The Lingerie Designer Page 2

  “That’s the plan.” Helen stood and picked up a notebook and pen. “Fred and I are going to take a quick look around the shop floor to see how the quality looks on that last shipment from the Chinatex factory. God help them if I find any misplaced gussets.”

  “Helen’s pet hate – misplaced gussets! And crooked knicker-elastic for that matter.” Fred winked at Sarah.

  She smiled at him as if she’d just swallowed a bitter pill.

  Fred and Helen had only just left when the phone rang again. Sarah picked up. “Helen Devine,” she said melodically, neglecting to mention to the caller she actually meant Helen Devine’s phone.

  “Ms Devine, Jack Taylor,” a soft-spoken American voice said. “I’m one of your architects working on The Palm development in Dubai.”

  “Yes?” Sarah said, stretching a hand out to admire her manicure.

  “The office said to give you a call. You’re undecided between which unit to purchase and you want to talk to someone about layout and aspect?”

  Silence.

  Shit. Helen would have her guts for garters: not the kind of lingerie career she’d envisaged.

  “Ms Devine?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Taylor, you must have misheard me. I’m Helen Devine’s assistant. May I take your number and I’ll get her to call you back?” The lie rolled off her tongue with ease.

  Jack Taylor apologised profusely, gave his number and promptly hung up.

  Sarah stretched back in Helen’s high-back, leather chair with a satisfied smile, putting her stiletto heels firmly on the desk. So the boss was buying Middle East property in her spare time. That must make her the only Irish person with any money. Weren’t they all broke – or was that the Greeks? What a mystery Helen was turning out to be – more complexities for Sarah to figure out. She felt a coffee break coming on. She could just see Debbie in Accounts’ face when she told her about this one.

  Helen and Fred stood at the elevator door waiting for the lift that led from the company offices down to its Oxford Street flagship store. Helen had her head stuck in her oversized bag, fumbling, when the doors slid open.

  “I’ve left my mobile in the office. You go on, Fred. I’ll follow you down.” Swiftly, Helen retraced her steps back down the corridor to the design office.

  “I forgot my phone . . . oh . . .” Helen’s voice trailed off when she saw Sarah languishing on her executive chair. “Would you rob my grave as quickly?” she laughed.

  Sarah bolted upright, knocking Helen’s coffee mug to the floor.

  “Relax, I’m only pulling your leg. I’m going to grab some food to bring back when I’m finished in the shop – do you fancy a sandwich?” Helen bent down to retrieve her mug, which read The World’s Best Friend in big red lettering. She looked up at Sarah, whose cheeks were hot enough to fry an egg.

  “No thanks, I’m watching my figure.”

  “Suit yourself.” Helen placed the mug in its rightful place on the desk.

  Having regained her composure, Sarah spoke up. “A man phoned – wants you to call him as soon as you can,” she said brusquely, handing Helen a yellow note. Her clipped tone was lost on Helen, who was still fishing under scattered files for her phone.

  “There it is,” Helen said, picking it up. She took a quick glance at the message. “Who is Jack Taylor?”

  “How would I know? All I did was take the message. Wants you to ring him back asap.” Sarah sniffed, folding her arms.

  “I’ll call him while I’m out. Okay, I’d better go before Fred sends a search party for me. Won’t be long.”

  Helen put her phone and the piece of paper in her bag as she was leaving. She stood in the doorway and hesitated. Breathing deeply, she pulled herself up to her full height of five-foot nine.

  “Murder,” she said, her back to the office.

  “Excuse me?” Sarah looked up from papers she’d been shuffling.

  Helen turned, looking back into the office. “My father – you asked how he died. He was murdered.”

  With that she left, leaving the door, and Sarah’s mouth, open.

  Chapter 2

  On Oxford Street at lunchtime, Helen joined the mêlée of office workers and tourists. The locals had phones stuck to their ears and were walking with purpose, not making eye contact with anyone. The tourists gathered in groups, meandering aimlessly, frequently checking that their bum bags were still attached and generally getting in the way of anyone trying to pass them.

