‘But how do you know that, Iris? Where’s the evidence?’
‘Oh, it’s there all right,’ she replies with a tone of absolute certainty. ‘You just have to open your eyes.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said open your eyes.’
I wake up in my bed at the flat – my real flat, rather than the one transported to Corfu in my dream. I’m covered head to toe in a sheen of sweat. My hair’s soaking wet; my duvet, bottom sheet and pillow are drenched too.
‘Yuck!’ I throw the covers up and away from me and jump out of bed.
It’s still dark. I look over at my clock radio and see it’s only 4.17 a.m. Brilliant.
I walk through to the bathroom and towel myself down. Then I pick an old T-shirt out of the washing basket and put it on before heading through to the kitchen and pouring a glass of water.
I don’t hear Alfred, but I feel him as he sneaks up on me and rubs his warm fur against my bare ankles.
‘Hello, mate,’ I say, leaning down to pick him up and give him a cuddle. ‘Sorry if I stink. I’ve been sweating.’
He rubs his cheek against my shoulder and starts to purr. ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you?’ I tell him. ‘But I know you too well. You want a snack, right?’
He meows like he knows what I’ve said and wriggles free, so I drop him gently onto the floor, where he races greedily to his bowl.
Once I’ve scattered some treats in there, I head back to my bed, which is still soaking. The pungent odour of my own sweat is far from appealing. I pull the duvet right back to air, throw on my dressing gown and go through to the lounge, opting for the couch instead, where I hope I’ll be able to catch a few more winks before I have to get up for work.
I lie there briefly before accepting it’s not going to happen, sitting up and switching on the TV. I tune into a news channel for a few minutes, but there’s not much happening that I care enough about to continue watching. So I proceed to flick between stations, settling on nothing.
After a while I find myself watching an episode of The New Avengers – which isn’t new at all and nothing to do with the recent Marvel movies. It dawns on me that I’m viewing it in mini mode, with most of the screen taken up by the TV guide, so I rectify this.
Seeing a young Joanna Lumley literally kicking butt alongside Patrick Macnee and Gareth Hunt entertains me for a few minutes. But eventually I find it all a bit too dated, so I flick over to Netflix instead and proceed to settle on nothing there either. There’s too much damn choice nowadays.
Alfred runs into the room and jumps onto the arm of the sofa. He perches there, staring at me.
‘You’re not getting any more snacks,’ I say without looking at him. ‘I literally just gave you some.’
He starts rubbing his head against my arm and then my chest, his eyes looking longingly up into mine.
‘Stop being greedy,’ I say, still doing my best to ignore him. When he inevitably moves on to his favourite party trick of reaching forward with one paw and poking me on the cheek, I shake my head at him and scowl.
‘If I gave you a treat every time you begged me for one, you’d be the fattest cat in Manchester, Alfred. Chill out. You’re doing my head in.’
When he pokes me again a moment later, I get to my feet to make a cup of tea, which he interprets as me caving in. He darts off the chair and makes a beeline for his bowl.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ I say. ‘Go and do something else.’
But then I feel mean, so I do actually cave in. ‘Fine. You can have two more treats, but after that no more, okay?’
He must think I’m a right sucker.
CHAPTER 15
I receive an odd phone call from my cousin on the Thursday following our disappointing homeless haircuts session.
‘Hi, Meg,’ I say, answering my mobile. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Excellent, thanks. You?’
‘Fine.’
‘Are you at work?’ she asks.
‘It’s mid-afternoon on a Thursday. Where else would I be?’
‘I’ll take that as a yes, which is perfect.’
I’m suddenly suspicious. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Oh, nothing. You might get a visitor later today, that’s all. Her name’s Nora. Be nice.’
‘Hang on, what? Who’s Nora?’
‘Trust me. Talk to her; give her what she needs. You can thank me later.’
‘What is this, Meg? What’s going on? Tell me you’re not trying to set me up with a potential girlfriend again.’
