The Confusion of Karen Carpenter

by Jonathan Harvey

  The first thing I smell on her is cigarette smoke, which is pretty off-putting in a beautician. Oh, but I’ve got that wrong, because she introduces herself as my ‘aesthetician’ for the day. Aesthetician. Whatever will they think of next?

  She leads me down a tatty grey corridor to something she extravagantly announces to be Treatment Room 1. It’s like a broom cupboard with a wallpaper table in it. She instructs me to strip completely (I have no idea why. I have only come to get my nether regions sorted), but because she’s a little bit scary, I’m completely naked in seconds. She then tells me to hop on the table and squat on all fours with my butt facing her.

  She does actually use the word ‘butt’.

  In fact she says it a few times and instructs, ‘Prise apart your butt cheeks with your hands for me so I can get a good look, thank you.’

  I’m left thinking, Blimey, this aesthetician didn’t go to finishing school. Her voice rasps. In fact, it’s not really a voice, just the sound of an ashtray dying.

  ‘Shifty round so I can see your butthole – that’s it. Left a bit. Left a— Right a bit. Bullseye. ’Cos I’m gonna start by sorting your butt out.’

  Again, not a sentence I have heard that often in everyday life. But who knows? Now I’m single, maybe I will.

  Don’t think about Michael. Don’t think about Michael.

  ‘Cor, you’ve really let it go down there, haven’t you?’ she says with a whistle through her teeth before and after. She sounds like she’s just caught a glimpse of an overgrown meadow and doesn’t know where to start with her Flymo.

  Something about this doesn’t feel right. Forget the fact that I have never stripped in front of another human being except a) at the doctor’s, b) in the changing rooms at the swimming pool, and c) in front of Michael – well, not when I’ve had bodily hair, let’s say – it’s just when I pictured myself having my first Brazilian, I assumed there’d be a level of comfort involved.

  ‘D’you want me to bleach that while I’m down there?’ she’s asking, sounding like her teeth are too big for her mouth. Maybe she got them knock-off.

  ‘Bleach what?’

  ‘Your butt.’ As she says it, she sort of taps it with what might either be a finger or the end of a blusher brush. This could be a whole new parlour game: Guess What We’re Poking Your Butt With As You Look Away. Not sure it’ll catch on, though.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  God, was my actual hole jet black or something?

  ‘Won’t take long.’ Oh God, she is doing the hard sell. ‘It’s a good colour. Hang on. I’ve got the wrong glasses on. These are my driving glasses.’

  I hear her rummaging about in a drawer, then feel her breathing out over my bum. It feels completely weird and something down there contracts.

  ‘No. Right first time. That’s not a bad colour, actually.’

  ‘Just a Brazilian, please.’

  ‘Okey-dokey. I’ll just put some nice relaxing music on.’

  I’m not sure what your definition of ‘nice relaxing music is’. I half expect to hear the sound of babbling brooks or whale music. Instead I have to listen to a Steps album as she gets to work.

  I stare ahead of me, trying to ignore what she is doing. On the wall in front of me is a large sepia-coloured photo of Shirelle dressed up in a frilly skirt with a sawn-off shotgun in her hands. She is in fancy dress to look like a saloon-bar girl from a Wild West movie. Underneath in the frame are the words ‘Olde Worlde Portraits, Margate.’ Not the most obvious choice, I wouldn’t have thought, for the wall of your beauty spa, but then it would appear Shirelle is no ordinary beautician/aesthetician. I mean, she has a certificate further along the wall, in a clip frame. It’s a bit wonky in the frame, but look, she has qualifications. And there’s her name for all to see.

  Shirelle Pepper

  That rings a . . .

  Oh . . . shit . . .

  Shirelle Pepper, mother of Keisha-Vanessa, the mother who wrote in to complain about me upsetting her by insisting she pretend her mother was dead.

  No wonder she recognized me. We’ve met at parents’ evenings.

  Oh, this is mortifying. It is – it’s completely mortifying.

  What do I do now? She surely thinks I already know who she is. Amazingly, she didn’t seem that surprised that I was unfazed about revealing my genitalia to her and practically shoving my butt in her face.

