I’m never going on another run. Or eating another apple. The whole thing is meaningless.
‘How are you doing in there?’ Janet says. ‘Let me see what you got, girl!’
I pull on one dress without looking at it. At least it’s black. And unlike most times I try on stuff, it fits. No tugging to get it to cover my arms.
I step out.
‘There,’ Janet says. ‘Not bad, for a start.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Look at yourself,’ she says triumphantly, and whisks back the curtain.
I’m amazed, I’m not going to tell you I looked like Kate Winslet at the Oscars, but the dress gives my body a little something. A waist, to be exact. The fabric sort of paints one on by cinching in. The sleeves are three-quarter length, exposing my forearms in a strangely girly fashion, and there’s a plunging neckline to show off a bit of cleavage.
I stand there open-mouthed. I feel … I feel like people wouldn’t shout rude things at me any more. Not necessarily. And that’s a huge plus!
‘Skirt hides your tummy, see,’ Janet says. ‘Until you get it in shape,’ she adds hastily. ‘Won’t be long with all that running. OK. Want to try the trousers? With the jacket. Not that one, the navy one.’
‘All right,’ I say grudgingly, but I go back inside the changing room, and this time I look at the outfit after I’ve put it on.
* * *
‘Hi,’ Paolo says forty minutes later. Janet hands her shopping bags to the coat check girl while I stand there, head down. This hairdresser’s is not my sort of place. It smells costly. It looks costly. There’s lots of chrome and sleek leather, and hairdressers with spiky, fashionable crops, and women all carrying little designer bags – Gucci pochettes, pale pink Chanel, Louis Vuitton in ice-cream summer colours.
I’m not used to this. I’m used to Supercuts.
‘I see why you breeng her,’ he says to Janet. ‘She need ’elp.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ I mutter, but Janet treads on my toe.
‘Only you can rescue her, Paolo,’ Janet breathes as I yelp. ‘She’s too far gone to even think of anybody else.’
He preens and runs his fingers through my hair.
‘Very thick,’ he says. ‘Lanky … greasy … too heavy … no life.’
Is he talking about me?
‘Revolting spleet ends,’ he goes on. ‘No shape at all. No colour. It ees rat.’
‘Mouse,’ Janet says.
‘Rat, mouse … nasty,’ he pronounces.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Surely you know what mouse is? You must have seen it a million times.’
‘Not,’ says Paolo dramatically, ‘in my salon.’
‘Shut up,’ hisses Janet.
‘I can ’elp,’ he says. ‘Jay-Me, you just leave us. Two, maybe three hours.’
I can’t believe somebody else actually called her Jay-Me – wait a second, did he say two to three hours?
‘Uh … Janet…’ I say weakly, but it’s too late. She’s given me that little waggle of her fingers and she’s out the door.
‘Now, sweetie,’ says Paolo with an evil grin, marching me to a chair. ‘You are totally in my hands. Yes?’
* * *
‘Ready?’ he asks.
Ready? I’ve been ready for the last three hours. The man is a maniac. He has me over in a little chair in the corner, facing a wall. He won’t let me see myself in a mirror.
‘I don’ wan’ any interruptions,’ he said. ‘You are canvas, carissima. Canvas does not tell artist what to paint, no?’
‘No,’ I say meekly. It can’t be any worse than what I have now. He’s been slashing with a razor, talking to himself, lecturing me. Everything is wrong about me, apparently. My hair is a total disaster. My jeans are all wrong.
‘Wear lower waist,’ he says. ‘That way you not seem so beeg. Unnerstan? And what ees this?’ he asks, grabbing my hand.
‘My hand?’
‘Not that. Thees,’ he says, pointing at my nubby, ripped-off nails. ‘Thas deesgusting.’
‘Sorry,’ I say meekly.
‘Clara! Clara, cara,’ he says, snapping his fingers. A young girl comes over, she can’t be more than eighteen, and Paolo rattles something off to her in Italian. She swears. Obviously, I am a completely revolting specimen.
‘She will geeve you manicure,’ he says. ‘You are friend of Jay-Me. One time, no charge. Va bene?’
