by Anna Jacobs
‘Do you do those makeovers on older women?’ Emily demanded. ‘I’m forty-six and I look a right old mess.’
‘Of course, madam. Our service can help anyone.’
‘How much do you charge?’
‘Three hundred dollars for a complete makeover, madam.’
Emily gasped and couldn’t speak for a minute, so shocked was she at the amount.
The voice became husky and confidential. ‘I know it sounds a lot, madam, but just think what you get. A hairstyle by Mr Benjamin himself – and he’s the best hairstylist in Perth, I do assure you – and a facial and remake by our Mrs Wentworth. She used to be in films, you know. She’s done the stars, she has. There’s no one to touch her for make-up, I promise you. And finally our Miss Dashley will take you shopping for a new outfit. She has a real eye for what suits people and she knows all the best places.’
Emily found herself smiling. Well, they’d certainly earn their three hundred dollars with her! They’d have an impossible job making someone like her look glamorous. Oh, why not? With all that insurance money just lying in the bank she could easily afford to spend a bit on herself.
She’d had no idea that her Tom had taken out such massive life insurance, but then, he’d always tried to look after her.
‘Are you still there, madam?’
‘Yes. I’m thinking about it. It’s a lot of money to spend – well, it is for me, anyway. What if I don’t like the makeover?’
The voice became haughty. ‘I can assure you, madam, that no one has ever been dissatisfied with one of our makeovers.’
‘There’s always a first time.’ Emily prided herself on being practical. ‘Go on. Tell me what happens if I don’t like it.’
‘In that case, madam, our watertight guarantee comes into operation. You may either have your money back – in full – or you may have another makeover, entirely at our expense.’
‘Hmm. Well, that sounds fair enough. Book me in for one.’
She did the best she could for her birthday tea at Katie’s, but in the end she couldn’t bring herself to wear the black dress with sticky young fingers around.
On the way out she paused in the hall. ‘You wait!’ she told that mirror. ‘Two more days and you won’t recognize me.’
She hoped.
By the time Emily arrived at Beauty International two days later, she had a million butterflies practising for the Olympics in her stomach. She’d never even been into a beauty salon before and hadn’t told Katie or the girls at work what she was doing. Well, the young ones would laugh at the idea of someone her age going to a beauty salon and the older ones would wonder if she had a new man in view.
Beauty International was in one of the top city hotels. Emily had never even been anywhere which oozed luxury as this place did. She and Tom had always rented holiday flats when they went away, and she’d done the cooking, with perhaps one or two meals out, for a treat.
When a doorman in a top hat flourished her a bow as he held the door open she inclined her head in thanks, unable to speak for nervousness.
She paused just inside the foyer. She hadn’t realized it would be so big. Where did she go now?
Away in the distance, across a mile of thick carpet patterned with pastel leaves and flowers (she was glad she didn’t have the cleaning of that!) there was a sign saying ‘RECEPTION’.
As she made her way over to it, she felt sure everyone was staring at her, wondering what such a scruffy person was doing in a place like this. She hadn’t liked to wear the black crêpe just to get her hair cut and her face made-up, but if she went on like this, that dress would never come out of the wardrobe again.
An elegant young thing smiled at her from behind the reception desk. ‘May I help you, madam?’
‘I’m looking for Beauty International,’ said Emily, wishing her voice didn’t always become gruff when she was nervous.
She shouldn’t have done this, she really shouldn’t. Just because she had some spare money, there was no need to waste it. Of all the foolish ideas, fancy trying to do something with a face like hers and with unruly hair which would never do as she wanted!
‘Take the lift to the first floor, madam, and turn left when you get out. Beauty International is the last shop in the row.’ The girl gestured with one perfectly manicured hand.
Emily saw a sign saying ‘LIFTS’. First hurdle over. ‘Thank you,’ she managed, because it was unthinkable not to be polite. She’d always drilled it into the children. Manners cost you nothing. A beggar can be as polite as a king.
