by Polly James
“Um, no,” I say. “Well, yes, but I’m not being chicken. I just don’t like drawing attention to myself.”
Eva points out that my hideous old clothes drew plenty of attention, “just not the right kind”. Then she says that, if I haven’t sent her photographic evidence that I’m wearing my new clothes at work by tomorrow lunchtime, she’s cancelling my date with Sexy Stefan. Those are her exact words.
* * *
It’s the hottest day of the year so far, especially in the office, which has floor-to-ceiling windows – and I am sweltering in this bloody coat. I Google “heatstroke”, which makes it pretty clear I’m going to have to take the damn thing off, so I fight my way out of it without standing up and drawing attention to myself. Phew. That’s a relief, though I’m still too hot.
I make a fan from a piece of printer paper then sit hunched forward over my desk, waving the fan up and down as fast as I can. It doesn’t help, probably for the same reason that Joel says it never does: because you burn so much energy fanning yourself, it raises your temperature instead of lowering it. I need to find some other way to cool down, before I blow a fuse.
A nice long drink would do it, from the water cooler.
Always beware of overheating, then allowing yourself to think about water. It makes you do stupid things like standing up and walking the full length of the office in search of a drink, and then walking back to your desk again – all while wearing your new clothes.
There’s a round of applause as I sit back down.
“Lookin’ good, Hannah,” says the Fembot, in what doesn’t sound like her sarcastic voice.
She looks me up and down, then orders me to stand up and do some Fembot twirls.
“Very nice indeed,” she says, fingering the fabric of my skirt as I grind to a halt, somewhat dizzied by the twirling. “Did someone help you pick it out?”
“Yes,” I say, though I’m a bit wounded that the Fembot doesn’t think I’m capable of choosing my own clothes.
She walks around me once more, then orders the rest of the team to stop wolf-whistling, which I’m assuming is ironic anyway.
“Whoever helped you did a good job, didn’t they?” she says, turning to Esther who’s just passing on her way back from the loo, having missed the catwalk show I’ve just given everyone else by accident.
I’m not sure she would even have spotted me now, if the Fembot hadn’t pointed me out, because she always looks down at her feet when she walks. She says it’s due to low self-esteem, which is something I can understand all too easily, given what she does next.
She stops dead, looks up at the Fembot, then slowly turns her head in my direction. Then she just stands still and stares, in total silence.
“Well?” says the Fembot, after the tension’s become too much, even for her.
“Oh, sorry,” says Esther, and then she says, “Hmm.”
There follows another protracted silence until, finally, she nods and says, “Very nice, but you haven’t got much room in that for when you get bloated, have you, Hannah?”
* * *
“She’s jealous,” says Eva, when I call her at lunchtime to tell her about Esther’s reaction, and to check she got the photo of me sitting at my desk while wearing my new clothes.
“No, she isn’t,” I say. “Esther’s not like that at all and, anyway, she’s my friend. The Fembot just caught her by surprise: by being nice to me, for once.”
Eva says they’ll both need to prepare for an even bigger surprise after she and I get back from where she’s taking me tomorrow night: to see a friend of hers.
Her announcement throws me into a state of total panic in case she’s sneakily brought my date with Stefan forward to stop me losing my nerve – like I lost my nerve about my new clothes – but when I accuse her of doing so, she denies it. Then she explains that we’re going into central London after I finish work, to visit a session hairdresser she uses for photo shoots at Viva Vintage. After that, Eva’s going to give me a make-up lesson, and then she says I’ll finally be “Stefan-ready”.
“So it’ll be a busy evening,” she adds, “but then your head will live up to your clothes, if that’s what’s been bothering you.”
It isn’t, as the thought hadn’t occurred to me, until now. Now it has, I’m tempted to ask Eva what she’s going to do about making my body live up to my clothes as well – in case Stefan decides to check that out.
Chapter 32
When I tell Esther I’m going to have my hair cut tonight, she says, “That’s brave. What are you having done?”