‘Yes. Si. Thanks…’ I trail off lamely. Please not a manicure. I hate my fingers. They are all workmanlike and thick, not slender and delicate. I don’t like anybody looking at them or fussing with them. But I can’t very well say ‘no, sod off’, can I? Paolo is donating his valuable time here, not to mention several little plastic plates of foul-smelling, dark goopy colour that he’s painting into my hair, foil segment by foil segment.
Other girls really enjoy this sort of thing, don’t they? To me it’s torture. I can’t remember when I was last so bored. And I have to make conversation. Paolo finds out I’m in the film business and he wants to tell me all about his idea for a movie. Which involves a hairdresser and a gay beauty pageant and how the hairdresser wins. And I go on about how fabulous it sounds.
Finally, it’s over, apparently. Paolo has wheeled my chair over to a mirror.
‘Yes, I’m ready,’ I tell him.
I prepare for the worst.
Paolo spins me round. ‘Tah-dah!’ he says.
For a second I can’t quite believe it. Is that me?
My hair – it’s gone. Most of it. What’s left curls down an inch above my shoulders, and has a feathery, choppy way of swinging about my face. My nose actually looks smaller. I have a fringe, it softens my high forehead, and best of all I can tell that this cut will just fall into place. There aren’t any special gimmicks required, no curlers for soft waves. I can wash it in the morning and it will still be there.
And then there’s the colour.
I never realized colour could make such a difference. My hair, my mousy hair, has gone. Now there’s a blonde there, not brassy like Claire, but shot through with silky highlighted strands in millions of different shades, from spun gold to copper, champagne, lemon, honey …
It hasn’t just changed my hair. It’s changed my whole face. My skin doesn’t look so pasty any more. The thick dark cloud around it has gone.
I’m still not pretty. But I look normal now, almost normal. Just slightly on the plain side, sure. But not … not really ugly, apart from my nose.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I say, and I have tears in my eyes.
Paolo looks genuinely pleased.
‘Yes, yes, I am a magician,’ he says. ‘You come bark and next time you pay!’
‘Oh, yes,’ I say, and right now I feel I’d happily give him my firstborn daughter and half my kingdom.
* * *
Janet arrives to collect me, and after five minutes of air-kissing and mutual backslapping we get to pick up my bags and leave.
‘When we get you home I’m going to pack for you,’ she says. ‘I know exactly what you must take. And I’ll do your make-up. Are you going to wear the blue dress for the dancing or the green?’
‘The green.’
‘Better be the blue,’ she says.
I smile gratefully at her. ‘OK, the blue. Thanks, Janet. Thanks a lot.’
‘All it takes is confidence,’ she says. ‘And the right fit.’
Well, that’s not true. But I do feel an awful lot better. I’m almost looking forward to the party now. Just wait till Charles sees me! I fall into a lovely reverie where he’s so dumbstruck he proposes on the stroke of midnight in front of the whole crowd of Hoorays, and all the beautiful women who were only after him for his money are all crying and wailing that it isn’t fair. Only in my fantasy Charles obviously has a few muscles. And I’m a bit thinner and I’ve had a nose job. Charles is also a bit taller, and dark, without a goatee. In fact, he looks a lot like …
Stop that.
‘Here we are,�
�� Janet says, paying the taxi. ‘Let’s go and get changed. You’re practically ready anyway, but I’ve got loads to do.’
We walk together up to the flat and just to put me in an even better mood, I’m not winded. I could really get into this fitness stuff. My new haircut makes me want to pull my jogging pants on and go out right now for a run round Covent Garden. But I suppose that might mess it up …
We walk through the door, and Janet pulls out a case of hers. ‘Right. You’ll take this … and that…’
She’s packing me as efficiently as an air hostess and has the bag zipped in two minutes flat. It normally takes me at least half a day.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘Oh, you know. Packing for shoots. All round the world,’ Janet says airily, then her face falls. ‘Course, been a long time since I did any international gigs.’
The door bursts open and Lily appears, talking into her mobile phone. ‘Yes, well, must dash, kiss-kiss, darling, ciao-ciao,’ she says, flicking it off. ‘Oh my God!’ she squeals. ‘Look at you! That’s too funny.’
‘What’s funny?’ Janet demands. ‘She looks fantastic.’
‘Well, let’s not go too far,’ laughs Lily.
