by V Clifford
He’d have made a terrible hairdresser – too self-obsessed. To be confronted with one’s own image nine hours a day means seeing each blemish magnified for the same length of time. Liam’s constant preening was sick-making. A hundred quid went missing from Viv’s purse. It was found in Liam’s shoe and he was sacked on the spot. So there’s no love lost between them. She wouldn’t trust him as far as she could spit, and imagines it’s mutual. He’ll not forgive her for ruining his ‘career prospects’ even though he’d never have made enough money cutting hair, at least not compared to dealing. In a perverse kind of way he owes her.
Tired, and with the prospect of a hair day tomorrow, she heads for home feeling as if the Andrew Douglas story has begun to grow legs. She sticks the taxi receipt in her back pocket and pulls out her house keys. The lock on the outside door is sticking and whilst she’s shoogling her key around she senses that she’s being watched. There are loads of flats on the other side of the road so it’s not unlikely, but it’s the wrong feeling. The heavy clunk of the stair door behind her is reassuring, but doesn’t stop her from doing the steps two at a time for the second time today. Safely in her own flat and with the door double-locked she sighs, glad that she has no one to minister to but herself. Stripping everything off and tossing it on top of an already bulging laundry basket she steps into the shower and scrubs as if she’s lousy.
After another session on the net, looking for anything about Liam, she finds a couple of mentions on Facebook, but sadly nothing incriminating. She must be looking in the wrong places. Too tired to do any more she heads back to the bathroom, carries out her teeth-cleaning ritual and collapses into bed.
She sleeps right through, but wakes feeling tetchy. It’s Wednesday and her first client is in Barnton. The journey won’t take long, so she turns over in the hope of having a few more minutes. Not a chance. Once she’s awake, she’s awake. She throws the duvet back and opens the window a couple of inches, which lets in a rush of cold air.
Back in the shower, the face of John Black keeps floating before her eyes. She shakes her head and blows out a spout of water. She can’t help thinking that there are too many young men like him. If only they weren’t ashamed of their sexuality. Fear of being found out keeps them in the shadows, and there are plenty of unsavoury types who know how to exploit them there. She’s reminded of the photograph of Alexander/Sandy MacDonald. You couldn’t get more unsavoury than that.
Rubbing her hair with a towel, she notices the familiar blinking light on the answering machine. She anticipates Jules and sure enough there are two messages from her; one asking how it’s going and another saying to watch out for DC Nicholson. Viv pulls out her wallet and checks the name on Red’s card: DC Nicholson. Good old Jules.
She dresses to meet hair day expectations. People want their hairdresser to look like a hairdresser and who is she to deny them this? Her wardrobe has always been on the verge of maverick, stylish but definitely maverick. Today she hauls out a pair of cream corduroy jodhpurs, a cream moleskin shirt and a tweed jacket that has never seen the kind of hack it was designed for. She remembers buying it ten years ago, maybe more, from a school exchange. Best three quid she’s ever spent. On the inside there’s still a faded name tag, the jacket tailored exclusively for its first owner.
Once her hair is dry she fingers a bit of gel through it – unkempt is the look she wants. A cursory look in the fridge forces her to forego breakfast. Her system can’t cope with an assault this early in the day anyway.
Going through the usual routine with the MG she wonders what it would feel like to have a car that was warm and co-operative. The MG had seen better days before she bought it, but it was this very unreliability that had attracted her to it. Viv has an ascetic streak – Presbyterian. Things shouldn’t be too comfy. The MG could never be described as comfy.
The rush-hour traffic has slackened off and her dread of a hill start on the West Port is alleviated when she doesn’t even have to slow down. As she sails down Morrison Street and through Haymarket the car sounds guttural, as if its exhaust has blown. People are looking, even more than they would normally. She gasps: there is black smoke in her rear view mirror. ‘Shit!’
Her first client isn’t known for her tolerance. Too bad. Viv didn’t start her day with the intention of bugging Jean Johnston. Pulling in to the kerb opposite Donaldson’s School she looks underneath the car as if she knows what she doing. The exhaust has split, leaving one section trailing on the ground. She recalls there’s an exhaust place not too far from here so she gets back in and limps the car another mile or so into Roseburn. As she lifts her work kit out of the boot she’s greeted by a man in blue overalls.
