by Mavis Cheek
She began to learn as much as she could about the subject. They discussed bees in between the drill and the mouthwash – how they feed on pollen and nectar from flowering plants, using their well-developed tongues to dip deep and long into the sweetness; how there is but one queen and all the rest mere drones (from unfertilized eggs) and workers (infertile females); how the queen bee who is lazy and indulged will one day be replaced by a younger successor.
Margery would lie there and dream. To be replaced, one day, by a younger successor ... Mrs Postgate was bound to be old. The gingham frock waited for the moment, the appropriate moment, and that moment would most certainly come. She would be Beautiful.
*
Caroline was deliriously happy. She decided that she now knew what rapture was, and her students were surprised at the sudden upswing in her interest in the French Romantics. Suddenly, it appeared that Rousseau was God, imagination and emotion the high altar. And Voltaire was an unfeeling bastard whose form, balance, discipline and clarity of purpose made statues of us all. An odd swing of academic loyalty, but they accepted it. She had a certain wildness in the eye, a certain propensity to laugh very loudly at anything vaguely amusing, a certain dewiness when a line of Mme de Stäel touched her deeply.
Bernie was also very happy. He whistled a lot, lost a little weight, and spent a good number of nights away from home. At first, in those early weeks, this had been very pleasant for Rita. He came home, worked on the house for two or three hours and then went out. This left her quite free to dream about her Organic Lover. Once she dared telephone, and a chap answered very crossly, saying that the Organic Lover was in the lambing shed; it was a hellishly busy time of year.
Bernie, not privy to the new lover’s interests, was moved to say to Caroline that he feared Rita was being hurt.
Caroline, who loved the world at that moment, felt terribly sorry. ‘Should we invite her out with us occasionally? If he’s busy?’
They tried, but Rita was contemptuous. She would rather stay in and dream. One up for Venus: Rita was truly in love.
Seeing Bernie and Caroline so drippy all over the place made Rita decide that the time had come to separate physically. Rather than move again, Bernie bought Rita out – why move when all he wanted was a bit of peace to enjoy his new love with Caroline? She lived nearby, so it seemed doubly foolish to give the place up. She might even, one day (why not now?), move in with him.
The deed was done. Within two weeks Rita had found a rented flat. She was entirely pleased with the arrangement. She was near to Bernie should she ever need his assistance, and she was free! He helped her move and they drank a little champagne together for old time’s sake. Best be nice, thought Rita, just in case – but she hardly dared think why.
They hugged.
He drove away with tears in his eyes but by the time he was round the corner he was already smiling again. Tonight he was going to cook Caroline a meal in his own home, and he had bought new sheets and pillowcases and a duvet as white as snow in which to bed her. He stopped at the corner and bought an armful of stocks, sweet williams and delphiniums; the woman at the stall winked at him. Back indoors he removed the large bunch of dried flowers from a vase and replaced them with the living blooms. For a moment his heart felt sad again: he had collected these now dessicated stems in a French field for Rita on one of their travels. That she could discard them so carelessly said everything, really. He swallowed hard, walked to the kitchen, and dumped the lot in the rubbish bin. All over now.
Venus smiled quizzically.
And Bernie, with the remaining pans and dishes Rita had left, set about preparing medallions of lamb, and fruit salad arranged in the shape of a heart.
Later, looking at Caroline’s semi-sleeping profile – blunt nose, strong jaw, straight mouth, he whispered that he wanted her to move in with him right away. And she, stirring, and still having her residual common sense despite the flights of romance, said Not Yet Darling, and kissing him once, fell asleep.
A big mistake, thought Venus, shaking her mischievious head.
One up, thought Mars.
Bernie took one last look at her before closing his eyes. She was quite, quite beautiful.
*
Gemma sat back against the settee in the waning sunshine and narrowed her eyes. Her toes twitched. She was thinking deeply. The coffee at her side had grown cold, The Times was folded at a particular page and lay across her stomach, and the scrunched remains of an Aero bar gave the lie to her healthy resolve.
