Authors: Laura Lockington
The
girl gave a strangled shriek and rushed into the bowels of the shop to find them.
I
turned my attention to my recipient.
“Now
then my dear, I’m going to have to be
brutally
quick, I’m afraid as I have an appointment. No, no, don’t interrupt me, I have very little time. Don’t worry, you’re my R.A.O.K for the month. Here’s some advice for you. Throw those dreadful things away and never wear them again unless you have a tennis racquet in your hands. Your hair is a shade too bright, as is your lipstick. The eyes need to be toned down a bit but I commend you on your nails, very admirable in such a dirty city. I would recommend you lose some of the rings, one is really enough and I’d always advocate a
good
signature scent. Anything from Chanel. I think with your colouring brown is really out of the question unless it’s that bitter chocolate shade, like those lovely suede shoes that you’ll soon be trying on, and scarves in the winter simply must be cashmere and need to be three times the size of the one you’re wearing. Are you paying attention? Good. Bags are overly emphasised, I think. One really good leather one is essential, of course, but then as it ages it becomes more attractive, so don’t worry too much about it. Bras are another thing all together. I’d suggest Rigby and Peller. Heinously expensive, but well worth it. Oh, look, here they are! Try the boots first.”
The
woman struggled in and out of the boots and shoes. Her face grew flushed with exertion and excitement as the pile of shoes grew beside her.
“Oh,
do let’s add those sweet sort of sheepskin muley things with the leather ties,” I said, getting into the swing of things, and thoroughly enjoying myself. “And those divine wedgy tan ones. No, the ones with the stitching. Thank you.”
I
glanced at the clock on the back wall of the shop and regretfully had to bring the joyful procedures close. As I peeled off note after note I watched the woman’s face change from hopeful excitement to incredulity followed by puzzlement and suspicion. How was she ever going to thank me? What did I want from her?
Who
was
I
?
She
was laden down with carrier bags and stood in the doorway as if ready to ward off a blow. There was a forced nervous smile of gratitude on her face that also held a glint of terrible excitement.
I
smiled at her and pushed her gently from the shop. Really, she could hardly manage all the bags and if I were her I would have jumped in a taxi, but some people are wilfully stubborn.
“Really,
I honestly don’t think I can take, I mean, I don’t even know you, I can’t, well, I can’t take them,” she said, her voice rising with hysteria towards the end of her protests.
“Nonsense.
Enjoy the rest of your day. My name’s Flora Tate, by the way, now do excuse me I’m now five minutes late for an appointment, which will never do.”
I
waved at her and walked briskly away. I had walked at least ten paces from her before she found her voice. She was calling to me, and I turned round briefly.
“Victoria,
Victoria Langley. And
thank
you!”
I
waved and continued on my way. I
had
enjoyed myself. Always
most
satisfactory when you know you are never going to have to see them again.
The
hairdresser’s proved to be as annoying and as boring as I had feared. They all gasped and oohed and ahhed when I had removed my beret and unwound my hair, and then had all offered opinions and options as to what I should have done.
I
showed the picture of Sylvia and explained what was needed and after some consultation I grudgingly conceded that a few inches at least would have to come off.
I
refused offers of coffee and tea and listened to the eternal fluffy chat of those who titivated hair for a living. The truth be told, I dislike these visits intensely. They leave me feeling out of control and marooned in a chair for far too long a time at the mercy of a not talented enough artist wielding a pair of lethally sharp scissors. Then,
naturellement
, there’s the issues with the mirrors. These are never the old friend that one trusts and knows from home, these are hard cold strangers who reflect prisms of light in unexpected places. The illumination reveals perhaps far more than we are prepared to see. The joy that all of humanity takes in staring at one’s own beloved face before the age of thirty seven lessens with age, believe me. No, on the whole, hairdressers are
not
my favourite habitat, but I think you’ll agree it’s proof of my devotion to my job.
Rule Number Fifteen
“
A
woman
can
change
many
things
about
her
appearance
.
But
it
is
only
by
changing
her
hair
that
she
can
change
her
character
.”
I
took consolation that it wasn’t a full moon, and any hair that was cut would soon grow back. I always follow the old ways when it comes to the use of steel on any part of my body. For instance, if you are due to have an operation don’t have it on an old moon, but on a new one. Give the excuse to the surgeon that you are a werewolf and mustn’t disrupt your eating patterns. Of course, you may well find yourself with some very strange notes on your chart, but you’ll probably be offered counselling on the delightfully quaint NHS and there’s nothing nicer than talking about yourself with someone who’s
paid
to listen, is there? It’s very much like the sowing of crops that all farmers worth their salt know about. It’s now given the grand name of biodynamics but most of us call it common sense. Of course the moon influences the growth and life cycle of everything on this planet – so use the knowledge to your own ends. Anyway, the hair cut was judged to be successful and much admired in the salon.
“So…going
anywhere special?” The stylist enquired, rubbing some hair wax through her fingers, giving me a final tweak.
