Friday Night With The Girls: A tale that will make you laugh, cry and call your best friend!

by Shari Low

  ‘Just set up the meeting and I’ll sort it out,’ she promised.

  There was no point in arguing, so I carried out her instructions and set us up for an episode of ritual humiliation, figuring that at least she’d then hear the limitations of the situation from the man in the suit. And that’s why, the following Monday, in the outfit normally only reserved for funerals and public events featuring the attendance of a minor member of the royal family, Josie thanked the manager at the Royal Bank of Tight Bastards for seeing us, and proceeded to offer to co-sign my loan. She filled out 194 forms, showed him her bank book, handed over her birth certificate as ID, and then gave him her very best grin. I waited for him to laugh us all the way out of his office, with a security escort to ensure that we left the premises. But no.

  ‘That all seems to be perfectly in order there, Mrs. Cairney. And Miss Cairney,’ he said, turning to me, ‘I will of course have to refer the application to head office, but I don’t see any reason that we can’t proceed. The funds will be available in your account before the end of next week.’

  ‘But . . .’

  The word was barely out of my mouth when Josie stood up, shook his hand and, in her very best and poshest voice (also normally reserved for funerals and events featuring the attendance of a minor member of the royal family), thanked him profusely then practically manhandled me out of the door.

  ‘Oh my God, we did it. I mean, you did it! We got the money. Oh I love, love, love you!’ I told her as I spun her around, almost taking out the old drunk bloke who permanently resided on a tyre outside the butchers in the High Street.

  ‘How lucky were we?’ I ranted on, fuelled by 100 per cent pure joy. ‘I mean, they must have changed the rules or . . . something. Have you secretly got a massive stash of cash in your account?’ I joked, and then clapped my hand over my mouth as the realisation dawned. ‘You won! You won the jackpot up at the bingo!’

  There was sudden activity from the poster boy for Michelin. He shot bolt upright and slurred, ‘Gonnae lend us a tenner then, doll?’

  Josie surreptitiously glanced around her in the manner of a nervous criminal from Murder, She Wrote. ‘No, I did not win the bingo jackpot. Although, that old boot Minnie Brown did and she didn’t even buy a drink for the table. Shocking way to behave.’

  She slipped a pound to the tyre guy, ignored his disappointment and then pulled me by the hand down the street. ‘C’mon, love, we’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Celebrate?’ I prompted, thinking that even though the loan wasn’t actually in my account yet, I could probably stretch to a couple of cocktails at the new wine bar across the road.

  ‘Definitely!’ Josie agreed. ‘Then we have to go let Donna Maria know that we can take her up on the offer of the lease, we have to go get cracking with the plans for the shop . . .’ She pulled me across the road, and waited until we were at the central reservation before finishing, ‘And then I have to get this birth certificate and bank book back into your mother’s drawer before she notices that they’re gone.’

  A voice beside me snapped me back from the fraud of the past, to the excitement of the present.

  ‘Do Take That know about Mr. Patel?’ Red asked, gesturing in the direction of the small but flexible Indian gentleman pulling some pretty impressive moves to ‘Everything Changes But You’.

  The salon was filling up now and my nervous anxiety that no one would show up had morphed into a nervous anxiety that there wouldn’t be enough booze/food/space. Not even the reassuring presence of a highly amused Red and Mr. Patel’s impersonation of Robbie Williams could calm me down from borderline hyperventilation to mildly manic. It did help though that everyone’s first reaction as they walked in the door seemed to be impressed approval.