Megan had come back, all pink-cheeked and wobbly in sweatshirt and leggings, and vanished into the bathroom to emerge an hour later wearing a fresh T-shirt, black with a glittering diamanté pattern (designer-weaned Gemma shuddered), different leggings, and pumps instead of trainers. And carrying her sponge-bag which contained her Dutch cap.
Did Gemma imagine it or, whenever Megan set off for Jim and a night of passion, did she not wave that sponge-bag about just a bit too carelessly? Did she not sigh just a bit too ostentatiously as she twirled it over her head? And were not the words, ‘Don’t know when I’ll be back,’ flung over her exiting shoulder with rather more happy emphasis than was strictly necessary? It made Gemma cringe.
Of course, she did not begrudge Megan any of these pleasures.
Oh yes she did.
She begrudged her every sodding one of them.
In fact there was a terrible moment, after Megan closed the door and made her heavy tripping noises down the stairs, when the heavy tripping noises changed into a couple of thumps and a bang, and Gemma’s instant hope was that she had broken one of her hefty ankles.
‘It’s OK,’ called Megan. ‘I’m all right. Just dropped my OVERNIGHT BAG.’
And the front door echoed with a cheery slam.
Alone. Nice. To have the flat to herself was always a bonus. Of course it would be a real bonus if she had someone to share the silence with ...
It was now nearly six o’clock. Darkness looming, spring cheer vanishing.
Gemma looked down at the paper in her hands, absently reached for her cup, sipped it, spat in disgust, stood up, turned on the lamp, stuck out her tongue at the bouncing airborne flower arrangement, moved to the bureau, sat at it, stared some more at the newspaper, reached for a pen, shook her head, put the pen down, picked it up again – thought – smiled – paused, pen poised – and then began making question marks down the column in front of her. TIMES SATURDAY RENDEZVOUS, it was headed, and she made her question marks in various places down the column headed GENTLEMEN.
What’s wrong with them? she said to herself.
What’s wrong with you, come to that? she replied.
Oh, Go For It.
She began to read them aloud, hoping, as in the old days with race cards, that one name would leap from the page, one advertisement say I AM HE.
But they all sounded wonderful. This in itself was depressing. She took it to mean that she was so desperate, she had lost all notions of taste.
And then – miracle – one really did stand out.
Kind, caring, solvent, attractive, into travel, stylish, forty, lonely and owns half of a sixteenth-century château in the Loire.
Gemma giggled. Monsieur Le Château required a letter and a photograph, and she spent a delightful evening composing the former in what she knew to be her stylish hand. She still had the Mont Blanc from Other Days and was glad now that she had not sold it. Not that the recipient would know she had written it with such a fine pen, but she did. It was like wearing pretty underwear, a hidden boost.
She sounded all right on paper. Own home, single, lively with a serious side. And loved the idea of the château. It was a good letter, and she posted it immediately before she could change her mind. Walking back in the spring night air, she hoped he was, as he sounded, looking for companionship rather than a quick fling. Quick flings were easy to find. Quick flings, sex and nothing else, hardened you, made you not very nice to know. She had always liked being nice to know. At th
e end of the day – no matter whom she had cut up in the City – she could always come home and face herself in the mirror.
Hell, if she only wanted sex for the rest of her life she could always go down to the Dog and Duck tonight in a mini-skirt and say loudly to Gloria behind the bar that She Was Anybody’s After A Couple of Pils. She had done so before with exactly the required results. Dreary after a time, and all those stilted morning-after conversations through the slightly bleary fug of lager. If they stayed. No, no – she felt, honestly, that she deserved better than that.
She felt she deserved to be cosseted, valued – but for that, she sighed, for that didn’t you have to be young, or at least beautiful?
9
Tabitha’s restlessness increased with the bright warm days of early summer. Clients were preparing themselves for the beach, for barelegged trailings around exotic markets, for long scented nights sipping pina coladas and wearing not very much, and Tabitha, usually so involved in the process, so devoted to the requirements, made her own very first blunder.
It was during a pore treatment: stimulates skin in the facial area, desquamates, refines surface texture. Pore treatment is not a relaxing facial routine; it is, as Tabitha is fond of saying, a method of giving imperfections their marching orders. Background music of a peaceful kind is essential, and Tabitha’s is a gentle Spanish guitar. The Beautician must concentrate – how often Tabitha has emphasized this to Chloe.
