Skinny Dipping

by Kaye, Alicia M

  “No, no, I’ve got a plan. Why are you awake so early, running around the street like that?” Sophie indicated at the dressing gown, noting the silk hung only to her mid-thigh.

  “What’s wrong with this? No one cares about me? I live in London, millions of people come to this tube station everyday.” Carol put her hand on her hip, tapping her slippers on the pavement, the fluffy, pink pig’s head nodding in agreement as Carol’s foot went up and down. “Besides, you’re the one in my cap and sunglasses.” It was true. Sophie had borrowed one of Carol’s many hats – a black baseball cap – the most understated one in Carol’s collection.

  “Well can I borrow it then?” Sophie shifted the dark sunglasses over her face feeling somewhat like a celebrity hiding from the masses, large oval circles covering half her face, lenses coming down to the middle of her cheeks.

  “’Course you can borrow them. I think the glasses look better on you anyway.”

  “Thanks.” Sophie supposed that was a compliment, she wrinkled her nose. The circular, goggled frames, although fashionable, made her feel like a fly. But if she took her cap off and left the sunglasses on, she supposed she’d look like a bee. It was a pity it wasn’t closer to Halloween, as she had the perfect headgear. At least no one would recognise her.

  “Why didn’t your tell me? You should have rung or texted. I could have asked some of my friends to come over after the show and help.”

  “I’m going to my hairdresser, she’ll sort me out.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Sophie shifted on her feet, thanking the shade of the lenses, almost black to hide her expression. “No.” She hoped her hairdresser could help her, but it had been too late to make an appointment last night.

  “What if you can’t get one?”

  “Someone will do it.”

  “You’re not going to race into work are you? This is an emergency; you’ve got a date tonight.”

  “It’s not a date. I’m thinking of cancelling anyway, if I can’t fix this.” Sophie tucked a wisp of stray hair back into her cap.

  “You can’t cancel.”

  “Why not?” Of course she could cancel, this was a disaster.

  A sparkle flashed across Carol’s face, her lips twitched, slowly extended from ear to ear. “That’s why I raced out to tell you.” Carol swept up the ends of her dressing gown into the tips of her fingers with a graceful motion, and bent into a deep curtsey.

  “What is it?”

  Carol leapt and twirled, pig-slippers doing a pirouette on the sidewalk, without a care in the world even when tube passengers stopped and stared at her. She was made to be a star.

  “What is it?” Sophie pulled her hand to her chest, her heart beating rapidly.

  “You are looking at…” Carol paused for effect.

  “What? Tell me, damn it.”

  Carol’s voice came out dramatically, loudly like she was on centre stage of the theatre. “For one night only, you’re looking at the Swan Queen! You’ll even get a chance to see me! You have to come tonight. You have to!”

  “Oh my God! That’s amazing!” Sophie shrieked, leaning over to hug Carol. She pulled back and stared into her friend’s face. “How did this happen?”

  “The lead is sick! Frightfully ill, the doctor says – she hasn’t been eating, mind you, but we won’t tell the doctor that. You know how dancers get when they’re in the spotlight. Anyway she collapsed – that’s why I had to go in last night, perfect all the moves because I’m front and centre tonight. I rehearsed, dancing my little butt off for hours last night, making sure that I’ve got all the moves down.”

  “Don’t you get sick. Go home and rest.”

  “I’m too excited to rest. Can I help you at all?”

  Sophie frowned, realising the dark circles were larger than she’d seen on her friend. Carol always did this, hyped herself up when she got over excited. She took her friend’s hands, patting them gently. “Run yourself a warm bath, I have some salts in my room. You need to calm down, get some sleep, so you can do your best tonight. Don’t you worry about me, I’ll be fine. Matthew and I will see you tonight. Good luck.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.”

  “What am I supposed to say? Break a leg? Not very good for a dancer is it?”

  “Well ‘break a leg’ is the act, one foot behind the other.” Carol bowed down. “Get it? It’s an archaic expression for bowing or curtseying. But if you want, say ‘merde.’ That’s what we all say; it’s French.”

  “Merde.”