She’s wearing a tiny pink sundress with a cute little matching pink cardigan and pearly buttons, the palest pink sandals, and not much else. She’s been to the hairdresser too. Her platinum blond mane spills expensively down her back.
‘But,’ she adds, ‘it’s definitely a great improvement, although what wouldn’t have been, eh, Anna?’
Instantly I feel all my lovely happiness seep out of me.
‘Fuck off, Lily,’ snaps Janet. ‘She looks great. You really do,’ she adds to me.
‘Oh, you do, you do,’ says Lily gaily. ‘You’ll be the belle of the ball. I must run to the bathroom and repair my face,’ she says, scrutinizing herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Her radiant beauty stares back out at her. ‘I look simply vile.’
She flounces off into the bathroom, locking it.
‘Sod her,’ says Janet stoutly. ‘Don’t let her ruin everything for you.’
‘I’m not. I know I – look better,’ I say. But it’s no good. I’m still the Ugly Sister. It’s still a joke to have me turn up with these two in tow.
‘You know, Lily doesn’t have a boyfriend,’ Janet says.
‘What about Claude?’
‘Her sugar daddy? Come on,’ Janet says disparagingly. ‘If she’s so hot how come she can’t get herself someone her own age with pots of money? They just hear her talk for five minutes and it’s all over. Anyway, better go tart myself up. You take off those clothes,’ she adds sternly. ‘I’ve put your travel outfit on your bed.’
‘Thanks, Janet,’ I say, and impulsively give her a hug. She’s actually turning into a really good friend.
‘And then I’ll do your make-up,’ she adds.
I chuck my jeans and T-shirt in the laundry and change into Janet’s choice for the car: flat-fronted, low-cut charcoal grey trousers and a silk-looking silver shirt. And some slides. I turn in front of my mirror and try to get some of the euphoria back.
OK, I’m still not pretty. But Charles is going to be knocked sideways. And everybody in the office will be really surprised. It’ll be great for my career. Like Anna Brown is coming out of her shell. And Mark Swan will be …
Mark Swan won’t care, obviously. Except he’ll think I’m blooming. Professionally.
‘Ready?’ asks Janet, sticking her head round the door. She’s wearing a gorgeous lemon-yellow halter-neck dress that shows off her boobs and butt and a single canary diamond on a chain, with a pair of black strappy high-heeled sandals.
‘That’s very J-Lo,’ I say.
‘You think?’ she asks, pleased. ‘Now sit still, this won’t take a second,’ and then she’s all over me, dabbing at my face with little sponges and pencils and brushes and what looks like a pot of lip gloss that’s a scary, blood-red colour.
‘There,’ she says. And when I look, it’s wonderful. All very neutral, but painted-on cheekbones and smoky eyes, and red, wet-looking lips, more make-up than I’d ever have dared. It really doesn’t look that bad, apart from my nose. I feel … what’s the phrase the Americans use? Pulled-together. That’s it.
‘OK!’ says Lily, emerging from the bathroom looking even lovelier, in palest-pink lipstick and with glitter on her cheeks. ‘Got the map? Let’s go!’
* * *
It’s seven thirty by the time we’re slowed down, looking for the turning into Chester House. Everybody’s in a filthy mood. Janet because she’s done most of the driving, Lily because she’s not in a limo, and me because I’m starving.
Losing weight sucks.
Normally, I quite enjoy long journeys in the car. I put on my music and every time I stop at a garage it’s straight into the shop for some supplies. Huge family-sized packets of Quavers, chewy mints, a Strawberry Mivvi and a packet of Rolos, or equivalent. And I never feel guilty about it either. I mean, it’s garage food, it doesn’t count, does it? It’s on the road.
This time, when we pulled into a garage, Lily came back with a huge packet of salt’n’ vinegar Discos and a Milky Way for me, but as soon as we pulled onto the motorway Janet chucked them out of the window.
My stomach’s rumbling embarrassingly. I can’t wait for dinner. Suddenly the procurement of food has taken precedence over not wanting to do this.
‘You must have missed it,’ Lily says petulantly. ‘Go back. Go back to that pub!’
‘I bloody haven’t missed anything.’
‘Well, you must have.’
‘There haven’t been any turnings!’
‘What’s that?’ I say.
