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

by Shari Low

  Oh happy days!

  We thought about saving it. We thought about sailing around the world (in fairness, that one was Red’s suggestion and I’m hoping he wasn’t serious). Cassie’s suggestion of buying Disneyland was given due consideration. But in the end Red decided for us – we should use it to open a new salon.

  CUT (the sequel).

  We’d found a fantastic site just along from the old shop (which had shut down after six months under Chantelle’s management, when she ran off with a suspected drug baron to Marbella). Ironically our new premises was a former bank. Yes, the very bank that I’d gone to for the original loan had fallen foul to the convenience of the internet and shut down, leaving an old sandstone shopfront just begging to be turned into something fabulous.

  And thanks once again to Josie, fabulous it was. Although this time her input had been more on the concept than the dodgy funding side. As well as helping out with Cassie, she’d found a part-time job cleaning a new knicker shop in Glasgow, owned by a fantastic lady called Mel, and had invited us up for the opening night. It was like walking into Marie Antoinette’s most decadent boudoir. The colour scheme was an explosion of rich, opulent, deep reds, golds and blacks, a spectacular fusion of French vintage chic and gothic seductiveness with overstuffed Louis XV-style bergère armchairs, elaborate chandeliers and gilt fixtures. Mel described it perfectly when she said it sat somewhere between a Parisian, eighteenth-century whorehouse and the place where brocade came to die.

  It took my breath away and I immediately saw how (with Mel’s generous blessing) the theme could be applied to a salon.

  As I scanned the room in front of me, the butterflies in my stomach went on spin cycle. It was exactly how I’d imagined. Using the builders that Ginger had once recruited to sort out our kitchen, we’d completely transformed the main open-plan square by laying a deep gloss ebony floor, which glinted in the light, and framed it with walls that were a dramatic, swirling blend of blood red and gold. Three of the walls featured four stations, at each one a dramatic black leather chair sat in front of a huge, gothic, gilt-edged mirror, which swooped and curved its way from floor to ceiling. In front of the window was a massive semicircular antique reception desk, with an oversized gold throne behind it.

  There was a black gloss door at either side of the back wall, one leading to the staffroom, storeroom and loos, the other to a shampoo room that allowed clients to have the never-dignified process of hair washing done in a separate, private space, with a huge plasma TV on the wall facing the basins.

  The overall result was everything I’d ever dreamed of: trendy, chic and undeniably sexy. Now I just needed it to be busy too. The butterflies in my stomach all swooped at the same time. It had to work. The key to it was a successful launch, one that would spin off into regular business. All my old clients had followed me to the Glasgow salon, and they’d been delighted that I was now back in town (Mrs. Marshall was eternally grateful because she’d now left her militant sailor for one of the bus drivers who used to bring her into the city for her cut and blow dry every Friday. As a result, she had named her new Dobermann Lou. Lou the Dobermann. I feared for him down the dog park).

  So the old clients I could count on, but what I also needed were new customers, teenagers, local workers, and mums who would love the fact that just behind reception, in what used to be the manager’s office, we’d installed a little playroom for kids.

  Tonight had to be a success and I was pulling no punches to make it happen, including some blatant coercion on the celebrity-appearance front. I’d had to promise Ginger that I would host the whole family for dinner every Christmas Day for the next twenty years but it would be worth it. The rumour (started by me) that Stud, one of the country’s top boy bands might make an appearance was true and I was counting on it.

  ‘Come on hon, get your lovely arse out of that chair and come help me quietly panic while I put my make-up on in the staffroom.’

  Lizzy shook her head. ‘Not until you answer the question.’

  ‘What question?’

  ‘Shag, marry, throw off a cliff. The choices are Robbie Williams, Jon Bon Jovi or Enrique Iglesias.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re still on that. You do know that we’re grown-ups now, don’t you?’

  She pushed out her bottom lip. ‘I hang out with children all day. I’m allowed to be ridiculously immature.’