Her son seemed to have forgotten about that nowadays, though. Gavin had come down briefly from the north for his father’s funeral, said very little and gone back to work again. He’d hardly said a word to her, let alone asked her what she was going to do now.
She was going to have to do something about her lazy son, she definitely was.
She came out of the lift into a world of palest pink walls, more thick carpets, dusky pink this time – how impractical could you get? – and subdued lighting. Flowers cascaded out of huge bowls on little gilt tables, looking so perfect she had to touch one to check if it was real. And it was.
Soft-toned paintings in ornate gold frames graced the walls and she paused in front of one of them, two children in 1920s dress playing with a little dog while their mother looked on smiling. It was beautiful, every detail perfect.
Emily swallowed hard and turned left, staring into the shop windows in amazement. Dresses that cost as much as she spent on clothes in a year. Shoes that cost four hundred dollars for two little straps. Jewellery, perfumes, all the luxury goods you could imagine. It was like another world. It was another world to her.
When she saw the outside of Beauty International, she paused as if to look in the window, then sucked in a deep breath and took herself by surprise, sweeping through the door before she could change her mind and run away.
She had never run from anything in her life and she bloody well wasn’t going to start now. She didn’t normally swear, didn’t believe in it. But then, she didn’t normally visit beauty salons in posh hotels.
‘Good morning, madam.’
It was the same cooing voice she’d dealt with on the phone. Emily looked at its owner and took heart. The young woman might be ultra-smart but she had a really nice smile. You could tell a lot about people from their smiles. Emily peered at the badge on her chest. ‘Good morning, Rachel.’
‘How may we help you?’
‘I’m booked in for a makeover.’
‘Mrs Norris?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please come this way, madam.’
Grimly determined, Emily followed Rachel into a perfumed world of discreet lights and soft music.
The young woman looked sideways at her and winked. ‘Birthday present, is it?’
Emily relaxed a little. ‘No. Just a present to myself to cheer me up.’
‘You won’t regret it. They work miracles here, honest they do.’
‘They’ll have to, with me.’
There was the sound of a door opening and the young woman’s voice changed back to its formal tones. ‘Our beauty team will be with you in a moment. Please take a seat, Mrs Norris.’
Emily walked over to an ultra-modern chrome and leather chair and sat down on the edge of it, clutching her handbag. Smart, but uncomfortable, that chair. All show and no go, her stepmother would have said. Poor Megs. She hadn’t lived to make old bones. Sixty-two was nothing nowadays.
Emily’s parents hadn’t made old bones either. She was going to do her best not to follow their example, had learned about nutrition when the children were young from a book she’d picked up in the library.
All around her were mirrors and lights. She avoided looking at her reflection and picked up a glossy magazine.
‘Mrs Norris?’
A tall young fellow with long blond hair tied back in a pony tail and tight black leather trousers minced across the room towards her and extended a languid h
and. ‘I’m Benjamin. I do the hair.’
As he let go of her hand, he looked at her head as if he had seen a maggot crawling out of an apple he was eating. ‘Hmm, yes. I see.’
Emily wondered whether to get up and leave now, to save further embarrassment, but before she could move, a middle-aged lady with red hair (definitely dyed), wearing a floating pink overall over black trousers and top, marched forward and also extended a hand, this time one embellished with dark red nails. ‘I’m Alice Wentworth. Make-up.’ She scrutinized Emily’s face. ‘You came without today. Very sensible.’
Emily gathered her courage together. ‘I don’t usually wear any.’
‘Really? How brave of you!’
Emily felt her courage shrivel into a small tight ball in the pit of her belly.
Miss Dashley, the last to greet her, was of indeterminate age and extremely thin. Her sleek hair, in a shade neither blonde nor grey, was tied back with a huge velvet bow at the nape of her neck and she was so elegantly clad that you’d think she’d just come back from taking tea with the Governor-General of Australia. She didn’t bother to shake hands or speak but stood there looking thoughtfully at her new customer. And Emily didn’t need telling what she was thinking.
Giving her an unexpectedly warm smile, Mrs Wentworth took charge. ‘You’ve been told the price?’
