by Lindsey Kelk
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ He reached across the table to lay a hand on my forearm as his laughter settled and I noticed the girls at the next table watching us again. ‘I’m just fucking with you. Seriously, how is the bet? Have I won yet?’
‘I know a lot of women like confident men,’ I replied, straightening myself in my seat. ‘But there’s a fine line between confident and cocky, Wilder.’
‘She says, as though she isn’t one hundred per cent betting on herself,’ Charlie said, grinning as he raised his glass. ‘Pretty sure it was your “confidence” that got you into this bet in the first place.’
‘I’m pretty sure it was your arrogance,’ I replied. ‘But what would I know?’
I pulled my shirt out of my jeans and fanned myself underneath the table. Was it getting hot in here or was it just me?
‘What I’m hearing is, you’re not quite at twenty thousand followers just yet,’ Charlie emptied the rest of one of the bottles of tonic into his glass. ‘Don’t worry, you’ve still got another couple of weeks.’
‘I’m not worried,’ I said, gently reminding myself not to get wound up. ‘As soon as he finds his audience, Sam is going to be a sensation.’
Across the street, the front door to The Ginnel opened to reveal said sensation, wearing a cycling helmet over his long hair, one trouser leg rolled up to the knee and cuffed with an elastic band, as he fought with a reluctant folding bicycle.
‘You have to be confident to get by these days,’ Charlie said, shaking his head at Sam’s ongoing struggle. ‘But you also have to know when to admit defeat.’
‘And you should know when to change the subject,’ I said, sinking my drink. ‘Don’t count me out just yet.’
Charlie shrugged then nodded, a smile still playing on his lips. Having finally wrestled his bike into submission, Sam looked up and did a double take at the two of us. I waved, glancing down at Charlie, our empty glasses on the table, backpacks beside us on the bench. With a curt nod, Sam climbed aboard his bike and cycled off down the street, his long, Rapunzel locks flowing out behind him.
‘I’m curious,’ Charlie said as I watched Sam disappear into the sunset. ‘What would be on your dating agenda?’
‘Another drink,’ I replied, climbing out of the wooden picnic-style bench with as much grace as my skinny jeans would allow. ‘Same again?’
‘Same again,’ he confirmed. ‘Thanks.’
I passed the table full of women on my way inside and offered them a vague smile. There was no point getting territorial over something that wasn’t mine, or offended over a story I’d made up in my own head.
‘I love your shoes,’ one of the women said. I looked down at my knackered old Adidas and shrugged. Sure, why not?
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘They’re so comfortable.’
‘I love your boyfriend’s shirt,’ said another. ‘Do you know where it’s from?’
Ahh. The old ‘finding out if he’s your boyfriend by calling him your boyfriend’ trick. Obviously, I knew I was not on a date. But still, that didn’t mean I had to offer Charlie up to any old Tom, Dick or Harriet, did it? Flirting with him was fun, when he wasn’t being such an arrogant tit. And weirdly, also when he was.
‘Charlie?’ I replied with mock surprise. They nodded, purring his name around the table. ‘Sorry,’ I said sweetly. ‘He’s gay.’
‘Typical,’ the first woman scowled.
‘I should have known,’ the second said. ‘Such nice hair.’
The third just drank.
‘Enjoy your evening, ladies,’ I said, as they went back to sipping their ill-advised wine and prodding blindly at their phones.
None of them replied.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday, 13 July: Twenty-One Days to Go
522 followers
‘I honestly think this is going to be your favourite part of boyfriend bootcamp,’ I said, knowing full well it would be mine. ‘Everybody, meet Sam.’
I pushed Sam through the door of our office, to the tune of a fanfare playing on my iPhone. Across the room, Brian crossed himself while Miranda dropped a KitKat into her lap.
‘It’s just so much hair,’ Brian breathed before remembering himself and rushing over to shake Sam’s hand. ‘Sam, Brian.’
‘Most people call me Dr Page,’ he insisted, raising a hand in what I assumed he believed was an appropriate human gesture. It was, just barely. ‘Or Samuel. Actually, let’s stick with Dr Page.’