  I tell you one thing about Shirelle Pepper, she knows all the words to Steps’s back catalogue.

  I feel I have to say something, though, otherwise she might think I’m rude.

  And I better say something soon, because if I don’t, I will obsess about meeting her again at parents’ evening and thinking, Oh my God, this woman offered to bleach my bumhole, etc. So I have to block that out with conversation.

  ‘So . . .’ I say, sounding, it has to be said, like I am shitting it. Though considering the position I am in currently, it’s a good job I’m not. ‘. . . you like Steps.’

  It isn’t a question, it is a statement of fact, but she leaps on it as an invitation to spout forth about her favourite supergroup. How she loves ‘them Steps’ and how she’s watching some show on Sky about them reforming and how it always moves her to tears; how she’d like to get her hands on Claire’s nether regions and ‘strip her right back to basics’.

  The more excited she gets as she speaks, the rougher she is with my bits. ‘On your back!’ she suddenly snarls, and I flip over like a pancake with my legs splayed. I have no idea what she is doing down there, and I daren’t look, but when she says, ‘OK, I’m gonna go inner lip now,’ I close my eyes, bite my (facial) lips and hope to God my parts behave down there.

  It is painful. They are the only three words for it.

  OK, there are four. It is bloody painful.

  Why am I doing this? Kevin is not going to see my lady bits today.

  Not unless he gets me really drunk.

  No. No, he won’t.

  All I know is I won’t be in a hurry to get this particular procedure done again. Having a Brazilian seems to involve her dabbing on a load of hot gunk from a trolley, sticking rolls of Sellotape all over me, then ripping it off with no thought as to how it actually might make me feel. Which is like someone is peeling me and then dipping me in a bag of salt. As you can imagine, it’s not the best feeling in the world. I’m really burning down there when she finally announces she is done.

  ‘You look lovely,’ she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

  ‘Great,’ I say, sliding off the table and limping over to retrieve my clothes.

  Surely she should put some moisturizer on or something, anything to take away the pain and soothe the raw skin, but she clomps out saying she needs to let her Denzil in the yard for a wee as she’s not had time to walk him today.

  I glimpse down briefly, expecting to see that I’m smoother than a billiard ball in my down-belows, but instead I just see that my groin appears to be glowing bright pink, like a sunburned albino. Neon pink or hot pink, and it certainly feels hot. All I fancy doing is finding a bath of ice and lowering myself into it slowly. Ah, the relief! But instead I pull up my thong – why did I wear a thong?! – which really stings, and then slowly peel on my jeans. I feel like there’s a foreign object round the back of my knickers, so I unpeel the jeans to check I’ve not got a sock caught in there, but my jeans and thong are empty. Up they go again and I stagger out to the reception and prepare to pay. Which is when it dawns on me.

  I’m pretty sure she’s left some wax on my bum cheeks. And why? This is payback. She has done a Brusque Brazilian to attack me for being so unkind and callous to her daughter, and therefore left the job half finished.

  But I will not let her think she has won. Oh no!

  She’s all smarmy smiles when she returns from letting out the dog, and I’m sure she charges me five pounds more than it said on the pamphlet, but I’m not in a position to argue.

  Before I leave, I say, ‘I’m sorry about the busine
ss with Keisha-Vanessa. I really didn’t mean to upset her.’

  Shirelle glares at me, then shrugs.

  ‘I was just trying to get them to imagine how Connor would be feeling. He’s a boy in my class who—’

  ‘I know who Connor is, darlin’,’ she practically spits at me, ‘and don’t get me started on his dad!’

  His dad. His dad with whom I have a date in an hour and a half. What does she mean? Christ, even she knows he’s a wrong ’un. Should I say anything? I want to, but then I get a twinge of pain between my legs and decide it’s probably better if I just go. Maybe I could subtly unzip my fly on the street and try and get the wind on it, cool it down.

  ‘Well, it was just a misunderstanding and . . . well, hopefully it’s all cleared up now.’

  Unlike the mess between my legs, I want to add.

  ‘Yeah I got some letter from Miss Thing.’

  She means Butterly I nod and head for the door.

  I’m sure I hear her laughing as I leave.