  The unseasonal heat in the city was making people more irritable than usual. A suit, talking loudly into his earpiece, pushed past an American tourist, knocking her out of his way lest she interrupt his pace.

  “Hey, watch it, buster!” the woman shouted after him, waving her fist.

  The suit was long gone and Helen hadn’t been lucky enough to slip through the gap in his wake.

  The American continued complaining, brushing down her red Chicago Bulls T-shirt, as if it had somehow been soiled by the touch of such a rude man.

  Helen could feel her own impatience rise. The American accent grated, which she knew was hypocritical considering she had been born there. Eventually the woman waddled on, restoring one lane of pedestrian traffic, even though it was the slow lane. Helen was willing her to walk faster when the woman stopped at a souvenir stall, opening up a precious gap on the pavement.

  Helen knew her irritation wasn’t just about the tourist. Sarah’s childish sulking, which she had chosen to ignore, was niggling her. Had they chosen the right person for the job? Then there was the matter of Sarah’s direct question about her father. It had unnerved her and she didn’t know why. But she knew only too well why her mother fretted so much every time her daughter left for South-East Asia, which was becoming more and more frequent as buying budgets and profit margins got tighter and tighter. She had gone and blurted out about murder, which wasn’t strictly true, but, to Helen, her dad was murdered by the US government, whether they chose to call him a casualty of war or not.

  Her stride was interrupted by another waddler. This one took the form of a five-year-old. Who in their right mind takes a child for a walk on Oxford Street at lunchtime? Probably another tourist, she guessed. As she shifted from left to right, trying to make her way past, wafts of frying beef tickled her nostrils. What the hell! If you can’t beat them join them, she reasoned as she disappeared inside a burger bar. She placed her order and tried to wait patiently in line, hating not having something to do, eventually deciding to retrieve her phone from her bag. The yellow note was still stuck to it. She punched in the phone number just as her lunch was handed to her in a paper bag.

  “Jack Taylor.”

  “Mr Taylor, Helen Devine.” Helen wedged her phone between her shoulder and her ear as she opened the paper bag.

  “Thank you for returning my call, Ms Devine, and please call me Jack.”

  Helen sighed heavily as she looked at her lunch, which she wanted to eat as quickly as possible. “What can I do for you, Jack?”

  “I hope it’s more about how I can help you, Ms Devine. If we can just have a quick chat about your primary use for the unit, I’ll advise you of the most suitable option. I’d imagine living in London would mean you’d want to see as much sunlight as possible, escape from the English weather. Although I hear you’re having a bit of an Indian summer there at the moment – is that correct?”

  What was it with this man – would he ever shut up? Helen wasn’t about to be sucked into a conversation about the weather.

  “Long term, I plan to use the apartment as a holiday home but in the meantime it’ll have to be suitable for the rental market. I’m handing it to a management company as soon as the purchase is finalised.”

  “I see. So you’re not actually coming to Dubai to see the apartment before you make your decision?”

  “Yes, Mr Taylor, that is correct. That’s why I’m relying on you, as my architect, to advise me, based on my criteria.” She decided to start eating anyway and hoped Mr Taylor wouldn’t n
otice – although his voice sounded as though he might be a few years shy of wearing the ‘Mr’ title, which Helen usually reserved for men with a decade jump-start on herself.

  “Okay.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “In that case, if I may just ask you a few more questions?”

  “Sure,” Helen replied as lightly as she could muster. She sucked on a plastic straw – it made a loud slurping noise. She hadn’t meant to be rude – she knew her architect was trying to be helpful but, for once, she wished she could spend lunch sitting on the grass in Hyde Park, watching the world go by. Her food looked less appetising now – she decided to bin it.

  Jack Taylor placed the handset of his phone in its cradle. The call from his London client was to be his last from this office. He had explained how the apartment blueprints translated to daytime light and layouts to the woman while listening to the sounds of her trying to talk, walk and eat at the same time. He was sure he’d heard her shout “Gobshite!” at the distinctive sound of a black cab, but she had put her hand – or was it part of a burrito? – over the mouthpiece of the phone, so he wasn’t sure.

