Chapter 10

Helen took a sip from her sixth coffee of the day. The cream in it formed a greasy film around the cup, the liquid was stone cold. She was struggling to concentrate and silently willed Fred to call time on their meeting. And then finally, as if by telepathy, he spoke.

“Let’s wrap things up and let you lovely ladies get home,” he said to the Hong Kong women.

“No need, Mr Fred. I no married – I often stay in office until ten or eleven at night,” Ms Candy said, her face now resembling a white-washed wall, from numerous reapplications throughout the day.

That explains it, Helen thought: no matter what time of the day she sent an email or fax she nearly always got a reply within the hour. No wonder the Chinese were set to be the next superpower.

Fred, whose eyes were now red-rimmed, ignored the comment, and looked at Helen, pleading for back-up.

“Yes, I think we’re done,” she said, looking at her watch. “Six thirty. That’s over nine straight hours. Well done, everyone – a good day’s toil.” She began to gather her papers.

“You hungry – we order in more food for you?” Ms Candy offered hospitably, but her glance towards Helen’s sketches gave her real motivation away.

The Eden team still had orders to place and the Chinese women knew it.

Helen glanced down at the file, before looking over at Fred. She felt they had placed enough business with Chinatex and would prefer that the remaining designs be negotiated with the other companies they planned to visit in Mainland China. But Fred was in charge of the budget.

“Give us a moment, would you, ladies?” Fred asked.

“Of course. More coffee, Ms Helen, Ms Sarah?”

“Thank you, no,” Helen replied, on behalf of everyone.

Sarah was pale and looked as if she was losing the will to live.

Once they were alone, Helen asked, “You okay, Sarah?”

“Fine. Just my blood sugar feels a little erratic.”

“Don’t worry – the meetings won’t all be like this. There will be days we’ll even get lunch.” She turned to Fred. “Fred, I think we’ve consigned enough here. I’ve given them styles we know they can produce well. Unless you want to try them out on something they haven’t done for us before?”

“Such as?”

Helen’s heart sank – at this rate they’d be there until midnight. She didn’t look up, in case Fred saw her annoyance.

“Well, we still have the bras, but I don’t see that as an option here. Maybe they could try the cotton ranges I’d saved for the factories in Qingdao.”

“But, Helen, I thought you said each factory has a specialty?” Sarah said.

“They do. Generally, if a factory is good at producing satin, they’ll make a mess of, say, cotton or stretch fabrics. Specialising in one fabric or product helps their machinists work faster. The machines don’t need adjusting or the needles changed for the different fabric types.”

“In other words, productivity goes up, they make more money,” Fred added. “I was thinking I might squeeze some extra discount if we kept going. But sounds like we’ll be buying headaches further down the assembly line.” He totted up figures of the negotiated prices on his notepad. “That’s settled then.” He considered his calculation. “Besides, it’s all on LC with Chinatex,” he said, twisting the top of his pen closed.

Sarah appeared confused, unsure if that meant they were staying or leaving.

“LC – Letter of Credit,” Helen explained. “We have to pay for the goods up front in US Dollars. It’s costly to finance. European companies usually give you thirty days’ credit, which technically means that some of the goods are actually sold at retail before we have to pay the supplier. It keeps the accountants happy.”

Sarah didn’t care about LCs. The bloody shops would be closed at this stage.

Fred stood up. “Sarah, be a sweetheart and get the ladies back. They can make their usual pretend offer of inviting us to dinner. We’ll assure them that we’re fine. Then, we can get a bloody drink that isn’t from an American Coffee franchise.”

But Ms Candy and Ms Barbara had already spotted Fred getting to his feet through the glass wall of the office. Ms Barbara pushed open the door.

“You leaving already?” she said with feigned surprise.

“Yes, Barbara. We have to meet some friends,” said Fred, but didn’t add that his friends, Jack and Daniels, were poured at hotel bars worldwide.

“Such a pity. We wanted you be our guests at dinner this evening. Perhaps next time?”

“Ms Helen?” Ms Candy reached out with both hands to her. “You leave the sketches, so I can price them for you?”

Helen closed her leather messenger. She felt like a rugby centre, dodging the opposition with the try line in sight. With a disarming smile she extended her arm to shake hands. “Thank you, Ms Candy, Ms Barbara. We got through so much today. We appreciate all you did for us.”

The meeting was over, Helen Devine style.

Chapter 11

Fred and Helen made the executive floor of the Excelsior Hotel before the end of cocktail hour. Sarah had excused herself an hour before, saying she needed to freshen up. By now, Helen was finishing off her second cocktail – a Singapore Sling.

“Enjoying that?” Fred asked as he swirled the ice in his Jack & Coke.

“When in Rome and all that,” Helen replied. She eyed the hors d’oeuvres and decided on a red-caviar-sprinkled prawn.

“We’re in Hong Kong.”

“Yeah, well, it’s close enough.” Helen popped the bite-size snack in her mouth. “You know, I named my Golden Retriever after that.” She pointed to Fred’s drink.

“What – Hugo Boss?” Fred placed a hand on his stomach and flattened his shirt, to reveal a monogrammed buckle.

“I meant Jack Daniels. I used to drink it in my youth before I moved on to Bacardi and Diet Coke. I figured JD sounded more like a dog’s name than Bacardi. Nowadays, I try to stick to vodka and soda. It’s pure, so it must be better for my body.” She ignored the look Fred was giving her. “Anyway, I couldn’t see your flashy belt under your belly.”

“Cheeky. At least get the term right, Helen – it’s a beer gut – only women have bellies.” He looked at Helen, her mouth open ready to receive another nibble.

In a reflex action, Helen pulled in her stomach but, before she could retort, her phone vibrated on the low table between them.

“That’ll be my mother, with a crime and weather update.” She rubbed her hands together, ridding them of crumbs. She picked up the phone.

“Hello, Helen?”

“Hi, Mum, how’s things?” Helen stood to go to a quiet corner in the room. Fred inspected her plate to see what he could pinch.

“Fine, love – I’m just ringing to let you know not to phone later because I’m going to the pictures with Nuala Flynn,” Mary Devine said, as always calling her friend by her full name.

“That’s grand, Mum, enjoy it – what are you going to see?” Her mother liked to have a reason to call rather than admit she wanted to talk to her only daughter.

“I can’t think of the name of it now. Nuala Flynn picked it out – ordered the tickets over the internet. How’s the weather there?”

Here we go.

“Well, it’s night-time now but it was cloudy and humid earlier.”

“Well, it’s a beautiful day here, blue skies, but there’s rain due tomorrow.” Mary Devine hesitated before continuing. “Did you see the news: a tourist was raped, tortured and strangled – over there?”

Helen wondered how on earth her mother did it. No matter where in the world Helen travelled, Mary had a local horror to tell.

“No, Mum.”

“I read it in the paper – shocking business,” Mary went on. “I bet the Chinese are covering it up. Didn’t you tell me they black out the telly when there’s an American news report they don’t like?”

“That was a CNN report on the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square protests – and I was in Beijing at the time. That’s different.” Helen tried to remain patient. She spotted Sarah enter the room, as did most of the men. She was wearing a low-cut red-silk dress and skyscraper black-patent heels.

“Just be careful, Helen. Keep your wits about you and don’t get into a taxi on your own.”

Watch yourself crossing the road and wear clean underwear in case of an accident.

“I’ve something important to tell you, love. Not over the phone though. Will you be home this weekend?”

“Yes. Is everything okay with you, Mum. Did you check your bloods today?”

“Yes, I’m fit as a fiddle. We’ll talk when you get back.”

“Sounds ominous. By the way, if it’s okay, Poppy and Lily will call in this weekend. I think Poppy could do with a little Devine TLC.” Helen could feel her mother’s spirits lift, even from halfway across the world.

“All right, love, I’ll get some groceries in. Lily’s a grand girl, but she has a healthy appetite. I’d better get going myself. I’ve a lot to do, what with the pictures tonight, and now the supermarket in the morning, as well.”

Helen knew Mary was already running through the mental shopping list for drop-in visitors.

“Got to go, Mum. The others are waiting on me. Love you.”

Helen rejoined Fred and Sarah.

“You look great, Sarah,” she said.

Sarah simply said, “Cheers.” She was more interested in the potential suitors in the business lounge than making small talk with her over-the-hill bosses. Although for the life of her she couldn’t figure out how neither of them were killed with jetlag. At their age you’d imagine they’d be curled up in bed by now. Although Helen was definitely full of surprises. Having seen her flirting in the bookshop, she’d realised Helen was straight and probably just an uptight spinster in need of a lay.

“So, Fred, where to – Long Cock?” Helen asked.

See, as usual I’m right, Sarah thought.

“The table is booked for seven forty-five.” He pulled back his shirt cuff. “Which means we should be there now.” He drained the last of his drink, just as the waiter arrived with Sarah’s order. “And Helen – let me talk to the taxi driver.”

“Why?”

“Because, I know when you say Long Cock, you mean Lan Kwai Fong, but lord only knows where we’ll end up if you give the instructions.”

Fred guided his design team to the exit.

Chapter 12

Jack was woken by Tom’s arrival home. He tried to focus. He’d moved around so much recently he often woke disorientated. The glow of the digital clock beside the bed blinked 19:46.

“Jack?” Tom gave a soft knock on the bedroom door before popping his head in.

Ah . . . Hong Kong.

“Yeah, Tom – hi.” Jack propped himself up on his elbow. “I must have dozed off.”

“No fish market I take it. Just as well – it’s a smelly old place anyway. Good to see you, boy.” His smile was as broad as his hug.

Despite living thousands of miles away from any blood relative, Tom loved it when one of them stopped by his town, assuming they didn’t stay too long, that is.

The hug was followed by a slightly awkward pat on the back.

“Christ, Jack, you look more like your old man each time I see you. How is my big brother anyway?”

“Good, as far as I know – I haven’t been home for a while.”

“Dubai kept you busy, hey! Come on, let’s have a drink and you can tell me what the women wear under those burkas.”

Jack followed him into the living room.

“I wouldn’t know. My life for the past nine months has been pretty much work and sleep, with a lot more work than sleep. This place really is amazing.” Jack was looking out of the large window again. Hong Kong Harbour looked even more impressive under a night sky.

Tom checked his watch. “Remember I told you I wanted to show you something? You’ll see it in precisely four minutes. Bourbon?”

Jack wasn’t a bourbon drinker. Tom was quick to pick up on the moment’s hesitation.

“Champagne then – a better choice.” He set about popping the cork.

“Don’t open a bottle just for me, Tom – a beer is fine.”