‘After our legendary row? Seriously? No, Nora’s visit has nothing to do with dating, Luke, I promise. It’s a professional matter, but I’m saying no more than that. Sorry, I have someone on the other line. Got to go.’
With that she hangs up and I let out a long sigh. What’s her game?
Nora eventually shows up just after five o’clock when the barbershop is empty and I’m sitting down with a coffee and today’s paper. I guess it’s Nora, anyway, since it’s a relatively unusual occurrence for a woman to come here alone. Most of the time they’re accompanying a husband, partner or child. Occasionally women do turn up wanting their own hair cut, which is totally fine with me, but that tends to be when they have a short style. However, this person has long, wavy blonde hair that’s been professionally dyed recently enough that she’s barely showing any roots.
She looks to be a professional in her early thirties: tall, slim and pretty, dressed in smart grey trousers and a cream blouse, under a black, knee-length leather jacket. Over her shoulder is a leather satchel that I suspect contains a laptop or tablet.
What on earth does she want with me? I have absolutely no idea, thanks to Meg being so cryptic. I decide on the spot to play a game of my own and pretend I haven’t heard anything about her visit. She looks capable enough, so I’m sure she’ll be able to handle it.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ I say. ‘I’m guessing you’re not here for a short back and sides, although … do you know what? I wouldn’t rule that out if I were you. A drastic change can be really liberating. I think you could have the bone structure to carry it off.’
‘Hmm, interesting you say that,’ she says in a husky voice with a gentle Mancunian accent. ‘I was planning to go a step further and ask you to shave it all off for me – totally smooth, like a boiled egg. I woke up this morning feeling daring. You only live once, right? What the hell. I reckon I could make it work.’ She flashes me a toothy grin. ‘Meg warned me you could be a bit of a handful. Did she tell you I was going to call in?’
I shrug, deadpan, egged on by this. ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me. Meg? I’m racking my brains, but no … I’m pretty sure I don’t know anyone by that name. Are you definitely in the right place?’
She stares at me in silence for a long moment, her green eyes narrowing to slits as she scrutinises my face, and I fight not to crack a smile.
‘Not bad,’ she says eventually. ‘But you’ll have to do better than that.’
I hold my hands up in mock surrender. ‘Okay, you got me. It’s Nora, right? Meg did ring up to say you were coming. She didn’t say who you were or what it was about, though, and that’s the truth, I swear.’
She holds her arm out, offering me a handshake, which I accept. ‘Nora Mills,’ she says.
‘Luke Craven,’ I reply. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘You too.’
‘How is it that you know my cousin, then?’
‘We’ve socialised together a few times. Friends of friends, you know.’
I don’t ever remember Meg mentioning a Nora previously, so I’m guessing they don’t know each other that well. I wonder if this means they actually had a thing at some point and hooked up or whatever. Meg’s always had a far more exciting love and social life than I have, so I wouldn’t be especially surprised.
‘Come on, then,’ I say. ‘I’m dying to know what it is she’s told you and why you’re here. Are you going to put me out of my misery or what?’
Nora has a glint in her eye as she replies. ‘Hmm. That sounds a bit easy, considering how you gave me the run-around. What do you think I’m here about? Do you reckon you can guess what I do for a living?’
This should be annoying, but there’s a certain charm about her, so I decide to play along.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’m guessing a professional role: solicitor perhaps; maybe something in finance.’
‘Wow,’ she says. ‘Do I really look that dull?’
I walked straight into that, I suppose, but I thought they were both fairly safe, inoffensive options. ‘How about marketing, then? Any closer?’
‘A little,’ she says, ‘but no. You’re still not right.’
‘Graphic designer?’
She shakes her head.
‘Entrepreneur?’
‘Nope.’
I’m getting nowhere here, so I decide to say something silly rather than running the risk of offending her. ‘Street magician?’
She smiles this time, at least. ‘No.’
