Sushi for Beginners
Page 114
In the mirror their eyes collided. Instantly she swung away from his sloe-black look. She was embarrassed, confused… the way she always felt around him, but to the power of ten.
‘Thank you,’ she managed politely. ‘You’ve been a big help.’
‘No problem.’ Then he smiled and the mood altered totally, so much so that she later wondered if she’d imagined the unspoken something buzzing around them. ‘I’m not the big ogre you all think I am.’
‘No, we don’t –’
‘I’m just a bloke doing a tough job.’
‘Er, right!’
‘Now, how much do you bet me that Trix will catch me coming out of here?’
It took Ashling a moment to reply, ‘A tenner.’
52
When Jack arrived at the Herbert Park Hotel, the party was well underway. The place was thronged, copies of Colleen lay on tables in thick, lustrous piles, and the girls had a highly efficient human conveyor-belt in place to process the anticipated movers and shakers.
First port of call was Lisa, who, lacquered and glittery-shiny, had probably never looked more beautiful. Then Ashling, awkward in a dress and spindly heels, was checking invitations against a list. Mercedes, snake-thin in black wet-look, was affixing name-badges to arrivees, then Trix, attired in nothing much at all, was directing people towards the cloakroom. Beautiful young men and women circulated with trays of grown-up-looking cocktails – not an umbrella in sight.
‘Madam editor,’ Jack stopped in front of Lisa.
‘Hi, I’m the greeter!’ she grinned.
‘Well, greet me then.’
She kissed his cheek and in a mag-hag parody exclaimed, ‘Darling, so fabulously fantabulous to meet you! Er, who exactly are you?’
Jack laughed and moved on to Ashling, who looked up from her print-out. ‘Oh, hello,’ she exclaimed, unexpectedly skittish. ‘Devine. Jack. Can’t see you on my list. Which are you, a mover or a shaker?’
‘Neither.’ He acknowledged her black shift-dress. ‘Looking good.’ But what he really meant was, ‘Looking different.’
‘I hardly ever wear dresses,’ Ashling confided.’And I’ve already laddered one pair of tights.’
‘How’s the hair working out for you?’
‘Judge for yourself.’ She did a tipsy twirl.
On other women a swingy bob would look sleek and feline; on her it had an endearing plainness which he found vaguely heartwrenching.
‘And your ear?’
‘What ear?’ Ashling demanded gaily, then raised her champagne cocktail. ‘Cheers! Feeling no pain. Now, move along, please.’
Lisa spent the night receiving congratulations. The party was a triumph: they’d all come. A thorough search had uncovered only six hundred and fourteen Irish movers and shakers, but it seemed as if every single one of them had turned out. Praise and goodwill swirled around the room in great uplifting gusts. It was fabulous!
And despite disasters right up to printing, Colleen was a dazzling achievement. Its cutting-edge heat practically hopped from the glossy pages. Lisa had even, at the eleventh hour, secured a celebrity letter. The new boy-band Laddz had just broken through and Shane Dockery, their lead singer, the nervous youth who Lisa had met all those months ago at the Monsoon launch, had managed to mutate into a bona fide heart-throb, who had teenage girls swarming like monkeys up the walls of his house.
Shane remembered Lisa. How could he forget the only person who’d been nice to him during the wilderness months? If he could just evict the teenage girls from his stationery drawer he’d be happy to write the letter. And everyone agreed that his article had an engaging freshness and exuberance that hoarier old rockers wouldn’t have been able to simulate.
Lisa couldn’t stop smiling: proper, ear-splitting beams. Who would have thought, four months ago, that she’d have pulled it off? And that she’d feel so good about it?
Even the advertising situation was sorted – swung by the Frieda Kiely homeless pictures. Press officers in all the major fashion houses had realized that Colleen was no provincial free-sheet, but a force to be reckoned with. Not only had they placed big, expensive ads, but they’d actually asked for their collections to be included in forthcoming issues.