Up ahead there’s a mini traffic jam – Land Rovers and Jags trailing back along this tiny little B road with its thick hedges and overhanging trees.
‘They’re turning in,’ says Lily, relieved. ‘This is it! Can’t you hang back a bit, Janet?’
‘Jay-Me,’ corrects Janet. ‘And why would I do that?’
Lily pouts. ‘Well, we’re only driving an old Renault,’ she says. ‘I don’t want anybody to see.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ I say, and thankfully, we’re bumper to bumper, and everybody is trailing in to the left.
‘Ooh, look at that,’ says Lily, sounding excited. We all look up. There are two pillars at the side of the road, enormous, thick, old grey stone, and two rampant lions perched on top of them, hunched over shields.
‘Ooh,’ says Janet.
‘Very clichéd,’ I say, pretending not to be impressed.
‘Look at this drive,’ Janet says, and indeed we’re through the gate now and onto a wide, bumpy road, and the cars are streaming down it. On either side rolling grass, gentle hills, copses of oak trees dotted here and there. You can instantly imagine horses and carriages trundling down here for similar parties a couple of hundred years ago. It’s sort of like heaven. Or Cinderella’s castle or something.
‘He can’t own this,’ Lily says. She’s sounding uncertain.
‘Apparently he does,’ I tell her.
‘My God,’ she snaps. ‘Why you?’
‘Look at that,’ breathes Janet in awe.
And we do. There’s the house. If you can call it that. It’s more like an enormous mansion that you go to visit on school trips. A vast edifice of the same grey stone as the pillars, complete with spikes and balustrades and statues on the top, like St Peter’s in Rome. It’s got ivy trailing all over it. It’s magnificent.
‘How many bedrooms?’ asks Lily, sounding expert. ‘Twenty? Thirty?’
‘Probably more,’ says Janet.
‘This has to be National Trust,’ says Lily.
‘I’ve got no idea,’ I tell her.
‘It isn’t,’ say Janet triumphantly. ‘I looked it up on the internet. It’s all his.’
No wonder all those girls come after him, I think. And catching sight of Lily looking at me through narrow lids I have to agree with
her. Why me?
‘It’s only been a few dates,’ I say humbly.
‘Exactly,’ says Lily instantly. ‘You could hardly call it a relationship, could you?’
‘Forget it,’ says Janet coldly. ‘You’re not going after him. I think it’s destiny,’ she adds to me.
I don’t know what to think. I mean, I like Charles. I just never saw a future with him. Let’s face it, I never saw bed with him, so how was I going to get into wedding bells? But at the risk of losing sympathy, I have to say, right now I can’t think straight. All I can see is this huge. Enormous. Incredible. House.
‘I’m glad we did that makeover,’ Janet murmurs to herself.
We pull into a wide, circular driveway at the front of the house, with ushers showing all the cars where to park.
I wind my window down for the uniformed man checking the names.
‘Anna Brown and guests,’ I say.
Lily shoves her head past me. ‘That’s Ms Lillian Venus and Ms Janet Meeks.’
‘AKA Jay-Me,’ says Janet, as I blush scarlet.
‘Very good, madam,’ the man says serenely. He beckons to one of the parking ushers.
‘This is Miss Brown’s car,’ he says, significantly. ‘If you’ll just follow him, madam,’ he adds to Janet.
We are being conducted straight through the rows and rows of gleaming cars, our wheels crunching gravel, trundling past everything from Porsches to Ferraris, with lots of Jeeps and the odd souped-up Volvo. The usher beckons us to a halt.
‘Right here, madam,’ he says.
‘Look at this,’ says Janet. We have been allocated a parking spot right by the front porch.
The usher springs into action, opening our doors and taking our little cases, but I insist on grabbing them back from him. I already feel incredibly self-conscious.
‘Anna,’ says a familiar voice. I turn round to see Charles standing there. He stares at me for a few seconds, blinking. ‘Good Lord,’ he says. And pauses. ‘Good Lord.’
I smile encouragingly, but does he have to look quite this shocked? He recovers, reaches towards me, gives me a peck on the cheek, beaming. ‘Good of you to come, good of you to come.’
‘We wouldn’t have missed it,’ says Lily huskily, shoving herself forward and thrusting her hand at him, ‘for the world. I’m Lily Venus.’
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