re on the wall of my study at home. Perhaps you would care to come round?’
‘That, ahm, won’t be necessary.’
‘Because I could ask Mummy to show you them.’
Walter concentrated on a series of red dots now appearing on a small screen before him. ‘Point taken,’ he said.
‘Now then, you’ll see a series of red dots … Every time a green dot appears anywhere on the screen, I want you to click that little button beside you - see it?’ Walter nodded. ‘Good. It’ll help us check your field of vision. At least, I think that’s what it does.’
Walter moved his head back a little and looked at the young optician. ‘We got off on the wrong foot. That’s my fault. I apologise.’
‘All right. Let’s just get started.’ Benson indicated for Walter to move and retake the position.
Walter moved forward. Then back. ‘It’s just my friend says these operations are only ninety-five per cent successful and—’
‘You’re worried about the five per cent.’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr North, the five per cent refers to the very small number of people who experience no significant improvement in their eyesight as a result of their treatment here. If your eyesight doesn’t improve significantly, you get a full refund.’
‘Ah. Right.’
‘Has that put your mind at ease?’
‘Yes, it has. Absolutely.’
‘Good. Now if you’ll just …’
‘So I don’t have to worry about the five per cent.’
‘No.’
‘And nobody’s head just explodes if you miss the target.’
‘No.’
‘And there’s no disfigurement or horrific scarring.’
‘No!’ The optician took a deep breath, and appeared to be counting to ten under his breath. Or at least seven. Then: ‘Mr North, if five per cent of our patients suffered damage to their eyesight as a result of our procedures, don’t you think there’d be huge gangs of blind people roaming the streets of Belfast bumping into things and demanding justice?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Very well, then, might we continue?’
Walter nodded. He set his chin on the little cushion and tried to concentrate on the red dots. Then he moved back again and said, ‘Just one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re wearing glasses.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And yet …’
‘Mr North, it’s a free world.’
‘But it’s not a very good advertisement.’
‘Mr North, one of my colleagues does fourteen breast enlargement procedures every day. He does not feel the need to enlarge his own breasts.’
‘Well, that’s hardly a comparison.’
‘Another colleague does penis extensions. He has so far resisted the temp—’
‘Well, he mightn’t need it.’
Benson folded his arms. ‘Do you really want this done, Mr North?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then either shut your cake-hole and let me get on with the examination, or get the hell out of my chair!’
Walter cleared his throat again and moved forward.
Walter returned to the front desk to arrange a date for his laser treatment. There was a cancellation the following week, but Walter lied and said he was off on holiday. They gave him one in a month’s time. There was no need to rush.
As he made his way out of the reception area an ambulance roared up to the entrance, siren blaring. Paramedics leaped from the back, slid a stretcher out and hurried it through the sliding doors. Walter stepped back to let them pass, glancing curiously down at the poor woman lying on it. Her eyes were bulging, her lips were blue and her skin was deathly white.
But he knew who it was.
‘Margaret?’ Walter whispered, even as she was carried away out of sight.
16
A Matter of Life and Death
In retrospect, one could argue that Emma Cochrane, of extremely expensive clothes and shoes fame, insisted on the violently ill Margaret Gilmore being taken to Belfast’s most exclusive private hospital not out of concern, but to protect her prospective investment. She had discerned a remarkable talent in the designer, and how would it have looked if she’d merely bundled Margaret into an NHS ambulance and left her to the mercies of the Ulster Hospital? Margaret could end up like a James Dean of the fashion business - three remarkable dresses, huge potential and then a tragic accident (plus, in all possibility, MRSA). The Superbug simply wasn’t allowed in the private hospital on the Malone Road, at least not without an appointment.
In fact, Emma Cochrane insisted on first-class treatment for Margaret Gilmore because she was a decent woman. Only a very small percentage of herself considered it as a smart business move. Certainly not more than 17 per cent. Also, it would hardly have helped her business to have someone dying on the premises. She knew from past experience - a stick-thin model had given birth to a stick-thin child, a Twiglet, in one of her changing rooms - that the Psyclops Surgeries paramedics were first class.
Emma and her fashion buyer Louise followed the ambulance directly to the hospital, pausing only to close up the store, phone their cleaner, supervise the cleaning, return to their prospective homes to shower and change into clothes more fitting to a hospital environment - comfortable but stylish, colourful enough to suggest hope, but with a black top underneath in case mourning was required.
And it looked like it might be.
The doctors did a lot of headshaking. It was clear that there had been some sort of massive allergic reaction - but to what? There were standard procedures, which were followed meticulously, but Margaret showed little sign of improvement.
‘It is vital,’ said Professor Thompson, the head of the Allergy Research and Confinement Suite, ‘that we establish what has caused this dreadful reaction. Do you know what she might have eaten, immediately prior to this happening?’
Emma shook her head. ‘We’ve only just met her. We were having a business meeting and then she suddenly started throwing up. It was horrific.’
‘The Winter Collection’s ruined,’ said Louise.
‘This kind of reaction,’ Professor Thompson continued, ‘would have happened within just a few minutes of consuming whatever she consumed. So if she wasn’t actually eating anything when she came to your meeting, she must have done so only moments before. We’ve been through her effects, and there’s no sign of any car keys - just this.’
He handed Emma an A4 envelope. She quickly peered inside, and her heart skipped a beat. Designs.
‘I’ll look after these.’ She folded the envelope and carefully placed it inside her handbag.
‘So if she was walking,’ said the Professor, ‘she might conceivably have stopped for something to eat somewhere nearby. Can you think of anywhere, close to your business?’
Emma looked at Louise. ‘Irma La Deuce?’
Louise nodded. ‘Irma La Deuce.’
‘
That’s nearby?’
‘It’s just over the road,’ said Emma.
‘Their menu is limited,’ said Louise, ‘although the interior design is quite interesting.’
‘They specialise in carrot cake,’ said Emma.
‘Carrot cake?’ said the Professor.
‘Yes. Apparently it’s a niche market but growing. They advertise sixteen varieties.’
‘Of carrot cake?’ Emma nodded. ‘Are there sixteen varieties?’
‘Oh, yes. We have a model we use who’s thrown up every single one of them.’
‘You mean this has happened before?’
‘Oh, no. She’s bulimic. Loves her food, but only for about five minutes.’
Professor Thompson scribbled a note on a file. ‘We’ll have to contact them urgently - get a sample of each and every variety of carrot cake - then we might be able to work out which one has done this to her.’ He began to turn away.
‘Professor?’
‘Mmm-hmm?’
‘She is going to be all right, isn’t she?’
‘Well, fingers crossed.’ He hurried away.
Emma and Louise took a seat along the corridor.
Louise said, ‘Not exactly inspiring that, is it? “Fingers crossed”.’
Emma smiled. ‘Just an expression, I suppose. That poor girl - I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so ill.’
Louise nodded. ‘And the carpet’s ruined.’
Emma lifted her handbag and took out Margaret’s designs. She flicked through them, with Louise looking on.
‘What do you think?’ Louise asked.
Before Emma could respond, swing doors opened beside them and a slightly rotund man in glasses appeared. He stopped a nurse coming down the corridor and said, ‘There was a woman just brought in - Margaret Gilmore.’
I Predict a Riot Page 6