  Against my better judgement, I thought about it for a moment.

  ‘OK, shag Robbie Williams, marry Jon Bon Jovi and Enrique’s going off the cliff.’

  Her expression was pure disbelief. ‘But why?’

  ‘Because Robbie is funny, so a night of passion would be a giggle. I’d marry Jon for the huge American estate and because I still have a secret longing for rock star leather trousers. And I wouldn’t touch Enrique because he’s going out with that tennis player and she looks like she could take me out in a heartbeat. Happy?’

  It took her a moment to respond and, as my eyes flicked to hers, I caught her taking a long, deep breath.

  ‘Lizzy. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Are you OK?’

  Her complexion had greyed again and she was looking like she was in some kind of discomfort. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Not.’

  ‘Am.’

  ‘Can I take you back to that bit where I reminded us that

  we’re grown-ups?’

  Her lips pursed as she rolled her eyes like a truculent teen.

  ‘Look, it’s just a bit of food poisoning OK? Dodgy lobster last night I think.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  She nodded.

  ‘OK, but, honey, if you feel like heading home I’ll understand. Don’t be staying here just for me if you feel ill.’

  Her hands went on to her hips and she laughed. ‘I’m not staying for you, I’m staying for those lovely young men from Stud.’

  We were still laughing as we went into the staffroom to get made up and dressed. As I plonked myself on the couch I sent up a silent prayer to whatever deity was responsible for the areas of hairdressing and boy bands.

  ‘Dear God,’ I whispered, ‘please make this a night to remember.’

  By the end of the night, I’d know for sure that he’d been listening.

  Forty-four

  There wasn’t a spare inch of space in the shop. One hundred people and a Dobermann called Lou were squeezed into the salon, the music was blaring and the champagne was flowing. So far so good. All we needed now was a boy band, some great entertainment and this launch would be the talk of Weirbank for months, therefore the shop would be mobbed and my family would be saved from starvation and destitution. I may have been slightly exaggerating that last bit.

  Having welcomed everyone as they arrived, I stood at reception, keeping an eye out that everyone’s glasses stayed full and that no one was being left out. The mix of people was even better than I’d hoped. Just behind me there was a crowd of achingly hip, Amazonian-tall teenagers, alternating between looking quietly impressed and shrieking in anticipation every time the door opened. My long-time client Natalia had brought at least a dozen of the aircrew who were stationed at Glasgow airport. Mel, the owner of the knicker shop was there with a very glamorous woman that she’d introduced as her sister-in-law, Suze. A large gang of mums that I’d tracked down at the community centre playgroup had all taken me up on the invitation and they were flirting wildly with the super-handsome Adam and Alex. I briefly wondered if perhaps someone should give them a heads-up before my scan moved on to a group of models, both male and female, that Red was friends with through work.

  My worry and stress dissipated into little bubbles of happiness. The overall effect was eclectic and classy . . . if you ignored the fact that in one corner Josie and Avril (the younger of the two sporting neon blue hair) were using hairbrushes as microphones and singing along to a song about going to rehab. Which, given their current condition, proba
bly wasn’t a bad idea.

  I felt a breeze in my left ear and turned to see my husband standing there, wearing a black open-neck shirt and a wide grin. ‘S’cuse me, have you seen the owner of this place? I’ve heard that she’s a complete shag.’

  ‘Is it ancient chat-up line night?’ I asked him and he responded by groping my right buttock.

  I let him, feeling my erogenous zones and reproductive system respond accordingly. Naff as it is to admit it, I still fancied him insanely. He didn’t look a day older than when we got married almost six years ago. Still trim and broad shouldered, hair a little longer but it totally suited him, he could still make me laugh with just one of his daft facial expressions. I’d got lucky when I landed Red and I didn’t plan on forgetting that.

  ‘I’m serious, darling, you look amazing tonight.’