“Umm,
The Savoy. Company dinner,” I said, already bored beyond belief and anxious to be off.
“Oh,
Serena’s lady’s going there too!” she said motioning to another stylist opposite me who was gingerly fine-tuning the copper curls of what had to be Lady Patricia judging by the brick red cheeks and broken veins in her nose. I stared at her reflection in the mirror and noted the bleary eyes and dry lips. She was suffering from dehydration, and noting the amount of diamonds she had squeezed onto her rather bloated fingers she could well afford a bottle or two of designer water to alleviate her suffering.
I
debated whether to introduce myself or not. After all, she would be at a great disadvantage, anchored as she was in her chair, draped in a silver bib, but decided against it. I’d really had enough of the cloying atmosphere of the salon and was anxious to be off. It wasn’t often I missed an opportunity but I simply couldn’t bear being fiddled around with any more. Also the unrelenting, unforgiving light in here was starting to make me doubt the evidence of my own eyes. My reflection seemed to distort with every glance that I gave it. I started to panic about the time I had left before I was booked in for The Treatments, even though, I knew in my heart that I had weeks left.
I
didn’t bother to look in the hand-held mirror to view the back of my head, but tore off the silver gown and practically fled to the welcome fresh air.
My
freshly cut and gently waved and tousled hair bounced on my shoulders as I walked. I caught a few admiring glances and finally admitted to myself that it was a job well done, but oh the sheer tedium of it all. How any of my sex thought it was a luxury to go to these places was beyond me. My idea of pampering oneself was to lie on a comfy velvet sofa with a damned good book and to eat so many champagne truffles that my eyes bulged, not to have to faff around with all this monkey-like preening.
I
shook the feeling of resentment off by walking back to the Amble’s at the highest speed I could safely manage on my high heels. By the time I reached the street I felt better. By the way, a moment or two of high-heart rate inducing exercise is all that’s needed every day. It’s nonsense to imagine that we all need to chain ourselves like hamsters to a wheel and puff and pant our way through twenty minutes of monotony on a running machine every day. After all, we’re not rodents, are we?
I
reached the Ambles to find high drama indeed going on in my short absence. An RSJ had been ordered in to support a wall that was in danger of toppling down, and that had involved the added bonus of being dangerous enough to require all the builders to wear hard hats, and look extremely self important. They were all chuntering around looking as delighted as men who’d won the lottery. Of course, delight in another’s misfortune is never as keenly felt as by artisans who know that the job has been extended by
weeks
. The mess and chaos caused by this unforeseen disaster was heroic, bordering on a
débâcle
. No accident that
débâcle
is a French word, by the way. Being suggestive of a well-planned schedule gone horribly wrong, it’s very much like the jolly Italian chaos of
fiasco
, but no where near as fatal as the American
fuck
up
, which implies irreversible damage. Words that are sweet music to my ears, for as I know, and I hope all of you know, out of chaos comes order. And order is a step nearer to happiness.
Bella
had donned a yellow plastic hard hat as well and was hopping up and down with excitement, whilst carrying a plate of what looked like bacon sandwiches.
“Oh
Flora! Your hair! It looks
lovely
,” she said, offering me a sandwich as soon as I was in striking distance.
“Thank
you darling,” I said, shaking my head for the refusal of a sandwich. “But do they say it’s safe to go inside? Where’s Sylvia? And Maria?”
“Oh,
ma’s gone out with John Taylor and Maria’s gone to see the vicar I think.”
I
doubted that the ill-educated and perverted Father Absolom would be well-versed in the art of house deconstruction or anything else really.
“I
see, well, let’s go inside and leave them to it, shall we?”
We
stepped over the debris of rubble and plaster and edged past the team of men huffing and puffing with the girder. Clouds of dust swirled around the shell of a building, looking like a small inferno in a cavernous, unfurnished and unfinished holiday let in some war- torn country, hoping for an influx of tourism. I led the way upstairs, stepping delicately over planks of wood and clouds of plaster dust and asked Bella if my dress had been delivered.
“Oh
yes, I hung it up in your bathroom, away from all the mess. It looks lovely,” Bella gushed.
I
went to inspect it and was pleased to see that it was in immaculate condition and as sheer and floaty as I’d hoped. The question of underwear
was
quite taxing, to be fair to Sylvia who had daringly worn it on her honeymoon. Perhaps a flesh coloured thong? I mused. Either that or nothing at all. I retrieved the pearls that I’d discovered on my first day here from the safe, and clasped them round my neck. They needed time to warm up for tonight, being soft nacreous things they responded well to the living oils in our skins and would look dead if they were left to shine unappreciated in their dark blue satin box. I let myself into Sylvia’s bathroom and borrowed her perfume for the evening, too. Chanel no 19. How
very
unimaginative, Sylvia, I mentally chided her. But it would have to do. Scent is, as any Proust scholar amongst us will know is the most evocative of the senses. Sometimes I have to steady myself if I catch a whiff of apple wood burning in a grate, as I am instantly transported back to my grandmother’s study, where I am kneeling at her feet, counting marbles into her many, many glass jars. I needed Archie to believe that I was his wife for the night, and the familiar scent would help the mirage along. I wanted to lull him into believing that I could provide all those things that Archie in his smugness, his
innocence
some generous spirited souls might say, believed that a wife should be capable of doing. Of course, my interpretation of what that really meant might be very different from his. But I can hardly be blamed for that, can I?
