On the other hand, everyone might just decide, fuck that, I couldn’t be arsed, give me my usual order of La Prairie. It was a risk. There was no guarantee that New Yorkers would get whipped into a frenzy. If they felt they were being manipulated they would turn against the whole idea. However, now was not the time to mention this.
“Nine months later we do it all again with the serum, and six months after that the base. Then we’ve got the eye cream, the lip balm, the body repair, the body wash, and the exfoliator all to come.”
Ariella gave another of those almost invisible nods. This was the equivalent to her jumping on her desk, shrieking, “Go, Anna!!!”
“But that’s not all,” I said, striving for a wry tone.
Oh yes?
“I’ve got an added extra.” I paused, made them wait, then pointed to my scar. “As you may have noticed, I am the lucky owner of a badly scarred face.”
I let them have their embarrassed little chuckle.
“In the two short weeks since I’ve started using Formula Twelve, there’s been a huge improvement. I took a photo of my scar just before I started using Formula Twelve.” It was actually after the first night, but never mind. “The difference is already visible. I believe in this product. I genuinely do.” Well, I’d give it a go. “When I pitch to beauty editors, I will be visible proof that Formula Twelve is amazing.”
“Yes!” Ariella was hugely impressed with this proposal. “And if the results aren’t dramatic enough, we can always send you for a little plastic surgery.”
71
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Bitten arse!
Last night, got call from Colin. Said he had info that Detta Fear was in Racey’s posh Dalkey pad! Delighted. Fucking delighted. Might finally nail this shagging job. Drove over there fast! But Racey’s house still had electronic gate, high walls, spikes on top. How do other private investigators get in anywhere? Maybe they have handy little device to disable gate. Or they’d be mountaineers in spare time, so could loop rope around one of spikes on top of wall and they’d be in garden before you could say “into the void.”
All I have going for me is am brazen. Pressed gate intercom, waited. After while, woman’s voice, all crackly, says Hello?
I tried to sound desperate: Missus, I’m very sorry to trouble you, but I’m supposed to be meeting my friend at the Druid’s Chair and I’m lost and desperate to go to the loo and I’ve tried two other houses along this road and they wouldn’t let me in and I was wondering if you’d do an act of Christian charity and let me use your bathroom. I can hardly drive the car I’m so bad…
I shut up—gate was opening! Walked up drive, like entering heaven. Front door opened, shining out rectangle of light. Inside all looked warm, inviting, and hopefully full of Detta and Racey in incriminating poses. Tiny woman at front door—approx three foot six, extremely old, easily hundred and seven. Curly white hair, glasses, shapeless tweed skirt, and lopsided chunky cardigan she must have knitted herself. Racey O’Grady’s housekeeper?
Her: Come in, you poor pet.
Me (with real gratitude): Oh, thank you, missus.
Her: The facility is this way.
Pointed me toward downstairs cloakroom but I wanted to be upstairs where might catch Detta and Racey in the act.
Me: Missus, I’m sorry to sound so ungrateful, but I have a “condition.”
She stepped back.
Me: No, not like that, it’s not contagious. It’s a kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder and I can only use toilets that no one else uses.
Her (looking doubtful): Well, there’s an en suite in one of the spare bedrooms that doesn’t get used much. Would that do? Come on, I’ll show you.
Me: There’s no need for you to come upstairs on your aged legs. I’m putting you to enough trouble. Just point me in the right direction.
Her: Okay, top of the stairs, go right, second door.
Then she called after me: And don’t confuse the wardrobe with the bathroom like Racey did one night when he had a few jars on him.
I went to bathroom, decided might as well make wees, seeing as was there. Then crept around and opened doors of other four bedrooms, camera at ready. Nobody in any of them. Where the hell were Racey and Detta?
The old woman was waiting at bottom of stairs: All done?
Me: All done.
Her: It’s a scourge, isn’t it? An unreliable bladder.
Me: It certainly is.
Her: But the incontinence pants are great. Would you like a biscuit?
Into kitchen, proper kitchen, blue Aga, rough wooden table, dried flowers hanging upside down. Top-class biscuits. Belgian. All fully chocolate coated (not just on one side), some even wrapped in goldy paper.
Me: These are top-notch biscuits.
Her: Sure, you have to have a little bit of luxury in your life, don’t you? What’s your name, pet?
Me: Helen.
Her: Helen what?
Me: Helen…er.
Had been just about to say “Walsh” when occurred it mightn’t be smartest idea.
Me: Keller.
It was first thing that came to mind: Helen Keller.
Her: Helen Keller? That has a kind of familiar ring to it. Have we met before?
Me: I don’t know.
Her: And I’m Tessie O’Grady.
Holy Jesus! Nearly choked. This was the famed Tessie O’Grady, the most dangerous woman in Dublin crime? And does that mean that Racey O’Grady lives with his mammy?
Quickly recovered meself. Doesn’t do to show your weakness.
Me: Thank you for letting me use your jacks, Tessie. You’re a Christian woman.
(The aged like if you call them Christian.)
Me: You’re like Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, helping our Lord put out the burning bush before it had the whole Bible burned down.
Her: No bother at all. Take a biccie for the drive.
She consulted biscuit guide: Do you like orange creams?
Me: No. No one does.
Her: Mint creams?
Me: Fine.
She put two mint creams in my pocket and patted them, narrowly missing gun, then followed me down hall. As we passed half-open door, saw Racey and Detta! Sitting close together on couch in overbright sitting room drinking tea, eating biscuits (same high quality as ones in kitchen, from brief glance I got) and watching Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em. War crime. (UK Gold does reruns.)