At Least There'll Be Diamonds
by Martin Devlin
Crystal Dolan swept into the airport departure lounge with the air of someone expecting to be stared at. Right on cue people gave her a second glance, some even batted her a third, for she had the gloss of a 1950s starlet. Hers was a polished glamour requiring constant maintenance but Crystal was permanently willing to invest in her appearance. It was, after all, her primary asset.
Despite the mild spring weather, which made it uncomfortably warm, a rabbit-skin coat dyed to resemble ocelot was draped on her shoulders. Its purchase had meant a straight choice between possessing it or defaulting on the gas and electricity bills. Crystal hadn't hesitated: she knew looking the part was infinitely more important than any of that middle-class nonsense about paying bills as they were due. Her parents were like that, her father spent all his free time fretting about his pension, but thankfully she'd escaped such petty tyrannies.
Dangling from French-manicured fingers was a Prada handbag. It was divine, it was exorbitant, it was coveted by her friends, it was… not large enough to accommodate the detritus she needed to carry with her on a daily basis. However it was the latest model and had a waiting list of desperate would-be owners. Two women had already gaped at the bag with naked desire as she'd strolled though the duty free shops and Crystal had revelled in it.
Terry had bought the bag for Crystal during their last weekend break, a jaunt to London when they'd stayed at the Ritz. Terry preferred more intimate hotels - but Crystal had pouted so winningly as she'd begged for the treat that it had been a foregone conclusion their limousine would purr its way along Park Lane. Understated didn't suit her at all, she craved opulence.
Her real name was Anne, changed by deed poll to Crystal on her twenty-first birthday. She had almost trained herself not to respond if old acquaintances or family members inadvertently used the despised former name. She had been saddled with that to ensure an inheritance from her Great Aunt Annie, but Meals on Wheels had ended up the recipients instead. Calculating, phoney samaritans, serving up chicken casserole and apple crumble year after year to the old dear. Running her errands when she became housebound and making themselves indispensable. Opportunistic do-gooders.
Crystal nursed the accustomed ruffle of animosity for a few moments as she scanned the departure lounge; those Meals on Wheels-ers were spending money that was rightfully hers on nutritious dinners for geriatrics. Selecting a seat, she checked it carefully for stains before lowering her body into it.
She eyed the rabble with distaste as they milled around Dublin Airport. Why on earth airlines accepted passengers wearing shell suits she'd never fathom. Anyway, she thought, resting her Prada bag gingerly on her knee, at least Great Aunt Annie's senile decision to squander her money on outsiders, instead of keeping it in the family like anyone with an ounce of sensibility, had left her free to choose a more apt name. Crystal felt the revision suited her perfectly, with her ice-white sheet of hair, although Terry claimed that it also captured her aura of fragility.
Terry was a shade blinkered when it came to Crystal. Even she acknowledged she was far from delicate. Eye-catching? By all means. Frail? Er, pass. Despite her impeccably-packaged attractions, at twenty-seven Crystal looked at least eight years older. This was not because of emerging wrinkles or crow's feet - she was zealous in her use of skin-firming lotions - but because, for all her designer label fixation, she dressed with a matronly care for accessories. She had a weakness for matching bags and shoes, invariably wore pale colours and was defined by the fluttering scarves she tied around her neck.
One ex-boyfriend - he'd sneered that she was mistress material but a non-starter as a wife - had called her an air stewardess clone in those scarves. Brute. She'd wasted four months of her life on him, only to discover he had a wife and three children in Kildare. And he had no intention of trading in any of them. Pipsqueak magazine publisher. Crystal almost - but stopped herself in time because it wasn't ladylike - snorted. She'd taught him a lesson. All it had taken was an anonymous call to the tax office about a certain offshore bank account he'd visited during their trip to the Cayman Islands.
