Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  I decided I’d try to find out more on Saturday when we’d have all day together – Stanley wasn’t seeing Daniel till Sunday. Perhaps we’d go for a pizza.

  I looked out of the window as we pulled into Bromley South, thinking I’d better start preparing for the day ahead. I dug in my handbag for a mirror and make-up, narrowly avoiding jabbing myself in the eye with an eye shadow brush as the train lumbered off again.

  ‘Do you mind coming by train again?’ Cal had sounded apologetic on the phone. ‘I think in all honesty it will be quicker at that time of the morning and it does help our budget. Of course we’ll get you picked up at Victoria.’

  My mobile rang even before we’d got into the station. ‘Ms Meredith? I’m your driver today. I’m just outside the Wilton Road entrance …’

  A dark blue BMW was waiting at the kerb, a suited chap in his fifties standing next to it. ‘Sorry I couldn’t come to the barrier,’ he said, as we drove off rapidly. ‘We’re not really allowed to stop here at all now – not even to drop off.’

  As we swung past the back of Buckingham Palace and out onto Grosvenor Place, I looked at the schedule I’d been emailed. First stop an address in W11. Sally-Ann Le Fern – Rejuvenation Consultant. I had another look at my saggy face as we drove along Kensington High Street. Ha ha. She’d have her work cut out.

  We pulled up outside a tall white house in a tree-lined street. Cal was standing by a white van with three other blokes.

  ‘This is our cameraman, Matt.’ A short, dark man in his 30s waved a hand at me. ‘Russ is our sound guy –’ Taller with blonde curls and an earring. ‘And –’ Cal put his hand on the shoulder of the youngest of the group, a short, fair boy of about 18. ‘Gabriel, our Man Friday of the moment.’ The boy smiled shyly. ‘Gabriel’s our runner. Tanya is production on this one but she’s going to be joining us later. Right – let’s go.’

  Inside, the house was stunning with a Mediterranean-type tiled hallway, huge flower arrangement on a polished table, and bright paintings on the white walls. We trooped up the curved staircase to a sort of reception on the first floor – a room with two cream sofas facing each other and a low table with copies of Vogue and Harpers Bazaar.

  I was deposited there with a young, red-headed girl called Leanne who was waiting with a leather trunkful of make-up and a pair of straighteners, while the others disappeared into another part of the house.

  Gabriel brought me a glass of water and then he disappeared too.

  Leanne didn’t say much but dabbed and smudged and patted away while I sat fiddling with my bracelets and wondering exactly what “rejuvenation” was going to involve. Eventually she held up a mirror. I didn’t like it quite as much as what Debby had done on the cookery programme – the make-up was much more obvious and my eyes and lips were quite dark – but I looked quite vampish. Cal put his head round the door and nodded approvingly.

  Eventually I was taken up another flight of stairs to the consulting room – more cream sofas and magazines – where cameras and lights were set up around a large mahogany desk.

  Sally-Ann was a Lycra-clad, tall, blonde American in her 50s with a born-again glow, a brilliant white-toothed smile and a voice a tad on the loud side. She gave my wrinkles the once-over and asked various questions about my general health, diet, how much water I drank and any “afflictions” I had.

  When we got to the bit about my PMT she gave me a broad if discomforting smile and swept her eyes over me once again. ‘And –’ she looked back at her notes, ‘you’re 42 years old, right?’

  Across the room Cal gave me a wink.

  Sally-Ann fixed her eyes on mine. ‘OK, well, this is a time, honey, when your body is going through big changes. Remember the changes you go through as a teenager when all those hormones are bouncing about? Yeah? Well this is about to happen again. You’re still menstruating regularly right now, yes?’

  I gave a small squirm. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, the average age that women go through the menopause is currently 51 but some women hit that point much earlier. With some women it’s all done and dusted at 40. What you have to remember is that you begin to be pre-menopausal five to ten years before the changes start. So you,’ she said brightly, ‘are probably going through that right now!’

  Wonderful.

  ‘In which case we are not so much talking about PMT but about being peri-menopausal.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ I said flatly, pulling a face.

  Cal grinned.