  Pulling back the shirt cuff, he looked at his watch. As usual, the face of the Tag Heuer chronograph timepiece had worked its way halfway around his arm. He twisted the bezel and wondered why he’d never managed to get a resizing done. It was a misfit, he reflected – a bit like the relationship with the woman who had given it to him. His gaze remained on the watch as he wondered what she was doing now. Why he continued to wear the watch she had given him, just before she had torn his world apart, eluded him. Maybe he enjoyed the pain in some perverse way.

  “Why?” he muttered to himself.

  “What was that?”

  Jack hadn’t heard the senior partner, Bill Redmond, approach his desk. The large, ginger-bearded Bostonian stood over him with a quizzical expression.

  “Just talking to myself, Bill,” Jack replied, as he looked up into the jolly round face.

  “Sign of old age, my man, sign of old age,” Bill chuckled.

  “So is repeating yourself, Bill.” Jack smiled back at him.

  “Careful. I’m still your boss, you know – for another hour anyway, unless you’ve changed your mind?” Bill cocked an untamed eyebrow as he studied the young man’s face. He liked the lad and, although Jack had turned the corner on thirty, he had a boyish face that he’d probably wear for a lifetime. And he was popular with his co-workers and clients. There was a quiet confidence about him, reassuring, without being cocky. Moreover, he had that great combination of a mathematical brain and artistic ability – he would be a great architect with a few more years’ experience under his belt.

  Jack shook his head and grinned. “Nine months in Dubai is enough for me, Bill. Hey, it’s three months longer than my original contract! Besides, sand-dune surfing just doesn’t cut it. I’m heading for the real thing.”

  “I don’t know. You Ivy Leaguers – you want it all.” Bill feigned a disappointed look, but he knew that Jack Taylor had never really settled in Dubai. He did look as if he’d be more at home riding waves on Huntington Beach, Southern California.

  Getting back to business, Jack said, “I spoke to that Devine woman in London. She’s decided on Unit 3710, at least I think she has. She said something about having to check the numbers out with her friend.”

  “The sales agent told me she had the money in place – that’s why they were so anxious for us to ring her quickly in case she changed her mind.”

  “I didn’t think she was talking about money when she mentioned the numbers – more of a superstition, I’d guess. Unusual name, Devine. I couldn’t quite place her accent. She didn’t sound English though.” Jack slipped Helen’s contact details back into a brown manila folder. “Wherever she’s from, she seriously sounds like she needs a vacation.”

  “Devine, that’s an Irish name, I think,” Bill said, as he gazed off into the distance as if trying to recall where he’d heard the name before. Bill came from a long line of Irish-Americans – he was very proud of his heritage and loved all things Irish. “All the better if she does need some rest and relaxation. She’s less likely to renege on the purchase of a new holiday home.”

  “Nah, I’ve worked with her type before. It’ll end up just being an investment that she never sees. That or she’ll flip it. These career-focused people have vague plans about what they’ll do one day when they find the time, but they never manage to step off the hamster wheel, for fear someone will take their place.” Jack dropped Helen’s folder into a filing cabinet and then firmly slid the drawer shut. He paused. “I believe Ms Devine’s file now clears my in-tray and therefore marks the end of my time in Allen Bernstein & Associates. The Dubai office anyway.” Jack laced his fingers behind his head and stretched for added effect.

  “What’s your start date with the LA office?”

  “December first,” Jack said as he started unpinning family photos from the felt partition that had sectioned off his work station.

  “But that’s nearly three months away! What will you do until then? Go home to the East Coast?”

  “Jeez, you sound just like my mother! No, I’m touring around Asia for a few months, taking some photos, getting a feel for the cultures.”

  “We must have been paying you too much,” Bill said, picking up one of Jack’s photos. It resembled a Kodak moment. His parents made a handsome couple – broad, even smiles, with Jack’s father’s arm draped around his graceful wife’s shoulder as they sat on a plaid blanket. The sister, blonde and tanned, a younger female version of Jack, was hugging a Golden Retriever. The dog’s tongue hung out, making it look as if he too was smiling. There was a dark, exotic-looking girl kneeling on the other side of the oversized pooch, but she didn’t look like the rest of them. Bill pointed to her. “Is she one of the family?”