  I did a twirl and a mock bow. ‘You think so?’ Probably not the time to tell him that I’d spent the cost of a monthly mortgage payment on my dress. I just hoped the accountant would agree that it was a legitimate business expense then Red would never have to know. It was a silver, highly shimmery, sequined sheath with a slash neck that dropped in a body-skimming, ultra-tight column that stopped just above the knee. But the really sensational feature was the back. Or rather, the lack of one. The fabric fell from the shoulders in a swooping shawl style, which ended just a fraction above my bottom, leaving my back bare. If Red pulled out the folds that rested just above the buttock area, he’d have somewhere handy to park his bottle of beer.

  I was just about to snog him in thanks for his compliment when the mobile phone I was clutching in my hand buzzed three times then stopped.

  ‘That’s the bat signal.’ I grinned, then grabbed his hand and, as casually as possible, made my way up to the back of the salon, through the staffroom and out to the delivery entrance.

  I was almost there when I stopped, my brain just having processed a recent image.

  ‘Did I just see Lizzy sleeping on the couch in the staffroom?’ I asked. Red nodded, his brow slightly furrowed with concern. ‘Yeah. Wasn’t sure whether to wake her or not.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling the sound of twenty screaming teenagers will take care of that in about five minutes.’

  I was getting a growing sense of unease about Lizzy. Opening night or not, as soon as the band were gone I was going to ask Alex and Adam to take her home, and if they couldn’t do it then I’d bail out for half an hour and take her myself.

  ‘Loulou!’ Ginger’s voice was the first thing I heard as I banged open the delivery door to a blast of cold air, which gave the young boy band currently staring at my chest area somewhere very obvious to hang their jackets. Red rolled his eyes and shook his head in amusement. Did I mention that my husband was born with no discernable jealousy gene? None. Which was just as well, because I was sure the lead singer had just winked at me.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ I told them, vaguely realising that I’d only had a double ‘Lou’ greeting from Ginger – usually an indication that she hadn’t had her evening beverage. Over the years I’d learned that the length of the greeting expanded in direct proportion to how many drinks she’d had.

  I hugged her tightly as soon as she got inside.

  ‘Thanks, babe. I think I owe you more than just a lifetime of Christmas dinners for this.’

  ‘I know! I think we’re up to two kidneys, a lung and all your worldly goods now.’

  Ginger playfully punched her brother, then ushered the boys through into the staffroom. Two women, one man, several large bodyguards, and a boy band in a twelve-foot by twelve-foot room, and still Lizzy didn’t wake up. The poor thing must be exhausted.

  My sister-in-law was in full managerial mode now. ‘Right you shaggable big hunks of wonder, jackets off, pump up those pecs and get ready. Lou will kick off the backing track, there’s a raised platform right outside that door, and we’re doing two numbers then back out. We’ll be mingling with the Sugababes up in the Carriage Club before midnight.’

  Anyone else would avoid the venue where they almost fell to their death, but not Ginger. In fact, she went there even more often now that they’d awarded her free champagne for life in thanks for not attempting to sue them. An intrepid journalist had discovered that the club had admitted way too many people that night so Ginger would have had a good case to claim mitigation for her fall. She chose unlimited Moët instead. I had a feeling that over the course of a few years, as her free stock added up, the Carriage Club might come to wish she’d sued them for a one-off payment instead.

  I slid outside the door, grabbed the wireless mike that I’d planked there earlier, and winked at Angie who’d taken up position at the reception desk and who was now jumping up and down on the spot like a kid on Christmas morning.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ My voice carried right across the room and everyone turned to face me. For a moment I choked, a giddy feeling of relief and thanks being strangled by my inherent aversion to being the centre of attention. Inhaling deeply, I ploughed on with my very short but heartfelt speech.

  ‘I just wanted to say, thank you all for coming. Thank you all so much.’

  Did I mention it was short?