‘Doesn’t sound too well,’ he says as he smiles and takes the proffered key.
She’s resigned to whatever has to be done and replies, ‘Just do what you need to do and I’ll pick it up later.’
‘We’ll need contact details.’
She fishes out a battered old card, making a mental note to have more printed, and hands it over. Then goes back onto the main road and hails a taxi.
Jean, without grace or subtlety, looks at her watch as Viv enters the porch three minutes late. No greeting other than, ‘Go straight up. I’ll bring my coffee up.’ Her voice clipped public school.
No question of Viv having coffee. Squeezed between the shower cabinet and the basin Viv sets about shampooing Jean’s hair. The routine is without variation: one wash and a lick of conditioner, avoiding the roots at all costs.
This is a difficult job for Viv. For years she’s had to field Jean’s questions about other clients. Only her strict policy of confidentiality has saved her skin. People, especially Jean, enjoy gossip and Viv had been frequently accused of being this source, until she actively put a stop to it. The question she hates most is, ‘Don’t you think?’ This isn’t a real question, but a means of gaining Viv’s allegiance in order that Jean may say, ‘ Viv said . . .’ Once Viv got wise to this she started saying, ‘Actually, I’ve no idea.’ No more reasoning with her. No more, ‘Well, I can see both points of view.’ Just a blunt, ‘No I don’t.’
This was harsh but the only way to break the pattern. The consequences went beyond breaking the cycle of gossip; it injured the congeniality that allowed them to bear the hour, occasional hour and a half if it was a day for highlights, that they had to spend in each other’s company. In Viv’s ideal world control freaks like Jean would move on. If only Viv wasn’t so good at her job – mobile hairdressers with Sassoon training are thin on the ground in Edinburgh. Once she takes a client on it seems impossible to lose them. Viv takes a deep breath, heartened by the fact that very few clients are like Jean, then heads upstairs.
Jean’s only having a cut today. So once Viv has set up, Jean takes a seat and looks straight through the bedroom mirror. No eye contact; in the huff. That’s fine with Viv; the less she has to chat the better. After about ten minutes of layering, Jean says, ‘It didn’t lie very well last time. I think you’d cut too much off that section.’
Viv picks up the section that Jean’s pointing to and holds it up at ninety degrees. She can tell immediately that she wasn’t the last person to cut this, so says, ‘You haven’t had it trimmed in the village, have you?’
At first Jean doesn’t want to admit it, but can’t bring herself to lie. Feigning deep thought she then admits, ‘Oh! I might have had a little trim for the Oban Ball.’
Viv bites her lip and nods, ‘I’ll do what I can to build up the weight again, but if you must have it cut in the village it would be better if you ask them to leave weight round your recession areas.’
The use of the word ‘recession’ makes Jean flinch. Her hair is, without doubt, her crowning glory: if it’s not working, life’s a disaster and not much of a bowl of cherries for those around her either.
‘I’m not thinning, am I? I thought only men thinned. God, what would I do?’
Viv doesn’t answer; she’s won her point. Once she’s finished
cutting they go through the usual product consideration. Not once has Jean agreed to do something different, so Viv, biding her time, keeps her hand on the tin of spray. Right again. Halfway through the blow dry the telephone rings, so Viv puts the drier off and waits. She looks round the beautiful bedroom: a four-poster bed with fine muslin drapes edged with down. A matching walnut dressing table and chest of drawers smell of lavender polish, now slightly masked by fresh hairspray. The door to the double walk-in dressing-room boasts a full-length mirror. In fact she counts six mirrors in all in this room – narcissistic or what? The magazines on the bedside cabinets indicate who sleeps where.
Viv always turns her phone off while in with clients. Basic manners say there’s nothing so urgent that it won’t wait half an hour. As Jean chats to her chum without so much as lifting her eyes to the heavens in apology, Viv taps her foot. After five minutes Viv looks at her watch. The banal chat continues. Ten minutes later she thinks, fuck this, and starts packing up her kit. Within seconds the telephone is back in its cradle. Viv doesn’t say anything but continues packing.
