The morning at the salon passed in a crazy blur. Penny didn’t know whether to be excited, appalled or terrified as the full weight of an expensive makeover was lavished upon her. As Olivia had magnificent long nails, Penny found herself on the receiving end of some expensive false nails that were duly painted the same shade of bright red favoured by Olivia, or at least her mother. The facial, consisting of a never-ending succession of perfumed creams and lotions, accompanied by soothing background music, left her feeling remarkably relaxed. But the sense of relaxation only lasted until she was led to the hair stylist, Gaston. As her lovely long chestnut brown hair began to tumble onto the floor all around her, she came close to weeping. She had had long hair her whole life and losing it felt like losing an old friend; albeit a very scruffy, damaged old friend with no sense of style, if Gaston’s commentary as he snipped away was to be believed.
Penny did her best to relax as the stylist did his work. Finally, after quite a while, Gaston declared himself satisfied and a menial was summoned to remove her gown. A mirror was held up for her to inspect the results of his labours and as Penny saw the transformation he had worked, a shiver went down her spine. It was strange and rather spooky, like looking at somebody else. As she tilted her head from side to side, she half expected the face in the mirror to start speaking to her. She turned towards Gaston, truly astounded.
‘Gaston, that’s amazing.’ Remembering her act, she added. ‘I look just like I did a year ago. You couldn’t have done it any better.’ She meant it. Although Gaston didn’t know it, now, as a result of his efforts, she and Olivia no longer looked just like twins. Now they looked like identical twins and it felt really quite scary. Somehow, this visit to the hairdresser had cemented her part in Caroline’s plan even more firmly that her signature at the bottom of the legal document in the solicitor’s office. This was it now. She had passed the point of no return.
At four o'clock that afternoon Penny walked into the café and, for the first time ever, she reduced Spiro to tongue-tied astonishment. Behind him, Piotr’s face was a picture. His eyes were wide and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth.
‘So you’ve done it after all, Penny.’ Jimmy, of course, was never at a loss for words.
‘Done what, Jimmy?’
‘Followed my advice and gone on the game.’
‘I have not gone on the game.’ She blushed and looked around. ‘And keep your voice down, will you?’
‘Don’t be shy. We’re all friends here. What is it I’ve been telling you for months? You’ll make far more money on your back than you will serving food here.’
‘Jimmy!’ By now, Penny’s cheeks were burning. ‘I am not and I never will be a hooker. Have you got that?’ She felt herself blushing even more. ‘Can’t a girl get herself a new hairstyle without being accused of prostitution?’
‘Holy Mother!’ Spiro had found his voice at last. ‘You look… devastating. You’re gorgeous, Penny, gorgeous.’
‘You sure you not on the game?’ Piotr sounded equally astonished, and unusually complimentary. ‘You look very good, Penny. Bloody goodness, yes.’
Penny was beginning to feel better about herself now. She had spent much of the three hours between returning home and coming to work staring at herself in the mirror. She even took a couple of selfies to immortalise what had happened to her. Even this hadn’t been a simple matter. First she had had to master the skills necessary to press the button, now that her fingernails were half an inch longer. However, hearing her friends' response, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. So she really did look good.
‘Definitely, Penny, just gorgeous.’ Even Jimmy couldn’t find fault with her appearance. ‘But this must have cost a fortune. How did you manage it?’
Penny and Caroline had already discussed this possible line of questioning and Penny had come up with a cover story; good old imaginary Auntie Flo. ‘My aunt won ten thou on the lottery and she gave me and my sister a makeover each. To be honest, I would have preferred the money. The only bills I get these days are final demands, but Auntie Flo booked the whole thing up and paid for it in advance, so I couldn’t say no.’
‘Well, good on your auntie, that’s what I say.’ Jimmy couldn’t resist running his fingers through her hair, patting and twirling the ends. ‘Whoever it was did a really good job. And that’s a new top as well. Are you really sure you aren’t doing something you shouldn’t be doing?’
Penny shook her head, mentally reminding herself she should ensure she didn’t let the boys see her in any more of the new clothes. Jimmy, in particular, would blow a gasket if he saw some of the really expensive stuff, the designer names no doubt far more familiar to him than they were to her. She was wearing this rather nice new cornflower blue top, with a lower neckline than she was used to, and one of the new bras, as all her old stuff was still hanging up to dry in her room. There was a washing line outside in the back garden, but she no longer used that after items of her clothing had started disappearing from it. She and Vicky from the top floor had their suspicions that it was the Strange Man in Number 3, but they couldn’t prove it and they certainly had no intention of going into his room to look. She caught Jimmy’s eye and subjected him to what she hoped was a withering stare.
‘I am not, repeat not, doing anything naughty. Are we clear, Jimmy?’ As she spoke she was reminded of the lawyer using these exact same words to her earlier that day and she wondered her deception would qualify as naughty.
‘If you say so, darling. But I can’t help noticing that you’ve started putting the goods on display.’ Predictably, the withering stare had had no effect on Jimmy whatsoever. ‘And very nice they look too.’