This particular Pore Treatment had the usual compacted surface skin, with glossy appearance, coarse texture and patchy coloration. Worse, blocked hair follicles had led to comedones and it would not be long before all this resulted in pustules, infection and discomfort. Tabitha looked on grimly while Chloe, under instruction and peering at the heinous display in a magnifying mirror, muttered in her ear that no one would keep their toilet in this condition. Though Tabitha tushed, she was inclined to agree with the rather brutal sentiment. The complexion before her was as messy as a seaside convenience in high season.
She had given a general cleansing, applied zinc oxide cream, and begun on pinchment (light petrissage) to increase vascular and lymphatic flow. She had placed her fingers gently under the mandible and was making firm rotaries on the nose tip – when her mind wandered off to a Spanish paradise with bougainvillaea, sea-spray and enchanting foods. In her yearning she forgot the client and the light petrissage completely. A Spanish Elysium where no beauty products dwell...
She could have been kneading dough. When she refocused she was startled to find not dough, but living flesh between her fingertips. Her soft pink pads had become like iron pincers and the woman was gasping for air as Tabitha kept them too firmly pressed upon the comedonical nostrils. The woman presumably trusted Tabitha with her life, for she made no struggle as her body began to deoxygenate.
Tabitha slapped her gently on the cheeks, saw that she was breathing properly again, though with popping eyes, smiled reassuringly despite the panic, and continued. Fortunately, the client’s skin was generally tough and rather coarse; had it been fine and delicate who knows what damage she might have caused? She might even have broken some capillaries. She shivered. The smile became harder to maintain. She prepared to apply a mask.
Chloe had quick eyes. A mistake. The doyenne of concentration had made a mistake.
‘That woman,’ she said later, nonchalantly, ‘will think twice before she neglects her cleansing routine again.’ Chloe sat down opposite and smiled into Tabitha’s eyes, ‘Won’t she?’
Tabitha’s fingers flew to her neck, a flush had begun to rise, and she could almost feel the snapping of the collagen level as the flesh mutated into crêpe.
It brought back the day that her own Cosmetics Muse, Betty, yielded to age. It was when she was using the small four-point electrode (quite a new thing in those days); one minute she was all concentration, the next her eyes had misted over and she was planning the opening chapter of her book A History of Beauty Treatments.
Betty, holding the electrodes in position on the client’s crosspatch lines, told her that before the war it was common practice in beauty competitions to cover the girls’ heads with paper bags, lest their facial beauty should detract from judgement of their bodies. And didn’t that say a thing or two about the Beautician’s Art?
Tabitha agreed that it did, and it appeared that the client also agreed because she was nodding and twitching away with unconcealed enthusiasm. Closer inspection, however, showed that the client was less nodding and twitching with enthusiasm, than with the involuntary muscular spasm associated with mild electric shock.
Betty had forgotten to put glycerine on the four contact coverings. This scarcely mattered when placed between eyebrows, but when the instrument slipped down towards the molar region of the Mandibular Ramus and made good dermal contact with the client’s metal fillings it was, to call a spade a spade just the once, as hellishly painful as the finer elements of torture.
‘That’s it,’ said Betty afterwards, ‘I’m through.’ And she practically hung up her Terylene tunic overnight.
Now it was Tabitha’s turn to go. She closed her eyes. Imagined a vibratory treatment where she forgot what she was doing and the applicator heads gouged into the client’s skin; imagined an oil mask on gauze where she forgot to cut holes for the mouth and nose. She shivered anew and looked across at Chloe, who was now completing old Mrs Spencer’s manicure; the girl’s youthful loveliness bent over the flaky liver-spotted hands and she was speaking in low, soft tones while the old woman nodded, half asleep.
Tabitha had several lonely old ladies as clients; they came, not to be made more beautiful, but to be touched, held, connected by human response again. Chloe had never seen the point, but Tabitha explained that, apart from the regular revenue, which was not to be sneezed at, it was also a kind of Social Service.
Chloe kept to herself the thought that old women did not need beauty treatments, and behaved impeccably. Nothing was going to trounce her. She was going back up that ladder again, and right to the top.
