Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

  She sniffed. ‘I found a photograph.’ More gropings in the hippy shoulder bag. ‘Where the fuck is it?’

  Jude blinked at her again, this time having some difficulty in refocusing. She didn’t think she’d ever heard Imo use the F-word before. Things must be worse than she’d realised. ‘You’re not telling me that Edward…?’ She was definitely off her head. If anyone wasn’t the type, then Edward wasn’t. Not in a million years.

  ‘What am I supposed to think?’ Imo let out a sad squeal of triumph and waved it in the air. ‘This is her.’

  ‘Her?’ Jude stubbed out her cigarette and peered at the photo as Imogen collapsed sobbing into the cushions.

  ‘It’s the idea of him having a secret life that hurts the most,’ she moaned.

  Jude patted her arm and squinted at the photo. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said.

  ‘I know – she’s so young, isn’t she?’ More sobs.

  ‘No.’ Jude couldn’t tear her eyes away from the photograph.

  ‘No?’ Slowly, Imo emerged from her sanctuary. Her hair was half-down, her eyes were red and the streaks of tears were still visible on her face.

  ‘I mean … yes, she’s young…’ Jude looked from her to the photograph and then back again. Young, strawberry blonde, immaculate features and a cold smile. Oh, yes, and one more thing … acrylic nails. ‘But it’s not just that.’

  ‘What else then?’ Imo was hanging on to her every word.

  Jude gazed down at Edward’s secret life – her ten o’clock client. What had the girl said this morning? She frowned in concentration. Ah, yes. That of course she had a boyfriend, and that she hadn’t decided on her next move yet. What could that mean when the boyfriend in question was dead?

  ‘Oh, Imo,’ Jude said. ‘It’s just that I know her, you see…’

  Chapter 11

  ‘“Two more days to go … to go and mow a meadow. Two days, one day and an elf…” Oh, sorry.’

  If she hadn’t been with Daisy, Imogen would have walked straight out of the grotto. But then again, if she hadn’t been with Daisy, she wouldn’t be here. She surveyed Kirby’s Santa warily. His beard was looking a touch ragged and one white eyebrow was skewiff. But she supposed anyone who did this sort of job would have to be an eccentric. Children – even Daisy – weren’t easy.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said politely. Since it was her half-day she’d been happy to help Jude out; school holidays were difficult, and this afternoon Hazel was apparently closeted with this Giorgio of hers, building a stairway to paradise – at least she thought that was what Jude had said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the Santa demanded.

  Well, that was a bit off. Imogen bridled. ‘The usual, I imagine,’ she retorted sharply. Didn’t he realise he had a reputation to maintain before these kids? Hundreds of children might stop believing.

  ‘Hello, Santa,’ said Daisy, apparently unaware of any inconsistency.

  ‘Hello, little girl.’ Now he sounded like a pervert.

  Imogen put a restraining hand on Daisy’s arm, just in case she felt the urge to leap on to his lap.

  ‘And what would you like for Christmas?’

  Peace, thought Imogen. Peace of mind particularly. Only that was one commodity that the season never seemed to provide.

  ‘Some reindeer, please.’ Daisy – a girl whose manners had been nurtured by her grandmother – replied promptly and specifically. ‘Six of them.’

  Six reindeer? Imogen raised her eyes to heaven, or in this case the cotton-wool ceiling of Santa’s grotto. They had been in the queue for half an hour watching large quantities of tea and digestives being delivered by a man in a pointed red hat to a Santa who clearly couldn’t function without them. But he was functioning so slowly, and if Daisy had anything to do with it, the discussion was about to take a distinctly philosophical turn.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho.’ Santa apparently had no problem with reindeer. But why did he keep looking at her like that? He was supposed to be concentrating on Daisy. ‘I hope you don’t mean my reindeer?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Daisy fixed him with her clear-eyed gaze. ‘I mean the ones in the toy department downstairs.’

  ‘Toy reindeer?’

  Daisy’s expression changed to pity. ‘Bean-baggie ones. Obviously. Real ones wouldn’t survive in this country, would they?’

  ‘Wouldn’t they?’ Santa was becoming distinctly flustered. The other eyebrow was now pointing down towards the bottom of his ear. Imogen grinned.

  ‘Without snow, I mean,’ Daisy added. ‘And they’re very timid, aren’t they?’