I
made a few phone calls in preparation for the evening. One of them was to a very unsavoury gentleman who went by the name of Weasel, who, though an unpleasant sort of chap, undoubtedly sold some of the finest cocaine in London. I thought it might be helpful for Archie to have a little livener for his big night. What? Not wise, I hear you say? Possibly you may be right, but then again, none of us can foresee the future can we? (Of course, that’s not strictly true, but I’ll let it pass.) I would reserve judgement and keep my powder dry. Anyway, what possible havoc could a line or two of Columbia’s finest wreak?
I
heard Sylvia’s voice from outside the house and went to stand by the window. I parted the curtains slightly and saw that she was saying goodbye to John Taylor for the day.
As
I peered from behind the slightly musty-smelling cherry red damask, I saw that Sylvia looked like a young mother waving her son off to the trenches. Her body looked heavy with sadness and as she raised her hand to wave farewell, her body leant forwards as if she was following the low slung sports car down the road. She remained at the kerbside, every line of her body eagerly straining to catch a glimpse of the car as it roared away from her.
Don’t
worry Sylvia, John Taylor isn’t going to be wallowing in mud and guts in the fields of Flanders. Good grief woman, he’s going to be cruising all the gay bars in Soho looking for a night of delights. I sighed for her. It seemed that Sylvia was a woman who lost her heart easily to the most unsuitable of people. I already knew from Candy that she had called Ellie at The Dolphin in Brighton at least five times. And this yearning for the company of John had not gone unnoticed, either. As soon as I had dealt with Archie I would find a more suitable outlet for the passions of Sylvia than mooning over a gay interior designer and a lesbian hotel owner.
The
sheer weight of my responsibilities would crush a lesser mortal. Of that I’m sure.
I
had arranged to meet Weasel in the local pub, The Plumbers Arms, which was conveniently tucked down a mews, once home to the horses that ferried the owners of the grand houses, now home to exceedingly uncomfortable bijou
pied
a
terres
. I debated the ethics of mixing business with business. Or if you like, killing two birds with one stone. Fiachra would simply have to wait, I decided, for another evening. I’m not superwoman.
I
folded six twenty pound notes into my coat pocket and slipped out of the house. It was dusk outside, and the golden lit etched windows of the pub made a welcome glow at the end of the frosty mews. I ordered myself an apple juice and found a small table by the door so that I could wait for Weasel. I didn’t have to wait long for which I was grateful. As any woman will know, let alone one of my striking appearances, being alone in a public house always invites unwelcome attention.
Kevin
(aka the Weasel) was a small dark haired man with a narrow stoat-like head. Dressed in a leather coat and a muffler that managed to conceal at least half of his face, he oozed paranoia and nervous energy. Nothing about him stayed still for very long. His fingers twitched, his legs jumped, his dead dark eyes blinked rapidly and his hands beat an inaudible rhythm that only he could follow on the side of his thigh. He made you tired just by looking at him.
“Not
yer usual haunt, Flora,” he said sitting down opposite me, after scanning the rest of the pub for possible customers or police informers.
“No,
indeed,” I agreed pleasantly sliding the roll of notes into his waiting and open hand, “But needs must when the devil drives and all that.”
“Yeah,
know what yer mean. It’s bleedin’ ‘ell up west at the moment. Comin’ up to Christmas, innit? and they will fink they’re bein’ bleedin’ smart by stockpilin’, but of course, the silly bleeders neck it all an’ then ‘ave to order more. Still, can’t complain.”
He
tumbled from his coat pocket a bunch of keys, several boxes of matches bearing the names of trendy restaurants and bars, a crumpled tissue and a packet of opened Marlboro lights. I casually put the packet of cigarettes in my pocket and asked if he would stay for a drink.
“
Nah, gotta go. On call, innit?” He leant forward and jerkily lunged a dry air kiss at my left cheek.
I
watched him exit the pub and then finished my rather acidic, under-iced apple juice and left too. How many similar calls was Weasel going to be making this evening? Thirty? Forty? Possibly more.
When
I got back I sat on the bed and tumbled the contents of the cigarette packet beside me. Five Marlboro’s and two wraps. The wraps were made from torn pages of The Sunday Telegraph colour supplement. Weasel still liked to provide wraps that suited his customers, I saw. I wondered what that made me in his eyes? A reactionary? Middle aged? Or just posh? I suppose it gave him a sense of creativity in the otherwise unsatisfying job of a running boy around London, and we should be grateful for that. There’s nothing worse than being undervalued in your chosen career, is there?