  Sally-Ann frowned. ‘If this is so, then your ovaries will have begun to decrease the production of progesterone and oestrogen. Oestrogen redistributes fat but as we age, our body shape changes. We will often notice a thickening of the waist – you know, that roll of fat below the belly button you see on so many middle-aged women?’

  I felt my eyes involuntarily drop to my stomach and my spirits plunge in the same direction. I looked resentfully at Cal. I thought this was supposed to be about being fab at 40, not a lesson in how decrepit I am. He winked again.

  Sally-Ann was becoming animated. ‘You will, in fact, become more testosterone-based as your oestrogen and progesterone levels drop and it is this which causes facial hair to appear and bones to start to thin. You may notice your hair thinning too, vaginal dryness, and depleted energy levels. Your sex drive will go and as you get older, skin starts to hang on you more loosely –’

  ‘You’re really cheering me up now,’ I interrupted gaily. I saw Cal signal to Matt, who moved in closer – presumably to capture the look of unrivalled joy on my face at the news of my impending descent into senility.

  ‘I’m just stating the facts,’ Sally-Ann put in disapprovingly. ‘If you’re aware what you’re up against, you can prepare yourself with the tools with which to fight the ageing process. Look at me!’ She suddenly sprung from her chair and towered above me. ‘How old do you think I am?’

  Clearly the answer was going to be “a whole lot older than you look” but I didn’t want to offend her unnecessarily even if she was depressing me to hell.

  ‘Er – 48?’ I asked, trying not to sound too bitter.

  ‘I am 59!’ she cried triumphantly. And I’m telling you that ten years ago I was dying – stiff as a board, burned out, washed up. Now –’ I jerked back in alarm as she leapt across the room and performed a handstand up against the wall.

  ‘Yoga has done this for me,’ she explained as she dropped back to her knees and wrapped a leg around her neck. ‘And it could do it for you too!

  ‘It is all about what you put in and how often you put it there,’ she said forcefully once she was mercifully back behind her desk. ‘What you eat, what you drink, how often you exercise. What you need to remember is that from now on, you’ve got to eat less and work out more, just to stay the same.’

  Marvellous. Just what I wanted to hear. I could see Cal and Russ grinning at each other while Matt swung the camera round to follow Sally-Ann as once again she rose from her chair. This was obviously making great TV for them even if it was making me want to go home and top myself.

  ‘Give me your arm!’ Oh God, what was she going to do now? Sally-Ann grabbed my wrist with one claw-like hand and closed the other one around where my biceps should have been. ‘Lift your arm up.’

  I lifted.

  ‘Now when I push, resist me,’ she instructed. As she pressed against my upper arm, I obligingly pushed up and knocked her hand back.

  ‘Good,’ she cried as if I’d done something amazing. ‘Now hold this!’

  A small glass tube was put into my other hand and my arm was lifted again. ‘Now resist me again.’ This time she pressed down really hard – she was surprisingly strong – and my arm flopped back against my side.

  ‘Ah ! I thought so!’ She whipped away the glass tube and replaced it with another one and repeated the process. This time she pressed down even harder. ‘Yeah!’ she cried, as though someone had just scored a winning goal. ‘You have a serious intolerance here …’

  ‘Can you e
xplain what you’re doing, for the camera?’ Cal asked from behind me.

  ‘Sure!’ Sally-Ann put yet another glass tube in my hand. ‘Kinesiology is the testing of the body’s resistance to foods and chemicals using an indicator muscle.’ She pushed my arm back down to my side again.

  ‘Intolerances show up as muscle weakness – as each muscle is connected to an organ via a meridian. If I do this –’ more shoving of my arm ‘ I’m testing out any weakness in Laura’s stomach. But if we do this –’ she repositioned my arm down against my side ‘ we’re testing out the effects of various foods through the meridian to the spleen.

  ‘Resist me,’ she said again, grabbing my wrist and pulling my arm outwards. I tried to tug it back.

  ‘Don’t turn your shoulder,’ she ordered, hauling away. ‘Relax!’ I went floppy and she held my arm high in the air. ‘See?’ she cried in triumph.

  ‘Do you suffer from bloating?’ Everyone looked at my stomach. ‘Are you tired and irritable? Do you get mood swings and bowel problems?’ she intoned in a sing-song voice like an old fashioned ad for Anadin.