Emily’s back stiffened. Did they think she couldn’t pay? ‘Yes.’
‘We could offer you a discount if you’d allow us to photograph you before and after. Fifty per cent off.’ Her eyes were alight with fervour. ‘We haven’t had a lot of older women using our services. It would make a very telling advertisement.’
‘ Emily might be stupid enough to waste her money on a makeover, but she wasn’t stupid enough to tell the world about it.No, thank you!’
‘Are you sure? Half price,’ Mrs Wentworth added coaxingly.
‘I’d rather keep this private, thank you very much.’ Fed up of them looking at her like that, Emily demanded, ‘So, what happens now?’
‘First, I’ll cut your hair and restyle it.’ Mr Benjamin held up one strand in disdainful fingers. ‘You have strong hair, for your age, but it’s been badly cut. You must never go back to the butcher who did this to you.’ He shuddered artistically. ‘Never! They’ve destroyed all the natural bounce.’
Emily’s courage did not extend to arguing with him. Besides, the proof of the pudding was in the eating. Let him prove he could do something better. Mavis at the local salon had been in a hurry and cut it a bit raggedly last time.
Mrs Wentworth went on with her explanation, ‘After Mr Benjamin has finished, I shall give you a facial and teach you how to use make-up.’
‘I don’t really like make-up,’ Emily ventured. What would Katie say if her mother walked around all dolled up like an actress on opening night?
‘Our make-up is very unobtrusive. We do not believe in plastering thick colour on our faces,’ declared Mrs Wentworth, elevating her nose and using the royal plural as if she had a right to it. She relented, to add, ‘You’ll be amazed at the difference a little subtle colour can make, though, Mrs Norris. Amazed. They always are.’
With that she drifted out. Miss Dashley had already left.
Emily stared warily at Mr Benjamin. He snapped his fingers and a slender young woman in a pink jumpsuit appeared.
‘This is Angel. Angel, will you get Mrs Norris ready for her cut?’ He picked up a strand of Emily’s hair again. ‘You haven’t coloured it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s holding its colour quite well, then, really, considering your age. I don’t think we’ll touch that this time. Wash and condition, Angel. Lotion number five, I think. Then bring her through to me. I’ll see you shortly, Mrs Norris.’
Emily gave herself up to the luxury of letting Angel wash and massage her head, pat her and push her, swathe her head in a soft, warmed towel, then escort her through to Mr Benjamin. By then she was feeling somewhat more relaxed. There was nothing like being pampered. Mavis’s towels weren’t half as soft.
Mr Benjamin didn’t even ask her what she wanted doing, but talked over the top of her head to Angel, who was, it turned out, some sort of apprentice.
The first snip of the scissors sent terror slithering down Emily’s spine, but by then it was too late. A large chunk of hair at the front had vanished. In the end she simply closed her eyes and let the gentle fingers move her head around.
Half an hour later, as the apprentice put the blow-dryer away for Mr Benjamin, Emily stared into the mirror in amazement. Jaw-length hair, cut square across the bottom, gleamed and bounced around her face. She looked years younger already. Tears welled in her eyes and she had to wipe them away on the corner of the pink wrap that covered her body. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, her voice turning gruff again. ‘I never expected this. Thank you.’
In front of her Mr Benjamin’s reflection preened itself in the mirror. ‘It is rather you,’ he said modestly. With a regal inclination of the head – this lot could give the Queen of England lessons! – he drifted out.
‘If you’ll come this way, madam,’ said Angel, ‘I’ll take you through to Mrs Wentworth.’
With one more surreptitious glance at her reflection Emily followed, eager now for more miracles.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the make-up artiste, head on one side, studying Emily. ‘Ye-es, it really suits you. He’s a clever lad, our Benjamin is.’
Emily nodded. For the second time that day, she sat stiff and suspicious in a cubicle, this time surrounded by bottles and make-up tubes of all shapes and sizes.
Once Angel had left them, however, Mrs Wentworth unbent. She winked at Emily in the mirror. ‘I’m not going to murder you, you know.’