Tabitha watched the girl and the elderly client.
She had once seen a painting in a Venetian art gallery of a very old woman, all wrinkled and toothless, painted a long time ago by a man called Giorgione. ‘It will come to this,’ says the tag. ‘Come it must.’ Shocked at the old woman’s obvious lack of forethought for skincare, Tabitha was nevertheless impressed. She admired this Giorgione for his courage in the portrayal. But the Beautician has no right to become a symbol of Vanitas Vanitatum, as in that painting. A beautician who does so is no better than a butcher who eats no meat. You are what you sell. Tabitha sells Venus, Aphrodite, Helen – not Venus, Aphrodite or Helen’s mothers. She, the Beautician, must not find, in leaning over her client, that the client is looking up into flaccid skin or a neck in serious need of a scarf.
She looks across at Chloe again. How sweetly she deals with the old lady. Tabitha reassures herself. Chloe is ready, of course she is ready. She just needs to prove it, that’s all.
Later, while one of their regulars was undergoing the dimmed lights and gentle caress of ozone steaming (drying, healing, antibacterial and stimulatory) and another was on the sunbed (a paleskinned client for whom fifteen minutes in the sun-roof solarium was maximum) Tabitha invited Chloe to sit with her and talk about the future.
‘Do you remember,’ she said, ‘when you first came here and I asked you what was the function of skin?’
Chloe shook her head.
‘And you said, “The function of skin is to keep the bits in,” Tabitha laughed. ‘Remember?’
Chloe laughed. It still sounded all right to her.
‘And now, of course, you know that the function of skin is to control the body temperature – otherwise we should all cook or freeze.’
And keep the bits in, thinks Chloe, otherwise they’d be flopping everywhere. She nodded. ‘Silly of me,’ she said.
Tabitha patted her inward sloping knee, well hidden under the overall hem. ‘But you’ve c
ome a long way since then. Learned a lot. Haven’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Chloe, looking pleased, and tapping her Beautician’s Bible. ‘A lot.’
Tabitha feels that unease creeping up towards her neck again.
‘Old Mrs Spencer just now.’
‘Yes, Chloe – ’ Tabitha’s voice is a little high. ‘What about her?’ There is hope in the question.
‘Well – while I was doing her hands I was telling her about collagen implants.’
Tabitha widened her eyes.
Chloe’s smile was radiant with delight. ‘Of course, she certainly couldn’t afford those – but I sold her some of that new soluble collagen and an applicator.’ Her look implied Didn’t I Do Well?
Tabitha widened her eyes as far as they would go, which still did not seem enough. ‘But she’s eighty-two and living on a pension. It costs –’
‘I know, I know,’ said Chloe. ‘An arm and a leg. But we all like to dream, don’t we?’
You couldn’t gainsay that. Tabitha knew you couldn’t – yet it felt – well – not quite right. Something appeared to be happening in the salon, and she wasn’t exactly sure what. Yet again, Tabitha felt she had been wrong-footed and didn’t quite know why.
Fortunately the telephone rang and the moral dilemma was shelved.
Tabitha heard Chloe say ‘Tabitha’s Beauty Parlour.’ Pause. ‘What?’ Then. ‘I think you must have dialled wrong.’ Pause. ‘Bernie? Bernie? No one of that name here. This is a beauty parlour. Tabitha’s Beauty Parlour.’ Repeat of telephone number. ‘We do facials, massage, manicure, makeovers. You name it, we do it, but we don’t do Bernies.’
Down went the phone.
‘It’s Caro here, honeybun,’ mimicked Chloe. ‘Just called to say hallo ... ’ She returned to her seat near Tabitha.
“Why is it,’ she said, ‘that when you tell them they’ve got the wrong number, they never believe you?’
Tabitha, who had been lost in thought, nodded vaguely. She put down her cup and looked serious. Chloe was instantly on the defensive. Don’t say there actually was someone here called Bernie? She waited, fingering the packet in her overall again, her talisman and comfort. As far as she knew she had done nothing wrong recently. She was ready. Ready to do lymphatic drainage massage. Ready to give a Makeover. Ready to be the Boss ...