  ‘Er no, not really,’ I muttered embarrassed. ‘Well, sometimes.’

  Sally-Ann beamed at me. ‘Did you feel how weak you were when you held this, honey?’ She waved the small glass phial at the camera. ‘You need to stay right away from wheat, lactose, chicken, and onions. You should also cut out alcohol, sugar, and red meat …’

  I gave her a tight smile as the list continued. It was getting better and better. I felt myself glaze over as she began to bang on about the regime of hot water, wheat grass, and royal jelly that had changed her life, suddenly remembering to look fascinated as Matt moved in so close he’d be getting every open pore.

  The thought made me put an anxious hand to my upper lip – what was that cheering comment Stanley had made the other day in the car? ‘Mum, you’ve got a black hair there, like a moustache.’ I’d gone straight home for the tweezers but suppose there was another one?

  Sally-Ann was talking about wild yam cream and the benefits of a “super-potency soyagen”. Her voice drilled into my head. ‘A similar molecular structure to progesterone … Effective in treating hot flushes … May help with weight loss – increases energy, stamina and sex drive …’ I began to feel like I needed some fresh air.

  ‘There is a theory that it can be even be used as a natural form of birth control,’ Sally-Ann said, after she’d finally taken a breath. ‘But I wouldn’t bank on that one, honey.’ Then she laughed loudly. ‘Though you’re probably infertile now anyway …’

  ‘Terrific,’ I said to Cal as we left, me clutching various packages of powders, pills, and creams and the diet sheet that excluded every single foodstuff I’d ever loved. ‘I don’t know about rejuvenation – I’ve never felt so ancient in my entire life. I feel like slitting my bloody throat!’

  ‘She’s supposed to be the best in the business,’ said Cal. ‘Costs a fortune normally – all the Notting Hill set use her. She’s got a six-month waiting list.’ He nudged me. ‘But don’t let her get you down. You don’t really need her – you look fantastic already. And much younger than 42!’

  ‘Thank you.’ I grinned at him, feeling suddenly happier.

  He grinned back boyishly, showing lots of very even white teeth. ‘And you’re going to look even yummier shortly – we’re getting your hair done next.’

  I wondered if anyone would think about food. It seemed a jolly long time since the muffin I’d eaten on the train that morning. We’d been offered herbal tea in Sally-Ann’s and I’d seen Russ eat an apple outside on the pavement between cigarettes. Might lunch be forthcoming at some point?

  It seemed not. Cal and I got back in the car while the others carried the equipment away along the pavement. ‘Antonio’s now, please,’ said Cal cheerfully to the driver who put down his newspaper and nodded in the rear mirror. ‘Address on your list.’

  Antonio’s was just off Sloane Square – all mirrors and chrome with fountains running through slate chips and cool black-and-white fittings.

  Antonio himself was a smouldering Italian with black curls, beautiful dark eyes, and a sulky expression. ‘Who did this to you?’ he said, in his heavy accent, picking up a lock of my hair and inspecting it with disdain. ‘It is a – how do you say it? A trav-est-y? A dog’s breakfast?’

  I gave a small snort of laughter.

  ‘It is not good,’ he summed up, curling his lip.

  ‘What would you recommend for Laura?’ Cal adopted a smooth interviewer’s tone as Matt moved in with the camera. ‘We’re looking for something young and funky.’

  In the mirror I saw the skinny Tanya arrive, wearing black leather trousers and a waistcoat. Her hair was spikier than ever, her eyes smoky black, her lips today as purple as her nails. Cal turned and kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t smile.

  Antonio was still picking at bits of my hair. ‘The colour, it is all wrong,’ he said. ‘There is too much heaviness here –’ He flicked his fingers across the top of my head. ‘And it is needing something here –’ He held up a strand of evening plum at the back of my neck and looked at it pityingly.

  ‘You do whatever you think,’ said Cal, smiling at my reflection. ‘But we’re thinking fun, sexy hair to reflect the modern 40-something woman who’s still 19 inside.’