  Carol leapt in the air, floating on her personal high. “Ciao, ciao.” She waved, dashing across the hectic road. Sophie sighed, realising she’d probably gotten about as much sleep as her friend, worrying about her hair. She planned to miss her swimming lesson, catch the tube and go straight to the hairdresser.

  ***

  Sophie stared at the receptionist, her voice shaking. “What do you mean she’s not in? She’s always in.” The girl stood behind the reception counter of the hairdressing salon. Thick tiger stripes coloured her brown hair, creating an alternate, edgy look. The girl shook her head, widening her innocent eyes. “She’s just not in. She’s sick today, I’m afraid. You’re just too early on a Friday morning. We could do something with a Senior Stylist later this afternoon.” The girl ran her perfectly manicured nail down her notepad. “Around four o’clock we have space. Or you’ve got me? I’m free right now. I could help.” The girl moved the broom awkwardly from the reception. “Why don’t you let me see?” The girl reached over and took the cap from Sophie’s head.

  The girl fondled a strand of hair. Her chest tightened. “Do you think you can fix it?”

  The girl nodded, her head bobbing up and down slowly. “I’m only an apprentice. But I can fix it.” The girl’s voice was strong, unwavering, and confident. How many people, she wondered, came into the hairdresser to get a colour correction? How much experience would an apprentice have with colour correction?

  Sophie groaned, shutting her eyes. She might not make Carol’s show if she waited for an appointment with a Senior Stylist. “Okay,” Sophie said, following the girl to a chair inside the salon.

  She sat down, examining the girl’s reflection in the mirror as she brought over a colour chart and began matching the strands of carrot. This could possibly be an even bigger mistake.

  “So you wanted blonde, right?”

  Sophie nodded and furrowed her brow as she watched the girl mixing the dye into a bowl. What more could possibly go wrong? Surely there wouldn’t be much to it – a colour chart, chemicals – hairdressing wasn’t rocket science was it? Although, she’d gotten it wrong.

  Hours later, she ran a hand through the finished hair. It looked natural, like she’d been visiting the beach every weekend for the past decade. She just needed the tan to go along with it. “You’re going to need some new makeup. Some softer colours, otherwise you’ll feel washed out.” The apprentice lifted a strand of hair. “And you know it’s going to break. The strands are so damaged from so much processing. I would recommend you cut a bit of it while we’re here.”

  Sophie shrugged looking at her wrist watch. “Do we have time?”

  “Do you want to look fabulouso for Carol’s performance?” The girl had been so easy to talk to. Sophie’d found herself telling her about Derek, Bradley, Kelly and even the possible – yet unlikely – date with Matthew. She even shared her fantasy about Jamie Oliver. What a hairdresser!

  Sophie nodded. The apprentice smiled, reaching for the scissors. “Let’s get you a new look.”

  Chapter 22

  Sophie held the fairy floss dress on a coat hanger. Arriving in the work foyer, she stepped out into the corridor and opened her makeup compact. A stranger looked back at her, eyes widening as she stared.

  She ran her hands through the short blonde bob, hands stopping at the end where the length of her long brown hair used to continue. She lowered her lashes, the eyelids painted with pastel pink eye sh
adow. This woman in the mirror looked very different from the usual Sophie. Her heart fluttered, possibly with nerves; she felt different. A good different.

  She pushed the door open. Desmond was yelling down the corridor, she caught a few words about the usage of colour in advertising.

  “Hello,” she said, walking past.

  “Um…hello?” Desmond stopped mid-conversation, wiping spittle from his mouth from his tirade. He lowered his glasses, creasing his forehead as he rubbed his brow.

  He hadn’t even recognised her. Sophie’s lips twitched as she felt his gaze hovering on her back, he’d never checked her out before.

  “Sophie?” She heard him call.

  “The one and only. Did you get the actress signed up yet?” She pushed her shoulders back, letting her stride lengthen out from her hips. She turned the corner, passing a few fashion consultants huddled in the hallway.

  She slipped past the think tank whiteboard and hearing her desk phone ring, she ran to pick it up.

  “Ah..., no.”

