Read Online This Charming Man by Marian Keyes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marian Keyes
Tags: General Fiction
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falling for him. So not my type. Previous boyfriend, Malachy the photographer, very different. Small, neat, sparkly-eyedcharmer. Loved women, women loved him back. Charmed models like Zara Kaletsky into doing mad poses for him. (In fact, that was how I met Malachy. I was Zara’s stylist until she left Ireland so abruptly. She fixed us up.)
Malachy not very hairy. But, as I was buffeted by icy winds that day in the cemetery, I could tell simply by looking at Paddy de Courcy’s overcoat that he would have hairy chest. Picking up on subliminal signs. Dark raspy stubble on jaw. Backs of hands scattered with dark hairs. (Not like woolly mammoth King Kong paws – nice coverage.) Smooth hair-free chest simply wouldn’t fit.
He asked, ‘Do you come here often?’
I said, ‘Do I come here often?’ I surveyed marble slabs of death stretching out in all directions. Just goes to show, you can meet a man anywhere . ‘About once a month.’
‘This is slightly unorthodox…’ he said. ‘Graveyard and all that… Could come back in a month’s time hoping to bump into you, or… would you like to come for hot chocolate now?’
Clever. Hot chocolate the one thing – the only thing – I would have accepted. Safe. Totally different if he’d invited me for alcoholic drink. Or, indeed, cup of tea. Alcoholic drink – lecherous sleaze. Cup of tea – dullard with mother fixation.
Went to pub across road (Gravediggers Arms) where drank hot chocolate with marshmallows and reminisced about dead mothers.
He said, ‘Every time something good happens to me, I want to tell her, and every time something bad happens, I want her help.’
Knew exactly how he felt. We were both fifteen when our mums died. Was nice – glorious relief, actually – to meet someone who had lost their mum the same age I had. Talked openly, compared feelings, was drawn to him but didn’t fancy him. Actually felt I was almost doing him a favour, spending time with him, so he could talk about his mother.
He said, ‘Probably in bad taste, considering where we met, but any chance I could see you again? Promise I won’t talk about my mother the next time.’
I retreated against upholstery. Assailed by image of him looming over me, him naked, hairy-chested, hard-on in hand. My stomach did unpleasant squeeze. Excitement? Possibly not. Maybe nausea. He wasn’t my type. I thought he looked too old, also (shallow, shallow!Yes, I know) I didn’t like his clothes. Too buttoned-up, too safe. But why not give it a try?
Wrote my phone number on ancient cinema stub.
He looked at it. Said, ‘ Mission Impossible ? Any good?’
‘You didn’t see it?’
‘Never get time to go to pictures.’
‘Why not?’
‘Am politician. Deputy leader of New Ireland. Full-on job.’
Felt had better ask him his name – is what you have to do when people say they are writer or actor or – yes – politician. Almost as if they are angling to be asked.
‘Paddy de Courcy.’
Nodded and said, ‘Mmmm,’ to disguise fact had never heard of him.
He watched me shoot past in my red Mini, admiration in his eyes. I looked at him in rear-view. Even from distance could see blueness of his eyes. Coloured contact lenses? No. Coloured contact lenses make eyes strangely starey and dead-looking. Wearers look like aliens. Sometimes clients take a notion to wear them for big night out. (‘I fancy being a green-eyed temptress tonight.’) I always talk them out of it. Tacky. Very… Mariah Carey.
Wondered if Paddy de Courcy would call. Wasn’t sure he would. Suspected he might be married. Also we weren’t, on the face of it, a likely match. I had red Mini Cooper, he had navy Saab. I had sharp-cut, wide-lapelled, teal jacket, he had sober navy overcoat. I had angular Louise Brooks bob and Chiarascuro highlights (colour before Molichino), he had bouffy hair.
Didn’t Google him. That’s how interested I wasn’t.
Early next morning my mobile rang. I didn’t recognize number but
Malachy not very hairy. But, as I was buffeted by icy winds that day in the cemetery, I could tell simply by looking at Paddy de Courcy’s overcoat that he would have hairy chest. Picking up on subliminal signs. Dark raspy stubble on jaw. Backs of hands scattered with dark hairs. (Not like woolly mammoth King Kong paws – nice coverage.) Smooth hair-free chest simply wouldn’t fit.
He asked, ‘Do you come here often?’
I said, ‘Do I come here often?’ I surveyed marble slabs of death stretching out in all directions. Just goes to show, you can meet a man anywhere . ‘About once a month.’
‘This is slightly unorthodox…’ he said. ‘Graveyard and all that… Could come back in a month’s time hoping to bump into you, or… would you like to come for hot chocolate now?’
Clever. Hot chocolate the one thing – the only thing – I would have accepted. Safe. Totally different if he’d invited me for alcoholic drink. Or, indeed, cup of tea. Alcoholic drink – lecherous sleaze. Cup of tea – dullard with mother fixation.
Went to pub across road (Gravediggers Arms) where drank hot chocolate with marshmallows and reminisced about dead mothers.
He said, ‘Every time something good happens to me, I want to tell her, and every time something bad happens, I want her help.’
Knew exactly how he felt. We were both fifteen when our mums died. Was nice – glorious relief, actually – to meet someone who had lost their mum the same age I had. Talked openly, compared feelings, was drawn to him but didn’t fancy him. Actually felt I was almost doing him a favour, spending time with him, so he could talk about his mother.
He said, ‘Probably in bad taste, considering where we met, but any chance I could see you again? Promise I won’t talk about my mother the next time.’
I retreated against upholstery. Assailed by image of him looming over me, him naked, hairy-chested, hard-on in hand. My stomach did unpleasant squeeze. Excitement? Possibly not. Maybe nausea. He wasn’t my type. I thought he looked too old, also (shallow, shallow!Yes, I know) I didn’t like his clothes. Too buttoned-up, too safe. But why not give it a try?
Wrote my phone number on ancient cinema stub.
He looked at it. Said, ‘ Mission Impossible ? Any good?’
‘You didn’t see it?’
‘Never get time to go to pictures.’
‘Why not?’
‘Am politician. Deputy leader of New Ireland. Full-on job.’
Felt had better ask him his name – is what you have to do when people say they are writer or actor or – yes – politician. Almost as if they are angling to be asked.
‘Paddy de Courcy.’
Nodded and said, ‘Mmmm,’ to disguise fact had never heard of him.
He watched me shoot past in my red Mini, admiration in his eyes. I looked at him in rear-view. Even from distance could see blueness of his eyes. Coloured contact lenses? No. Coloured contact lenses make eyes strangely starey and dead-looking. Wearers look like aliens. Sometimes clients take a notion to wear them for big night out. (‘I fancy being a green-eyed temptress tonight.’) I always talk them out of it. Tacky. Very… Mariah Carey.
Wondered if Paddy de Courcy would call. Wasn’t sure he would. Suspected he might be married. Also we weren’t, on the face of it, a likely match. I had red Mini Cooper, he had navy Saab. I had sharp-cut, wide-lapelled, teal jacket, he had sober navy overcoat. I had angular Louise Brooks bob and Chiarascuro highlights (colour before Molichino), he had bouffy hair.
Didn’t Google him. That’s how interested I wasn’t.
Early next morning my mobile rang. I didn’t recognize number but
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