‘Okay, I think I’ve nailed it. Trapeze artist?’
‘Yes, finally,’ she says. ‘I thought you’d never get there. So the reason I’ve come to see you is that one of the clowns at the circus where I work is sick and we desperately need a replacement. What do you think? The money’s not great, but all clothes and makeup are included.’
She’s quick-witted, this one. I’ll give her that.
Laughing, I offer Nora a seat and a cup of tea. ‘Anyway,’ I say as the kettle boils. ‘You’d better tell me what you’re really here for or we’ll be at this for hours.’
‘Your cousin told me about your idea to offer free haircuts for the homeless,’ she says, clasping her hands together and leaning forward. ‘It sounds like a wonderful plan, but Meg said you could do with some publicity to get the ball rolling. That’s where I come in.’
How did I not see this coming? It makes perfect sense, now I think about it. Why else would Meg send someone I’ve never met before to come and see me? I really can be dense sometimes.
‘Right,’ I say, pouring water over the teabags and reaching for the milk.
‘Oh, none of that for me, thanks,’ she says.
‘Sorry?’
‘The milk. I don’t have any. I take my tea black and not too strong, thanks.’
‘Oh, of course. Shall I take the bag out now?’
‘Please.’
‘Does it taste nice that way?’ I ask, handing her the mug.
‘I think so. It’s a matter of opinion, though, isn’t it?’
‘So, tell me,’ I say, sitting down next to her in the waiting area after first changing the sign on the door to CLOSED to avoid any potential disruptions. ‘It’s great that you’re able to help, but in what way exactly? What is it you do professionally when you’re not, um, hanging from a trapeze?’
She shuffles in her chair and clears her throat. ‘I’m a freelance journalist.’
This really wasn’t what I was expecting to hear – and it throws me. ‘I see.’
‘Listen,’ she continues. ‘Meg explained about the recent accident you were involved in. I heard about it at the time; how that poor young doctor was killed. Such an awful tragedy. Anyhow, I believe a few journalists approached you then, but you didn’t want to speak to them. I totally respect that. And I must assure you that I’m not into muckraking or sensationalism.
‘I know that’s how we often get portrayed in TV shows and so on; certain pockets of the industry possibly are closer to that stereotype than I’d like. But I only write things I believe in and know to be true. I can promise you that. I don’t send my work to the kinds of editors who might over-tweak it to make what they consider a better story. I know the right people to deal with. I’ve been in this business for a while now.’
She goes on to reel off a long list of publications she’s written for, including various national newspapers and glossy magazines. She also challenges me to look her up online and have a read of some articles she’s written. I’m about to say I’ll need to have to think first when, to my surprise, she beats me to it.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not looking to interview you today. I want you to go away and think it over, because I’ve no interest in doing a piece unless you’re totally comfortable.’
These words are music to my ears. They actually go a long way towards allaying my fears.
My previous experience of journalists isn’t only related to the scaffolding accident; Mum and Dad’s death attracted media attention too. And back then one particularly pushy tabloid reporter left a bad taste in my mouth. He badgered me to speak, despite my obvious grief; when I did eventually say a few words, chiefly to get rid of him, my comments got taken out of context and reported in a way I found to be insensitive and misleading.
Knowing Nora isn’t like that, or at least she doesn’t appear to be, is very reassuring. So too is the fact she knows Meg and we’ve had a bit of a laugh together. I’m also in a better head space now than on previous occasions when I’ve had to deal with the press. Consequently, I don’t tell her to do one, like I have to previous journalists, and instead agree to think about it.
I query what she has in mind and how getting coverage is likely to help promote my scheme.
She says she’d ideally like to interview me here with a photographer present to take some ‘nice pictures’. I don’t necessarily have to mention Iris or the scaffolding accident, she adds, although it would give the story more depth and emotional appeal to readers, particularly if that experience played any part in my decision to do this.
I ask: ‘If what you write doesn’t get read by homeless people, how’s that going to boost the numbers I have coming into the barbershop?’