The loudspeaker pinged and a real air stewardess intruded on her reverie. 'Aer Lingus is now boarding flight number AL281 to Amsterdam. Would passengers in rows one to sixteen prepare to take their seats and have their boarding cards ready for inspection?' Crystal crossed her legs and banked down a niggle of annoyance. She was in row thirty, tourist class. But the next time she travelled it would be first class - or club class at a push. She'd requested an upgrade checking in, but had been refused. 'Couldn't I at least sit in a row on my own then?' Crystal had persevered. 'I get claustrophobic.' Her blue eyes had been beseeching as she'd twined a strand of silky blonde hair around an index finger, lying glibly in the hope of avoiding some peasant's elbow nudging hers during the trip. However the brisk woman at the check-in desk had said the flight was nearly full. 'What can't be cured must be endured,' she'd remarked - unnecessarily, in Crystal's view.
Terry would have paid for her flight, making sure she had the best seat money could buy, but Crystal had hesitated to hint that she might need help financing the trip. Terry would be picking up the bill wherever they went from now on. She didn't care to risk any eleventh-hour jitters about gold diggers.
At least she had an aisle seat. Crystal folded her Joseph coat carefully, lining side outwards, and stored it in the overhead compartment. She checked the rows in front and behind: good, no squalling babies. Just as she'd settled, hands laced demurely on the lap of her black and white checked suit - only Jigsaw but the colour was perfect for travelling because it didn't show the dirt - a shambling man in an ill-fitting navy blazer touched her shoulder. 'I'm so sorry, could I squeeze past?' he apologised. An English accent. Home Counties, but not top notch, she guessed. Crystal arranged her face into a mask of indifference as she unbuckled her belt and stepped into the aisle to let him through to the window seat. As he passed, she wrinkled her nose in repugnance: he didn't use deodorant. Crystal turned her head to the side, trying to avoid inhaling, and noticed the glint of gold on the hand cradling a briefcase close to his chest. He was wearing a wedding band. How incongruous that he should be married: surely a wife would buy a can of something and order him to point and squirt. Going natural was downright unnatural.
Then she was distracted by the plane's engines as they emitted that whining blast signalling lift-off, and had more pressing matters to concentrate on. Air travel was a necessary evil, but how she longed for the days of luxury liners and special carriages for the élite coupled onto trains.
'You can open your eyes now, we're airborne.' The businessman's tone was sober, not a hint of ridicule. 'It might also,' he continued, 'be advisable to start breathing again. I know the theory for the kiss of life but I've never been called upon to practise it.' Crystal, the only passenger on board convinced the captain would have a heart attack at the controls and when his co-pilot took over there'd be engine failure, forced out a laugh. But from the plane's angle it was still climbing, so she shouldn't relax her vigilance.
'My wife's a nervous flier too,' continued her neighbour, whose florid complexion was already beaded with pearls of sweat. 'She always insists on an aisle seat and won't leave the departure lounge without at least one gin and tonic inside her. Preferably two.' 'I had a Bloody Mary while I was waiting for the flight to be called,' admitted Crystal. 'I don't even like them.' Her voice croaked, as though she'd just woken up. 'It seemed the only drink I could decently ask for at 9 a.m., apart from a Bucks Fizz.' And she didn't believe in buying her own champagne, that was other people's function.
The businessman's shoulder was wedged against hers and she had to keep moving her feet because they continually collided with his. These rabbit hutch seats were not designed for portly middle-aged men. The curtain into business class was raised as a flight attendant whisked through and she had a glimpse of wide seats and drinks balanced on a tray. Crystal pursed her lips, discontented, then risked a peek out of the window beyond her neighbour. Clouds, fluffy expanses of them. Her shoulders untensed and she leaned back against the headrest. 'It's only take-off and landing that bothers me - I'm fine with the in-between bit,' she explained, nerves rendering her uncharacteristically conversational with a stranger who appeared to be neither well-heeled nor well-connected. 'That's not so bad, my wife is like a cat on a hot tin roof for the entire flight. If it weren't for the Channel Tunnel I doubt if we'd ever leave Sussex.' He reached into an inner pocket of the jacket hooked to the seat in front and produced a wallet. It was flipped open and Crystal was confronted by a photograph of a sallow-complexioned woman with one hand shading her eyes from the sunshine, the other resting on the shoulder of a solid, cross girl with a fringe. 'She's fair too.' He indicated his daughter. What did he mean too? Crystal bridled. Her hair was a radiant shade of blonde, not a drab fair - platinum, if he wanted to be specific. Obviously that was beyond him. She haemorrhaged enough money into the most exclusive hair salon in town every six weeks to keep her mouse-beige roots at bay, the least that prying strangers could do was be dazzled.