  I nearly didn’t come on this ‘date’. After seeing Michael last night, I just lay on my bed fretting and trying to gain some meaning from it, though I found little. His reappearance brought geysers of emotions bubbling up inside, popping memories into my bedroom like bubbles of hot air. They danced before me, like they were playing on floating television screens. They were all happy memories. First was a party we went to where he did ‘London’s Calling’ on SingStar and then we disappeared into a guest bedroom and made out on top of a pile of coats like we were teenagers again. Then there was going to a posh hotel in the West End to see him receive his award for good service from the Underground. He looked so sweet in his ill-fitting suit, and the large African woman who presented him with his certificate flirted with him in her national dress. For half an hour or so I was comforted and encouraged by the thought that not everything was bad about me and Michael, that not every aspect of our lives was dictated by his illness, but every bubble bursts, and all television sets eventually get turned off, and I was then left deflated, watching the memories fade, replaced instead with the familiar feeling of dread that was my modus operandi for so long. I remembered the days when waking in the morning, I would discover life was all downhill from then on, constantly wondering if I’d ever find a way out from the maze of dread. Well, now I had. So why was I even contemplating seeing Michael again? He was bad news, right? I was resolute. Suddenly my backbone turned to steel. I had to go on this date.

  So here I am, waiting outside the Palace Theatre, just before three, to meet a man I hardly know to kill some time and interrupt the mundane predictability of my life at the moment. To mix things up a little and to stop me thinking about Michael, even though it’s nearly two months since he left. The little I do know about Kevin doesn’t bode well. Plus I feel like my bum cheeks have been pebble-dashed with half an altar candle. I hope to God his opening gambit isn’t ‘Let’s go and pull a moony at some people on Leicester Square!’ Oh God! Can you imagine? Yes, as long as his opening line isn’t that, this could just about be bearable. If it wasn’t for the butt thing.

  The trees over the road look naked. It’s too early for the first green buds of the new year. When a breeze whistles through them they shake, their branches like sinister pointing fingers. The hanging baskets outside a pub nearby lie barren. The only things growing seem to be the weeds pushing up between the paving stones. How hardy they are to survive.

  I have a good look at the poster for Singin’ in the Rain and the big publicity photos that are festooning the building. How ironic – a big, romantic, soppy Hollywood love story and here I am waiting to meet a hot guy who comes from the ‘love ’em and leave ’em, especially when your wife is dying’ school of romance. I should run, really. If I had any sense, I would just turn round and leg it, jump on a bus, any bus, and get the hell away from Tottenham Court Road, but these shoes are a bit rubbish for running in. Besides, I think I might actually do myself a wax-related chafing injury if I so much as canter right now. As I stand here, I decide I have invented a new word. I will write to the Oxford University Dictionary, or whatever it’s called, and inform them.

  chafinjury: n. an injury caused by chafing: that bitch did a Brusque Brazilian and shortly I will do myself a chafinjury.

  I like my new word. It’s got legs.

  So, to avoid a chafinjury, I decide I could just waddle away. That is my only option.

  It’s a crisp, cold day, but the sun is high in the sky. If I was to say it’s like Piccadilly Circus round here, it would be highly appropriate, as the circus itself is only a stone’s throw away. It has to be one of the busiest corners of London. This intersection divides the gay streets of Soho to the north-west and Piccadilly Circus to the south-west; Covent Garden’s round the corner if you head south-east, and—

  Oh God, I see him. He’s carrying a massive bouquet of red roses. He’s dressed differently, and his face looks . . . What’s happened to his face?

  It’s not him. I’m part relieved, part disappointed. Mr Red Roses walks past and thrusts them in the face of a timid-looking woman in a very loud coat. Maybe she thinks the coat lends her confidence. Unfortunately it just lends her the air of someone with no personality wearing a loud coat. She seems a bit nonplussed about the flowers. I feel like pushing her out of the way and grabbing them like a bouquet at a wedding and—

  ‘Miss Carpenter?’

  Oh. I know that voice.