  Over his shoulder, I saw Tanya roll her eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It took hours. Cal and Tanya disappeared somewhere while a smiling girl called Kelly first lightened my hair all over to get rid of the plum and then washed it. Matt filmed me with a towel wrapped round my head, then he and Russ wandered off as well. There was no sign of Gabriel.

  They all came back for a while when the colourist, Selena, did her bit, after she’d been in a huddle with Antonio. And then what felt like days later – I was seriously starving by now, despite being given a little wafer biscuit thing with my coffee (nobody seemed to remember what Sally-Ann had also said about caffeine and I wasn’t about to remind them) and some grapes – they all regrouped around me once more when Antonio appeared in a flourish of scissors.

  As he furiously snipped, Tanya sat on a stool with a clipboard, writing things down and occasionally calling Cal over to look at whatever she’d written. She looked thoroughly bored. Cal seemed as smiling and energised as he had all day.

  ‘You OK?’

  He touched my shoulder as Antonio swung my chair round and began chopping away at my fringe. I pulled a face that was supposed to convey the impression I was having the time of my life even if I had no idea what this crazed Mediterranean was doing to me, and Cal laughed.

  I now had my back to the mirror so I really did have no idea what Antonio was doing but there seemed to be an awful lot of hair on the floor. God knows what colour it was supposed to be – it just looked wet and brown, though Selena had said she was using four different highlights.

  I tried an experimental smile on Tanya. She bent her mouth into a small grimace in return and went back to her notes. After a while she threw the clipboard on the floor turned her back on everyone and made a very long phone call. I heard her mention “Len” a couple of times, who I remembered was the lighting bloke with the pony tail from Cook Around the Clock and – presumably – her boyfriend.

  ‘Hey, Laura, mind if we blindfold you for the last bit?’

  ‘What?’ I looked stupidly at Cal, who was smiling down at me.

  ‘We probably won’t use it but it might be fun – you know they way they do it in the DIY programmes? We’ll unveil the new you and you can scream in joy as you see yourself in the mirror.’

  ‘Or cry,’ put in Russ laconically.

  There was a bit of general laughter as a scarf was put around my eyes. I hoped it wasn’t at whatever had happened to my hair, which was now being dried.

  I suddenly wondered guiltily how Stanley was. He must be back at Charlotte’s by this time – she’d been going to collect him from the bus stop after she’d got Joe. Charlotte would look after
him, I knew, but I hoped he was cheerful and had had a better day at school. I couldn’t help feeling that whatever Charlotte said about him growing up and the problems of settling into a new school, really all his anxiety was down to Daniel and I splitting up.

  He’d always been a bit of an introvert but it was since Daniel moved out that he’d stopped laughing altogether and started sighing like a little old man. Bloody Daniel …

  My hair was being sprayed with something and combed out and I heard the clunk of hair straighteners. That bit went on for some time.

  ‘OK under there?’ Cal’s voice was close by. ‘Round here, Matt. Russ can you …? Thanks. You’re looking good, Laura.’

  Fingers were twirling and patting – involuntarily I put a hand up to the back of my head. It was firmly removed but not before I’d noticed that there didn’t seem to be anything there. How short was my hair?

  ‘OK, shall we take the scarf off?’

  ‘Hang on,’ I heard Matt say. ‘I need to …’ There was the sound of equipment being moved about.

  Leanne seemed to have returned. I felt her pass a big soft brush over my face. ‘I’m just going to touch up your lips – can you open your mouth a little?’

  Cal’s voice was telling Antonio where to stand. ‘If you can be the one to undo it –’

  I opened my eyes into Antonio’s brooding ones. ‘You like?’ He swung my chair round to face the mirror.

  Blimey! I stared at a me I’d never seen before. My hair was shorter, for sure, but there was still quite a lot of it and it was the most amazing shape, with short, spiky bits against long, feathery fronds. It was several shades lighter than before – a sort of dark honey colour with very fine blonde streaks and a single red splash on one side. Even I could see it was a work of art.

  But the most amazing thing was what it had done to my face. It looked more heart-shaped – almost elfin. Even though Leanne hadn’t done anything further to my eyes, they looked bigger and more luminous, my skin creamier than before. I stared into the mirror, speechless.