on her own body. He pulls her to him, attempting to reignite her fire with his, but it’s too late. Reality has doused her and she’s dripping from it. She pushes him away and runs as though flight alone can promise expiation.
‘It didn’t happen,’ she moans, grinding to a halt. But the sensations whirling through her body are a contradiction.
‘Ready to come out and play?’
It was Molly on the doorstep, encased in a calf-length black Afghan coat, collar pulled high against the wind.
‘You look like Snow White in that collar,’ said Helen. ‘I thought we were meeting in the Life Bar. Anyway, we’re not supposed to be there for another forty-five minutes.’
‘I used to be Snow White but then I drifted.’ Molly’s hip-jutting Mae West impersonation backed Helen directly into the living room of her house – the hallway was knocked down to maximise space – and she kicked the door shut behind her with ankle-strapped heels so spindly Helen was amazed she could stand upright, let alone manoeuvre in them.
‘I can tell from those shoes you’re aiming for slut appeal tonight,’ remarked Helen. Only half-critically.
She was still in her bathrobe, although she’d invented a face and drawn it on and her dark Cleopatra bob was blow-dried into symmetrical perfection. Throwing on clothes was always the shortest component in the exercise, providing the brain-squeezing decision about what to wear had been reached. She’d solved that conundrum lying in the bath in her seaweed solution, bought on a weekend trip to Enniscrone when she’d luxuriated in the seaweed baths that had been a tourist attraction in the seaside town since Victorian times. It had taken a few minutes to overcome her repugnance when initially she’d seen the massive cast-iron bath really was packed with seaweed; somehow she’d imagined a sanitised version. But after a while she’d stopped noticing she was sharing the water with an excess of vegetation – and it had velvet-coated her skin like no other softening agent. Helen had balked, however, at obeying the notice which invited her to empty out her seaweed into the bucket provided. It was repugnant enough floating alongside slithery black-green vines, she couldn’t reconcile herself to handling them too. Skulking out, in case she were called back to clear away her detritus from the tub, she’d nevertheless paused to buy a jar of powdered seaweed because of the mermaid undulating across the front and because it promised to caress her skin.
‘That’s the only kind of stroking I can expect,’ she’d remarked, selecting the family-sized container.
But back to Molly, beaming as she produced a half-bottle of champagne from inside Afghan folds with the flourish of a magician conjuring up a dove. ‘The Lifer at eight was a serviceable plan A but it was elbowed aside by plan B. We can share a cab into town. In the meantime this will start us on the right foot, oh Helen of Athboy.’
‘You know I’m from Kilkenny not Meath,’ objected Helen, extracting champagne flutes from the narrow cherrywood sideboard in her living room. ‘Is it cold enough?’ Her tongue was already mentally capturing and splatting the bubbles and savouring their scratchy descent at the back of her throat.
‘Does my granny go to confession?’ responded Molly. ‘Wouldn’t hand over the cash until the Greek god in the off-licence immersed it in his four-and-a-half-minute cooler machine.’
‘And did he chat you up during the waiting game?’
‘Didn’t even remark on the weather.’ Molly’s face epitomised mournfulness. ‘His customer relations skills are non-existent.’
‘Maybe he had a rush on.’
‘One other person came in and bought a few cans of lager.’
‘So you stood there reading wine labels and being ignored for four and a half minutes? Poor Molly, this will wash those bitter dregs away.’ Helen reached her a frothing glass.
‘He didn’t even pretend to be stocktaking. He presented his flawless profile and stared out of the window. Impassive throughout. I might as well have been a nun buying communion wine instead of a gorgeous blonde teetering provocatively on skyscraper heels and handing over my credit card – so at least he’d know my name – for champagne.’
It looked as though Molly were fated to sin with the Greek only in her fevered imagination – ‘Thought crimes again this week, Father.’
Still, there was always alcohol. She rallied, clinking glasses with Helen. ‘Death in Ireland. But not just yet.’
It was her St Augustine toast. She’d acquired it during her two years working in London and still nursed a fondness for it. All the expats chanted it; some even meant it.
As she followed Helen upstairs, Molly sighed. It was just her luck to have a crush on the one Greek in the country who didn’t flirt, didn’t notice women and wouldn’t recognise he was being given the glad eye if he found it giftwrapped in his Christmas stocking. Call himself a Mediterranean – he must have Cidona pumping through his veins.
‘He probably wears a vest. All those fellows from hot countries do, for sweat containment,’ consoled Helen.
‘Checked again tonight: no telltale lines,’ said Molly. ‘Hercules’ body is a vest-free zone.’
She still didn’t know his name but she’d christened him Hercules because he was the strong, silent type. She was sure those capable hands of his could strangle serpents, no bother to them. But he was sturdy rather than large, her usual preference in men. Heck, here she was bending the rules for him and he still wasn’t interested. She had leaned against his counter in rock-chick shoes complete with peep toes on a January night cold enough for snow drifts and he hadn’t so much as looked let alone leered. It was disheartening. It was insulting. It was enough to make a woman throw away her high heels and buy desert boots. Where was the point in shimmying into a man’s shop in black shoes with red heels that added at least four inches to your leg length if he didn’t betray a flicker of lust? It was downright unnatural. But no one with a glass of champagne in her hand could be truly woebegone. Molly knocked it back.
‘Drink it while the bubbles are still smiling at you, Helen.’
She felt the familiar rush as it hit her blood stream at warp speed and added, ‘He’s probably too young for me anyway; he can’t be more than mid-twenties. Now, never mind my legendary Greek, make some room in your glass for the rest of the champagne and show me what you’re wearing. The image we’re aiming for is strumpet with a soupçon of class.’
Helen, who never left anything to chance, already had the clothes laid out on the bed. Molly eyed them disapprovingly.
‘Dear me no, these won’t do at all. These don’t spell “unattainable Jezebel”. There’s nothing that says look but you can’t afford to touch. Moleskin trousers, matching waistcoat and Chelsea boots are all very well if you’re going to the pub for a few drinks and want to be left in peace but that’s not what we’re after at all tonight. Our mission is to have the lads fretting into their pints because we’re so distracting.’
Helen stroked her charcoal-grey waistcoat. ‘And how does a “Come, woo me, woo me” T-shirt strike that quintessential note which puts us beyond their grasp?’
‘Abandoned that idea. I decided to shuffle the deck and bring on the ace – the little black number.’ Molly opened her coat to reveal a dress that chastely covered everything from neck to wrist to knee but clung for dear life to each square inch of flesh