‘What are you doing?’
Viv doesn’t answer. Too angry to speak she keeps her head down as she winds up the flex on the drier. Once she’s gathered scissors, comb, brushes and spray she does a final scan of the room. ‘I’m done here.’
‘But you’ve not finished . . . my hair.’ The final bit of the sentence trails off as Jean notices the look on Viv’s face. ‘I’m sorry, but I coul . . .’
‘Don’t.’ Viv puts her hand up to stop any further crap and makes her way downstairs to the front door. It’s always locked and she has to wait whilst Jean fishes about in a china bowl to find the key.
‘What about our other appointments?’
‘I think we’re done here, Jean. The village can take care of you . . . Don’t let them forget that recession area.’ A cheap parting shot that she regrets before she’s reached the gate. Viv knows that Jean’s behaviour stems from insecurity. So did Hitler’s.
Chapter Four
It’s quite a distance to the main road, but a brisk walk will soon get rid of the build-up of steam. If this episode had been a first Viv probably would have waited, but Jean doesn’t know the meaning of the phrase, ‘pissing on one’s own bonfire’. Once Viv’s onto the main road she rings the garage. They’ve managed a temporary repair and she can pick it up now, but it’ll need some money thrown at it before it will pass its next MOT. No surprises there then.
Queensferry Road is busy and now that the Barnton Hotel is closed it’s more difficult to get a taxi. She walks east for ten minutes before she sees the welcome orange light of a cab. Minutes later she’s back at the garage with her credit card at the ready.
Viv throws her kit into the boot and drives off down towards Stockbridge. She dumps the car in a residents’ bay anticipating a ticket but if she doesn’t get coffee soon she’ll flake out. The café is busy and she has to share a table. The woman opposite, reading a book, is vaguely familiar, but Viv consoles herself with the notion that most people seem familiar in this small city. The uncertainty is removed when the woman tilts her head and tentatively says, ‘I think we’ve met.’
Viv, on hearing her distinctive accent, is prompted. ‘Yes, I think it was at the National Library . . . No, no, it was at Central, at the Crispin lecture.’
‘Well done!’
It was a good lecture, but although the detail of ‘The Scottish Home’ is now vague in Viv’s mind, one aspect of the evening isn’t vague: this woman opposite had the courage to question the lecturer’s dogmatic theory. Viv smiles, ‘I remember you gave Josh Crispin a hard time.’
‘You have got a good memory. He was being far too black and white.’ She flicks her hand as if shaking him off. Her Scottish accent betrays a faint hint of eastern Europe, borne out in her broad angular cheek bones.
Viv loves Stockbridge. It’s full of intellectual worthies who are committed to keeping their little grey cells alive, and this woman is one of them. Viv discovers that the woman had been a lecturer in Scottish history, and although she’s fascinated to hear more of the woman’s work she suddenly catches sight of a clock above the counter. ‘Oh God, I’ll have to go. Nice to meet you again.’
She reaches her car and beams – no parking ticket. Lucky.
Her next client, Jinty Stewart, is an angel, and deserves the fine Georgian building that she lives in. Viv needn’t have had coffee because it’s always on offer at Jinty’s. They’ve known each other for a decade and love each other’s company. Jinty is good-humoured, generous, stylish and has impeccable manners. The notion of spending time on the telephone when she has a guest would be anathema to her. She sees Viv as a guest, that’s the difference. The benefit of top-drawer women, which has nothing to do with their birth, is that they treat everyone with respect. Viv has heard her chatting to the gardener as if he’s Prince Charles. Jean could learn much from Jinty.
Jinty‘s hair is much admired and she tells everyone it’s her hairdresser’s talent. Viv in turn says it’s Jinty’s wonderful head of hair; and that even a monkey could make it look nice. She’s being overly modest, but doesn’t know anyone who she’d rather compliment than Jinty – clients like Jinty keep Viv animated about cutting hair. They hug and rub each other’s backs as they walk through the hall. The house is like the Ashmolean, full of eccentric bits and pieces, and every time Viv comes there’s a fresh feature. Today a new chandelier almost blinds her with its sparkle. It’s a monster of a thing, which in anyone else’s house would look kitsch, but here it works a treat. Jinty points at it saying, ‘We had to have it. You understand, Viv, life in this house is never about need. Coffee’s on.’