‘I’m just – I’m not used to make-up and – and all these things.’ In a burst of honesty Emily added, ‘I’ve never even been inside a beauty salon before.’
‘Really? Well, you don’t know what you’ve been missing. I like to let someone else spoil me from time to time. Let me just put the neck support in and then this band round your forehead, so that we don’t mess up your hair. There you are. Comfy?’ A flick of Mrs Wentworth’s fingertips sent the chair into a reclining position.
Emily clutched the armrests and reminded herself how well her hair had turned out.
‘Close your eyes. I’m going to give you a facial first. You aren’t using enough moisturizer, you know. Women of our age need to cherish their skin and protect it from the weather. It’s ruinous to let it get dry, absolutely ruinous. You wouldn’t believe the amount of money I spend on my moisturizers, but they’re worth every cent.’
A gentle monologue was accompanied by the slapping on of lotions and the massaging of Emily’s face. A faint perfume drifted into her nostrils. An astringent lotion made her skin tingle. When, after what seemed ages, the last one had been wiped off, her skin felt cool and fresh. She put up one hand to touch it.
‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’
‘It feels wonderful.’
‘I’ll teach you how to do it at home. I have it all written down.’
After the facial, Mrs Wentworth let Emily try dozens of creams and smears of make-up on the back of her hand, and they studied them together. Then she frowned at Emily’s expression. ‘It’s no use me giving you the works, love. You won’t use most of these, will you?’
Emily blushed. Mrs Wentworth had read her correctly.
‘How about we concentrate on the eyes, then? You’ve got nice eyes, you know, but you don’t show them off to best advantage. We’ll give you a facial moisturizer with a hint of colour in it, and a dash of lipstick. Not too dark. That wouldn’t suit you.’ She chuckled at the relief on Emily’s face. ‘You’re thinking of stage make-up, love. We want you able to face the world with confidence, not sing in the back line of the opera.’
When Mrs Wentworth had finished, Emily sat silent in front of the mirror. Her hair bounced nicely around her face. Her complexion had always been good, but somehow it
seemed better now. And her eyes. They looked big – and had they always been so bright a blue? ‘It’s wonderful!’ she breathed. ‘Just – absolutely – wonderful!’
‘Yes, I have done rather a good job on you, if I say so myself. Your skin’s not bad, for a woman your age. Now, if I were you, Mrs Baker, I’d get my eyeliner tattooed in.’
Emily jerked upright in shock. ‘Tattooed!’
‘It’s only semi-permanent. Look at my eyes. Never think that line was tattooed on, would you?’
Emily stared at Mrs Wentworth’s eyes. ‘Tattooed?’ she repeated faintly. Whatever would people think of next?
‘Well, love, I don’t know how your eyesight’s going, but I can’t see to draw those fine lines on myself nowadays, not when I take my glasses off, I can’t. So I had them tattooed on instead. Marvellous, aren’t they? If I were you, I’d get yours done. Not thick lines, just delicate ones. I can tell you where to go for it.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘I am. You can face anyone if your eyes look good, even if you’ve no other make-up on at all. Now, let me call Angel to get you a nice cup of tea and then we’ll turn you over to our Miss Dashley.’
She leaned forward to whisper confidentially, ‘Don’t be put off by her coolness. She wouldn’t get excited if a bomb went off under her, that one, but she knows more about clothes than anyone I’ve ever met before, far more than those women on the telly. I always take her out with me when I want something special.’
By six o’clock that evening, Miss Dashley had helped Emily to spend over two thousand dollars and Emily didn’t begrudge a cent of it. When she got home, she sat on the bed, surrounded by her new clothes – casual, everyday and smart, the basics for every occasion. She stared at herself in the mirror, a smile curving her lips. She’d never looked this good – well, not for a long time, anyway.
She’d been quite pretty as a girl, she remembered now, looking at a face that seemed to have grown younger. At least, Tom had once thought she was pretty; had fallen in love with her at first sight.
She sat there for ages and it was only the phone ringing that made her realize she hadn’t even put the new clothes away.