“Nonsense, I love this stuff. It’s not often I get to have it at home.” The cork popped. Not a drop of the golden bubbles escaped.

“I reckon you share a lot more champagne than you’re letting on, Tom.”

“A gentleman never tells, Jack! Not until a few more drinks, at least. Here – a toast.” Tom handed Jack a crystal flute.

“To family!” Jack said, raising his glass.

“To family!”

They each took a sip.

“And happy travels!” Tom saluted him, taking a larger mouthful this time.

“And new adventures!”

“May the road to your Eastern adventures be lined with more chicks than a Louisiana chicken farm!” Tom promptly drained his glass. “Top-up?”

Tom went to refill the glasses, leaving Jack staring out the window.

“Hey, Tom! Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“Something else, isn’t it?”

Jack watched as the Hong Kong skyline came alive to a symphony of lights.

“Every night at eight, the beauty of Hong Kong lights up with the laser show. I’ve seen it countless times – and I’m still awestruck.” Tom handed Jack a fresh glass of champagne and they watched as the stunning illumination, bursting with multicoloured beams, danced above and around the skyscrapers.

“A belly dancer in a harem, and we’ve got the best seat in the house,” Tom said.

Jack wondered where Tom got his unusual analogies.

“Hong Kong really is the New York of Asia,” Jack said, as the show climaxed to its celebration finale.

“Better than New York!” Tom emptied his glass again, with a quick gulp. Hiccupping, he said, “Okay, let’s rock and roll! Time you experienced Hong Kong, not watched it. New York, get set for some ass-kissing!”

Chapter 13

“Now, that’s what I call soakage.” Fred wiped his mouth with a napkin before throwing it on top of his plate. He took an appreciative sip of his full-bodied Bordeaux.

“Desserts anyone?” his host asked.

Fred had neglected to mention to Helen and Sarah that they had accepted an invitation to dinner from a French bra supplier, Liselle. They were now making small talk with four European ex-pats living in Hong Kong and working for the well-known French label, whose factories were in Mainland China. It had been a long day.

Eager to finish the dinner service, to allow the restaurant to make its transformation into a karaoke bar, a waiter removed the last of the dinner plates and replaced them with dessert menus. Fred, who had just finished a sixteen-ounce steak, was contemplating his next course.

“This looks like it could be a fun place later,” Sarah said, disappointed at the dinner: an offering of burgers, chicken-wings and man-sized steaks.

The dark interior of the restaurant-cum-bar could have been anywhere in the world. The theme was The Beatles and 60’s music. Everything from the menus to the placemats and even the plates, was fashioned to the image of 33-inch vinyl LPs.

“Check out the suits.” Helen gave Sarah a subtle nudge on the hip. The two women were wedged together on a red-velour couch. She was referring to a group of businessmen, propped up on barstools close by. Two of the men were Western, two were Asian. They were joined by a couple of petite Chinese women in very short skirts.

Sarah shrugged and looked at Helen as if to say, so what?

“I’ll put money the story goes like this. The Asian men are suppliers – the other two are their clients. The Asians generally don’t drink too much. They’ll have brought the clients to a nice restaurant earlier, where the Westerners will have polished off copious amounts of wine, while the suppliers sat and sipped politely on theirs.” Helen paused for effect and then knocked back her own drink. She put her elbows on the table and supported her chin with one hand, leaving the other hand free to discreetly point, emphasising her detective work. “Note how the lads are knocking back beers and shooters while the suppliers are cradling one bottle of beer, creating the illusion that they too are drinking and partying.” She looked at Sarah as if that proved everything.

Sarah tried to look without being noticed, which was easy enough, as a four-piece band were setting up within feet of their table.

“Is this another lesson in designer-drinking?”

“It’s all about patterns, Sarah. Paper ones are just for office hours.”

“But the girls appear to be knocking back a couple of shots too, so that kind of negates your theory – whatever it is,” Sarah said.

“Looking at that pair – who can blame them?” Helen made a face, as if she had just whiffed a rotten egg. She would have to spell it out for Sarah. “It’s simple. The Asian men just want to go home. For God’s sake, look at yer man! His eyes are glazing over. And the other one just keeps nodding agreement. The girls are the entertainment – they’re the suppliers’ get-out-of-jail card!”

Sarah still wasn’t sure what the revelation was.

Helen went for the jugular. “They’re prostitutes, for heaven’s sake – corporate entertainment for the clients!”

Sarah’s face slowly registered what Helen was saying. “No way!”

A look of satisfaction glowed on Helen’s face. “Yes, my girl: dinner, drinks and hookers. Welcome to the world of corporate entertainment.”

Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I think I prefer the biscotti and truffle-oil hampers the Italian suppliers send us.”

Helen and Sarah looked to the bar, both pretending to be studying the array of bottles behind the bartender. Both businessmen wore pinstripe suits. The first one was small with a fine bone structure. He had thick-lens glasses, his hair was thin and receding. He talked incessantly, all his attention focused on the scantily clad girl sitting beside him. He was the cat that had got the cream. His colleague also had a girl in pole position.

The second man’s suit was similar, but he had finished it off with a flamboyant silk tie. He was probably someone from the Inter Textile Trade Fair that was taking place, Helen reckoned. A stocky build made him appear as though he had once played rugby, before après match and family commitments replaced the playing fields. Fat replaced fitness.

By now, a few other ladies turning tricks had wandered into the bar. These women were more classily dressed and were harder to spot, except for the over-made-up faces and the way their eyes scanned the bar for potential clients.

“You two are as thick as thieves!” Fred interrupted Helen and Sarah’s reverie. “Anyone for a drink?”

“Yes, please – I’ll have a shot!” Sarah piped up.

“Off you go!” Fred gestured towards the bar. “Take your pick of that lot up there.” He cocked his thumb towards the impressive selection of drinks that lined the mirrored wall of the bar.

Sarah wavered.

“Put it on the Liselle tab,” Fred added.

This cheered up Sarah, who swiftly offered drinks for everyone at their table. There were no takers.

Embarrassed by Fred’s behaviour, Helen smiled at the sales director of Liselle, whose credit card was held behind the bar. Mark, tall and broad as an ox, had a placid manner, which had earned him the nickname of the Gentle Giant. He moved into Sarah’s place. It became a tight squeeze on the couch.

“Did you say something, Helen?” he asked, leaning his ear towards her in an effort to hear now that the band was belting out cover-tunes.

“No, I’m just laughing at Fred – he never changes.”

“He prefers not to move the venue – here in Abbey Road we’ve got food, bar and music, without having to leave our chairs.”

“Correction. Despite my best efforts I did have to move to make way for the band,” Fred interjected. He pushed the belt of his trousers farther under his stomach, to allow for the swelling that was taking place from the waistline up.

Sarah tried to make up her mind which drink to pick. She stood beside the businessman with the brightly coloured tie who was chatting up his corporate hooker. The man held up a wallet – an accordion of clear plastic, containing family photos, fell from it.

“This one is my eldest daughter, Laura – she’s nine – and that’s my son, Charlie – he’s six. Then there’s the baby, Chloe – she’s about twenty months now.”

Maybe Helen had got it wrong, Sarah thought.

The Asian girl smiled politely and nodded.

“And that’s my wife. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“You have lovely family,” the girl dutifully replied.

“Yes, I do. But they’re back in the UK and we, baby, are here!” He squeezed her thigh.

The girl took a quick glance at her watch. She’d been paid a flat rate to give him sex. The sooner he shut up and took his trousers off, the sooner she’d get home.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked Sarah.

She was trying to give the businessman a filthy look but he had no eyes for her.

“A shot of sambuca and a vodka and Coke,” she snapped.

“Any vodka in particular?”

“That goose one, whatever it’s called – that’s good, right?”

“It’s expensive, but yeah – I guess.”

“I’ll have that one then. Make it a large one.”

“Anything else?” the barman asked when he’d set down the drinks.

Sarah picked up the shot and knocked it back. “Yes, put it on the Liselle tab, please.” She glared at the suit and said, quite loudly, “The world is a sad place. People like that – just out to get what they can.” She picked up her drink and walked away.

The lead singer of the band announced a break. They would be back for a second set, after the karaoke.

“Would anyone like to start the karaoke with a little Queen?” he called out.

Unbeknownst to Helen, earlier Fred had had a word in the lead singer’s ear. Helen was set to perform whether she wanted to or not.

“She’s over here!” Fred shouted, pulling Helen’s arm into the air.

“A big hand, everyone, for the beautiful Helen Devine, Britain’s top lingerie designer!” the lead singer announced.

“Come on Helen, we’re up!”

“Not on your life!” Helen struggled to stay seated. However, the announcement had piqued a lot of male interest and the wolf-whistles and applause gained momentum.

Mark took hold of Helen’s other hand. “You don’t have to, Helen.”

But Fred wasn’t letting go.

“Oh, what the hell! We’re in Hong Kong. What goes on tour stays on tour, right?” she said, allowing Fred to drag her towards the dance floor.

“Here, take a sip.” Mark handed her a drink as she left the safety of the couch. “You may need some Dutch courage.”

Helen and Fred started a “Bohemian Rhapsody” duet. Back to back, mikes in hand, they chorused their way through the song, until it got to the guitar solo. Then it was time for air guitar and head-banging, despite Fred being follically challenged.

“I think I’m in love!” Sarah overheard a young British guy say as he watched Helen do her Freddie Mercury impression.

“I didn’t think women like that existed in real life – and a lingerie designer!” his friend added, as they continued to drink and stare.

“Actually, I work with her,” Sarah interrupted.

“Shut up! There’s a team of lingerie women here?” the first guy asked.

“Yes, Helen and I are the top designers at Eden,” Sarah said coolly.

“Eden, that’s the shop with that Czech model, Krystal, in its windows?”

All attention was on Sarah now.

“Yes, that’s us,” she said. “What has you in Hong Kong, boys?”

“Hong Kong? I thought we were in heaven!”

The lads nudged each other, laughing.

“We’re on holidays,” the other said when he had managed to compose himself.

“Does that mean you get to meet the models?” his friend asked.

“Yes, and dress them for the photo-shoots.”

The guys’ eyes bulged.

“Come, sit. I’ll tell you all about a day in the life of a lingerie designer.”

Helen felt dizzy as she returned to the couch. She wasn’t sure whether it was the effect of the alcohol or her impromptu performance.

“Who knew you’d make such a good Freddie, Helen!” Fred said, elbowing her over. He was out of breath – his shirt wet with sweat. He wiped his brow on a chocolate-stained napkin.

“Excuse me, Fred, before you get too comfortable, I need the ladies’ room.” Helen tried not to slur her words but she failed miserably.