‘Hiya, Lisa.’ Lisa turned to see Kathy, her neighbour, holding a tray of sushi.
‘Oh, hi, Kathy.’
‘Thanks for getting me this gig.’
‘No problem.’
‘Thing is, a few people have been asking where the sausage rolls are?’
Lisa actually laughed. ‘Then they shouldn’t be here.’
‘I tried that sushi stuff myself,’ Kathy confided. ‘And, d’you know, it’s not bad.’
Marcus Valentine, looking the worse for wear, lurched past. Automatically, Lisa gave him a blinding smile. And Jasper Ffrench, looking even more the worse for wear, tottered after him. And here came Calvin Carter, who’d flown in from New York specially.
Calvin was all meaty handshakes and first-name usage.
‘Terrific, Lisa.’ He surveyed the good-looking crowd. ‘Terrrific. All righty, Lisa, let’s make speeches!’
He bounded up to the little stage and kicked off with an Irish phrase he’d made Ashling write out for him phonetically.
‘Kade Meela Fall-che,’ he bellowed, which seemed to go down very well, judging by the storm of laughter that rose. Although, of course, Calvin had always found it hard to distinguish between people laughing with him and people laughing at him.
Then he gave a speech about Dublin, about magazines and about how fab Colleen was.
‘And the woman who’s made it all possible…’ he extended his arm to encompass Lisa. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the editor’s editor, Lisa Edwards!’
As the room erupted into drunken applause, Lisa took the podium.
‘Clap,’ Ashling hissed at Mercedes, ‘or you’ll be sacked.’
Mercedes laughed darkly and kept her arms folded. Ashling gave her an anxious look, but couldn’t tarry. She was on bouquet duty. She was also trolleyed drunk – a combination of exhaustion, painkillers and alcohol, of course – and hoped she could stay on her feet long enough to carry the flowers up the little flight of steps.
As Lisa made her pretty speech, her glance alighted on Jack – or to use her own secret name for him, The Icing on Tonight’s Cake. He was leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his slight smile wrapping her in great warmth and appreciation.
‘Thank you,’ she managed politely. ‘You’ve been a big help.’
‘No problem.’ Then he smiled and the mood altered totally, so much so that she later wondered if she’d imagined the unspoken something buzzing around them. ‘I’m not the big ogre you all think I am.’
‘No, we don’t –’
‘I’m just a bloke doing a tough job.’
‘Er, right!’
‘Now, how much do you bet me that Trix will catch me coming out of here?’
It took Ashling a moment to reply, ‘A tenner.’
52
When Jack arrived at the Herbert Park Hotel, the party was well underway. The place was thronged, copies of Colleen lay on tables in thick, lustrous piles, and the girls had a highly efficient human conveyor-belt in place to process the anticipated movers and shakers.
First port of call was Lisa, who, lacquered and glittery-shiny, had probably never looked more beautiful. Then Ashling, awkward in a dress and spindly heels, was checking invitations against a list. Mercedes, snake-thin in black wet-look, was affixing name-badges to arrivees, then Trix, attired in nothing much at all, was directing people towards the cloakroom. Beautiful young men and women circulated with trays of grown-up-looking cocktails – not an umbrella in sight.
‘Madam editor,’ Jack stopped in front of Lisa.
‘Hi, I’m the greeter!’ she grinned.
‘Well, greet me then.’
She kissed his cheek and in a mag-hag parody exclaimed, ‘Darling, so fabulously fantabulous to meet you! Er, who exactly are you?’
Jack laughed and moved on to Ashling, who looked up from her print-out. ‘Oh, hello,’ she exclaimed, unexpectedly skittish. ‘Devine. Jack. Can’t see you on my list. Which are you, a mover or a shaker?’
‘Neither.’ He acknowledged her black shift-dress. ‘Looking good.’ But what he really meant was, ‘Looking different.’
‘I hardly ever wear dresses,’ Ashling confided.’And I’ve already laddered one pair of tights.’