‘Jimmy, will you take you eyes off my boobs, please? It’s bad enough having Spiro and Piotr looking at me like I was a page three girl, without you doing it as well. It’s not as if I was obscene, after all.’
‘No, of course not. I was just making a purely aesthetic observation. As an artist you should be able to appreciate that.’ He changed the subject before she could retort. ‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve got some extra work, very well-paid work, for a firm who do catering for big events. For all I know, that might include art galleries and the like. If you’re looking for some extra money, just let me know and I’ll put in a word for you.’ He grinned at her. ‘Useful extra money.’
Penny gave him a smile and shook her head. Only a few days ago she would have leapt at the offer, but now, with the money she was going to get from Olivia, she had no need.
That night she managed to get to sleep without thinking too deeply about Rick and she dreamt of Venice again. This time she was wearing a frighteningly short skirt and the highest heels imaginable. She was making her way along the waterfront to a chorus of catcalls and whistles, but she ignored them all. All her attention was on a man with dark hair walking ahead of her. Frustratingly, although she hurried as best she could in the high heels, she was unable to catch him up.
Chapter 4
When Penny got home that evening, her mind was buzzing. So much had changed in her life in the past few days. Three days ago she had been just Penny Lane, the aspiring artist who worked at the Apocalypse Café, struggled to make ends meet and whose boyfriend was in Australia. Now she wasn’t quite sure who she was. She put the kettle on to make herself a mug of tea. As she walked past the mirror on the wall, she caught sight of herself and felt the same surreal sense of disquiet she had been feeling all day. What had she let herself in for?
People react to emotional stress in different ways. Some turn to alcohol, some to chocolates, some to religion. With Penny, it was always a paintbrush. When she felt upset or troubled, she always started a new painting. Today was no exception. Paintings lined the walls of her room and her latest work in progress, an impressionistic nightscape of the Embankment, occupied the centre of the room on the massive easel her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. She removed the Embankment and leant it against a wall bef
ore locating the last of a pack of five canvases she had bought back in the summer. She stuck it on the easel and stood there for a few moments, staring at the clean white surface, lost in thought, until she was distracted by a tap at the door. It was Vicky from upstairs.
‘Hi, Vicky. Come in.’ Just at that moment she heard the kettle come to a boil. ‘I’m just making tea. Want a cup?’
Vicky and she had moved in at round about the same time. In spite of the Spartan conditions, the house suited both of them for different reasons. For Penny it was because the large room, while almost impossible to heat properly, was the only place she had found that was big enough to serve as bedroom and studio. For Vicky, it was because she was within walking distance of the university where she was doing a degree in physiotherapy. She came in and shut the door behind her.
‘Hi, Pen… Penny? What’s happened? The hair? And those amazing nails?’ She looked as bamboozled as Spiro and Jimmy had been. ‘You look totally different.’
Penny fed her the same story about good old Aunt Flo, finding it improving with repetition. By the time she had finished, the tea was ready. She passed a mug across to Vicky and took a seat on the bed, pointing to the only unencumbered chair in the room.
‘Come and sit down. Anyway, enough about me, Vick. How’re you getting on?
‘I’m fine.’ Vicky sat down as instructed. As ever, she was wearing a tracksuit and trainers. She was very fit and, apart from the exercise she got from manipulating patients as part of her course, she went jogging most evenings. ‘I came to see my heroic housemate. You’re all over the news, you know. There’s even an article about you in the paper. They’re trying to start a petition to get you a knighthood or some such.’
Penny grinned. ‘That’s what the boys at work said, but there’s no chance of me getting a trip to Buckingham Palace.’ Although, as she said it, Penny found herself reflecting that in her new role as a make-believe multi-millionaire, there was every chance that she might get to rub shoulders with a few celebrities.
Vicky shook her head as she sipped her tea. ‘I don’t know. There aren’t so many heroes going round these days. What does Rick think about having a hero as a girlfriend?’
Penny’s smile slipped. ‘What Rick thinks is neither here nor there.’ She looked up, caught Vicky’s eye and explained. ‘He and I broke up last night.’
‘You broke up? Why, what happened?’
‘Another girl is what happened.’
‘Oh, Penny, I’m so sorry. How awful for you.’ Vicky gave her an encouraging smile. ‘So, is that what the new look’s all about? Is there some other man on the horizon? Now that you’ve suddenly had a makeover and you’re looking so amazing, is there somebody else?’
Penny shook her head and replied with total honesty. ‘No, Vic, no other man. I’m off men for a while. Besides, I haven’t got time for a man anyway. I’m working my butt off at the café and any spare time I’ve got is taken up with painting.’
Vicky transferred her attention to the blank canvas. ‘So, is there a name for this style of painting? Invisible, maybe?’
Penny grinned. ‘I’m trying to work out what to paint. I’ve been doing London scenes for a while now, albeit in my own fairly loose way, but I’m wondering if I mightn’t just try my hand at a different genre. Maybe a change might be good.’
‘Why don’t you paint a dramatic reconstruction of your life-saving exploit at the station? Sort of an action picture.’ Penny could see she was joking, but the idea wasn’t as silly as it sounded.
