about the direction of the window – it faced almost towards the sea – meant it was unlikely passers-by would see in. (Hard to describe. Not good at things like that. A man-type 200-yards-style description.) I had been at peculiarly angled bend in road and just got lucky.
Next thing, I saw woman in a wedding dress twirling around and around! Smooth, shiny, white satin, tight bodice, wide skirt, not risible meringue, but like exaggerated A-line, if you can imagine. Like upside-down cone. Almost certain was a Vera Wang. Arresting image. Despite self’s tragic circumstances, couldn’t help but be happy for her beauty and evident happiness.
White elbow gloves. Elaborate diamanté; choker – might have been Swarovski, but couldn’t be certain at this distance. Stunning dark hair, thick and long and smooth, swinging as she twirled, perfect little tiara perched on crown of head.
She came right up to window, mouthing words – probably practising vows – chatting away to herself, good old chinwag, then she did that thing people do in films when they suddenly realize they are standing on a crocodile. She froze, slid eyes downwards very, very sloooowly until got to my level, when she forced herself to look at me, standingin road, gazing up at her, like supplicant. Even though still too far away to be able to say if choker was Swarovski, no denying the shock, horror even, on her face. She backed away from the window as if on castors. Why? What is big secret?
I remained rooted in place, wondering if she would reappear, until farmer chugging along in tractor emitting evil-smelling black smoke, shouted, ‘Out of the way, Jackeen!’ and tried to run me off the road.
11.49
Internet café
Have BlackBerry, no real need to go to internet café but, honest admission, wanted reason to talk to someone.
Inside was a girl, smoking a cigarette, sitting on a stool, legs crossed elegantly. Very short dark hair, like Jean Seberg in À Bout de Souffle . Few faces can take haircut that severe. Beautiful pointy eyebrows. Dark red lipstick. Matte. Interesting choice in these glossy times.
I said, ‘Er… hello.’
‘’Ello.’
She had to be French. That or cockney.
Clothes simple but beautiful. Black polo-neck, black and white skirt, almost puffball, but pulling back just at vital moment. Wide belt tight around waist. Black ballet slippers. Understated but chic. French women simply have knack. Like Irish people are skilled at being great craic and getting green freckles instead of tan.
Said, ‘Can I use internet?’
‘Certainement ’ she said. ‘Work away.’
Asked her, ‘You local girl?’ (Knew she wasn’t. A conversational pretext.)
‘ Non. De France.’
Can understand now why girl in DVD shop was so forward last night. Only way to get kicks around here is to poke nose into other people’s lives.
Said, ‘I love France! In fact, j’aime France!’
Hoped we could talk about shops in Paris. But she wasn’t from Paris. From somewhere called Beaune. Never heard of it but sheseemed proud. That is French people for you. They are proud of being French, smoke Gauloises and are excellent at going on strike. Sometimes whole country does it.
Introduced myself. Hoped not coming across as too desperate.
She said, ‘ Bonjour, Lola. Je m’appelle Cecile .’
Asked, ‘Why you live here, Cecile?’
Reason? A man.
‘Am crazy in love,’ she said. ‘He is surfer.’
‘What is name?’
‘Zoran.’
‘Irish?’ Thinking, Can’t be.
‘No. Serbian. Lives here now.’
Only one email of interest. From Nkechi. She has persuaded woman who imports Roberto Cavalli to Ireland to sell to ‘us’ exclusively. Is good news. Excellent news, really. All Irish women hot for Cavalli will have to be styled by me – or ‘us’ as Nkechi so ominously put it. Cripes. Have only been gone a day and already she is taking over the world.
12.16
The Oak
Same barman as last night. Ol’ Prune Eyes. Asked him, ‘What is soup of
Next thing, I saw woman in a wedding dress twirling around and around! Smooth, shiny, white satin, tight bodice, wide skirt, not risible meringue, but like exaggerated A-line, if you can imagine. Like upside-down cone. Almost certain was a Vera Wang. Arresting image. Despite self’s tragic circumstances, couldn’t help but be happy for her beauty and evident happiness.
White elbow gloves. Elaborate diamanté; choker – might have been Swarovski, but couldn’t be certain at this distance. Stunning dark hair, thick and long and smooth, swinging as she twirled, perfect little tiara perched on crown of head.
She came right up to window, mouthing words – probably practising vows – chatting away to herself, good old chinwag, then she did that thing people do in films when they suddenly realize they are standing on a crocodile. She froze, slid eyes downwards very, very sloooowly until got to my level, when she forced herself to look at me, standingin road, gazing up at her, like supplicant. Even though still too far away to be able to say if choker was Swarovski, no denying the shock, horror even, on her face. She backed away from the window as if on castors. Why? What is big secret?
I remained rooted in place, wondering if she would reappear, until farmer chugging along in tractor emitting evil-smelling black smoke, shouted, ‘Out of the way, Jackeen!’ and tried to run me off the road.
11.49
Internet café
Have BlackBerry, no real need to go to internet café but, honest admission, wanted reason to talk to someone.
Inside was a girl, smoking a cigarette, sitting on a stool, legs crossed elegantly. Very short dark hair, like Jean Seberg in À Bout de Souffle . Few faces can take haircut that severe. Beautiful pointy eyebrows. Dark red lipstick. Matte. Interesting choice in these glossy times.
I said, ‘Er… hello.’
‘’Ello.’
She had to be French. That or cockney.
Clothes simple but beautiful. Black polo-neck, black and white skirt, almost puffball, but pulling back just at vital moment. Wide belt tight around waist. Black ballet slippers. Understated but chic. French women simply have knack. Like Irish people are skilled at being great craic and getting green freckles instead of tan.
Said, ‘Can I use internet?’
‘Certainement ’ she said. ‘Work away.’
Asked her, ‘You local girl?’ (Knew she wasn’t. A conversational pretext.)
‘ Non. De France.’
Can understand now why girl in DVD shop was so forward last night. Only way to get kicks around here is to poke nose into other people’s lives.
Said, ‘I love France! In fact, j’aime France!’
Hoped we could talk about shops in Paris. But she wasn’t from Paris. From somewhere called Beaune. Never heard of it but sheseemed proud. That is French people for you. They are proud of being French, smoke Gauloises and are excellent at going on strike. Sometimes whole country does it.
Introduced myself. Hoped not coming across as too desperate.
She said, ‘ Bonjour, Lola. Je m’appelle Cecile .’
Asked, ‘Why you live here, Cecile?’
Reason? A man.
‘Am crazy in love,’ she said. ‘He is surfer.’
‘What is name?’
‘Zoran.’
‘Irish?’ Thinking, Can’t be.
‘No. Serbian. Lives here now.’
Only one email of interest. From Nkechi. She has persuaded woman who imports Roberto Cavalli to Ireland to sell to ‘us’ exclusively. Is good news. Excellent news, really. All Irish women hot for Cavalli will have to be styled by me – or ‘us’ as Nkechi so ominously put it. Cripes. Have only been gone a day and already she is taking over the world.
12.16
The Oak
Same barman as last night. Ol’ Prune Eyes. Asked him, ‘What is soup of
Similar Books