  Santa leaned closer. His eyes, thought Imogen, which were rather nice, very blue and slightly familiar, were beginning to glaze. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about rain, dear,’ he said.

  Now Imogen was confused. Snow? Rain? Naturally, she was preoccupied – who wouldn’t be? Jude had said that she knew her, said she was a client, offered to find out more information, because she couldn’t believe that she and Edward … But how long would it take? She hadn’t come up with anything yet. And Imo wanted to know everything.

  ‘Can’t you just give her the present?’ she asked Santa. It might be abrupt but there was a long queue outside. It might sound cynical, but that’s the way life was.

  ‘Present?’ he growled, as if he’d never heard the word.

  ‘Yes.’ Imogen stood her ground, frowning, trying to place him. ‘Present.’ This Santa was getting above himself. ‘There’s a lot of people waiting. And it’s getting late…’

  ‘Mummy is in a hurry,’ Santa said to Daisy.

  She tucked a strand of platinum blonde hair that had escaped her neat plait carefully behind one ear. ‘This isn’t my mummy. This is Auntie Imo.’

  ‘Ah. Auntie Imo…’ He seemed particularly interested in this information. And he was talking in an odd, over-gruff voice.

  Who was he? Imo’s frown deepened. Did stores like Kirby’s check for a criminal record before letting any old Santa loose on their customers? ‘So?’ Free sweets and a present, it said so outside.

  ‘All in good time. Ho, ho, ho.’

  Imogen thought that in a minute she might hit him. She could see the headline: Santa Claus Assaulted By Madwoman in Department Store. I was sitting ho-ho-ho-ing in my sloping grotto (it’s under the escalator, you see) amid fake wood and simulated snowflakes, when she smacked me one … That would go down well in the Chichester Echo.

  * * *

  Jude was grabbing a welcome tea and fag break and fantasising about the evening ahead. Imogen had been spot on. Their ad had already produced a feast of replies, and she was seeing the first tonight.

  She stubbed out her cigarette and looked up as Florrie came into the salon. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ she asked her neighbour.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no.’ Florrie was looking as small and birdlike as ever in her huge, brown fur coat. ‘But I was after a shampoo and set. It’s cheeky, I know. I usually go to that little place in North Street.’

  ‘But it’s a bit of a way.’ Jude nodded her understanding. ‘And it’s cold outside.’

  ‘These weeks have flown by. I really had no idea Christmas was practically upon us.’ Florrie reached up and touched her pure white hair.

  That gesture held such wistfulness … Jude’s heart went out to her as she examined her appointments book. She was fairly quiet this afternoon, she could squeeze her neighbour in. ‘No problem.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll get started.’

  Florrie beamed. She was a naive old thing, Jude thought, hadn’t even asked how much it would cost. She took her brown fur coat rather warily and hung it on the stand. And that was why the elderly got ripped off so easily these days; they were too innocent for their own good. Gullible. They believed most people were still basically decent. Look at Florrie’s attitude to James Dean, for example. She had no idea what sort of a man he was: certainly unscrupulous, probably corrupt. Jude draped her neighbour in one of her black gowns and went out to the kitchenette
to put the kettle back on. These senior citizens didn’t just need meals on wheels, they needed further education – on how to become streetwise. The lessons should be compulsory, and they should come along with their pensions.

  * * *

  ‘And what else would you like me to bring in my sack when I come down your chimney?’ Santa enquired.

  Heaven forbid. Imogen recrossed her legs and glanced pointedly at her watch. The elf re-entered the grotto with more tea.

  ‘A computer,’ said Daisy. ‘Microsoft with Windows.’

  Imogen looked at her in astonishment. What did a girl like Daisy know about Microsoft Windows?

  But Santa was oblivious. He was clearly the sort of Santa who expected seven year olds to be au fait with computer technology. ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’ He beamed and rubbed his hands together in a Santa-like way.

  Imogen was on her feet in one movement. ‘Should you do that?’ she demanded.

  ‘Do what?’ He grinned. His beard had slipped to one side and he looked more familiar than ever.

  ‘Make promises to children that their parents might not be able to keep.’ God, she sounded more holier than thou than Hazel on a bad day. She wasn’t even sure why she was so cross. Only, Jude was a single parent, struggling to run a business and make ends meet. It really didn’t seem fair.