He retrieved the wallet and continued chattering seamlessly, spewing out data. He was based in England but spent one day a week in Ireland in the Dublin office. Usually it didn't require an overnight stay, but he'd done some forward planning and had arranged to take a client out to dinner - Thornton's, had she ever been there? Crystal didn't deign to reply; of course she and Terry had dined in Thornton's, as well as every other restaurant of note in the city.
The English businessman didn't notice the condescension curled around her upper lip, too intent on capitalising on his captive market. After some very fine duck and a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape apiece, rewarded by the promise of a contract renewal, he'd checked into a hotel near the airport. Since he had to fly to Amsterdam today, he'd reasoned that he may as well do it from Dublin as Heathrow. The passenger folded his arms in readiness for Crystal's murmurs of admiration over his time-management strategy.
Crystal was only half-listening, marvelling at how many letters he could squeeze into the word no. There was definitely an a there, and a w, maybe an h too. She contemplated delving for the Cara in-flight magazine in the seat pocket in front of her as a deterrent, but the stranger seemed harmless. Normally she wouldn't tolerate his intrusion, she couldn't associate with just anybody, after all, but he had distracted her from her dread of - not death, exactly, but of entrapment. Every time her stomach flipped that somersault which coincided with lift-off and landing, she imagined some catastrophe dooming her to an eternity in one of these slim cylinders - suffocating from lack of oxygen, gnawing her own arm when food supplies ran out.
Besides, her neighbour with the unruly nasal hair didn't seem to expect much in return for the barrage of information he was unleashing on her. An audience was enough. What was it about the enforced intimacy of adjoining seats in a plane that prompted strangers to swap confidences? It was an impulse that moved only some people, she amended - Crystal had no inclination to spread her own life like a deck of cards. She had an ace in her hand and she preferred to keep it there, in a visor grip. She wriggled in her seat to reclaim some space and noticed the businessman's odour didn't seem so objectionable any more. Maybe his wife had simply become accustomed to it, as she was beginning to do.
His pool of biographical details was hit by drought somewhere over the north of England and he began to inflict questions on her. Honestly, the impudence, you gave these people an inch and they took a mile. Crystal evaded them with practised ease, pretending to be engrossed in drinking the coffee served a few minutes earlier. But she grew agitated by the 'fasten seatbelts' sign flashing and the cabin crew's precipitate removal of the refreshments' trolley. And Crystal let slip a nugget of information. 'I'm on my way to Holland to get married,' she admitted. 'Congratulations. Is your husband-to-be Dutch?' 'No, Irish, but Terry has residency in Holland. For business purposes.' Just then the loudspeaker crackled and the chief flight attendant asked passengers to return to their places. Crystal fretted, imagining various scenarios. Her neighbour reattached his seatbelt - Crystal had never removed hers - and continued to quiz her.
Instead of his questions, she concentrated on the flight attendant, attentive for any hint of panic in her voice. They'd hit some turbulence, the stewardess was explaining in that simultaneously placatory and upbeat tone peculiar to the profession. Nothing to be concerned about, she stressed. Crystal wasn't convinced.
Diamonds, she reminded herself, fumbling for distraction. Amsterdam was famous for diamonds. Terry had promised to collect her from Schipol Airport and bring her shopping for an engagement ring. 'Solitaires,' she muttered. 'Huge, pear-shaped ones. Or clusters. A cluster of glittering carats.' The businessman droned in her ear. Franchise opportunities…spreading the risk…expertise on tap… She made no pretence at answering him.
Take it one stage at a time, she advised herself, courtesy of the self-help tape she'd listened to on headphones the previous night. You're beyond the take-off stage, that's the part you most detest, you're halfway through the journey, you only have landing to manage and then you're safe and sound. Think positive images. Imagine the plane landing on the tarmac at the airport, taxi-ing to a halt, ground staff scurrying out to attach those staircase things. Terry will be waiting for you at the airport: it's the beginning of a new phase in your life. You'll be a married woman with access to a joint bank account bursting with health and vitality. Don't blow it, girl, you're on the brink of achieving what you've worked towards for the past seven years.