Fred moved his legs to the side but didn’t stand, so he got a face-full of Helen’s bosom as she wedged passed him, stumbling slightly against him.

Free from the din of the music, Helen climbed the stairs to the loo. It was occupied. A sign indicated there were more facilities on the next floor. After jigging around for a moment, she made her way along the dimly lit corridor and up a narrow stairway.

She pushed open the door to the ladies’ room. Someone inside forcibly slammed it shut again, catching Helen’s hand with it.

“Ouch!” she cried out and grabbed her hand in pain. Her fingers throbbed. Stunned, reactions slowed by the booze, she stood staring at the door for a moment.

Yes – it definitely had the outline of a woman on it, complete with triangular skirt, but she had caught a glimpse of a man inside.

“Get off me!” Helen heard a woman’s voice through the door, followed by what sounded like a scuffle.

The fog in Helen’s head cleared. She banged her palm rapidly against the door. She thought of fetching security but didn’t want to leave the woman either. She continued to pound. “Is everything alright in there?” The door wasn’t locked but the man had his weight pressed against it. Helen forcibly pushed it with her shoulder. This caught him off guard and he stumbled, freeing the door.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” she glared at the man. He was short, stubby and wore a brightly coloured tie. She recognised him as one of the men she’d been commenting on earlier. She turned her attention to the Asian woman. “Are you okay?”

Cheeks streaked with mascara stains, the woman said, “Yes . . . yes.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Please, I just want to get out of here.”

Helen stood back to let her pass. The woman paused briefly, saying, “Thank you,” then bolted.

The man held his hands up in surrender. “Hey, honest mistake! I thought she was my woman. They all look the same to me.”

“You racist moron!” Helen shouted.

He sneered at Helen, looking her up and down. Nodding as if to say he knew her type. He made a point of craning his head forward to look at her bum. Then he laughed but his laughter held no mirth.

Ignoring him, Helen continued, “How dare you treat any woman like that?”

“Mind your own business – fat ass,” he said, as he pushed past her and started to walk away.

“Short ass,” Helen tutted as she turned back towards the ladies’.

Without warning, he swung around and lunged at her, knocking her against the doorframe. He pushed her inside and into a cubicle, pinning her shoulder to the wall, using his elbow as a hinge. With his forearm across her neck, he held her other shoulder back with his hand. His wedding ring caught a low beam of light.

Adrenaline coursed through Helen’s veins.

“Let go of me,” she said, her tone low and even. She held eye-contact. She didn’t blink. Inside she felt like jelly but she couldn’t let him smell her fear. She was taller than he was but he was strong and her body wasn’t propelled by the hatred levels his was high on.

He bared his teeth – his breath smelt of stale whiskey and cigarettes.

“I’ll have you hauled off by the Hong Kong cops. Explain that to your office – your wife,” Helen continued, holding his stare.

Something flickered in his eyes. A moment of clarity perhaps? He loosened his grip. “I wouldn’t touch a fat-ass like you anyway!” he spat out but he was backing away. “Fat ass!” he continued to taunt as he stepped out of the doorway into the corridor.

Helen seized the opportunity to slam the door shut behind him, quickly bolting the lock.

“Fat-ass bitch!” he shouted through the closed door, banging it with the heel of his stumpy hand, getting the last word in before scurrying away.

Helen pressed her back against the door. She could hardly breathe. Her throat was constricted – her stomach somersaulted into her chest. There was a basin and mirror within the confines of the toilet. She pressed both hands onto the cold ceramic of the sink to steady herself. Her knees were about to buckle, she was shaking so badly. She looked in the mirror and she saw herself in a way that she hadn’t in years. Behind the make-up, designer clothes, the laughs, the deal-making, she saw a frightened little girl, carefully hidden in the archive of her soul.

“What the hell are you doing, Helen?” she asked her reflection.

Slowly, her heart gave up its struggle to escape from her chest. Her hand steadied enough to allow her to let go of the sink.

She splashed her face with cold water and used the loo before making her way back downstairs. Despite what had happened, or what could have happened, she couldn’t stop the same thought playing like a broken record in her head: Is my ass really that big?

“Helen, drink?” Fred used sign-language over the crowd.

She knew better than to tell him she was leaving. She motioned that she was going outside for a smoke. She didn’t smoke but Fred was too pissed to argue.

As she waded her way over to where her host was sitting, she looked around for the suit but couldn’t see him. What would she say to security anyway?

He was in the ladies’ toilet.

He said my bum was big.

He threatened you, Helen! He almost raped the other woman.

She looked around again – she couldn’t see the woman either.

Already she was wondering if she had exaggerated the situation in her mind.

Then she spotted him.

Not the creep from the loo – the guy from the airport, Mr Spiritually Enlightened, just walking out the door. Why hadn’t she spotted him earlier? It was his straw briefcase that had caught her eye, just as he was leaving.

“Are you alright, Helen?” Mark asked. “You look upset?”

“I’m fine, Mark. Thanks for a lovely evening.” She tucked her jacket under her arm so that Fred wouldn’t spot it and realise she was leaving. “We’ve an early flight to the mainland in the morning. We’ll see you the day after tomorrow – right?”

“Sure. I’ll walk you to the taxi rank.”

“No, you’re grand – it’s just down the hill. Sarah, are you coming or staying?”

“Staying.” Sarah barely looked up, her attention focused on the young English tourist who was chatting her up.

Helen deftly managed her escape through the heavy velvet curtains of the bar’s entrance. She wanted to catch up with the man who’d just left. Surely it was too great a coincidence? Not usually someone to believe in synchronicity, it just seemed unlikely that this man, who’d guided her to buy a book on the significance of coincidence, would appear in her bar. Could the world really be that small? Was this a sign to trust the Universe? I’m going after him, she thought. In her eagerness to get out, she smacked straight into two men who were on their way in.

“Whoa! Are you okay?” Jack Taylor said to the woman who’d just run into him with force.

Helen looked up at him, this polite stranger she’d nearly mowed down. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before she mumbled an apology and looked away, her eyes searching for something else, the man with the straw briefcase whom the Universe had conspired that she meet, she was sure of it. But he’d disappeared from sight now, valuable seconds lost by bumping into someone else to say nothing of the encounter with Mark. She looked back into the bar and wondered if she should stay. The man she’d bumped into was still smiling at her. If someone whacked into her as she had him, she doubted she’d be as forgiving. She decided to keep on going and soon melted into the throngs of people drinking on the street.

Chapter 14

“Wonders will never cease – there are a couple of free seats at the bar,” Tom said to his nephew.

The two men sat and ordered beer. A pretty Asian woman sat alone at the end of the bar. She held an unlit cigarette between her scarlet-painted fingernails.

She smiled at Jack.

He smiled back.

She held up her cigarette and tilted her head as if she was asking him if he had a light.

He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head – he didn’t smoke.

“Excuse me,” he called to the bartender. “I think that lady needs a light.”

The bartender looked at him, unsmiling.

“Jeez, Jack, will you stop encouraging the hooker. They’re impossible to shake off, once they spot an easy target,” Tom moaned. “I’m surprised at you – being a man of the world, you should know better.”

“Oh.” Jack reddened slightly. “I’m really not tuned into women, or so I’m told.”

“Why would you want to be? Just let them think you are. Their brains don’t work rationally, you see. It’d be easier to tune into Andromeda using a kitchen spoon than tune into the female psyche.”

“Andromeda – as in our neighbouring galaxy in the universe?”

“That’s the one – two-and-a-half million light years away. Now that I think of it, that’s probably where women are from too – a different species from outer space.”

Jack thought that for once Tom could be right.

“Whatever happened to that girl? Weren’t you engaged to her?” Tom asked, popping some peanuts into his mouth.

The question was unexpected and knocked Jack back.

“Amy.” He said her name and survived it.

“Was she the one with the great rack?”

“She was my only proper girlfriend. And yes, the one with the great rack. It didn’t work out.” Jack drew a line in the condensation of his beer bottle.

“Slept with someone else, did she?”

No wonder Dad calls him Tactless Tom. “Something like that.”

“Figures.”

“Why do you say that?” Jack pushed his stool back to look at Tom full-on.

“A girl who looks like that is always on the hunt for something more. More status, more wealth, more handsome. Beauty – it’s a curse, you know – for those that fall in love with it anyway.”

“So you’re saying all beautiful women are shallow, insincere gold-diggers?”

Tom thought for a moment or two. “Yes.”

“You’re incorrigible, Tom.”

“I’m just saying what I’ve seen. Screw them by all means – just don’t marry and procreate with a Playboy bunny.”

“Amy doesn’t look like a Playgirl! She’s tall for a start, and she’s . . .” Jack thought about the right word, “she’s refined.”

“Trust me. Paint the lips redder, and make the heels a couple of inches higher – it’s the only difference – she has the basic canvas.” Tom popped more nuts.

Jack was peeling off the label of his beer.

“From what I remember of her, that is,” Tom added. “Trust me – you’re well shot of her.”

If Tom was trying to console him, it hadn’t worked.

“So, how long are you in town for?” Tom asked.

Safer ground.

“A little over a week, but I’ll probably head across to Mainland China for a few days of that. Then I’m hoping I can fly on to Phnom Penh from here.”

“Cambodia! Have you been drinking the Kool-Aid? Why on earth would you want to go there?”

“I’m kind of hoping it’s not too spoilt by tourists yet – I’ve always wanted to see Angkor Wat.”

“Shanghai – go there. As an architect, you’ll love it – not some crumbling old ruin. Besides, you’ll have to get all sorts of injections against the god-awful diseases in Cambodia. Do they even have proper hotels there?” Tom’s lip curled involuntarily.

“I got all my shots last month. It’s not the buildings I’m going for – it’s the culture, the experience.” Jack ignored Tom’s expression.

“I’m telling you – book into the Peninsula in Shanghai, or Beijing if you want more culture. Order room service – tune the plasma TV to the National Geographic channel. Experience all the cultures of the world via remote-control.”

“Nah, it doesn’t matter about the hotels, I’m backpacking. And I’ll go wherever I can get the best-priced flight to. I’ll figure out my way once I’m there.”

“Jack, I’ve seen the world and managed to have white cotton sheets, cable TV and a hotel bar everywhere I’ve been.”

“What you mean is – you’ve travelled the world. You can’t say you’ve seen it until you step out of your comfort-zone, off the tour bus and mix with the locals.”

“Who’s talking tour buses? I’ve always been chauffeur-driven.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Or at least a taxi,” Tom conceded. “Would you even consider Shanghai?”

“Sure, I’d like to see Shanghai, probably more for the old town though.”

Tom raised his eyes to heaven.

