September 9.00
Martine’s Patisserie
Bright and early. Fresh start. Meeting in ‘office’ with Nkechi. As usual, Nkechi late.
9.14
Nkechi swans in, braids piled high on top of her head. Long, shapely neck. Very elegant. Walks like queen. Lazily swings her bottom into seat. Asks, ‘Nice break?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said breezily. Implying, That beastly (Margery Allingham) business all behind me now. I am restored to old efficient self.
‘So!’ I say, trying to sound dynamic. Even clap hands together in attitude of zeal. ‘What’s happening?’
Nkechi reads from her BlackBerry. ‘Tonight Rosalind Croft. Gala dinner at her house. Conference in Ireland at moment, world debt,Africa…’ waved her hand vaguely ‘… that sort of thing. Lots of famous people here. Kofi Annan, President South Africa…’ another wave of hand ‘… those types. All main players invited to Crofts’. She’s been insane. Rang me in middle of night, wanted Versace dress she saw in American Vogue . Couldn’t get fucking thing, was special creation for catwalk. She told me to fly to Miami to find it. Talked her down, dress selection narrowed to three. Balenciaga, Chanel, Prorsum Burberry. All flown in from London. Matching shoes, jewellery, etc., packed in your flat, ready to go.’
‘Okay.’
‘Tomorrow, ski chic shoot for Woman’s World . Usual winter wonderland bollocks. Furry boots, earmuffs, minging knitwear. Following day, evening dress fittings for Tess Bickers.’
‘Who?’
‘New client. Corporate wife. Tons of jingle. Wants kitting out for party season. Called in eighteen frocks. Reckon she’ll take most of them.’
‘You’ve been very busy, Nkechi. I’ll take over, do Mrs Croft this evening.’
‘But –’
‘You’ve been working very hard, Nkechi. Take the night off.’
Time to assume control. Show her who’s boss.
She didn’t want to give in. She has fostered ‘special relationship’ with Rosalind Croft since the time she saved her bacon with scarf from charity shop. Mrs Croft very powerful. Knows what’s hot and what’s shot. Handy person to have on your side.
Repeated, ‘Really, Nkechi, I’ll do it.’
‘… Well, okay. She wants you at the house at six-thirty. Well, she actually wants me at the house at six-thirty, but if you insist…’
Nkechi radiating resentment. Giving me ’tude, as she would say. As a rule, do not savour unpleasantness, but imperative to regain upper hand.
17.08
Finishing informal meeting with Brown Thomas buyer
Better get skates on. Had to pick up clothes for Mrs Croft and get out to Killiney for 6.30. Lagging behind all day. Still on Knockavoy speed. ‘Speed’ wrong word. ‘Slowth’ would be more apt.
17.15
Nipping along South William Street, weaving through people. Car double-parked. Holding up traffic. Knew before I knew, if you know what I mean. Maybe subconsciously I recognized car, or something, because had bad, burny feeling before I knew exactly why.
It was Paddy. Helping a woman – the horse, who else? – into back seat of double-parked car. Solicitous.
I stood and stared. Appalled by scene. I used to be the woman in the back seat of his car. But I had been cast aside, like cheap red dress with cigarette burn on nipple.
Living proof of my insignificance.
Knew I was going to vomit. Beseeched God, All I ask is don’t let me do it in the street .
17.18
Hogan’s Public House
I lurched towards Ladies like a sailor on dry land, black dots swimming before my eyes. Nick of time. Threw up into handbasin. Sank to knees. Whispered, ‘Sorry,’ to two disgusted girls applying lipgloss in mirror. Who, once they realized I wasn’t stotious drunk, were kindness itself. Gave me a tissue, stick of Orbit and said, ‘All men are bastards.’
They stuck with me while I waited for legs to stop trembling and could take weight of body, then escorted me to street to hail taxi. Kindness of strangers. Just before I drove away, I whispered to them about secret
Martine’s Patisserie
Bright and early. Fresh start. Meeting in ‘office’ with Nkechi. As usual, Nkechi late.