I can’t answer that, because Eva says I’m not going to have any say in it. This session hairdresser sounds as if he may be even more of a control freak than she is, the way she describes him when we’re on the Tube this evening. I bet he’ll think it’s a complete waste of his time to cut my hair, anyway, when he’s used to working on models every day.
“Don’t be silly,” says Eva. “I just mean he’s better placed to decide on the best style for you than you are, Hannah. What the hell are you doing, by the way?”
I don’t answer, as I’m trying not to make it obvious that I’ve just bent forward in an effort to put some distance between my nose and the sweaty armpit of the man who’s standing next to me. I have no idea how Eva copes with working in central London, when that means she has to ride the Tube home from work each night during rush hour. I can hardly breathe, everyone’s standing so close together, and I don’t like being in a tunnel, either. That reminds me of how I felt when Dan first left.
“Next stop,” says Eva, which comes as a major relief, given the armpit man has just moved closer.
We walk to the hairdresser’s flat, which turns out to be in a converted Georgian house in Islington. The front garden is filled with Mediterranean plants and puts mine to shame, and the house does too. I swallow, hard, to control my nerves.
“Eva, darlin’,” says a man who looks just like Will Smith. A slightly camp Will Smith, admittedly, but one who probably shares his lookalike’s personal trainer. “Come in, come in!”
He and Eva kiss each other on the cheek a number of times, but both clearly know when to stop, as they manage to do so simultaneously, unlike me and Mr Nordic. Then Will Smith turns to me.
“Frankie,” he says, extending his hand, “as in Goes to Hollywood, not that I’m ever working there again. You wouldn’t believe how bitchy some of those people can be.”
“You’re just annoyed that they were better at it,” says Eva, to which Frankie replies, “Ouch, my precious – but touché.”
They’re both sitting down on Frankie’s squashy pale sofas by now, but I’m still standing, overwhelmed by the scale of the room that we’re in. It’s huge, and the ceiling takes my breath away.
“Wow,” I say, looking up at the elaborate plasterwork. “Your ceiling is amazing, and it’s so high!”
Frankie laughs, then says, “Essential, when you’re six foot four, not that you’d know much about that, would you, Hannah? You’re even tinier than Eva said you were, especially under all that hair. But that’s soon dealt with, don’t you worry. We’ll just have a quick drink before we start. Ooh, and help yourself to nibbles, girls.”
A drink turns out to mean round after round of cocktails, all made by Frankie using herbs and flowers he picks fresh from his garden, and all even nicer to look at than they taste. I’m starting to get a bit worried about what’s going to happen to my hair, though, if Frankie’s going to be legless by the time he gets around to cutting it, but then he puts down his glass and says,
“Right, Hannah. Time to reveal what lies beneath – a terrible film, by the way, though La Pfeiffer’s as gorgeous as ever. Pop yourself up on this and we’ll get started.”
He gestures towards a bar stool that he’s just dragged into the middle of the room, while Eva re-positions herself for a better view.
“This is going to be good,” she says, looking miles happier than I bet I do – or than Frankie does. He wags his
finger at Eva, reproachfully.
“Now, my sweet, you know better than that,” he says. “I will not have you giving me your so-called helpful comments while I work my magic, so bugger off into the other room and look at the test shots from last week’s shoot while I transform our little Hannah.”
I don’t like the sound of “transform”, particularly when I’ve just remembered that Dan prefers my hair long.
“Frankie, what are you going to do?” I say, but now it’s me he wags his finger at.
“Just wait and see,” he says.
An hour and a half later, Frankie and I have become friends for life, mainly because of Edith Piaf. Frankie’s an even bigger fan than I am, though I’m hoping I’ll also be regretting rien when I finally get to see what he’s done to my hair. There seems to be a lot of it lying on the floor, but I can’t see into a mirror from where I’m sitting. Frankie’s just tweaking what’s left, by now.
“That’s it,” he says, a few minutes later, so I climb down from my stool and walk towards the large mirror over his enormous fireplace. I think trepidation’s the best word for what I’m feeling.