  Obviously I was biased, but I really did think that the place looked great. Outside the huge neon sign lit up the street announcing that CUT was now open for business. Inside, the tacky old lino floor was gone, replaced by matt black ceramic tiles with a metal-effect finish. Both of the long walls that ran from the front of the shop to the staffroom at the back were mirrored, making the room look twice as big. I’d struck lucky and picked up gorgeous, brand-new red leather swivel chairs from a Glasgow hotel that had gone into receivership before it opened. My cousin Avril, Josie’s daughter, still at school but showing a real talent for art, had organised the reception desk and merchandise display. And my cousin Michael’s best friend had put his carpentry skills to outstanding use by knocking up ten gorgeous work-space units, which were then painted gloss black, attached to the walls, each one adorned with a dryer and a set of curling tongs. On the back wall next to two rows of gleaming white basins, hung twenty gorgeous red gowns that Josie had run up on her old 1940s pedal-powered Singer sewing machine. Now she was standing in the middle of the salon directing everyone to admire her handiwork, while dressed in the style of a 1980s diva. Any minute now the costume director of Dynasty would be on the phone asking for their outfit back. Her black herringbone pencil skirt was nipped in at the waist by a six-inch wide, red belt and a scarlet silk shirt – complete with enhancement the size of a park bench across the shoulder area – topped off the look. It was good of her to co-ordinate her clothes to the salon colour scheme.

  She caught my eye and winked, aping one of the photographs on the wall behind her. They were the most stunning aspect of the room – huge black and white canvasses, hung at ten-foot intervals along every wall. They had been Red’s idea. He’d been passing one night and spotted us inside decorating so popped in with half a dozen fish suppers and a crate of Diet Coke. Before he left, he suggested taking some ‘arty’ photos then blowing them up into massive prints. The following night I rounded up all the usual victims and they were all forced to subject themselves to a haircut (although thankfully I now had the skills to risk more than one style) while Red snapped around them. I’ve absolutely no idea how he got from that to the resulting grainy silhouettes that now wowed everyone as soon as they crossed the threshold. I’d never been prone to cockiness but I had a feeling even Vidal Sassoon would be a smidgeon impressed. Josie had asked for a copy of hers – a gorgeous image of her laughing as she winked – and had hung it up on the only space in the house that didn’t have flying wildlife. No one had the heart to tell her that it was slightly disconcerting having her stare down from the wall while we were in the bath.

  I broke the easy silence. ‘Thanks for everything, Red, I really do appreciate it.’

  He shrugged. ‘No problem, the prints are great for my portfolio too.’

  I checked the time on my Day-Glo Swatch. ‘Have you heard from Ginger? She was supposed to be here an hour ago.’

  Red shook his head, his rueful grin reminding me of that bit at the end of Grease when John Travolta comes over all goofy. If John Travolta had red hair. And was Glaswegian. And standing in a hairdresser’s wearing black jeans and a Bowie T-shirt. OK, he was nothing like John Travolta at all. I blame the nerves and the alcohol.

  ‘Haven’t heard from her, but you know what she’s like. She was an unpredictable nightmare before all the singing stuff, but now that she’s the second coming of Debbie Harry she’s impossible to track down.’

  He said it without malice or bitterness, just a matter-of-fact air of truth. He was right. In the biggest surprise since Gary Collins released his last single, ‘You Never Turned Me On’, (I get it – I’m a crap shag – was he ever going to bloody get over it and move on?), Ginger had swapped a career in feet for a future in music. Turns out that the bloke who’d wandered into Lizzy’s wedding in the hotel that night was Ike Stranger, an A&R guy from Edge Records, up checking out Glasgow clubs, on the lookout for the next big band. Instead he found Ginger – pissed, cantankerous and dressed in a meringue, and realised that she was something special. I think it was the voice and the Doc Martins that she was wearing under her dress that did it. Anyway, my chum wasn’t on the stellar level of Gary Wanker Collins yet, but after a couple of years of touring pubs and playing smal
lish gigs, she’d released her first single, ‘Numb’, and was starting to get a bit of recognition. Swallow diving off the stage during last week’s live edition of Top of the Pops had definitely helped the buzz. Hopefully, the three blokes from Maidenhead that she landed on would be out of hospital soon.

  Where was she? She promised that she’d be here, so she definitely would. Definitely. She wouldn’t let me down. On a personal level, I really wanted everyone I loved here tonight, and, on an admittedly shallow professional level, having a minor celebrity like Ginger here would guarantee that the local paper ran a photograph of the salon opening on the front page this week. No, I’m not proud of my motivations, but I needed to make as much money as quickly as possible. I had to make this business work, I had to support myself and you never knew when I’d have to slip Josie a few grand to help her flee the country if the fraud squad rumbled her.