The plane seemed to list to the left and Crystal's stomach tried to follow it. This self-help wasn't working. Even engagement rings had lost their sparkle. 'I don't want to live in Holland,' she gasped. 'Dublin is where I belong, with a holiday home in Cannes or Deauville.' The businessman slewed his eyes towards her. 'Home is where the heart is,' he suggested. Crystal glared and he wilted. Then she relented. 'Would you like my biscuits? I'm not hungry.' He accepted the airline's complimentary packet of shortcake in a spirit of reconciliation and suggested they share a cab into the city centre. Crystal flourished Terry as her let-out clause. 'Lovely girls, the Irish,' he remarked, sugar from the biscuits clinging to his lower lip. 'You have a nurturing way about you.'
Crystal was nurturing a desire never to see him again, as fear-fuelled irrationality consumed her and she blamed him for the bumpy ride. Another few minutes of turbulence and he'd be responsible for the finger nail which had splintered while zipping up her case, and the cab arriving fifteen minutes late and leaving her convinced she'd miss her flight. Her breathing was becoming progressively more shallow. If Terry were here she'd be in safe hands. Terry always knew how to allay her fears. 'I'll order us a bottle of Dom P,' Terry would say, and give her that intimate smile reserved only for Crystal.
Crystal had met Terry through a mutual friend. She'd gone along to the drinks' reception in the Ice Bar at the Four Seasons specifically hoping to bag a wealthy husband. It had been her ambition since the age of twenty, when she'd realised that she didn't enjoy working for a living. Not in the slightest. The self-financing state was overrated.
Furthermore, her job as the manager of a dress shop in Sandymount was never going to earn her enough money to facilitate the lifestyle she knew she deserved. It allowed her a useful discount on clothes and just about covered the rent on her apartment in Ballsbridge, but there was nothing left over. Even if Crystal could find someone willing to set her up in her own shop, it would entail more work than she was prepared to consider. She was a woman with other plans for her life, as determined as a force of nature.
'Is this your first trip to Holland?' asked the businessman, helpfully flicking up her table and hooking it under the lever on the seat in front. Crystal closed her eyes and pretended to nod off, although she thought sleeping in public very déclassé.
She fantasised about her life when she'd be married to Terry. Crystal knew she'd have absolutely no difficulty filling each day as a lady of leisure. She'd start with breakfast on a tray in bed brought up by the Filipino housekeeper, followed by a little light shopping. Perhaps there'd be lunch or afternoon tea with a friend, and then a Brazilian - painful, but you grew accustomed to it - or a manicure. Hands were always on show, but even the best-groomed women sometimes had a tendency to overlook regular maintenance. Details, details. Crystal knew how consequential they were.
Now, let's see, what would she do after her salon visit? She might stop off at the travel agency on the way home for some brochures to plan their next holiday, for she intended to take trips away every couple of months. Daily routines could be so monotonous. She should probably squeeze in a couple of gym sessions every week - it was essential to keep herself fit and toned for Terry. She'd have to undertake some charity work too, but nothing strenuous - just a case of insinuating herself onto the committee of a couple of high profile charities where she could help organise their annual balls. It would give her a profile, with a guaranteed name-check in newspaper social diaries, and it would all be useful for Terry's property interests. Networking in the right set was crucial in his line of business.
She wouldn't take Terry for granted, like some wives, as soon as the ring was on her finger. She'd always make sure her car - a convertible, she mused, perhaps a Mercedes SLK - nosed up the drive of their detached home in time to check the housekeeper had dinner under control. Naturally it would be a Dublin Four home, there was no way she was staying in Amsterdam, whatever Terry's current intentions: together they'd face down the prudes, conservatives and stick-in-the-muds who didn't accept that she and Terry were a couple. Terry's family would help - as one of the country's most distinguished, with impeccable Fine Gael credentials, once they rowed in behind the pair everyone else would be obliged to follow suit.
Of course she wasn't an idiot. She knew some people would always disapprove of their marriage. They might even refuse to acknowledge it. But money talked in Dublin - and judging by the size of Terry's bank account, there were enough funds in it to keep them both in conversation for the rest of their lives.