  ‘And while I’ve got your attention, I’d like to introduce some stray blokes I just found out the back.’

  Suddenly there was a buzz in the room, a swarm of whispers all speculating with disbelief about what could be about to happen.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Stud!’

  There was a gasp then a pause. A long pause. Then I realised that like the rest of the room, Angie was frozen with anticipation, eyes fixed on the door behind me.

  ‘Angie?’ I sing-songed into the mike.

  She threw her hands up in the air. ‘Fuck! Fuck! The button! Where’s the button?’

  Almost immediately she regained control of her senses, the music thumped on, four bodyguards appeared from the back and framed the little platform area, and then they were there. Stud. In my brand-new shop. In probably the smallest town they’d ever played. I spotted the teenage girls working their way through the crowd towards the stage and anticipated that in about a minute and a half, the bouncers might have to gently dissuade them from storming the stage. That’s if Adam, Alex and Josie didn’t get there first. My aunt, Lizzy’s ex-husband and our favourite lawyer had slid up the side of the room and were standing only feet away from us. I aimed my very best arched eyebrow at Josie and she winked in reply. God help those boys if she got near them. They were no match for a woman of her talents. She followed her wink with a thumbs-up, making me dissolve into laughter.

  Outrageous. Incredible. Fantastic. This night was about as good as it got. I suddenly had a massive yearning for Cassie. She would have loved tonight, but it was way too late and she had her second day of school tomorrow, so leaving her with Red’s mum had seemed like the most sensible thing to do.

  Her absence aside though, this was . . . it was everything. Oh hell, I was welling up again and there was no way I was wiping snot on the arm of the most expensive dress I’d ever bought.

  As the lead singer of Stud wiggled his pelvis only inches from my beaming face, I realised this was magnificent. One of the best nights of my life, topped only by my wedding and the day Cassie was born. It was like everything had finally come together. I had the family I’d always dreamed of and the salon I’d always wanted and I had balance between the two. Life was perfect.

  Perfect.

  ‘Bloody hell, those abs should be illegal.’ Lizzy was beside me now and I was thrilled to see her awake, even though she was still a mighty strange colour. That lobster must have had serious hygiene issues. ‘How many of those guys make up a man of my age?’

  I did a quick calculation. ‘One and three quarters.’

  ‘Well, can you make sure the three quarters includes those abs because I could look at them all night.’

  I threw my arm around her and hugged her as we stood there, both of us trying to move in time with the music without
looking like middle-aged aunts at a wedding.

  The second song was nearing the end now, the teenage girls were starting to look slightly feverish and the bodyguards were already planning their next move. It would have been great if the boys could have stayed to sign autographs, but I couldn’t possibly ask for any more. The first CUT had been built on tittle-tattle after a pop star wrote songs detailing the sexual failings of the owner. Oh the shame. CUT, the sequel, would be the top gossip subject for all good reasons now. The band had established the image of the salon and hopefully this would lead to full appointment books. I gave Lizzy another squeeze and she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Well done, Lou. This is amazing.’

  The music suddenly stopped and, as the crowd gave a thunderous chorus of applause, the boys waved then shot back into the staffroom, the back two bouncers running right behind them. It was obviously a practised routine because the other two bodyguards immediately reversed back and blocked the door, preventing anyone from following them. A couple of the girls looked like they were about to attempt it then changed their minds. After a couple of minutes, the human wall folded into the room and disappeared. As quickly, as they came, the gang were gone, leaving only Ginger behind. She slid up to my side and I threw my free arm around her.

  ‘I thought you were going too?’ I asked her, puzzled.

  ‘Decided to stick around and witness your moment of glory,’ she replied, grinning. And not even her trademark, slightly pissed, wonky grin, but a completely sober, genuine one.

  ‘Have I told you that I love you, Ginger Jones?’

  ‘Don’t you dare start with all that mushy stuff or I’m going out back to catch up with the band,’ she said.