  Santa, to his credit, seemed to be reassessing the situation. ‘No, I suppose I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Auntie Imo…’

  ‘It’s entirely unethical.’

  ‘Yes, er…’

  ‘And irresponsible.’

  ‘Auntie IMO…’ By now Daisy was tugging at her hand.

  But Imogen wasn’t going to let him get away with it that easily. The frustration of the last weeks seemed to have turned into anger – primarily against this poor man. ‘You’re supposed to be Santa Claus. It’s not enough to get a kick out of seeing their faces light up, to think of yourself as some sort of glorious benefactor, you know…’ She paused for breath. ‘Spare a thought instead for those poor parents on Christmas Day when their little ones…’ (now she was beginning to sound like the vicar) ‘… expect some flash computer and end up with a Thomas the Tank jigsaw puzzle…’

  ‘Thomas the…?’

  ‘Tank Engine, silly. And I know you’re just a man dressed up. I don’t even believe in Santa Claus.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Imogen sat down again. Trust Daisy to make her lose the gist of her entire argument. But Daisy wasn’t stupid, was she? She might not believe, but she wouldn’t be handing her present back – if she ever got it.

  ‘You don’t?’ Santa seemed crestfallen and despite herself, Imogen felt a twinge of pity.

  ‘And anyway…’ Daisy looked seven going on seventeen ‘… I’ve already found all my Christmas presents at the bottom of Mummy’s wardrobe.’

  Oh, dear. Imo bit her lip. Should she tell Jude?

  Santa’s shoulders drooped alarmingly. ‘She’s right,’ he confessed. ‘I’m a complete fraud.’ But Imogen would swear that his mouth was twitching.

  Despite feeling drawn to him and even being tempted to sit back and have a good laugh, she found herself hardening her heart. She would not, she told herself, be putting any trust in a man again. ‘Present?’ She held out her hand. She had paid for it after all.

  ‘Blue for a boy and pink for a girl.’ He delved into a tub covered with more fake holly and snow and labelled Santa’s Special Surprises, and pulled out a flat, oblong parcel. It didn’t look too promising.

  ‘A bit small for a Microsoft computer with Windows.’ Imogen grabbed it and thrust it towards Daisy. ‘Let’s go home and find Mummy.’

  ‘Yes.’ Daisy skipped out of the grotto. ‘She’ll want to hear about what a lovely time we had with Santa.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Imogen wouldn’t look at him. ‘She certainly will.’

  * * *

  Jude helped Florrie on with her coat. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you…’ She wondered how to say this. ‘Ma, Daisy and me, well, we’re having Christmas dinner at home with just my friend Imogen—’

  ‘How lovely.’ Florrie produced a small purse from her pocket. ‘Do have a wonderful time.’ She smiled with a touch of the mischief that Jude had glimpsed in her before.

  ‘And we were wondering if you could join us?’ Jude went on. ‘I’ve bought a huge turkey. We’ll be eating the thing cold, curried and what have you for days afterwards otherwise.’

  ‘How very kind of you, my dear.’ Florrie extracted a five-pound note from her purse. ‘But I’ve already accepted an invitation for Christmas. In fact, I shall be away for a few days.’ She looked faintly wistful at the prospect.

  ‘Oh. Not to worry then.’ Jude was mildly curious, but Florrie didn’t elaborate. ‘That’ll be three pounds.’ Jude hoped she hadn’t noticed the price list. It would take some explaining. Although shampoo and set didn’t feature on the salon’s treatment list, a shampoo and blow dry alone was more than double that amount. But Florrie needed it more than she did, Jude reasoned. It was good to be neighbourly, and it was Christmas.

  ‘Really?’ For a moment Florrie’s blue eyes met hers and Jude could swear she’d sussed her. ‘That’s very reasonable.’ She pressed the fiver into Jude’s palm. ‘Keep the change, my dear.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She wanted to ask if Florrie had enough for electricity and next month’s rent, but that would be taking neighbourliness too far and was probably, Jude thought, the sort of question James Dean himself would ask. The poor woman had to retain some independence, Jude reminded herself, and her dignity. Though she might pop out to the off licence later and pick up some sherry for her for Christmas.

  * * *

  ‘You didn’t handle that very well.’ The salesman in the ridiculous red hat – only who was he calling ridiculous? Alex wondered – handed him a mug of tea.