“And the super train – I would like to travel on that,” Jack added.

“Thank you! I was beginning to think you weren’t a Taylor at all.”

“I’m just not like you and Dad.”

“Correction – I’m nothing like your dad either.”

“What I mean is, you and dad live and breathe construction. You with your architecture, Dad with his engineering, Dubai is your wet dream, but I just don’t feel the buzz anymore.”

There, he’d said it. There is more to life than big boys’ Lego.

“You know, maybe this few weeks off is a good idea after all.” Tom paused. “You’ll be chewed up in LA unless you get your ‘buzz’ back and quickly. Most people would kill to have your job.”

Jack knew Tom was right. Sometimes though, he wondered, if he hadn’t come from a family of architects and engineers, would he have chosen a different career?

If he hadn’t started dating Amy in high school, would he have experienced more of life? He’d always taken the safe road. Always was the good son, the class captain, devoted boyfriend – hardworking, reliable.

He could see his tombstone now: Here lies Jack Taylor, Grade-A student, exemplary employee, lovingly missed by nieces and nephews. No children of his own because women are from Andromeda and he couldn’t leave the office long enough to get there. Died of boredom, age forty – RIP.

Chapter 15

“Is Helen not back yet?” Fred enquired, returning from the bar.

“Gone,” Mark said flatly as he stole a glance at his watch.

“Like hell she is,” Fred said, putting the drinks on the table. He took his mobile out of his jeans pocket, pressing speed-dial. Helen’s number rang out – he dialled it again and then again.

“She mentioned you all have an early start tomorrow,” Mark said.

“Never stopped her before,” Fred grumbled.

He checked the phone for texts – nothing. Maybe he could still catch her – talk her into a night-cap at the hotel bar. He swiftly bade the others goodnight and disappeared through the velvet curtains in pursuit of his target: Helen Divine.

Party revellers thronged the narrow streets of Lang Kwai Fong. Waiters pushed through the crowds with pitchers of beer and vodka, a popular option that maximised drinking time and minimised wading-to-the-bar time. Music flowed from the pubs’ outdoor speaker systems into the hedonistic night air. Beer flowed down the cobbled street. Fred, who’d normally want to be in the thick of the action, now found it irritating, his dash to the taxi rank impeded. A group of young women dressed in saucy nurses’ uniforms slowed him momentarily.

“You want a shot, mister?” one of them asked. She raised a giant vial, shaped like a surgical needle – it was full of a clear-coloured alcohol like vodka or gin. Fred hesitated for a moment until he remembered you always pay premium rates to drink with a view, be it of a harbour or an over-exposed silicone cleavage. He kept going.

“I’ll take it!” a British woman shouted, dashing forward. She wore a cheap cotton sleeveless T-shirt that exposed a functional white bra-strap and an expanse of belly-flab. Bingo wings jiggled as she broke away from her friends and ran towards the fantasy nurse. The woman and her friends all looked to be in their late forties, maybe early fifties. They held tankards of beer and cocktails. Some were clumsily stepping side to side, to the beat of the music.

The nurse poured, the women laughed and started a sing-song.

Christ, if they could only see themselves! He’d go bonkers if his wife behaved like that! Fred saw a break in the crowd. A line of people formed a human train to keep it open and make their way down the street. He latched on at the back and a moment later was free of the congestion and making his way to the bottom of the hill.

In the taxi, the driver studied Fred in his rear-view mirror. He saw men like this every night of the week leaving Wan Chai and Lan Kwai Fong. They’d flash their cash all night, only to head back to their hotel rooms alone.

There could be commission here.

“You enjoy night?” he enquired, giving Fred a gap-tooth smile.

“It was fine.” Fred was texting Helen, having decided to use the guilt card – asking her to contact him because he was worried.

Bugger it, he thought. He’d forgotten Sarah . . . thankfully Mark, the Gentle Giant, would make sure she got home safely.

“You like a woman?” the driver asked, going straight for the jugular.

“What? No! I could have picked up any amount of pros in Long Cock,” Fred said, adopting Helen’s idiom. Why wasn’t she texting back?

“No, no – no sex – rubby-rubby. Me – I am Buddhist.” The taxi driver pointed to himself and nodded repeatedly. “This very good – best massage in Hong Kong.” He laughed. “You never have massage like this in your life, mister – I take you there.” He eagerly awaited the nod from Fred, who was now giving him his full attention.

Fred looked at the screen of his phone – still nothing. “How far is it?” he enquired, wary of a scam.

“No far – here on the island – I no charge you for going there – okay? Just fare same as you go to Excelsior, okay?” The driver kept nodding until soon Fred was nodding too.

Within minutes, the driver was navigating the car through dark narrow streets, away from the neon signs of the main thoroughfares. All the time he was muttering to himself. “No worry – very good, very good, mister.”

They came to a halt outside a dingy building. There didn’t appear to be any sign of life. The driver got out of his cab and gave a quiet tap on a small window. Fred remained in the cab and watched nervously from the back seat.

The window opened slightly and the driver started talking to a woman – Fred could only see her outline. They appeared to be arguing. But, Fred thought, the Asians always sound like that. A moment later, a light came on – the door opened a tiny crack. The driver signalled furiously to Fred.

“How much?” Fred enquired of his self-appointed pimp.

“One hundred Hong Kong Dollar.” The man ushered Fred quickly into a room off the hallway, for fear he’d change his mind.

The place smelt of cheap perfume and cabbage soup. Two towel-covered plinths were the only furniture. A pretty young woman smiled shyly at Fred.

She could work the knots out of him any day. Happy days and all for less than ten quid!

Through a doorway, a rustle heralded the arrival of another woman. She waded into the room – a real-life Chinese dragon, but a lot less hot. With a grunt, she indicated to Fred to get up on the plinth. Panic set in and just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse there was another swish of the multicoloured plastic strips. Enter dragon number two. Only this one was worse. This was a Chinese Weapon of Mass Destruction – and Fred was her target.

“Which one you want?” the taxi man asked, as if courtesy dictated he should give Fred the option of Ugly or Uglier.

Fred turned to look for the pretty girl who had welcomed him but she was already slipping away, out of sight. The bait escaped – the victim caught.

“Pants down!”

The taxi man’s trousers dropped to the floor, revealing spindly legs. His head was still nodding.

Closing his eyes, Fred tightly held on to his belt buckle. He prayed for deliverance.

A lot of shouting later – with Fred refusing to drop his pants which resulted in him paying the masseuses their fee plus a bonus not to have services rendered – he was safely back in the cab. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out through the top of the car window. The driver was prattling in Mandarin. Occasionally he’d bang his fist against the steering wheel, and mutter what could only be obscenities, no matter what the language.

But Fred didn’t care. His focus now was on Helen. She’d just sent him a text: she was okay and back at the hotel. She’d agreed to meet him in the Dickens bar for a nightcap.

Time to move things up a notch.

Chapter 16

Helen descended the steep wooden stairs to Dickens, the hotel’s sports bar. She’d thought of going to bed but knew she wouldn’t sleep. She’d been sitting in her room looking out at the harbour view when she’d responded to Fred’s texts. A nightcap might do the trick. She spotted Fred – the bar only had a handful of clients. He wasn’t hard to find. As usual, he sat at the bar as close to a bartender as possible. He had already ordered Helen’s usual rum and Coke.

“Hey, I’m surprised you came back here so early.” Helen tried to sound light-hearted.

“Important contracts to be negotiated tomorrow, I wanted to have a clear head.”

Helen sat on the stool next to him. The split in her black skirt opened slightly, revealing the top of her thigh.

“You look different, somehow,” Fred said.

“No make-up.”

“Suits you – makes you look younger,” he said, and meant it.

“Thanks.”

“So how’s Sarah working out?” It was after midnight, but Fred couldn’t help but talk shop.

“Good, great actually. I think with a bit more experience under her belt, she’ll be an asset to Eden. She reminds me of myself ten years ago.” Helen smiled, relaxing.

“That’s good to know, especially now, with us opening up an office here in Hong Kong.”

“I meant to ask you about that – what’s the timeframe for it being up and running?”

“In the next couple of months. They’ll be looking for expertise from us of course. The new office will coordinate all factories and potential suppliers around South East Asia.”

“Will it affect jobs back in London?”

“Between you and me?”

“Of course,” Helen said, her pulse quickening.

“They’ve already asked me to relocate.”

“Seriously? Hong Kong? What about your family?”

“To be honest, Helen, June and me, we’re more or less living separate lives since the kids left home.” Fred looked into his glass of liquor, as if it could magically fill the place of his thirty-year marriage.

“I’m sorry, Fred, I didn’t realise.” Helen wasn’t sure what else to say.

“It’s not so bad. We get along well, just like old friends. I never noticed it happening, us growing apart. It was the early days at Eden, we were building the company up, I was travelling and working crazy hours – June was at home with the kids. They got older – she had more free time, she started doing things for herself – built her own life. I’m really proud of her, you know.” He looked at Helen.

“Why wouldn’t you be? Even though I’ve only meet her a few times, she seems like a lovely woman.”

“Anyway, Helen, more importantly – how do you feel about it?”

“You moving to Hong Kong? We’ll certainly miss you around the office, Fred.” Helen was surprised at the question.

“No, you silly! I need the right team behind me.” Fred waited for an answer.

Helen laughed. “You’re kidding, right? What about the London office? Who’d run things there?”

“Sarah,” Fred replied.

“Sarah’s not ready.” Damn, why hadn’t she seen that one coming! “I can commute for a few months, to help with the setting-up. Living here permanently isn’t an option right now.”

“At least say you’ll think about it. You’d have your own apartment overlooking the harbour, a driver and monthly flights back to the UK. Plus . . .” Fred paused, “job security.”

The words hit Helen hard.

“It’s only a matter of time before London is scaled down – am I right?” She knew the answer already.

“Look, as you know, I’m not on the Board but my educated guess is, yes – London jobs will go.”

“I can’t process this information now, Fred, not at this hour.” She rubbed her temples.

“Don’t give me that crap – this is when you wake up!”

She smiled. “Maybe, but it was a funny kind of night – not funny ‘ha-ha’ – funny as in ‘weird’.”

“Then we need another drink.”

Two more drinks arrived and Helen found herself telling Fred about being manhandled earlier.

“Why didn’t you say something – I’d have bloody well punched his lights out!” Fred was livid.

“Oh look, Fred, I’m a grown woman. Why is such a relatively small incident bothering me so much?”

“Think about what could have happened! The guy was obviously barmy, bladdered, or both.” He rubbed his face, his eyes welling up.

“The funny thing is he was well dressed, respectable-looking. You think you protect yourself by not walking down dark laneways or crossing the street to avoid rough characters,” she reflected.

