sample sale in Lainey Keogh’s atelier.
17.47
My flat
Rushed in. Brushed teeth. Speedily loaded self like packhorse and staggered out to car.
Taxi driver looked at luggage and asked, ‘You doing moonlight flit?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘My wife left me. I came home one day and found all her stuff gone. Cannot be party to woman doing secret runner.’
‘Oh, no, no, just work.’ Then added, ‘Sorry for your trouble.’
18.05
Traffic terrible. Rush-hour gridlock. Wedged between man in Nissan Sunny (in front), man in Toyota Corolla (behind), man in Opel Corsa (beside) and man in Skoda Skoda (don’t think they have different types) (facing, going in opposite direction).
18.13
Haven’t moved in ten minutes. Am going to be late. Possibly very late. I am never late.
Considering rolling down window and striking up conversation with man in Opel Corsa. Might take mind off my anxiety.
Made the mistake of sharing my pain with taxi driver. He despises Paddy. Says he is ‘ruthless’. Although driver is bitter man – he has never forgiven his wife and swears he wouldn’t trust a woman to give him the right change from a euro – I suppose I agree.
18.28
Traffic still terrible. Officially almost late. Should have left town no later than 5.30. Sighting of Paddy and the horse threw me right off schedule. If I hadn’t needed to duck into pub to puke and recover aplomb, would have been fine. Can’t BEAR being late.
18.35
Officially late and nowhere near Killiney. Gnawing hand with anxiety.
18.48
Toothmarks on hand.
19.03
Hand bleeding.
19.14
Arrive! Through electronic gates, up long drive lit with flaming torches. Front door open, framing frantic housekeeper. ‘Quick, quick. Mrs Croft going mad!’
Hive of activity, canapés, uniformed staff, light glinting on champagne glasses.
Race up the stairs, dragging one suitcase, the housekeeper and unidentified male employee hot on my heels carrying the rest of the stuff. Mrs Croft in silky robe, sitting at mirror in her dressing room, a picture of fretfulness. Hairdresser pacing room, rapping curling tongs against his palm. Sees me. Exclaims, ‘Thanks be to Christ! What the hell kept you?’
I gasp, ‘So sorry, Mrs Croft. So sorry. Traffic terrible.’
‘Where’s Nkechi?’
‘Not coming. Night off. Me instead.’
‘Oh…’
I clunked open suitcases, unwhizzed zips on carriers, while housekeeper and unidentified man begin unpacking things onto hangers.
‘What’s this?’ Mrs Croft picked up a little white angora sweater.
‘… I… ah…’
‘And this?’ Red jumper patterned with snowflakes.
‘And this?’ Stripey knitted hat.
Self baffled. Snowflakes? Then hideous understanding dawned. Hideous, hideous, unbearably hideous. Prickly heat flushed down my body and vomit rose in my throat for second time that evening. This couldn’t be happening. Really couldn’t be happening.
I’d brought wrong clothes.
I hadn’t noticed until now, but Nkechi had labelled them. Clearly said ‘Ski Shoot’.
‘Where’re my dresses?’ Mrs Croft was pawing through the carriers and emerging with padded anoraks with cute furry trims on hood.
‘It’s all anoraks,’ the hairdresser said.
Frisson ran through other staff. Anoraks! But where’re Mrs Croft’s couture dresses? The ones she had flown in specially from London?
Mrs Croft caught me by the shoulders, looking like a soul in hell. ‘Where are my dresses?’ she beseeched me.
‘It’s all okay,’ I said, my voice thin and high and shaking. ‘It’s all okay. Just have to make quick phone call.’
‘You mean they’re not here?’
‘Not just yet.’
‘Oh Jesus! Oh sweet Jesus! What happened? You brought wrong ones?’
‘Mishap, Mrs Croft. So very sorry. All will be well.’
Trying to stay calm because, of the two of us, she was more likely to descend into hysterics requiring slap to face and Pull Yourself Together.
‘Where are my dresses?’
‘In my apartment.’