After leaving Charlie and the pub, I’d sent Sam an email requesting his presence at our office at nine a.m. When he didn’t reply, I knew he wouldn’t come of his own accord. Unfortunately for Dr Page, it turned out if you were dedicated enough and prepared to sit outside the men’s toilets for long enough, you too could catch yourself a hip historian. We’d been putting this off for long enough. Today was the day. Today we pulled out the big guns.
‘Sam has very kindly volunteered to be a guinea pig for us today,’ I announced. ‘Brian, you told me you needed hair models for Coast this morning?’
‘I’m not a model,’ Sam whispered softly.
‘He’s not a model,’ Brian whispered softly.
‘But he will be,’ I countered, steering Sam by the shoulders and kicking the door shut behind me. Now we had him, we had to keep him. ‘Imagine what Coast could do with all this glorious … hair.’
‘You’re right,’ Mir cheered. She was so good at putting a brave face on things. ‘You, Sam, are a regular diamond in the rough. I can’t wait to see what’s going on underneath all that.’
‘Annie said I’d just be getting a trim,’ Sam said, turning to me, true fear in his eyes. ‘That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?’
‘You are in the best hands,’ I promised, guiding him through the office and into the tiny meeting room where our client, Coast, was already set up with scissors, a spray bottle and the courage of a thousand men. ‘And remember, you’re doing this for Elaine. And hair always grows back.’
‘Hair always grows back,’ he repeated, gripping the arms of his chair as though he was about to shoot off into space.
‘But that doesn’t mean it should,’ I added. ‘Sam, meet Coast. Coast meet Sam.’
I waved my hand from one terrified-looking historian to one terrified-looking hairdresser. ‘Coast,’ Sam said slowly and deliberately. ‘That’s an interesting name.’
‘Coast is one of the best stylists in London,’ I said, actively ignoring the look of horror on said stylist’s face. ‘He’s got a huge social media outreach and he’s far too discreet to brag about it, but he does a lot of celebrities’ hair.’
‘If you’d consider the sixth person in line to the throne a celebrity,’ Coast replied, eyeing his fingernails carefully. ‘But as Annie said, I don’t like to brag.’
‘Thank goodness,’ Sam said as Coast unleashed The Hair. I watched as it cascaded over Sam’s shoulders with envy. My hair was a nightmare. Damp outside? Frizz monster. Central heating inside? Frizz monster. Humid, raining, snowing, anywhere above or below 16 to 18 degrees Celsius? You get the idea. I lived and died by my hair straighteners and as much as the style did nothing for him, I had to admit, when he set it free from that dodgy ponytail, Sam’s hair was luscious.
‘I think just a quick trim should do it,’ he said with a brave smile.
‘Leave it all to me.’ Coast wound his victim’s hair back into a ponytail and held it taut. ‘This is my job, my friend, this is what I do.’
‘I’ve had long hair since I was in uni,’ Sam replied, waving a hand in the air as though that explained everything. ‘It’s part of my thing.’
I bit my lip, too scared to watch but too invested to look away.
‘Friend,’ the stylist said, yanking the ponytail backwards and taking Sam’s head with it. ‘It’s time to let that thing go.’
He sliced right through his hair with one snip, shearing off the entire thing, and placing the poor ponytail in the palm of Sam’s hand. I gasped, Sam gasped, Coast s
ighed. I very nearly needed a cigarette.
‘My … my hair,’ Sam was choking on his words as he cradled a decade of poor decisions in his arms. ‘You cut off all my hair!’
‘You are so welcome,’ Coast said, grabbing a handful of Sam’s new lob and pulling his head upright. ‘Now the magic really happens.’
‘Sam, you look …’ I made an OK sign at a grief-stricken Sam as he stared at himself in the mirror Coast had placed on the table. ‘I’ve got to make a quick phone call. Be right back.’
There was no phone call. There was only the complete and utter certainty that I was going to throw up with anxiety if I stayed in the room. Stood in the safety of the stairwell, I opened Instagram and landed on Elaine’s feed. As if things weren’t bad enough, she had spent the last twenty-four hours filling her Insta feed with hot dogs or legs pictures, alongside heavily filtered shots of cocktails, bikinis and sunsets. As Miranda would say, she could not have been more basic. The whole feed was a masterclass in basicality. Sam might be a lot of things but he could never be accused of being basic. At this rate, it was going to be easier to make Sam the new King of Instagram before I could convince these two crazy kids to get back together.