  “No. A girl I was in school with. Amy.” Jack tried to sound nonchalant and immediately regretted mentioning her name, although it felt good to do so.

  “Amy. Didn’t you two date before you left Boston?” Bill had an amazingly retentive memory, even for conversations that took place in ex-pat clubhouses when excess liquor had loosened ties and tongues.

  “Yeah, briefly, but she was more of a buddy really,” Jack said. He stood and took the photo from Bill’s hand before swiftly putting it in his messenger bag.

  “You can’t just be buddies with a woman who looks like that!”

  “Will you be at my surprise party later?”

  “You know about that?” Bill looked genuinely crestfallen.

  “I know everything that goes on in this office – you guys will miss me.” He looped the messenger bag over his head before undoing the top button of his collar. He took a last look around the purpose-built office. It was functional and banal, filled with filing cabinets, work tables, rolled-up plans and drawings of the endless construction that was still transforming Dubai. But he wasn’t really seeing it. He was just glad he had managed to avoid telling Bill what Amy really meant to him. If you catch a woman like that, you never let her go. Unless of course she lets go of you.

  Chapter 3

  Is it possible to fall in love with someone who serves you cold soup? Lust maybe. Love? Probably not. Still, sitting in a restaurant in the Dublin seaside town of Howth, Poppy Power couldn’t help but romanticise about the Latin waiter with his hair tied back and a twinkle in his eyes. Poppy blushed when he looked at her. It was as if he knew what she was thinking.

  “How is the soup, ladies?” the clear-skinned waiter asked, his eyes meeting Poppy’s.

  Their look lingered. Blood coursed through her veins as if “Angelo”, as his brass name-tag revealed, had asked her to sleep with him and not about the soup at all.

  “Molto buono!” Poppy purred back at him, flicking her copper mane for added effect.

  “Parla Italiano?” the waiter replied, his large brown eyes smiling.

  Poppy’s teenage daughter, Lily, looked up from her under-the-table texting
and wished the ground would swallow her. Poppy, on the other hand, hadn’t a clue what the waiter had just said but didn’t care because it sounded so sexy.

  “Mum, you said ‘very good’ in Italian,” Lily hissed. “We’re in a Spanish restaurant. He’s asking do you speak Italian!” For once, Lily thought it’d be good to have a normal mum, who went to coffee mornings and fixed the hem on your school uniform when it was hanging.

  Poppy giggled, a schoolgirl-crush giggle that served only to heighten Lily’s ever-increasing embarrassment. She wondered if she could pretend she didn’t know her mother even though they were at the same table.

  “Oh – silly me! Anyway, Angelo . . .” Poppy made a point of directing her eyes to his chest while saying his name, “yes, the gazpacho is yum!” With that, she picked up a large pepper-grinder and started twisting the wooden top. Little sprinkles of black pepper fell on her soup.

  “Can I do that for you, signora?” The motion of the gorgeous redhead grasping the shaft of the pepper grinder and twisting its top wasn’t lost on him, and he suppressed a smile.

  “That’s okay – I’ve got it,” Poppy replied, tilting her head slightly as she looked up, rapidly blinking her hazel eyes at him.

  “Yes, I can see that you have.” His grin broke out as he left the tableside but he couldn’t help looking back over his shoulder before he went into the kitchen to cool down.

  “Mum, you’re such a loser! Why were you flirting with that man, or do you have a go at every Latin waiter you meet?”

  “I wasn’t flirting – I was just being friendly, Lily – you should try it some time,” Poppy replied dryly, ignoring the caustic remark about her chequered past. She was getting weary of the scowl Lily permanently wore these days. “Anyway, it’s only a bit of fun. Lighten up, Lil, maybe try a bit of flirting yourself.” Poppy eyed her only daughter, the light of her life. The familiar pang of worry fluttered in her stomach. Lily, only seventeen, her shoulders hunched, as if the weight of the world was bearing down on her. She was wise beyond her years but at times it was as if Lily was the parent and Poppy the teenager. Lily appeared to have lost all zest for life.