‘And where’s
17.47
My flat
Rushed in. Brushed teeth. Speedily loaded self like packhorse and staggered out to car.
Taxi driver looked at luggage and asked, ‘You doing moonlight flit?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘My wife left me. I came home one day and found all her stuff gone. Cannot be party to woman doing secret runner.’
‘Oh, no, no, just work.’ Then added, ‘Sorry for your trouble.’
18.05
Traffic terrible. Rush-hour gridlock. Wedged between man in Nissan Sunny (in front), man in Toyota Corolla (behind), man in Opel Corsa (beside) and man in Skoda Skoda (don’t think they have different types) (facing, going in opposite direction).
18.13
Haven’t moved in ten minutes. Am going to be late. Possibly very late. I am never late.
Considering rolling down window and striking up conversation with man in Opel Corsa. Might take mind off my anxiety.
Made the mistake of sharing my pain with taxi driver. He despises Paddy. Says he is ‘ruthless’. Although driver is bitter man – he has never forgiven his wife and swears he wouldn’t trust a woman to give him the right change from a euro – I suppose I agree.
18.28
Traffic still terrible. Officially almost late. Should have left town no later than 5.30. Sighting of Paddy and the horse threw me right off schedule. If I hadn’t needed to duck into pub to puke and recover aplomb, would have been fine. Can’t BEAR being late.
18.35
Officially late and nowhere near Killiney. Gnawing hand with anxiety.
18.48
Toothmarks on hand.
19.03
Hand bleeding.
19.14
Arrive! Through electronic gates, up long drive lit with flaming torches. Front door open, framing frantic housekeeper. ‘Quick, quick. Mrs Croft going mad!’
Hive of activity, canapés, uniformed staff, light glinting on champagne glasses.
Race up the stairs, dragging one suitcase, the housekeeper and unidentified male employee hot on my heels carrying the rest of the stuff. Mrs Croft in silky robe, sitting at mirror in her dressing room, a picture of fretfulness. Hairdresser pacing room, rapping curling tongs against his palm. Sees me. Exclaims, ‘Thanks be to Christ! What the hell kept you?’
I gasp, ‘So sorry, Mrs Croft. So sorry. Traffic terrible.’
‘Where’s Nkechi?’
‘Not coming. Night off. Me instead.’
‘Oh…’
I clunked open suitcases, unwhizzed zips on carriers, while housekeeper and unidentified man begin unpacking things onto hangers.
‘What’s this?’ Mrs Croft picked up a little white angora sweater.
‘… I… ah…’
‘And this?’ Red jumper patterned with snowflakes.
‘And this?’ Stripey knitted hat.
Self baffled. Snowflakes? Then hideous understanding dawned. Hideous, hideous, unbearably hideous. Prickly heat flushed down my body and vomit rose in my throat for second time that evening. This couldn’t be happening. Really couldn’t be happening.
I’d brought wrong clothes.
I hadn’t noticed until now, but Nkechi had labelled them. Clearly said ‘Ski Shoot’.
‘Where’re my dresses?’ Mrs Croft was pawing through the carriers and emerging with padded anoraks with cute furry trims on hood.
‘It’s all anoraks,’ the hairdresser said.
Frisson ran through other staff. Anoraks! But where’re Mrs Croft’s couture dresses? The ones she had flown in specially from London?
Mrs Croft caught me by the shoulders, looking like a soul in hell. ‘Where are my dresses?’ she beseeched me.
‘It’s all okay,’ I said, my voice thin and high and shaking. ‘It’s all okay. Just have to make quick phone call.’
‘You mean they’re not here?’
‘Not just yet.’
‘Oh Jesus! Oh sweet Jesus! What happened? You brought wrong ones?’
‘Mishap, Mrs Croft. So very sorry. All will be well.’
Trying to stay calm because, of the two of us, she was more likely to descend into hysterics requiring slap to face and Pull Yourself Together.
‘Where are my dresses?’
‘In my apartment.’
‘And where’s
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