‘How’s the hair working out for you?’
‘Judge for yourself.’ She did a tipsy twirl.
On other women a swingy bob would look sleek and feline; on her it had an endearing plainness which he found vaguely heartwrenching.
‘And your ear?’
‘What ear?’ Ashling demanded gaily, then raised her champagne cocktail. ‘Cheers! Feeling no pain. Now, move along, please.’
Lisa spent the night receiving congratulations. The party was a triumph: they’d all come. A thorough search had uncovered only six hundred and fourteen Irish movers and shakers, but it seemed as if every single one of them had turned out. Praise and goodwill swirled around the room in great uplifting gusts. It was fabulous!
And despite disasters right up to printing, Colleen was a dazzling achievement. Its cutting-edge heat practically hopped from the glossy pages. Lisa had even, at the eleventh hour, secured a celebrity letter. The new boy-band Laddz had just broken through and Shane Dockery, their lead singer, the nervous youth who Lisa had met all those months ago at the Monsoon launch, had managed to mutate into a bona fide heart-throb, who had teenage girls swarming like monkeys up the walls of his house.
Shane remembered Lisa. How could he forget the only person who’d been nice to him during the wilderness months? If he could just evict the teenage girls from his stationery drawer he’d be happy to write the letter. And everyone agreed that his article had an engaging freshness and exuberance that hoarier old rockers wouldn’t have been able to simulate.
Lisa couldn’t stop smiling: proper, ear-splitting beams. Who would have thought, four months ago, that she’d have pulled it off? And that she’d feel so good about it?
Even the advertising situation was sorted – swung by the Frieda Kiely homeless pictures. Press officers in all the major fashion houses had realized that Colleen was no provincial free-sheet, but a force to be reckoned with. Not only had they placed big, expensive ads, but they’d actually asked for their collections to be included in forthcoming issues.
‘Hiya, Lisa.’ Lisa turned to see Kathy, her neighbour, holding a tray of sushi.
‘Oh, hi, Kathy.’
‘Thanks for getting me this gig.’
‘No problem.’
‘Thing is, a few people have been asking where the sausage rolls are?’
Lisa actually laughed. ‘Then they shouldn’t be here.’
‘I tried that sushi stuff myself,’ Kathy confided. ‘And, d’you know, it’s not bad.’
Marcus Valentine, looking the worse for wear, lurched past. Automatically, Lisa gave him a blinding smile. And Jasper Ffrench, looking even more the worse for wear, tottered after him. And here came Calvin Carter, who’d flown in from New York specially.
Calvin was all meaty handshakes and first-name usage.
‘Terrific, Lisa.’ He surveyed the good-looking crowd. ‘Terrrific. All righty, Lisa, let’s make speeches!’
He bounded up to the little stage and kicked off with an Irish phrase he’d made Ashling write out for him phonetically.
‘Kade Meela Fall-che,’ he bellowed, which seemed to go down very well, judging by the storm of laughter that rose. Although, of course, Calvin had always found it hard to distinguish between people laughing with him and people laughing at him.
Then he gave a speech about Dublin, about magazines and about how fab Colleen was.
‘And the woman who’s made it all possible…’ he extended his arm to encompass Lisa. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the editor’s editor, Lisa Edwards!’
As the room erupted into drunken applause, Lisa took the podium.
‘Clap,’ Ashling hissed at Mercedes, ‘or you’ll be sacked.’
Mercedes laughed darkly and kept her arms folded. Ashling gave her an anxious look, but couldn’t tarry. She was on bouquet duty. She was also trolleyed drunk – a combination of exhaustion, painkillers and alcohol, of course – and hoped she could stay on her feet long enough to carry the flowers up the little flight of steps.
As Lisa made her pretty speech, her glance alighted on Jack – or to use her own secret name for him, The Icing on Tonight’s Cake. He was leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his slight smile wrapping her in great warmth and appreciation.