“Drink can change a person – a lot, Helen. Add being away from home, out of the gaze of your peers, community and wife. These guys feel they can get on a plane and all the rules are off. The rules don’t apply outside of their home country.” He averted his gaze.

“It was probably a bit of both. He was well tanked up. God love the young woman he was with earlier in the bar – I hope he doesn’t take his anger out on her.”

“What a tosser! With any luck, the girl’s pimp is Triad – they’ll surely chop his todger off.” He thumped the bar playfully.

“You’re a Kill Bill fan too, I see.” Helen threw her head back in laughter, enjoying the imaginary scene Fred had created. “What about brotherhood? Is that not sacrilege, to wish another man’s willy to be hacked off?”

“Sod brotherhood. Actually, I’d a bit of a nasty experience myself earlier . . .” With that Fred spilt the beans on his detour to the massage parlour.

It didn’t shock Helen, who despite working in the women’s underwear market had got used to the fact the industry was dominated by men. Therefore most of her colleagues were male and most business trips were with men. Although that was changing. In any case, Fred’s version of events certainly gave her abs a good workout, she laughed so much.

“Serves you right, you dirty old man,” she said, wiping the corner of her eye.

“I’d swear it was a family business, Helen – with every generation in on the act.”

“Don’t start – you’ll set me off again. And what had the taxi driver being Buddhist got to do with anything?”

“Search me. One thing’s for sure, though – the two ladies gave Buddha himself a run for his money. Blimey, larger lassies I’ve rarely seen!”

“Stop!” Helen playfully punched him before lowering her voice. “Anyway, Fred, I’m left with a far more serious trauma.”

Fred looked at her, puzzled at her tone.

“I refer to the Fat Ass issue – Fred, do you think my bum is big?”

“Office rules, Helen, I’ve never looked at your posterior – I couldn’t possibly comment – that could be construed as sexual harassment, you know.”

“Ah, get off your high-horse and stop talking crap!” Helen got off her stool, turned her back to Fred and stuck her butt out. “You have my permission to check out my butt – is it too big?”

“Ms Devine, I can confirm that you indeed do . . . not have a fat ass.” It looks especially good in the jeans you wear to the office on Fridays.

“Good, in that case I’m starving – do you fancy a MacDonald’s?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Fred stood, steadied himself and gallantly held his arm out to Helen.

The barman whisked up their glasses before they changed their mind. Drunk and Drunker headed back up the wooden stairs in search of the Holy Grail: a Big Mac.

Fred went to walk out the main doors of the hotel towards the taxis but Helen headed to the side door.

“Don’t be such a lazy old fart! It’s a five-minute walk from here!” She wouldn’t usually speak to her boss like that but, as Fred said, the rules stay at home, office etiquette being one of them.

The narrow streets were wet from an earlier rain-shower. Plastic bags of rubbish were piled high against shop windows, waiting for early-morning collection. Light streamed from a Seven-Eleven convenience store. An employee brushed suds out to the path, washing away the grime of the day now his shift was over. It wasn’t long before Fred and Helen found the golden arches, thankfully still beaming.

“Which do you prefer, skinny chips or fat chips?” Helen asked Fred, as she fished for the last chip, which was trying to escape through the crack at the bottom of the carton.

“All chips. Can’t you tell?” Fred rubbed his belly for added effect. Having got their food they had decided to walk to the harbour and eat it with a view. “Look at this!” He waved his arm. “A slap-up meal, a killer view, and all for a few dollars – not bad, am I right?”

“Absolutely, I mean who’d want to be in one of those top-floor restaurants, paying three hundred bucks on a meal for two anyway?”

“My sentiment exactly,” Fred said, missing Helen’s sarcasm. “A beer would be good though.”

“Or a nice chilled bottle of white.”

The two looked wistful.

“Well, since we’ve saved the company so much money on food, why don’t we crack open the minibar?” Fred asked. With any luck, I’ll be cracking open more than that.

“Best idea you’ve had all night, boss. Better make it your room though. Accounts will have my not-fat ass if I charge expensive mini-bottles of booze to Eden,” Helen hiccupped.

“One of the benefits of being the boss, my dear – I won’t let anyone have your ass. Unless I authorise it, of course. Ass-whipping is my prerogative. Come on, let’s go, it’s starting to rain.”

Had Helen imagined it? Was Fred being sexual or was he reaffirming his position in the food-chain of Eden management? She wondered if she should call it a night. What the hell, one little nightcap can’t hurt, she convinced herself, pushing her better judgement aside.

Chapter 17

“Wow, Fred, it’s an impressive size!” Helen said. “I’ve seen a lot in my time, but never one quite this big.”

Fred stretched back on the couch, feeling smug. “Nice, hey?”

“Here was me thinking I’d scored a massive room and here you were hiding this all along.”

“Got talking to Ms Lynn in Guest Relations. I may have mentioned that I could direct a lot more clients their way – and what do you know – bingo, they upgraded me to a suite – free of charge. Champagne?”

“Thanks.”

Fred pattered over to the minibar to retrieve the bottle and flutes. He carried them back to where he’d been sitting, in the bay of the window with his back to Hong Kong Harbour.

“Come – sit.” He tapped the large comfortable couch before untwisting the champagne wire.

Helen decided to sit in an armchair opposite him, a coffee table between them. “The view is better from here. Ha, it looks like you’ve skyscrapers sprouting from the top of your head.” She held up her phone to take a picture.

“At least there’s something growing there.” Fred rubbed the top of his head, disappointed Helen hadn’t joined him on the couch. The cork popped with a high-pressure spray that hit Helen. They both laughed and Fred used the distraction to discreetly press a remote control, dimming the lights ever so slightly in the room. He selected a playlist he’d compiled before leaving the UK on his iPod – he’d labelled it ‘seduction’. Ambient music filled the room.

“How’s your love-life, Helen, or am I allowed ask such a question?” Fred leaned across the coffee table to hand Helen her drink.

“Complicated.” Was she imagining it or had it got darker in the room? She looked at Fred – he looked younger, and more relaxed, sitting framed by the glittering lights of the city. “I’ve been kind of seeing my ex but I don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

“Is this the guy you left Dublin to avoid?” Careful how you play this one, Fred.

“That’s him – Rob Lawless, the solicitor.”

Then as the drink flowed, Helen poured her heart out to Fred about her doubts of Rob’s genuineness. Finally, she stopped – it had felt good to talk about it. Let the secret out. No one at home knew she was seeing Rob again. Even she wasn’t sure if she was.

As conversation stopped, the background music picked up tempo, as Prince belted out “Sexy Motherfucker”.

Shit – it’s too soon for the shag compilation. Fred was annoyed he hadn’t thought to loop the earlier playlist. Until he was ready.

He broke the silence between them. “With a name like that, I hope Mr Lawless is not in criminal law.”

They both creased up with laughter. When they’d calmed, Fred said, “He sounds like a dumb-nut to me. Crikey, Helen, what were you thinking? You can do so much better than that. Just look at you – attractive, successful, intelligent – any man would give his right arm to be with you – love you.”

Time to enter Phase Two: close the deal.

“You know what, I am too good for that crap!” Helen thumped the arm of the chair before standing to walk over to the window. She paced for a moment before stopping to look out at the view. “Life is too short for wasters, Fred.”

“Let’s toast to that!” Fred held up the champagne bottle.

She joined him on the couch, handing him her glass. She sat on the edge, her back poker-straight, her eyes darting as she looked up towards the ceiling as though seeking divine inspiration.

“How about a toast to new beginnings?” she said.

“To new beginnings!” Fred said, clinking glasses. He looked into Helen’s eyes.

She smiled back at him – she was feeling warm and kind of fuzzy.

Suddenly, Fred lunged forward, kissing her hard on the lips. Helen remained in her upright position, her eyes still on the ceiling. Her brain froze but her lips responded as Fred’s tongue began exploring her mouth.

Was this a reflex reaction, alcohol inaction, or attraction?

“Helen, sweetheart, I’ve dreamt about this for so long – I know you have too,” Fred gasped. Years of running a lingerie retail business had its benefits, because with one hand he seamlessly unclipped her bra through the thin fabric of her blouse.

This was bad. Helen’s brain defrosted and sprinted to catch up with her body.

She pulled back. “I feel a little woozy – I’d better use the bathroom,” she said, straightening herself up.

“You okay, pumpkin?”

“Fine, it’ll just take a moment.” Picking up her handbag, she made her way across the room, without looking back.

Fred checked his teeth, horse-like, in the reflective surface of the coffee table. Women and the way they had to fix themselves up first – he’d never understand them. Maybe she was checking her bag for condoms . . . He smiled as he unbuttoned his shirt. Perhaps she’d reappear, languishing against the bathroom doorframe, in just her underwear and high heels. Oh happy, happy days!

The stark light of the bathroom was a jolt after the dimness of the bedroom. Helen’s head spun. What was she thinking! She soaked a washcloth with cold water and pressed it to her face. Unfortunately, it was impossible to avoid looking at the mirror. She bore a striking resemblance, albeit blonde, to a beehive-haired songstress, with black eyeliner anywhere but the eyes.

“You’ve got to get out of here,” she said to her reflection. She refastened her bra. Mentally, she practised the speech she’d give Fred. Time for damage-limitation.

But re-entering the bedroom, words failed her. Fred lay prone, on his side, head propped up with his hand – in all his naked glory. She didn’t know if he was completely naked as the champagne bottle obscured the view of his manhood. A picture of Julius Caesar waiting to be fed grapes popped into Helen’s mind.

“Feeling better, cupcake? Here, I’ve poured you another glass of bubbles.” Fred began to get up.

“No! Don’t move!” She waved at him and swung away to spare herself the sight of a rampant Fred. “I mean, I’ve got to go, I’m so sorry – I don’t know what we were thinking.”

“You’re just a little scared, peach. We can take it slowly – after all, we’ve waited this long.”

She didn’t turn around as she made for the door. If she had she’d have seen him grab up an ice bucket as he approached her.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, Fred.” Helen didn’t know which planet Fred was on – just that it wasn’t far enough away from hers. She opened the door, light from the corridor signalling her escape route.

“Okay, pancake,” Fred said, close behind her.

“Goodnight, Fred.”

“Au revoir, pumpkin! Until tomorrow,” Fred said stepping into the corridor to watch her go, ice bucket positioned to preserve his honour, bum cheeks facing the fire exit.

Tomorrow – Christ, a three-hour plane ride, with Fred. Where’s my parachute?

Chapter 18

Poppy closed the door behind the last client of the day. Her body ached. She was packing in more clients than ever, working harder for less money. Local beauty salons had cut their rates – so had she.