Viv can always drink more coffee, especially when the maker is an aficionado. Sitting at the kitchen table Jinty fills Viv in on what’s been happening in the last three weeks. Rory, her son, has an eating disorder – a nightmare. Viv imagines him creeping around the kitchen with a bucket of Haagen Daz in his arms, but that’s not how it works with him; bulimics and anorexics find ways to control their every movement.
‘His teeth are much worse. They seem more discoloured every time I look at him. He’s becoming like a stick insect. His father is as bad as ever about it. This business about Andrew won’t help.’ Jinty shakes her head.
Viv, drawing in breath, recalls where she’s seen the young face from the TV yesterday. It was here, but not recently. She remembers Andrew and Rors sitting at the kitchen table eating peanut butter sandwiches. Jinty notices her distraction, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah. It’s just that I’m intrigued about Andrew.’
‘We haven’t seen him for a long time. What do you think has happened to him?’
‘Wish I knew. We are talking about the same Andrew Douglas whose dad, Andrew Douglas senior, once tried to . . .?’ Jinty nods, looking embarrassed. So Viv continues. ‘But this isn’t getting your hair done.’
There’s a photograph of Rory on top of the fridge – Viv had forgotten how good looking he used to be. She has heard Ror’s history and sympathises with Jinty for having to play piggy in the middle. Rod, her husband, is a judge in more places than the High Court and Jinty has been defending Rors since he was born. Although she knows that you can teach an old dog new tricks, she’s lost the will to keep trying.
‘Let’s head upstairs and get your hair sorted out. At least I can do something to improve that.’
Jinty smiles and pushes herself away from the table. They meander up a wide elegant staircase, lined with an eclectic mix of Scottish landscapes, to a first-floor bedroom. The light is flooding in through a break in the cloud and Jinty pushes one of the shutters closed so that Viv won’t have to squint to do her job. Once Jinty’s in the chair the atmosphere calms and Viv tells her about a book she’s been reading, The Scots and Slavery in the West Indies. Jinty says in passing, ‘Oh, remind me next time to show you my family slave lists.’
‘What! You’ve actually got the original lists? How old a
re they?’
‘I’m not sure. I haven’t looked at them for years.’
Viv puffs out her cheeks, thinking how lucky she is to have such an interesting client. She runs the comb through the back of Jinty’s thick fair hair.
Jinty has a natty little bob with a touch of graduation at the back that accentuates her already lovely head shape. She deals with it well herself: no worries about meeting her in the supermarket and being embarrassed. Viv sections it cleanly at the nape and cuts precisely half an inch off the base line before tackling the layers. Their conversation ranges widely and then Viv tentatively says, ‘I walked out on Jean this morning.’
‘Wow! Good girl! I don’t know what’s taken you so long. You should have done it a decade ago. She’s a social climber who needs her cage rattled. How do you feel, though?’
‘Not as good as I thought I would, but good enough.’
She smiles into the mirror; Jinty smiles back at her and says, ‘Be proud. She’s been pushing the wrong buttons in you for too long. She’s only one of the snipers, but at least losing one is better than none. How many to go?’
Jinty is always in Viv’s corner; she knows what it has cost Viv to keep her mouth shut so many times.
‘Word will get round, in fact I’m amazed you hadn’t heard before I arrived.’
‘Don’t go wasting energy on what people think. They’ll think what they choose . . . whether you worry about it or not.’ Jinty’s gaze in the mirror is serious for a moment.
‘Hey, that’s my line. Still I anticipate a full answering machine when I get home.’
‘I think you’ll be surprised. People aren’t as stupid as they look. They’re perfectly well aware how difficult it is to get a decent haircut this side of London. You are a diamond and they know it. Poor Jean.’ She says this last without conviction. Jean’s reputation for unmitigated manipulation goes before her. She’s managed to bug everyone at some time or another.