Oh, my God. I look wonderful. Frankie’s cut my hair into a really edgy, choppy bob, and he’s done something masterful with the colour, too. The grey has disappeared completely and my hair’s far brighter, but without looking artificial at all.
“Wow,” says Eva, walking into the room and stopping dead as soon as she sees me. “You could be Keira Knightley’s mum, Hannah – if she looks like an older version of Keira, that is – or Kylie’s mum, given your height. I should think she’s shorter than Keira’s mum, isn’t she, Frankie?”
I interrupt before Frankie can answer that burning question.
“Can we please stop talking about people’s mums?” I say. “I’m less than ten years older than Kylie, thank you very much.”
“Ah,” says Frankie, “but let’s face it, darlin’, Kylie’s had a lot of help, and there’s only so much a haircut can do.”
* * *
It takes me ages to get ready for work this morning, because I’m trying to follow Eva’s make-up instructions. The strobe cream she gave me is amazing. For once, my skin’s glowing in a good way – rather than from yet another hot flush – when I arrive at the office on time, but only just. When I walk towards my desk, it’s like the moment when I revealed my new clothes all over again, this time because of my hair.
“What’s the hairdresser’s name?” demands the Fembot, while everyone else is making thumbs-up signs. “He must be seriously good, because you look at least ten years younger. That’ll help, now you’re single.”
I try to take the last two comments in the spirit in which they were intended, while explaining that there’s no point telling her Frankie’s name, because “he doesn’t cut just anyone’s hair”.
I didn’t say I succeeded in taking the Fembot’s comments in the spirit they were intended, just that I was trying my best, and I have to try even harder when Esther finally gives her reaction to my hair. I’ve just realised that she was the only one who didn’t give it the thumbs-up when I arrived.
“Hmm,” she says, putting her head on one side, while staring intently at my hair. Then she moves her head to the other side, and says, “Hmm,” again. Finally, she asks me if I like it.
“D’uh, yeah,” I say, wondering why she’s even bothering to ask, given what I look like now compared to how I looked before.
“Why d’you ask?” I add, but Esther doesn’t answer. Instead, she announces that she’s got an appointment to have her hair done at lunchtime today.
“Such a coincidence,” she says, when I raise my eyebrows. “Although I booked mine weeks ago.”
In which case, it’s a bit of a mystery why she didn’t mention it yesterday morning when I told her about Eva’s Frankie plan. I’m about to say so, when the Fembot gets in first.
“You’ll be lucky if yours turns out as well as Hannah’s,” she says, making the situation worse, though not as bad as it becomes.
* * *
I get back from lunch – most of which I spend searching for a rare Andrews Sisters album to give to Frankie, as a thank you for my amazing new haircut – but there’s no sign of Esther for another hour or more. The Fembot’s unimpressed by this “dereliction of duty”, and she keeps muttering about poor timekeeping being the sign of a disorganised mind.
Eventually, she loses her temper completely and says, even louder than she normally speaks, “How can it take hours to do someone’s hair when it’s as thin as bloody Esther’s?”
The rest of us keep quiet and just shake our heads to confirm that we don’t know, but then Esther slams the door behind her as she walks in, and it becomes blindingly obvious why her haircut’s taken so long. She hasn’t had much cut off – mainly because her hair was quite short, anyway – but now every individual hair has been gelled, or moussed, to within an inch of its life, so that each one sticks out in a different direction from the others. She looks as if she’s been electrocuted.
The rest of us are so stunned that we probably look as if we’ve had much the same experience. We’ve even lost the power of speech, except for the Fembot, to whom that would never, ever happen.
“You’re late,” she snaps at Esther. “And when I said you’d be lucky, you clearly weren’t.”
Chapter 33
Frankie’s right, there’s only so much that a haircut can do and it doesn’t help when everyone you love is leaving you. I’ve got to drive Pearl and Albert to the airport this morning – very early – ready for their trip to China. Joel was supposed to be coming with me, but he claims he’s too hungover when I wake him up at 5am. That’s probably because he’s only just got home after yet another wild night out with Marlon, one which probably involved more half-naked brunettes.