“Have you eaten?” she asked Lily.

Lily was sitting on her bed, typing on her laptop. The TV was on but the volume was turned down as Poppy had been working. Couldn’t have people come for a relaxing massage with strains of the CSI theme-tune filtering through the floorboards.

Lily looked up and lifted one ear of her headphones. Poppy could hear the din of rock music from where she was standing.

“What?” Lily looked agitated by the interruption.

“Food. Have you eaten?”

“Yeah.” Lily replaced the cushioned pad to her ear, indicating the conversation was over.

Poppy was too tired to argue. She’d massaged fifteen people that week. The last lady was, well, rather large to say the least, so it took a lot of muscle to knead through the layers of fat. Poppy rubbed her wrists – they had started to swell.

In the kitchen, an empty pizza box indicated what Lily’s dinner had been.

“Wonderful parenting, Poppy,” she said to herself and opened the fridge door.

Nothing appealed to her. The familiar whirl of her Swiss cuckoo-clock began its hourly routine. The doors edged open, the bird’s beak appeared: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” Traditional Swiss dancers swung around in a circular dance, the only way the wooden figures could move. The bird continued to cuckoo, nine cuckoos.

Poppy reasoned it unhealthy to eat late and reached for a bottle of white wine instead. Um, probably not the healthiest option either. Just have one glass and take your vitamins – genius, she thought, happy with herself.

Milkthistle to detoxify the liver, vitamin C to replenish what the alcohol depletes and Omega 3 for healthy skin & hair. What’s this one for – selenium? She couldn’t remember, but added it to the stack for good measure. She downed all the pills with one gulp of wine before she settled in front of the TV.

She flicked through the channels – nothing caught her attention. She landed on a re-run of a cookery programme. Helen’s favourite: Gordon Ramsay. What did she see in him? The screen flashed a shot of the celebrity chef’s hairy chest and Poppy started to see the attraction.

Gordon jumped up and down as he talked. The camera took a side-angle shot of him while he prepared his puddings. Buns of steel too, Poppy thought admiringly. Wouldn’t mind getting those buns up on my countertop.

She checked her watch and tried to figure out what time it would be in Hong Kong. She felt the urge to share with Helen the fact that she could finally see the charms of the craggy-faced Mr Ramsay. But first, to the kitchen. Looking at all that food was making her hungry.

Poppy returned to the couch with a bag of crisps, a packet of Tuc crackers and a block of cheese. She set up the picnic in front of her and topped up her wineglass: the salt of the crisps made her thirsty. The cookery programme went on ad break as she made a tower of crackers, cheese and crisps. It’d be five thirty in the morning in Hong Kong, was that right?

She started flicking again. Each station she clicked on featured couples. Couples laughing, couples kissing, couples looking happy. She demolished the food tower and settled on vintage Emmanuelle – a couple making out. Boobs bop up and down. She’d be a granny now, Emmanuelle, Poppy thought. She wondered would the Emmanuelle actress keep the archives of her videos, with other family moments, captured on celluloid – visits to the zoo, weddings and christenings. “Look, Junior! There’s Granny – star of the blue screen!”

Emmanuelle started to climax, well, that’s what the camera led you to believe anyway – all you could see was her pleasured face – either that or she was having a pee, after holding it in for ages.

“Mum?” Lily yelled, coming down the stairs.

Poppy fumbled with the remote, anxious to change the channel before Lily came in. “In here!”

“I need a tenner for school, tomorrow.” Lily walked into the TV room. “Since when did you get interested in fishing programmes?”

On the screen a man in a tweed hat held a giant fishing rod.

“It’s rather interesting actually.” Poppy pretended to be engrossed in the TV. “You off to bed?”

“Yeah, night.” Lily disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared.

Poppy missed her daughter’s goodnight kisses. When she thought about it, she realised she missed any kind of kiss actually. She picked up the bottle of wine – there was only a dribble left.

Poppy thought about Helen, having a bloody fabulous time in Hong Kong. Helen would be having fancy dinners, expensive wines – not drinking the Deal of the Week, from Chile. She’d probably met some tall dark stranger, in her five-star hotel, and they had made mad passionate love. She’d be lying there now, in her big luxurious bed, in his arms – or, knowing Helen, on her own, in a blissful post-orgasmic sleep because she had kicked him out already, saying she had an early start, she’d email him. Little did he know his contact details were already in the wastebasket. Poppy enjoyed the imaginary soap drama playing in her head, especially as there was nothing happening on the box.

Most of the time Poppy wished her friend would stop running from commitment. Right now she admired it. Free, no ties, plenty of money and pretty.

The fisherman was filleting his catch, Poppy changed channel again, this time landing on Animal Planet. Two bobcats were mating.

It’s not fair – everyone is getting laid!

Poppy decided to text Helen, to see what was happening in Asia but her eyes felt heavy and she closed them, just for a moment. How did you get here, Poppy, half-wasted, watching TV alone? Next Lily will move out and you’ll end up with a cat. You’ll be a cat spinster, smelling of cats.

She began to drift, back to a time – the first of September 1978, to be exact. She was unsure how much of it was her own memory, or if they’d each recounted their version of the story so often all details fused. Whichever it was, she still remembered the feeling when she met Mary and Helen Devine for the first time.

Chapter 19

1st September 1978

“Isn’t this exciting Helen, your first day back at school!” Mary Devine straightened her daughter’s navy polyester tie, its elastic backing hidden under the stiff starched collar of the white cotton school shirt. The little girl’s bottom lip trembled – she fought to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill. How could she tell her mother that no one liked her?

“What does your daddy do?”

The words had haunted Helen all summer. The prettiest girl in the class, Natalie Porter, had asked her the question, knowing full well the answer. There were giggles and nudges from the others sitting at the table.

“My daddy is one of God’s angels,” Helen had replied, without looking up from her drawing. She thought it was a very cool answer.

“Well, that’s no good, is it? How will you do tonight’s homework – ‘My Daddy’s Job’? My dad is a pilot – I’ll have lots to write. Karen’s dad owns lots of sweet shops and –”

“Deadly! Does your daddy really own sweet shops, Karen?” a girl interrupted from the next table, pausing to wipe her nose on her jumper sleeve. “That’s so cool!”

“Yes, he does!” said Karen. “And my mummy says it’s my daddy’s hard work that keeps single mothers and their snotty-nosed brats in clothes and a house!”

Helen didn’t understand, but something told her that in some way the Devine family weren’t good enough.

“May I have that thingy, please?” Helen held her hand out for the sailing-boat stencil.

“It’s not your turn! Who will you give a Father’s Day card to anyway?” was the girl’s caustic reply.

“My mummy.”

More sniggers and nudges came from around the table.

Helen waited. She left a space in the middle of her picture, big enough for the boat – she could colour around it later. She chewed her lip as the group of friends took their time drawing around the cardboard cut-out before handing it on to each other, making sure she was by-passed.

The teacher called from the top of the class. “Alright, boys and girls, it’s nearly home time! Finish up your Father’s Day cards now, please, and make sure you put your name on the back.”

Helen’s cheeks flushed red and she feverishly started to draw a sailing boat free-hand.

That was last June – it was the first of September now – but still Helen hesitated at the hall door. She turned to her mother. “I don’t feel very well, Mummy.”

“Now, love, we’re not going to start all that again this year. Just you wait and see – this year will be better.” Mary Devine licked her thumb and rubbed a non-existent spot of dirt from the child’s face. “Oh my, look at the time! We don’t want to be late on your first day! Come on, Helen, put on your coat.” The young widow held out the gabardine coat with both hands, shield-like. Her own breath quivered.

Becoming a widow at the age of twenty-five was not something she had got used to. She wanted to hold her little girl, tell her she could stay at home with her forever, because Mary didn’t want to let go any more than the child did. So she did what she did best – earlier that morning, she had distracted the two of them from the task at hand by brushing Helen’s hair, plaiting two little pigtails and scrubbing her clean to within an inch of her life.

It was times like this that Mary missed her family. Had she made the right decision to move to Dublin when Jim died?

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mary, I really am. That war, ’tis an awful thing, shocking. James died way before his time, he did,” Mary’s brother had said. “But it doesn’t change the fact you walked out on our family. Ma and Da needed your wages.”

“I was always going to send money home, Liam, you know that. I dreamed of a better life for all of us!” Mary had protested into the black mouthpiece of the telephone she held so tightly.

“Better for all of us, don’t make me laugh!” Liam spat. “Saving money behind all our backs for a one-way ticket to America! How was that better for all of us?”

“I’d have made it on Broadway, Liam, and then all our troubles would have been over. Acting was all I ever wanted . . .” Mary’s voice trailed off, as she felt the cold feeling of failure creep through her veins.

“You were away with the fairies, Mary. Fame, my arse. And where did all your fancy notions get you, tell me that?” Liam didn’t wait for an answer. “Pregnant, out of wedlock, at nineteen years of age – not in some fancy starring role. Leading-lady of the whorehouse more like.”

“Jimmy and me, we were in love,” Mary said. “We got married in City Hall, New York, before the baby was born. But you already know that.” Although her voice was defiant, the glimmer of hope she’d had when she dialled home had faded with the mounting anger she could feel coming down the line.

“Look, Mary, the facts are you and James Devine ran off together – two rats jumping ship. You’d crazy notions above your station of being a famous actress. Ye left us here to face the gossip and shame. Neighbours whispering and laughing behind Ma’s back. She stuck up for you, you know, to the point where Da stopped talking to her altogether. When you sent news of a child born, out of Catholic wedlock, that just killed him, Mary, and, well, you know the rest yourself. As far as I’m concerned, Ma didn’t die of cancer, she died of a broken heart, caused by you, Mary. I will not let you do the same to Da, my da. Goodbye to you and your bastard child, you’re dead to us.”

With a click, the line went cold.

Poppy Power was so excited about her first day at her new school she had set two alarm clocks – just to be sure not to sleep it out. She had needed neither of them as natural adrenaline had woken her with the dawn. She had laid out her navy uniform over the back of a small wooden chair in her room. She put on each layer with care. A white cotton vest, then next came the shirt. The collar was frayed and, being her older brother’s shirt, it stopped just above her knees. She tried tucking the shirt into her knickers, but that just made it look as if she was wearing an oversized nappy. Poppy frowned when she looked in the mirror. Next, she pulled the navy pinafore over her head and finally the woollen jumper with the school crest embroidered on it. The jumper was a bit bobbly from the previous owner’s wear. But Poppy didn’t care when she looked at her reflection. All she saw was the fancy school crest – the school to which she now belonged. Her heart soared with delight.