‘Morning.’
I opened my eyes to see Charlie hanging over the handrail on the floor above me. He really was very tall and very handsome. I felt a pang of guilt for telling the three girls at the bar he was gay as I gazed up at him, but then he smiled and it passed, quickly. Maybe after the bet was over and we’d won and I’d finished doing my victory lap of the building, I’d consider asking him out properly. Because men loved that, didn’t they?
‘How are your numbers looking?’ he asked, a cheeky smile on his face as he came down the stairs, two at a time.
‘Excellent,’ I replied, pocketing my phone. ‘Thanks for asking. How’s your wrist?’
‘My wrist?’ he glanced down at his hand, confused.
‘Just making sure you haven’t got any injuries or RSI or anything like that,’ I said. ‘You know, anything that might stop you from signing our rent cheque next month.’
He shook his head and laughed. ‘Annie, I’m a reasonable man. If you want to concede now, I’ll take free social for two weeks instead of a month. You can’t say fairer than that, can you?’
‘I hope you’ve negotiated mates rates with Martin,’ I replied, tilting my head up to look him in the eye. ‘I really would feel awful if you had to find all that money.’
‘You’ve got to love a girl with confidence,’ Charlie said, taking a big breath in and then sighing loudly. ‘You still think you can win with him, don’t you?’
‘I think I could win it with a monkey on roller skates.’ I stood and moved up three steps until I was taller than him. Come to think of it, a monkey on roller skates would be far easier. ‘But thanks for asking.’
A happy smile found its way onto my face and I turned, climbing the stairs back to the studio.
‘I can’t wait to see which filters you use on all my pictures,’ he called after me. ‘I can be a demanding boss, I hope you’re ready for it.’
‘I just hope you’re not a sore loser,’ I replied, glancing back down the stairwell, my heart pounding in my ears though my voice remained even and clear. ‘Because I can be a terrible winner and someone’s going to have to be gracious when all this is over.’
‘We’ll see,’ he replied with a wink. ‘I’m going down to the coffee shop, you coming?’
‘I’m actually busy right now,’ I said, opening the studio door with a shaky hand. ‘But thanks.’
‘You’ve got three weeks to find twenty thousand followers,’ he reminded me as he jogged down the steps. ‘I should think you are busy.’
‘Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit,’ I chanted as I let myself back onto the second floor. ‘You’re such an idiot, Annie. What are you thinking?’
‘Oh good, you’ve gone mad.’
I walked straight into a bemused Mir.
‘This bodes well.’
‘I can’t hear any screaming,’ I said, almost too afraid to look into the meeting room. ‘Has Brian killed him?’
‘I think you’d better see for yourself,’ she said. ‘I don’t have the words.’
It wasn’t possible. I’d only been gone two minutes. What could have happened inside two minutes?
Preparing myself for the absolute worst, I watched my feet walk into the room before forcing my eyes up to see someone that used to be Sam, sat in Coast’s chair.
‘But, Dr Page,’ I pressed my palm against my chest and gasped. ‘You’re beautiful.’
In my absence, a miracle had occurred. Chopping off Sam’s long, sad ponytail had been revelatory. The waves sprang up into loose curls, and even though it had been cut short on the sides it was just long enough on the top for you to really get your hands in there. Should you feel so inclined. Best of all, the beard that had given me nightmares, was gone. His newly shorn stubble drew attention to a full mouth and a good, solid jawline and I had to assume neither had seen the light of day in over a decade. Maybe Elaine had been playing the long game all along.
‘I hate it,’ Sam said, still clutching his discarded ponytail. His blue eyes were anguished. ‘I can’t believe you did this to me.’
‘How could you hate it?’ I asked, walking around him, taking in every possible angle. Imagine having the potential to look this good but instead choosing to spend your life doing an impression of a 1970s cult leader. ‘Sam, you look amazing.’