  I suddenly became acutely aware of Lizzy gesticulating to me from over near the door and slid over to join her, leaving Red to chat up one of the models that I’d wooed here, with promises of free haircuts, to add a bit of glamour.

  ‘OK, don’t freak out,’ she hissed, immediately setting my demeanour to ‘imminent freak out’, ‘but Dan has just arrived.’

  ‘No. No. No. No.’

  ‘Yep. And he’s . . .’

  I felt the hand coming round my waist, closely followed by a meeting between my nostrils and a detectable whiff of Ralf Lauren’s Polo.

  ‘Right behind me?’

  Lizzy nodded.

  ‘Hey baby,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Place looks great.’

  OK, this wasn’t part of the plan. I’d been seeing Dan for about six months but hadn’t expected him tonight because . . . ‘I thought you were in London this week,’ I stuttered, hoping the accompanying cheesy grin said ‘but I’m glad you’re not’ instead of ‘bloody bugger, you’re the last person I wanted to see!’

  Dan and I had a good thing going. I’d met him when I did his blonde highlights before he took up his position as the only straight flight attendant on Air Alba – one of Scotland’s national airlines. Actually, the term ‘airline’ might be an exaggeration. Eight puddle jumpers and a dozen 747s bought second hand from Aeroflot are not exactly going to worry the board of British Airways.

  The girls in the salon had debated Dan’s sexual orientation for months. Never, in all my West of Scotland butch male experience had I ever encountered a straight guy who moisturised. And cooked. And kept his flat pristine. And . . . and . . . (this one really freaked me out) waxed. He did. There wasn’t a hair to be found on his chest or under his arms. And on top of that he dressed like he was straight out of a Burton advert and was obsessed with flash gadgets. Why, in God’s name does anyone need a mobile phone? Why? What could possibly be so important that you couldn’t wait until you got home to tell someone? They’ll never catch on.

  Anyway, on average he was home three days every week so we never fell into the whole blasé/taking each other for granted thing because we didn’t live in each other’s pockets. Which was great. Fantastic. Especially because . . .

  ‘Vic!’ Everyone within ten yards craned to see what had caused Lizzy to go into full screech mode.

  I, on the other hand, was wondering if this would be the only salon opening in history where the owner was caught commando crawling out of the door.

  There was no stopping my high-pitched pal. ‘Oh, Vic, thank God you’re here!’

  Really? Had she lost her mind? I met Lizzy’s startled gaze with my completely confused one, then watched in awe as she grabbed the newcomer’s hand and pulled him towards the staffroom, screeching ‘I’m having a weird pain and I need you to check me out.’

  With that she dragged him off into the crowd, turning to throw me a wink as she left. God, she was good.

  ‘Who’s that guy?’ Dan asked.

  My other boyfriend.

  ‘Oh, just some friend of hers,’ I replied, grateful that the heat in the room gave me an excuse for my flushed face.

  ‘He looks kinda familiar. Do you know him too?’ Dan probed.

  Yes, because he’s my other boyfriend.

  ‘Just through Lizzy.’

  ‘Cool. You should drag him out with us some night. Wouldn’t mind having a look at that Tag Heuer he’s wearing.’

  It’s not real. It’s a fake that his sister brought him from Benidorm. I know that because he’s my other boyfriend.

  ‘Sure, I will.’

  When hell freezes over. Because . . . well, you know.

  Please don’t judge me. The whole two-timing thing had come about completely by accident. Dan was away for a few days and I’d gone out with the girls, had a few cocktails, broke a heel on my shoe, accepted a lift home from a cute guy and the next thing I knew I was leading a double life, seeing two lovely blokes, neither of whom would ever be more than a casual fling. I was going to sort it out. I was. Eventually. But they were just both so nice and I wasn’t sure which one I liked best and if I was being really deep and getting in touch with my darkest psychological issues I’d say that I liked seeing both of them because that way neither relationship could ever become serious and we’ve already ascertained that that’s a good thing. In my experience, serious relationships either end up in the seventh circle of co-dependent hell (i.e. my parents) or with one party (usually the one with bollocks) going off into the sunset with someone else. Nope, casual was good. Great, even. A perfect solution. Except when both turned up on the same night.