“Mam, get up, we’re going to be late!”

A grunt and a waft of last night’s alcohol greeted Poppy.

“Please, Mam, just today, bring me in. I promise I’ll get the bus after today.”

Poppy placed a mug of milky tea on her mother’s bedside table. Beside it she carefully placed two painkillers. Just shy of eight, she was well versed in her mother’s needs.

“I’ll leave this here, Mam. I’ll be downstairs.”

Her mother didn’t stir.

Unable to wait on her mother any longer and with no sign of her father, Poppy decided to make tracks. She pulled the door closed behind her. Making sure she had her copybooks and pen in her bag, she began walking along the laneway that led to their workman’s cottage.

A minute later, she was startled by a familiar voice.

“Hold up there, kiddo, where you goin’ without me?” Poppy’s mother hollered out the window of her battered Volkswagen bug as she flicked a cigarette butt onto the gravel.

A grinning Poppy climbed into the passenger seat.

“You look great, Pops – you’re a real treasure, you know that?” Her mother affectionately brushed her thumb across her daughter’s cheek.

“Thanks for coming with me, Mam – I know you’re not feeling well.”

“Ah, baby girl, you’re a gift from the angels. Where would I be if I didn’t have you? Now let’s go to this den of repression and brainwashing you’re so keen to be a part of!” She pushed her foot on the accelerator.

Poppy had no idea what her mother was talking about but it didn’t matter – they were on their way.

“You can’t sit there!” The girl stretched her hand across the Formica desk to emphasise her point. All six sets of eyes around the octagonal table stared up at Helen and Mary Devine. It was unusual for the kids to be mean in front of a parent and they waited with bated breath to see what would happen next. Another mother saw what was going on, but decided to ignore it and continued chatting – it wasn’t her child who was being excluded.

“Okey-dokey, how about this chair?” Mary Devine smiled and pulled out another free chair at the same table.

“Natalie Porter is sitting there,” the same child said defiantly.

“Well, it looks like we’ll just have to find another table, Helen.” Mary’s voice had a cheery lilt. She scanned the room for a free spot.

“But I want to sit at the same table as my friends,” Helen said.

Mary got down on her knees, so she could talk to her daughter face to face. “Helen, why would you want to be friends with children that are mean to you?”

Helen shrugged and looked down at her black leather brogues.

Natalie Porter walked in the door.

“Over here, Natalie – I saved your seat!” the girl called.

Natalie walked over, putting her pink Sindy bag on the desk and an excited chatter started around the table.

Natalie’s mother joined the other mothers. By now, both mothers and daughters had turned their backs on the Devine family. Case closed.

“Come on, Helen – let’s find a seat over here.”

Helen knew she just wasn’t the Sindy-bag type of girl. Any progress she had made into the group she so desperately wanted to be part of had been lost over the summer. No Daddy, no Sindy, no deal.

“Is this Sister Carmel’s class?” A flame-haired woman, wearing a long cheesecloth skirt, breezed through the door, an angelic red-haired girl behind her. Everyone looked up. There was a new kid in town.

“Yes, yes, come in. Welcome to the Immaculate Conception,” said the kindly middle-aged nun. She turned to the girl, who looked like a deer caught in headlamps. “You must be Poppy.”

Usually there would be a scramble for the new kid to sit at your table – everyone loved the novelty – but there was something about Poppy’s washed-out uniform that caused a hesitation. Poppy twisted one foot behind her leg and rubbed it on her sock. The mothers stopped their gossiping to turn and look at the newcomers. They eyed mother and daughter, then went back to their conversations, this time in hushed tones with a look of disdain etched on their faces. The new people, whoever they were, just didn’t belong.

“There’s a free place over here if you like,” Mary Devine called out.

“Thank you, Mrs Devine, that’s wonderful,” Sister Carmel said, but already one of her thirty-five students was distracting her. It was more crowd control than teaching.

The bell rang loudly, signalling the start of class.

“See you, Pops. Enjoy your day in the ‘Immaculate Conception’. Maybe they are into fairytales here, after all, with a name like that, hey!” Poppy’s mother ruffled her child’s hair then got out of the classroom as quickly as if she’d been asked to stand barefoot on burning coals.

Mary Devine looked down at the newcomer whose hair was a rich copper shade of red. “That’s a lovely slide you have in your hair, dear. You look pretty,” she smiled. “Where’s your lunch box?”

Poppy didn’t answer.

“Is your lunch in your bag?” Mary took a quick peek inside. “No? Oh my, your mum must have forgotten it – I’ll try to catch her.” But she hesitated when she saw the child’s face.

Poppy was shaking her head vigorously, still not saying a word.

“Don’t worry, love, Helen will share hers with you, won’t you, pet?”

Helen nodded eagerly. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Poppy.”

“Like the flower?”

“The weed, so my brother says.”

“I’m Helen. Do you want to sit beside me?”

Poppy nodded. Mary Devine slipped out.

“Helen?”

“Yes?”

“Will you be my new best friend?” Poppy didn’t look at her as she took a crayon from the communal pot.

Helen hesitated for a moment – no one had asked her that before.

Then she smiled. “Yes, Poppy, I will.”

Chapter 20

Hong Kong International Airport. Departures. They were on their way home.

Well over a week had passed since Fred’s interlude with Helen. His fantasy of Helen Devine had finally come to pass. And it did just that: pass. Disappointed, he went over it all again in his head to see if there was something else he should have done or said.

He had tried talking to her before they left Hong Kong for Mainland China. “That was some night last night,” he’d whispered to her.

She’d smiled seductively back, saying nothing. She didn’t have to – with Helen, her emerald eyes spoke a thousand words.

“We can do it again if you like, buttercup, real soon,” he’d said, putting his hand on the small of her back. But Sarah joined them before Helen could reply. Damn it, he’d planned that one-liner since she’d left his room.

Helen and Sarah had slept all the way on the plane to Northern China. On arrival, Sarah had looked like she was about to pass out. Fifty-five minutes they stood in line for immigration at Qingdao – Sarah going different shades of pale all the while, ending up an odd shade of green. Green the girl was, he thought to himself, with bright pink ears, not the most attractive look. Said it must have been the food she ate. Food my arse, tequila slammers more like. He smiled, remembering her face when she realised she had to go through a body-temperature test.

“What’s that for, Helen?” Sarah had asked, a bead of sweat threatening to slide down her face.

“They’ve been doing it since the SARS outbreak. Relax, just walk through it. It detects elevated body temperature.”

A look of terror shot over Sarah’s pasty face. “Oh God, they’ll never let me through. Honestly, Helen, I shouldn’t have eaten those prawns.”

Helen had looked at Fred, amused. Who was Sarah trying to convince?

Sarah started to shake – her blouse was soaked through with sweat. “Please God, just let me make it through,” she prayed under her breath. “I swear I won’t have a one-night stand in Hong Kong or anywhere again. And I’ll never drink again.”

Then as if God wanted her to know he’d heard her, her stomach lurched and she started to heave.

“Next!” the guard shouted and signalled to her.

She swallowed hard and stepped forward, while Helen and Fred smirked.

That evening, in the supplier’s car, Fred tried to sit beside Helen but somehow Sarah ended up between them. Their meeting hadn’t been the most pleasant – a full day, no lunch breaks – again. The glamour of Hong Kong was left behind.

Things went from bad to worse when they got to their hotel. Mysteriously, one room had been cancelled.

“Check again!” Fred demanded of the desk clerk, who continued to tap on her computer keyboard.

“One single, one twin, that’s what was booked and it’s all we have now, sir,” she replied, handing over the key cards, conversation over.

“This is ridiculous – who changed the booking?” Fred could see his planned midnight call to Helen fade.

“You heard the girl, Fred, the hotel is full,” Helen said, taking one of the room keys off the counter. “Sarah and I don’t mind sharing, do we, Sarah?”

Sarah shook her head, unable to speak. It was amazing she’d got through the day at all. She had excused herself on numerous occasions to be sick. She’d sprayed air freshener around the loo, to cover her tracks, the smell of which made her throw up again.

“Well, if you’re sure. But I’ll look into this when we’re back in London,” Fred said, as a vein in his temple throbbed.

And now here they were back in Hong Kong, on the way home, where Helen would transfer straight to Dublin from Heathrow. Sarah hadn’t gone out again, said she was in Asia to work, not rack up Eden’s bar bill. Helen agreed and spent the evenings with her holed up in their room brainstorming about the new season’s collection. Only the boss in Fred was impressed.

Jack Taylor stepped out of his taxi, which had left him kerbside at the Dragonair check-in area. The airport was quiet except for a few business travellers heading home before the weekend.

“Where are you flying to, sir?” the red-uniformed clerk asked.

“Phnom Penh,” Jack smiled, handing over his passport.

“It’s your lucky day, sir – you’ve been upgraded to first class.” The girl circled the boarding gate and boarding time on his boarding pass before handing it to him.

“That’s awesome, thanks!” Jack grinned – he considered asking why, but decided not to, in case she changed her mind or realised she’d made a mistake.

“Wait – you’ll need a pass for the business lounge.” She took out a gold card and started writing his details on it.

Technically, upgrades didn’t get a lounge-pass, but her supervisor was on a break. She had already broken the rules by offering the only upgrade available to a back-packer and not one of their frequent flyers or someone in a suit. But this guy had such nice dimples and hands – he had beautiful hands.

“Just follow the signs for the Cathay Pacific lounge – we’re the same company,” the girl explained, with a tilt of her head. “Have a pleasant flight, sir – I hope I see you again.” She flashed Jack a killer smile.

Jack hesitated for a moment – was she flirting with him? Andromeda came to mind. He picked up the golden ticket: his good luck not feeling so lucky any more. He’d just met the hottest girl in Hong Kong, and he was leaving.

“Was there something else, sir?” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. A queue had started to form behind Jack.

“No, thank you, I’ll be going to the business lounge now, eh, thank you.”

Say something, Jack – get back in the saddle!

The steward watched as Jack walked away – a cute ass too, she noted, as she called the next in line.

Helen looked up at the departures board: Cathay Pacific to London LHR, Status: on time. “Thank you, God.” She headed straight for the departure gate, not taking any chance of missing this flight.

Jack couldn’t see any signs indicating which way he should go to the business lounge. The airport appeared devoid of staff also. Then, as chance would have it, a portly man came into his line of vision.

“Helen, where are you going? The Cathay lounge is this way!” he called out, signalling to a woman ahead of him that she was going in the wrong direction.

“No, Fred, see you on the flight!” the woman called and waved.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jack asked as he approached Fred. “I couldn’t help but overhearing – did you say the Cathay lounge is this way?”