She says that she thinks the story would go down well with both the Manchester Evening News and Big Issue North, which should really help spread the word on the streets. She’s also hopeful that with the right angle, it could get picked up nationally too.
‘Getting it in those titles could help,’ I say, careful not to sound like I’m definitely onboard with the idea yet. ‘I wouldn’t be bothered about it going national, if I’m honest. But I guess that would be better for you, in terms of payment, right?’
She chuckles. ‘We all have costs to cover and bills to pay. There wasn’t much money in journalism when I first joined the industry. Nowadays, with so many people consuming news for free on their smartphones, budgets are tighter than ever. National newspapers and magazines help keep us freelancers in business, because they have the biggest pockets.’
I’m impressed by the honesty of this response and Nora’s apparent unflappability, whatever I’ve thrown at her so far.
I take her business card and give her one of mine when she stands up to leave, telling her I’ll need to give the matter some serious consideration. If I’m honest, though, I’ve pretty much made my mind up already.
I’ll need to grill Meg for some more details about Nora first. But to my surprise, this particular journalist might well have managed to convince me to put my historic concerns about the press to one side and do an interview.
Nora is clearly good at what she does, so I’m hopeful she would write a decent piece. There’s also the argument that being a positive person is all about saying yes to things and opening yourself up to new opportunities.
The old me would have said no straight away. He’ll no doubt pop into my mind later on with all kinds of compelling points to support that position. But if I really want to move forward, I need to ignore him and trust my gut, which is definitely telling me to do this.
CHAPTER 16
It’s weird seeing yourself in the paper. I remember being featured once as a child. We’d gone away down south on an Easter break when I was seven or eight. I can’t remember exactly where – and it’s not like I have anyone to check with – but I’m fairly sure it was in Devon. It was definitely near the sea: I remember walking along some sprawling sandy beaches. I desperately wanted to go
in the water, but I wasn’t allowed because it was way too cold.
Anyway, one morning, the three of us were walking along the main street in whatever town we were visiting that day and we got stopped by a young reporter. I remember him being covered in spots, proper acne, and for some bizarre reason, finding that a desirable look. Dad wound me up for years about that. Apparently, I whispered something to him along the lines of: ‘What does that man have on his face? It looks really cool.’ This never failed to make both him and Mum roar with laughter whenever it got brought up afterwards.
The reporter was looking for a child around my age to pose for a photo as part of an April Fools’ Day prank. He said he’d picked me because I had a cheeky look about me, although with hindsight I was probably the first kid of the right age to walk past.
‘What would he have to do?’ Dad asked, to which Spotty explained that I’d need to pose for some pictures with a huge ice cream – and then I’d get to eat as much of it as I could manage.
That was all it took to get me interested. At that age, ice cream was probably my favourite food in the whole world. So we trundled along to a café around the corner and there, as promised, they made this ridiculously large cone with about twenty scoops of various flavours, held together with a long metal spike.
I had my photo taken holding it, tongue out ready to lick, and then they put all the ice cream into a huge bowl and I ate as much as I could until I started to feel sick.
A couple of days later, on 1 April, we picked up a copy of the paper – and there I was on the front page.
‘You’re a celebrity now,’ Mum told me. ‘How does it feel?’
‘Not just any celebrity either,’ Dad added with a wink. ‘Luke’s a front-page star, my love, and don’t you forget it.’
They must have bought about twenty copies of the paper to give to family and friends, and a cutout of the article remained on our kitchen noticeboard for years, gradually yellowing with age.
I remember being a bit taken aback initially, but as the day went on, I started to quite like the idea of being famous. Dad kept nudging me while we were out and about, claiming people were looking and pointing at me. He even got me to practise my signature in case someone wanted my autograph – and sure enough, when we were out for dinner that night, the waiter came over to ask me for it, saying he was honoured to have someone so important as a guest in his restaurant.
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