  I untangled myself from Dan. ‘Just need to go check Lizzy’s OK. You grab a drink and mingle and I’ll catch up later.’

  Just as soon as I’ve had a cosy tête-à-tête with my other boyfriend.

  Maintaining a beaming grin on my face the whole time, I ploughed through the crowd, throwing out hellos, thanking people for coming and adding in a few ‘great to see you’s here and there. By the time I burst into the staffroom Lizzy was lying on the purple sofa looking pained.

  ‘Oh thank God. Where’ve you been?’ she hissed. ‘Another few minutes and I was going to have to whip up my skirt and ask Vic to have a rummage round my cervix.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Through in the kitchen getting me some water.’

  See. That’s the kind of nice guy that he was. My taste in blokes was great. Just a little too inclusive.

  ‘I owe you one, doll. Thanks. Talk about thinking on your feet.’

  ‘You’re welcome. But when Vic gets over the sheer terror of me dragging him in here, you’re going to have to convince him that I’m not a total drama queen. The poor man is traumatised. He just kept saying, “But I’m a plasterer! A plasterer!” while standing with his back against the wall, ready to dive low and catch if the baby shot out in front of him.’

  The door opened and a sheepish Vic poked his head round. The look of relief on his face was palpable. ‘Lou! You’re here! Great. So I’ll . . . I’ll . . . just go and get a drink then. You’ll be OK here, won’t you? Oh, and shop looks brilliant. Well done.’

  With that, his gloriously toned, gym-buffed body disappeared out of the door and back into the main throng.

  ‘Do you think he looks a bit like Tom Cruise?’ I asked Lou.

  She groaned. ‘Really? It’s the biggest night of your life, there are a hundred people out there, you narrowly avoided a Dodge City moment between your two men, I just threatened to show one of them my inners and all you can think about is whether or not he resembles Tom bloody Cruise? No! He looks like a bloke from Glasgow who is now traumatised and will never again go within a hundred yards of a pregnant woman.’

  ‘But a bit like Tom Cruise?’

  A black pillow with an image of Phil Collins on it came hurtling in my direction as she cracked and succumbed to the giggles. ‘Oh God, bladder alert! I’m just nipping to the loo.’

  ‘Lizzy, I hate to break it to you but these days you don’t ‘nip’ anywhere. You lumber. You waddle. You . . .’

  ‘Can I remind you t
hat I just saved your arse?’

  ‘You’re as graceful as a gazelle,’ I told her, opening the door and holding it while she glided past. In the manner of a penguin-like gazelle.

  I left her to it and headed back into the crowd, trying desperately not to let the ‘three’s a crowd’ romantic issue spoil the night. I’d worry about it later. Dan had a couple of mates in tow, so no doubt they’d soon head off to a club, meanwhile Vic would be working next morning so he’d probably head off early too. And what were the chances of them meeting each other? Slim. This place was packed and neither were the type to mingle and strike up conversations with strangers. It would be fine. Fine. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself with positive thoughts. Mr. Patel swore by the power of a focused, positive mind. And anything that could make a 57-year-old man from deepest Bangladesh think he was Robbie Williams had to have something going for it.

  So I told myself that the whole Vic/Dan thing was just a small hitch. Everything was going according to plan. All we needed now was Ginger to arrive. Snap. Snap. Photo for the press. A few more drinks. Then, hopefully, everyone would toddle off into the night raving about how CUT was the trendiest salon in town. The phones would be red hot. The appointment book would overload. I’d pay back the bank and all would be just fabulous. Fantastic.

  The volume in the room turned up a little and I realised that people were getting a little more animated and there was a definite buzz going round the crowd. My heart throbbed just a little faster as I realised there could be several reasons for this.

  The excitement about the salon was building to frenzied levels.

  Mr. Patel was now break-dancing in the manner of MC Hammer.

  Dan and Vic had bumped into each other, had a quick chat, and were now duking it out over my honour.

  A celebrity had arrived.

  It was hard to miss the huge ginger mass that was heading this way from the door. Either someone had Dougal from The Magic Roundabout on their head or my other best friend had finally turned up.