‘I don’t feel amazing,’ he said, repeatedly touching his ears. It must have been a while since they’d been so exposed to the elements. ‘I feel ridiculous.’
‘I can’t believe it’s the same person,’ Miranda whispered. ‘Holy Hemsworth, Annie. Did you always know this was lurking under there?’
‘I’d say he’s more Hiddleston than Hemsworth,’ Brian said, draping his arms over both of our shoulders. ‘But either way, if I’m being brutally honest, I totally would.’
‘You cut off my hair, not my ears. I can hear you both,’ Sam called. ‘Just so you know.’
‘We know, we just don’t care,’ Miranda replied, shooting him a double thumbs up. ‘You look fantastic, Sam.’
‘Samuel,’ he said. ‘I feel ridiculous. How am I supposed to stand up and give a lecture in three weeks looking like this?’
‘You’re right,’ Mir said. ‘You need new clothes.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ He glared at her with indignation. It was so much easier to work out his expressions now we could see his face; before it had been like translating body language from Cousin It. ‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’
‘Consider this a non-negotiable part of stage two of the boyfriend bootcamp,’ I told him. ‘We’re giving you a wardrobe makeover as well as the hair.’
‘I reckon the samples from the Dashell campaign will fit him,’ Brian said, giving Sam a once-over. And then whatever you would call a second once-over. And a third. ‘Coast, you really are worth all the hype, bro.’
‘I love what I do,’ Coast said with a great deal of forced modesty. ‘And it would have been hard to make him look worse.’
Sam sucked on his teeth, making his cheekbones even more pronounced. Wasted on a man, they were. Utterly wasted. ‘Am I supposed to sit here and take this?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded with sympathy. ‘Another big part of boyfriend bootcamp. Knowing when to talk and when to listen.’
‘So what now?’ he asked, almost tearfully. ‘Have I passed your tests?’
‘Baby, you’re just getting started!’ Miranda replied as Brian took off into the samples cupboard and began hurling jeans, shirts and jumpers into a pile behind him. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’
‘Look at it like this …’ I searched for the perfect metaphor as Sam disappeared under a pile of striped T-shirts and skinny jeans. ‘Think of yourself as a really good cake.’
‘I try not to eat sugar,’ he replied as a pair of yoga pants landed on top of
his head.
‘Think of yourself as a really good book,’ I corrected, ignoring Coast’s eye-roll behind him as he packed up his things. ‘The most important thing about you is the words, correct?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Well done, you understand how books work.’
‘Before I give you a slap, let me finish,’ I continued. ‘The words inside the book might be utterly amazing. Mind-blowing. Life-changing even. But what if no one ever reads them? How do you get those words into the hands of the right people? You’ve got to come up with a brilliant cover. You’ve got to make sure it’s in the shops. You’ve got to get people talking about it. You don’t want to just be a book, you want to be a bestseller.’
Sam looked slightly overwhelmed.
‘You got all that from cutting my hair?’
‘She’s very good at her job,’ Mir shouted, clapping in between each word. ‘What part of that do people not get?’
‘I still don’t understand how this is going to change the way Elaine feels about me,’ he muttered, sadly handing off his discarded ponytail to Coast, who took it reluctantly between pinched fingers. There had been talk of giving it to a charity that made wigs out of donated hair but we weren’t entirely sure whether it would be a kindness or an insult. ‘If she cut off her hair, it wouldn’t change the way I feel about her.’
‘It’s not about the haircut or the shave or the clothes or the fact you look like a completely different human being,’ I explained, even though I couldn’t help but think it might be at least a little bit about that when she got a look at him. ‘You’re showing her you’re prepared to try to make things work, that you’re prepared to change things for her.’
I had seen some great makeovers in my time but the new and improved Dr Samuel Page was a mindblower. Gone was any evidence of an awkward shut-in, the weirdo who was one brown paper bag away from being someone you crossed the street to avoid, and in his place was a clean, handsome, well-coiffed man with Swipe Right written all over him. All that was left for me to do was get him into a pair of jeans that wasn’t eight sizes too big for the first time since his mother stopped dressing him. Assuming his mother had ever stopped dressing him.