9.14
Nkechi swans in, braids piled high on top of her head. Long, shapely neck. Very elegant. Walks like queen. Lazily swings her bottom into seat. Asks, ‘Nice break?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said breezily. Implying, That beastly (Margery Allingham) business all behind me now. I am restored to old efficient self.
‘So!’ I say, trying to sound dynamic. Even clap hands together in attitude of zeal. ‘What’s happening?’
Nkechi reads from her BlackBerry. ‘Tonight Rosalind Croft. Gala dinner at her house. Conference in Ireland at moment, world debt,Africa…’ waved her hand vaguely ‘… that sort of thing. Lots of famous people here. Kofi Annan, President South Africa…’ another wave of hand ‘… those types. All main players invited to Crofts’. She’s been insane. Rang me in middle of night, wanted Versace dress she saw in American Vogue . Couldn’t get fucking thing, was special creation for catwalk. She told me to fly to Miami to find it. Talked her down, dress selection narrowed to three. Balenciaga, Chanel, Prorsum Burberry. All flown in from London. Matching shoes, jewellery, etc., packed in your flat, ready to go.’
‘Okay.’
‘Tomorrow, ski chic shoot for Woman’s World . Usual winter wonderland bollocks. Furry boots, earmuffs, minging knitwear. Following day, evening dress fittings for Tess Bickers.’
‘Who?’
‘New client. Corporate wife. Tons of jingle. Wants kitting out for party season. Called in eighteen frocks. Reckon she’ll take most of them.’
‘You’ve been very busy, Nkechi. I’ll take over, do Mrs Croft this evening.’
‘But –’
‘You’ve been working very hard, Nkechi. Take the night off.’
Time to assume control. Show her who’s boss.
She didn’t want to give in. She has fostered ‘special relationship’ with Rosalind Croft since the time she saved her bacon with scarf from charity shop. Mrs Croft very powerful. Knows what’s hot and what’s shot. Handy person to have on your side.
Repeated, ‘Really, Nkechi, I’ll do it.’
‘… Well, okay. She wants you at the house at six-thirty. Well, she actually wants me at the house at six-thirty, but if you insist…’
Nkechi radiating resentment. Giving me ’tude, as she would say. As a rule, do not savour unpleasantness, but imperative to regain upper hand.
17.08
Finishing informal meeting with Brown Thomas buyer
Better get skates on. Had to pick up clothes for Mrs Croft and get out to Killiney for 6.30. Lagging behind all day. Still on Knockavoy speed. ‘Speed’ wrong word. ‘Slowth’ would be more apt.
17.15
Nipping along South William Street, weaving through people. Car double-parked. Holding up traffic. Knew before I knew, if you know what I mean. Maybe subconsciously I recognized car, or something, because had bad, burny feeling before I knew exactly why.
It was Paddy. Helping a woman – the horse, who else? – into back seat of double-parked car. Solicitous.
I stood and stared. Appalled by scene. I used to be the woman in the back seat of his car. But I had been cast aside, like cheap red dress with cigarette burn on nipple.
Living proof of my insignificance.
Knew I was going to vomit. Beseeched God, All I ask is don’t let me do it in the street .
17.18
Hogan’s Public House
I lurched towards Ladies like a sailor on dry land, black dots swimming before my eyes. Nick of time. Threw up into handbasin. Sank to knees. Whispered, ‘Sorry,’ to two disgusted girls applying lipgloss in mirror. Who, once they realized I wasn’t stotious drunk, were kindness itself. Gave me a tissue, stick of Orbit and said, ‘All men are bastards.’
They stuck with me while I waited for legs to stop trembling and could take weight of body, then escorted me to street to hail taxi. Kindness of strangers. Just before I drove away, I whispered to them about secret
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