‘To be completely honest, Vick, I was thinking along those lines.’ She saw the surprise on her friend’s face. ‘Not train lines. I was wondering about something abstract, trying to dig into what I felt at the time or, more probably, in the aftermath, when it all sank in.’ As she spoke, an idea began to form and she was only too glad when Vicky went off a few minutes later and left her alone.
Selecting a broad brush from the pot by the basin she went over to the canvas. There was still a splodge of yellow oil paint left on the palette from the previous day. She added a few drops of turpentine and mixed it until it was a very weak solution. With this, she started sketching a series of swirls and shapes, doing her best to search her subconscious and reproduce the images that emerged. As she worked, she found herself deciding upon the best colours for the various parts of the painting. She squeezed out some red and some blue and as the minutes passed she produced a template from which she could envisage the painting developing. It was gone midnight by the time she decided to stop for the night. She cleaned the brush and stood back to study what she had done. It would need a lot of hard work, but she felt fairly satisfied that it had the makings of an impressive painting.
She went out to the bathroom, relieved to find it unoccupied for a change. It was cold in there and she didn’t hang about any longer than she had to. Coming back into her room, the smell of turps was still very pungent so, in spite of the cold night air, she flung the window open to get some ventilation. She flicked off the light and started taking off her clothes. Since Rick had gone off to Australia she had reverted to wearing the stripy pyjamas her mother had given her for Christmas. While far from sexy, they were just what she needed in this cold, damp environment. The pyjamas were in the wardrobe, submerged beneath the heap of bags of designer clothes, and she had to pull some of the bags out of the way in order to get to them. As she did so, she happened upon a box containing very expensive evening shoes with very high heels, as favoured by Olivia and her mother. Feeling more than a little decadent, but secure in the knowledge that nobody could see her in the darkness, she slipped the shoes on and attempted to walk around the room in them.
With hindsight, it would probably have been prudent to make her first attempt at walking in such high heels with the curtains closed and the light on. Clothes might also have been a good idea. As she did her best to negotiate her way around the easel in the centre of the room, one of the shoes caught on something, later revealed as a tear in the carpet, and she tripped, falling flat on her face. Alas, as she fell, her outstretched arm caught the brand new painting, dragging it against her body and bringing it crashing to the floor alongside her. Her funny bone made contact with something hard and she found herself sprawled on the floor, nursing her elbow and cursing.
As the worst of the pain diminished, she sat upright. The first thing she did was to pull those wretched shoes off and throw them across the room onto her bed. She stood up, closed the window and drew the curtains together. Then she felt her way over to the light switch, turned it on and inspected the damage. The good news was that the painting didn’t appear to have been damaged as it hit the floor and, even better, it had landed face up. The bad news was that as it fell, it must have rubbed against her body, smudging the paint, changing the composition out of all recognition. She glanced down at her left hand and saw her fingers covered in orange paint. Four distinct lines running diagonally across the canvas indicated quite clearly where they had made contact. More unsettling was a sticky sensation on her left arm. She went over to the mirror to find a blue smear across her upper arm that had even reached onto the side of her left breast. This contact, too, had radically altered the painting that now had a wide stripe across it from top to bottom, mercifully unrecognisable as the imprint of any particular part of the human anatomy.
‘Bugger.’
It took half a bottle of cleaner and a torn up old T-shirt to get the worst of the oil paint off her body until she was able to pull her dressing gown on and make a run for the shower. As she scrubbed herself with soap to remove the smell of the paint and cleaner, she found she was still swearing under her breath. Finally, not far short of one o'clock, she returned to her room and locked the door behind her. She turned on the light and went over to retrieve the painting from the floor. She set it back on the easel and slipped out of her dressing gown into her pyjamas, sniffing her skin suspiciously in case the smell of the paint might still be lingering. After cleaning her teeth at the
cluttered basin, she turned and took a long hard look at the embryonic painting. It took her a few minutes to confirm her initial reaction, but there was no getting away from it. To her amazement, she now found that she liked it even more. The accident had turned an interesting picture into a great picture.
She turned away at last and retrieved the shoes from the bed. As she packed them away in their box, she promised herself that she would make sure that future experiments at walking in such high heels would be carried out in a strictly controlled environment, and most definitely with the light on. She climbed into bed and pulled the duvet up over her shoulders. From here she could see the painting very clearly and her opinion of it didn’t change. In fact, the more she looked at it, the more she liked it. She smiled to herself at the thought of the artist, Yves Klein, and what he had termed Performance Art, back in the sixties. This had involved naked, paint-covered girls and huge expanses of canvas laid out on the floor. Penny reflected that she had unwittingly just been continuing that tradition. Somehow, however, she didn’t think she would be telling too many people the truth about exactly how the composition had been formed.
She flicked off the light. As she drifted off to sleep, she had the Venice dream again. This time she was standing, posing naked in the middle of an artist’s studio. In front of her, working away at the easel, was the artist. He was a tall man, with dark hair and although she caught occasional glimpses of his bushy beard, try as she may, the canvas always blocked her view of his face.
Dreaming of Venice Page 4