I’m pretty hungover myself. I took Esther out drinking straight after work last night to cheer her up about her haircut. She insisted I stay out longer than I’d been intending to, so I hope I’m not still over the limit now.
I try to walk a straight line with my eyes closed and manage it with ease, except when I fall over a pair of Joel’s trainers. (That could happen to anybody, given he leaves them in such stupid places.)
Reassured by the line-walking – if not by the falling-over – I leave for Abandon Hope, confident I’m fit to drive to Heathrow, if utterly miserable about the reason. I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m going to miss Pearl much more than she’ll miss me, seeing as she’s got Albert to keep her company. If it weren’t for Joel, I wouldn’t have any of my loved ones living nearby, now Dan’s away on this stupid secondment, not that I love Dan any more. There’d be no point when he clearly likes Pammy far better than he does me.
I drive along, sticking carefully to the speed limit while stewing about my situation, which suddenly doesn’t seem much improved by the fact that I have great new hair and clothes. Once Joel leaves home, I’m going to end up as one of those women who’ll go to the opening of a browser window rather than face yet another lonely evening eating boil-in-the-bag fish and talking to herself. I’ll probably develop a penchant for leaving vitriolic anonymous comments on strangers’ blogs, or referring to women I don’t like as “hunny” or “lovely”, like Esther does. I might even start dabbling in obscure religions. Paganism would be good. I could learn to read a crystal ball so I can work out how many years it’s going to be until I’ll have sex again.
I’m still thinking about sex – or the lack of it – when I pull up outside the main entrance to the Elysium building, where Albert’s waiting with his baggage.
“Exciting times,” he says, as he opens the car door and climbs into the back.
“For you and Pearl, maybe,” I say, as I drive the few hundred yards towards the front door of Pearl’s flat. “I’m going to miss my lessons while you’re gone, and I dread to think how bad my rowing will have become by the time that you get back.”
Albert laughs and then tells me that taking a few weeks
off won’t do much harm. He doesn’t clarify whether that’s because my continuing obsession with learning to row is completely pointless, because I never get any better at it.
“If you do go down to the lake while we’re away,” he continues, “keep an eye on what’s going on with the cafe, will you, Hannah? I’m still worrying about it being sold to someone who will ruin it.”
“Ruin what?” says Pearl, as she pulls open the other door and clambers in. “Not your hair, Hannah – that looks great!”
I smile, until I realise that I’m sitting in the front of the car by myself, like a chauffeur, while those two are both in the back.
“Drive on, Jeeves,” says Pearl, reading my mind, as usual. “We can’t afford to miss our flight and let those little Chinese children down. They’re depending on us to teach them English, don’t forget.”
“I don’t know how much English you’re going to manage to teach them in the few weeks you’ll be there,” I say, which is stupid, given that it plays straight into Pearl’s outstretched hands.
“More than you’ve learned in months of rowing, I should think,” she says.
* * *
I make a right idiot of myself at departures when I wave Pearl and Albert goodbye, then promptly burst into floods of tears. They keep dripping intermittently during the whole time I’m at work, and I’m still a bit wobbly when I get home, especially when I discover Joel has gone out again.
I cheer up when I realise that his absence gives me the perfect opportunity to catch up with Danny.
We’ve hardly spoken for the last few days, because we’ve both been so busy: me with Eva’s “re-make Hannah” initiative, and Danny with work, or packing to go somewhere, or something like that. To be honest, I couldn’t concentrate on a word he was saying last time we “talked”, because Joel kept coming in and out of the room, but tonight he’s got my full attention.
Talking of Danny, it’s weird, but he’s becoming more Dan than Danny, if you see what I mean. He’s like a new Dan, or even the old Dan I fell in love with all those years ago. More alive, somehow, and much more interested in things, as well as more communicative, too.