  I spin round. Kevins stood there with a big, goofy grin on his face. It’s a grin that says he’s a bit excited and a bit nervous. It also says, ‘How the hell did this happen, and isn’t it just weird?’ It’s a good smile; it’s perfect. Surrounding said smile is a bit more stubble than was there yesterday, and correct me if I’m wrong, but the severity of his fringe informs me that he’s paid a visit to his local barber this morning. I want to spin him round and check that said barber didn’t leave a comb or scissors in the back of his head as payback for some imagined misdemeanour, but maybe that’s just the luck of my draw.

  ‘Karen!’ he says, now I’m facing forward.

  I don’t know whether to hug him or shake his hand, but he cuts through my indecision and grabs me and gives me a brief but winding hug. He smells good. His scent is citrusy and sharp and jolts my nostrils. My hands slip down him rather saucily as he’s wearing a boxy leather jacket, the colour of a mushroom.

  ‘What d’you fancy doing?’ I say as I extrapolate myself from his clutches.

  ‘Well, we could go for a walk,’ he offers, knowing it sounds a bit shit, but hey, it’s a suggestion. It’s not raining, so it’s a fair enough idea. I’d’ve been shocked if he’d suggested a trip to a museum.

  I nod like I think it’s the best of a bad bunch of ideas, and we start walking down Shaftesbury Avenue towards Piccadilly. We walk at a distance of about a foot away from each other, but sometimes squeeze closer to avoid oncoming tourists, or sometimes lose each other briefly, like when we pass a group of girl guides with Soho maps. We chat casually about what we’ve done with our days. He has indeed been to ‘get his ears lowered’ (his phrase for having his hair cut), but I refrain from telling him I’ve had a Brusque Brazilian. He asks if I’ve eaten, so I reply, ‘Oh, I can always eat,’ and he suggests we mozie into Chinatown and grab a bite there. Before we do, though, we stand and snigger at some dreadful caricaturists touting their wares alongside some cashpoints. One quite pretty girl sits giggling, completely unaware that the bespectacled artist has lent her an air of a bloodhound. Someone I take to be her boyfriend stands behind the artist, wetting himself with laughter. We move on.

  We turn into Chinatown and it doesn’t feel like we’re in London anymore; in fact it feels like we’re on the set of Aladdin and we’re venturing into Old Peking.

  He hasn’t suggested we moony anyone yet. This is good.

  There’s the ornately jewelled arch rising above us, a statue of a scary smiling lion and at the far end a gaudily coloured pagoda. With the smells of roasting duc
k, the sounds of sizzling noodles, rows of restaurants and supermarkets, it really feels like another world.

  ‘I speak fluent Cantonese,’ Kevin leans in and says.

  I’m impressed.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nah,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I don’t even speak Eric Cantona. This one doesn’t look too gruesome, and it’s got some seats.’

  It’s only as we’re entering this bijou place on the main drag of Gerrard Street, complete with four dead ducks sweating in the window on skewers, like garish Turner Prize bunting, that I realize I’ve been walking normally since meeting Kevin and have not been aware of discomfort of the cheekage. He must provide the bridge over the troubled waters of my backside. Or maybe, finally, the remaining chunks of wax have dislodged themselves from my derrière and dropped down the legs of my jeans. I don’t look back, but if I did, I just know there’d be a trail of red spots of wax marking – Hansel and Gretel-like – my route here.

  The restaurant, the Smiling Lion – how apt – is a cosy affair where you’re nose to nipple not only with each other but with everyone sitting at adjoining tables. Kevin rips the paper covering off his chopsticks as soon as he sits down and starts a display with them not unlike a baton-twirling majorette in Iowa. I feel immediately inept – no change there, then – as I know sooner or later I will have to ask for a fork. Chopsticks have never been my forte. We never ate out as a family, so I never experimented with adventurous cuisines till I left home and went to university. And even then it was only a kebab after a pub crawl. When I went to my first Chinese restaurant, I attempted to use what felt like these two knitting needles to eat with and ended up poking myself in the eye, the neck and the bodywarmer. (It was the 1990s.) While everyone else managed to scrape up fistfuls of noodles, I ate hardly anything, but drank a lot of sake and threw up in the gutter at the end of the night. From then on I asked for a fork and spoon, and wolfed down everything in sight.