  ‘Could you do any better?’ Alex couldn’t believe that she – the woman from the flower shop – had actually been here, in his grotty grotto. He hoped to God she hadn’t recognised him.

  ‘Couldn’t do much worse,’ the elf replied.

  ‘Huh.’ Alex was sick of being Santa, and hadn’t asked for an elf or a cup of tea. Pity it wasn’t a stiff whisky. Talking nicely to obnoxious and materialistic little kids was enough to drive the most tolerant Santa to drink. And there were so many of them …

  The elf took no notice. ‘Ready for the next one, are we?’

  ‘No, we bloody well are not.’ Alex pulled off the scratchy beard. Oh, the relief. He’d be better off growing a beard and bleaching it himself next year. Next year! What was he thinking of? He shuddered. Never again. He had experienced enough humiliation in the last three weeks to last him a lifetime. And then she had to come in …

  Imo. He was glad that at last he knew her name.

  The elf peered out from behind the red curtain. ‘We’re gonna have to speed it up,’ he said. ‘Don’t bother with the hellos and what do you want for Christmases. Cut to the chase.’

  The chase. Alex stuck the beard back on to his face. Why should it matter if she had recognised him? She was only a woman in a flower shop. A woman with warm grey eyes and cheekbones he longed to capture with his pencil. It had been odd to see her away from her territory, wearing blue jeans and a long black fitted coat. No longer the woman in the flower shop …

  He got his smile ready once again. Next year? He’d rather starve.

  * * *

  Jude knew something was up the second they walked into the salon. Daisy was wearing an unspeakably large amount of pink plastic jewellery and Imo was clearly stressed.

  ‘Did you have a good time, sweetie?’ Jude attempted to kiss her daughter as she cantered past but caught only fresh air. ‘Granny’s got your dinner ready upstairs.’

  ‘Neigh,’ said Daisy, disappearing out of the back door.

  ‘Hi-ho, Silver.’ Jude refocused on her five o’clock makeover. The client was nice enough, but at fifty probably should have known better than to select g
litter and sparkle look number one. Jude frowned as she discovered a stray eyebrow hair. Still, didn’t everyone deserve a touch of glamour at Christmas-time?

  ‘How was Santa Claus?’ She thought she saw Imo wince as she chucked her bag on the floor. Jude wielded the brush with dexterity. Thank goodness gold glitter blended into the eye socket was not acceptable all year round.

  ‘Unconvincing.’ Imogen sat down at the reception desk recently vacated by Hazel who had left a sprig of mistletoe dangling suggestively above the receptionist’s chair.

  Jude selected some tweezers. ‘Just a tiny pull … there.’ Her client winced.

  ‘Even your daughter doesn’t believe in him.’ Imogen’s voice rose. ‘And if you saw the Santa in Kirby’s, you’d have a good idea why.’

  ‘Really?’ Jude glanced up in surprise. Who had rattled her cage? Santa Claus perhaps?

  But Imo wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She pulled up the sleeves of her lilac polo-neck and stomped off through the interior door that led into the kitchenette.

  ‘Hmm. Good idea.’ Jude dipped a cotton wool bud into some smoothing gel and stroked it along her client’s eyebrows. Better … The man she was meeting tonight was called Roger. And he sounded – oh, miracles – quite promising. She completed the makeover with a flourish of Night Silver lip ink, helped her five o’clock client into her coat and accepted the generous tip with grace. She was knackered.

  Imo came back through, carrying two mugs of coffee and an ominous expression. ‘I’ve got to see her,’ she blurted.

  ‘Who?’ Jude lit a cigarette and began to tidy the makeup trolley. She knew damn well but she’d stall for time. She was stuck in a conflict of friendship versus client confidentiality, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  ‘Her. You know.’ Imogen sank into one of the salon’s black chairs, hands cradled around her mug. ‘The woman in the photo. Marisa … what did you say her name was?’

  Her and her big mouth. ‘Gibb.’ Jude pushed the trolley to the back of the salon and grabbed the broom from just inside the kitchenette. ‘Imo, what good will it do?’

  ‘It’ll do me some good.’ Imogen adopted the stubborn expression that Jude knew so well. ‘It’ll mean that I know who she is, I can find out what happened. Why…’ she faltered.