Fred was still looking after Helen. Distracted, he grunted at the young man. “Women, don’t think I’ll ever understand them,” he tutted.

“My uncle has a theory that woman are from Andromeda,” Jack said.

Fred looked at him, his attention back now Helen was gone. “What’s Andromeda?”

“A spiral galaxy in the outer universe,” Jack replied.

“Huh?” Fred thought about it. “Makes sense, sounds like a smart chap, your uncle. I think he’s most likely right.” He took one last look in the direction of the gate and muttered something under his breath. “Cathay, did you say? Come on, lad, follow me, I was just on my way there.”

Helen sat on a narrow steel seat opposite her departure gate. She fished for a book from her bag. She pulled out the one on synchronicity. She settled back. Finally she was on the home straight. She missed her mum, she missed her dog and surprisingly, she missed Rob.

Chapter 21

Helen turned the key in the lock of the wood-panelled door to her mother’s home in Sutton, County Dublin. “Hello? Mum, you home?”

The familiar smell and sounds greeted her with the wave of comforting feeling that a loving parent brings. She wanted to tell her mum about the awful Hong Kong trip but she knew she couldn’t, as she would worry. Instead, Helen would smile, giving her a Chinese clay teapot and souvenir packet of tea and say nothing.

From the kitchen, RTÉ Radio One was blaring out, the Joe Duffy chat-show at a volume high enough for Mary to hear it from the garden. A waft of freshly grilled bacon caused Helen’s stomach to rumble.

She hung her handbag at the end of the banisters she had slid down so often as a child and walked through the blue-carpeted hallway into the sun-filled kitchen, the soul of the house. The back door was open – a warm breeze brought the Indian-summer indoors. Mary was on all fours, planting flower bulbs, the first of which would flower in January. Mary loved seeing the first snowdrops of a new year. Helen’s Golden Retriever, JD, lay beside her sprawled out, soaking up the sunrays.

“Hi, Mum!” Helen called again, not wanting to give her mother a heart attack.

She turned down the volume on the radio from eardrum-shattering to just plain uncomfortably loud. Beside the radio was a posy of flowers and a rose-scented candle flickering. Mary liked to keep her home beautiful. Or was she trying to hide the evidence of fried pig?

“Mum?”

The dog’s head jolted upright, ears pricking up at the sound of Helen’s voice. Then he was bounding to greet his mistress.

“JD!” Helen stretched her arm out to greet her oversized pooch. “Come here, boy,” she said, rubbing behind his ears. He covered her in doggy kisses. “Whoa, less of the dog breath, JD!” She pulled her face away, laughing.

“Oh, it’s you, dear – I didn’t hear you come in.” Mary struggled to get on her feet. “How was the flight?”

“Uneventful.”

“And the weather in Hong Kong?” Mary hobbled towards her daughter on pins-and-needles-affected legs.

“Humid.” Helen stepped down three small steps towards her mother.

“Same as here then, I never remember the likes of it, this kind of heat in autumn. It must be that global-warming thing.” Mary fanned herself.

“Was it bacon sandwiches for lunch again, Mum?”

“Oh, they weren’t for me – I made them for Lily.” Mary didn’t make eye contact, lest Helen start lecturing on cholesterol levels.

“Really? Funny that, seeing as Poppy texted me a few days ago to say Lily has declared herself a vegetarian.” Helen was still feeling smug for being proven right in that prediction.

“And she’s one of those lesbians now too apparently – have you ever heard the like? We didn’t have them in my day.”

“There were always lesbians and gays, Mum, stop changing the subject. Did you remember to inject today?”

Mary ignored Helen’s reference to her health. “I mean it, my father mentioned poufters occasionally, and I saw a few in America, but I never heard about lesbians until I was a married woman.”

“What are you saying? If you knew you had the option, I might not be here?”

“God rest your father, if he could hear you now he’d turn in his grave.”

“If he had a grave.”

James Devine’s ashes still sat on the polished mahogany sideboard in the dining room. Every Christmas and family celebration, Mary dusted off the urn, and placed it at the head of the table.

“Ah sure, you can mix us together, when I’m dead and gone. Judging by the aches and pains, that’ll be any day now.” Mary stretched her back.

“Stop it, Mum, you’re only a young one – what’s all this talk about leaving me an orphan?”

“You’re nearly forty, some orphan!” Her mother laughed as she gave her a warm embrace. “I don’t know, between cholesterol tables, injections for blood sugar and now arthritis, dear God, if I was a dog they’d put me down.”

Helen kissed her mother on her soft cheek. She smelt of Max Factor powder and Channel No. 5 and had done so for as long as Helen could remember. She loved the softness of her mother’s skin, which was a physical reminder of the softness of her heart. She had a large bosom that weighed heavy on her now, which meant she regularly rubbed her lower back in pain. Thanks to her love of processed pork products, Mary’s midsection was close to measuring the same size as her chest – something she disguised with free-flowing brightly coloured dresses. Today she wore a lavender blue one that finished just short of the ground.

“Would you like a cup of tea, love? I bought some of that weird infusion stuff you and Poppy like.” Mobility regained, Mary made her way into the kitchen. “Or there’s a bottle of white wine open in the fridge, would you prefer that?”

“How long has it been there, Mum, a week?”

“Just a couple of days, I had a visitor, you see . . .” Mary paused, as if about to elaborate. Instead, she picked up the red-framed reading glasses that hung from her neck by multicoloured beads, to check the labels on the tea packets. “Ah, now that reminds me!” She held up her index finger, as if about to conduct a symphony. “I was clearing my presses out and found this nice bottle of that Baileys you like. I left it out for you to take home – I won’t use it.”

“Caramel Baileys – um, I gave you that as a present,” Helen said flatly, as she picked up the bottle from the kitchen counter-top.

Mary chose to ignore the comment. “And there’s fancy mustard there as well, I’ll definitely never use that – you may as well have that too.” She removed her glasses.

Knowing her mother, Helen picked up the whole-grain mustard jar. “Best-before January 2008. What are you trying to do? Kill me, Mother dear?”

“Don’t mind those silly dates – they just put them on so they can sell more stuff. I never pay heed, and I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

Helen resisted the urge to point out to Mary that not five minutes ago she was about to kick the bucket.

“Right. Tea. Which one do you want, green tea with jasmine or Pur-eh – I think that one makes you skinny.” Mary picked up one of the packets. “Now where did I put my glasses?”

“They’re on your head.”

“So they are.” Mary adjusted her glasses to read the packets through the bi-focal part of the lens.

“I’ll have the green tea, please, Mum, and there’s no such thing as a tea that makes you skinny.”

“Wait – it’s just as well I put my glasses on. That’s Oxtail Cuppa Soup, not tea at all. Now where did I put the tea?”

“You’re very distracted, Mum – whatever is going on with you?”

“It’s not my fault. I’m a Vata!”

“What?”

“Poppy explained the whole thing to me. That thingamajig she does – Ayur-something.”

“Ayurveda,” Helen sighed.

“Yes, that – the Indian medicine thing. Apparently we all have different body types. She did the quiz on me – I’m a Vata type, which is space and air, so I can’t help it. It’s my dosha!”

“Airhead more like,” Helen laughed. “Maybe I’ll have that glass of wine after all. It’s a good excuse for JD and me to walk back tomorrow for the car. Unless of course the wine has actually been sitting there for a week.” She eyed Mary for confirmation.

“It’s been in the fridge, sure it’s grand. Honest to God, your generation would never have survived in my day.” Mary was glad Helen had opted for the wine – it might make it easier for her to hear what she had to tell her.

“Ah, the old days, Angela’s Ashes style,” Helen mimicked. “Ye’d no electricity or running water – the forgotten West of Ireland, left behind in the Stone Age.” She squinted an eye and pushed out her chin.

Mary laughed at Helen’s one-man performance. “Maybe I’m a little inclined to exaggerate,” she admitted, “but it was rural Ireland, we had no fridge, the toilet was an outhouse at the end of the garden and I had four brothers, remember.”

“Bless – the Fitzgerald clan. Those were the days when the men were men and the sheep were afraid,” Helen continued with her Wild Man of the West impersonation.

“Helen Devine – wash your mouth out!” Mary said, but mother and daughter both doubled up with laughter.

“So this is where the party is!” Poppy arrived at the back door, as she had done since she was a child.

Mary wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, there you are, love. I was just explaining that dosha thing to Helen.” With that, the two of them burst into laughter again, leaving Poppy a little bewildered.

“Glad I provided the entertainment, though I’m not sure I know how,” Poppy said, enveloping them in the scent of musk as she walked past. She gave Helen a hug. “So, are you all set for the morning? We need to leave here before eight to give us time to set up. It is so good to have you home!” Poppy tried to sound convincing and gave Helen her most dazzling smile, to cover up the fact that Helen hadn’t actually agreed to help her out the next day.

“Are you doing a car-boot-sale thingy again, Poppy?” Mary said, barely suppressing her amusement. No matter how much Helen loved her slightly hippy, eco-warrior friend, she hated it when Poppy roped her into one of her less-than-glamorous cash-producing schemes.

Helen’s face registered horror, as memories came flooding back of haggling with a six-year-old over eighty cent for a one-legged, black Barbie that once belonged to Lily. The child, relentless, had beaten her into submission, acquired the doll for fifty cent and had even got Helen to throw in an extra pair of doll-shoes, the point of which was lost on Helen, considering the doll had only one foot.

“What have I agreed to do now?”

“The Mind Body Spirit Fair, in Temple Bar. I thought you’d man my stand while I’m doing the massages . . .” Poppy’s voice trailed off.

“Oh right, of course.” Helen was relieved – at least it was an in-doors city-centre venue, which meant an abundant supply of decent coffee and relative warmth.

“You are the bestest mate ever, Helen, thanks a mil. We’ll have fun! There are free yoga classes, I’ll make sure they let you in,” Poppy tapped the tip of her nose in a “mum’s the word” fashion, “and Indian head-massage. If that’s all a bit pure for you, we can go for a drink afterwards.”

“Massage and cocktails, now that sounds like my kind of day. I may skip the yoga though.” Helen raised her mug in salute, having decided the tea was the least likely option to give her food poisoning, but she had checked the expiry-date, just in case.

Mary laughed. “You two are a match made in hell, do you know that? Will ye ever grow up and settle down at all?”

Poppy and Helen looked at her in shock. “Heaven forbid!” they chorused.

The conversation switched to Hong Kong and Helen started to rummage through the goodie bag of trinkets she’d brought back as gifts.

Mary realised the news she was so anxious to tell Helen would have to wait – for now.