A self-satisfied radiance illuminated Crystal's features as she remembered the reverential way Terry's eyes had lingered on her that evening a year ago when they'd first met. She'd realised instinctively that here was a big fish so willing to be hooked there was no need for bait: whatever Crystal had, it worked for Terry. She'd responded to the blatant admiration the way she always did when she encountered it, using her own studied blend of charm - a combination of flirtatious and imperious.
Strictly speaking, her other half was really not her type. She had never dreamed she would end up with someone quite like Terry White-Clarke, but Terry was single, besotted with her, and a millionaire property developer with office and apartment blocks in Dublin, Amsterdam and Manhattan, as well as interests in hotels in Cape Town and St Lucia. That was enough for Crystal. With a portfolio as impressive as Terry's, physical attraction was irrelevant in Crystal's view. Or to put it another way, physical attraction could be simulated. She'd been faking it for a year with Terry. Then again, she'd feigned passion on nearly every occasion with her publisher boyfriend.
'You mentioned you were getting married but I notice you're not wearing an engagement ring.' The businessman encroached on her reverie. She sighed and fluttered open her eyes. He'd introduced himself to Crystal but she hadn't bothered trying to remember his name. She only retained the names of people who might be useful to her. 'Are you one of these fiercely modern women who disapprove of signs of "ownership"?' He made flopping rabbits' ears with his fingers to signify quotation marks. Crystal's face almost cracked into a smile, although she tended to ration these out because someone had advised her once that staying expressionless was the best way to defer those appalling furrows and puckers you saw in older women. Before they went on a scalpel safari to South Africa, that is, and returned with face-lifts they attributed to the therapeutic value of a relaxing holiday. As though anyone in their circle was fooled for a second. 'I'm choosing my engagement ring today,' announced Crystal. 'We decided to leave it until I join my fiancée in Amsterdam because the selection of diamonds there is far superior to anything in Dublin.' 'I borrowed the money from my dad to buy my wife her engagement ring,' her companion reminisced. 'She wanted a sapphire just like Lady Di's. I couldn't afford anything as big as hers, but we found something that pleased my Sandra and meant I wouldn't be in hock to my old man for the rest of my life.' No need for Terry to borrow money from anyone for her engagement ring, thought Crystal smugly. She could point out a rock the size of Gibraltar and Terry would reach over the black Amex card without so much as an involuntary wince. Terry's idea of economising was to order Moet et Chandon instead of Dom Perignon.
'Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be beginning our descent into Schipol airport. Would you please ensure that your seatbelts are fastened and your tables are stored in the upright position.' Crystal stopped listening to her companion again, as sheer terror convulsed her. It would all be worth it, she reassured herself, when she saw Terry's thin, brown, supremely indulgent face.
Terry was waiting for Crystal as soon as she stepped into the babble of the airport arrivals' area, almost obscured by a mammoth bouquet of palest pink roses. 'You look gorgeous, darling,' beamed Terry, breathless at the sight of Crystal. 'We aim to please,' dimpled Crystal, accepting the blooms. Terry stroked the exquisite blonde's face, taking care not to smear her makeup. 'Everything's booked for the wedding, it's all set for the day after tomorrow. I can hardly wait.' Crystal linked arms with Terry and allowed herself to be led towards the exit, where a chauffeur-driven limousine awaited them.
It was all bordering on perfection. Except she wished some of her old school and work colleagues could be there to watch her being feted. To see how Terry could refuse her nothing. 'If only we were getting married in Donnybrook Church with a reception at the Shelbourne, instead of this cloak and dagger affair,' she murmured. A frown flickered across Terry's forehead. She unhooked the arm which clasped Crystal's, smoothing down her sleek, dark bobbed hair. 'I'd give you anything money can buy, Crystal, but I can't manage that. Holland and Belgium are the only countries which recognises gay marriages, you know that as well as I do. It was either Amsterdam or Brussels - Dublin was never an option.' Crystal sighed, trailing a finger along the stem of one of the roses in her bouquet until it hit the first thorn. Then she rallied, slipping her hand inside Terry's, squeezing it until her fiancée's mouth relaxed into that smile of worship with which she'd met Crystal in the arrivals' hall.
There might not be any envious girlfriends on hand, but at least there were diamond shops.