  Sophie stopped still and looked back at Desmond. “What do you mean ‘no.’ Are we talking about the same actress, the girl with hardly any experience? She hasn’t signed?”

  “Well you see her agent rang.”

  “What is it?”

  “She wants more money.”

  “What? You can’t be serious.”

  “She wants more money,” Desmond repeated.

  “She can’t have more money. There’s no budget for her to have more money,” Sophie said, panic gripping her. “Everything else is practically in place. Convince her to sign.”

  “The agent thinks we should ask the client; or we could shave off a bit of our profits.”

  “Tell the bloody agent to cut her commission. Why on Earth should we cut ours?”

  “The girl is perfect. She’ll sell a zillion memberships,” Desmond asserted.

  “Bradley was right. This girl’s a time-waster.” She paced up and down the corridor, Bradley was right. He was always right. “It’s a recession. Matthew Silver is not going to pay any more for this, and there is no way Bradley will accept less profits. Did you tell the bloody agent it’s a national commercial? This girl could become famous, a hot item, just from doing this commercial.”

  “I tried to say.”

  “Jessica,” Sophie barked. “I want you to have a go at talking to the agent. Take her to coffee and tell her that we’re looking at someone else. Use all the powers of persuasion you possess to get them to reconsider. I’ve heard you talk to people. Do what you’re good at. Remember, Clarks is not in the position to negotiate on pay. It’s a take-it-or-leave-it deal.”

  Jessica looked white faced. “You sure you want me to do this?” She stood very still on the spot, hovering almost.

  “Yes,” Sophie said with frustration. “You can talk woman. I’ve heard you prattling on the phone. Use it.”

  “But we don’t have anyone else if we scare her off,” Desmond said. “We don’t have time to start from the drawing board. We must negotiate.”

  “The girl will cave, they always do,” Sophie insisted, although worry crept up her spine. “Tell the agent Jessica: we will not negotiate.”

  At five o’clock, Sophie left Jessica in charge of her project management crisis. It was time to go to the theatre and excited she left the office immediately. She bought a bunch of flowers for Carol.

  She held the flowers on her hip, lilies, carnations, and roses. Sophie pounded on the stage door again. The rose scent mingled with the garbage she was standing beside. Casting a quick look at the dumpster, backstage in London’s West End was not as glamorous as she had imagined. The backstage entrance was away from the bustling crowds, located on a tiny cobbled street in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.

  “Hello, anyone there?” The door burst open. “Thank you!” Her jaw dropped, she blinked, struggling to blank her expression looking at the man standing in front of her. He was pale, like an albino giant dressed in black, his height looming in the doorway his mass of muscles spread across the entry. Even wearing the fairy floss dress, the ruffles nearly doubling her body, Sophie felt tiny by comparison.

  She purposefully closed her jaw, trying to seem unaffected by his astonishing size. “I’m here to see Carol.” With shoulders like his, he would have no difficulties throwing ladies in the air, over his shoulders.

  “No chance.” He folded his arms, muscles bulging in his skin-tight, black t-shirt. This was not the type of man she wanted to meet in a narrow alleyway. Nor would she want to make him angry.

  “But have you asked her? I mean, maybe she’d want to see me,” she said in a strong voice.

  The man scratched his bald head and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re too late, I’m afraid.” He turned, closing the door.

  “Wait.” Sophie lodged her foot between the door and the frame. “I’ve been banging for almost an hour. I won’t stay long.” She manoeuvred her head, looking through the fronds, past the bulk of the security guard. Black sheets hung from the ceiling and dancers ran past.

  He looked at his watch in contemplation. Sophie took advantage of his distraction, plunging through the narrow gap between the door and his brick body. But not only was he big, he was also quick and she felt her body bounce back from his as he blocked her. She groaned.

  The man shook his head. “Carol is the new leading lady and doesn’t need disturbances. Now scram.”

  “Let’s try this again.” Sophie rubbed her head, feeling like she was slightly spinning. “I’ve known Carol for ages. In fact, she’s my flatmate. Wouldn’t you want to wish your friend well if they were dancing in the lead spot? She’s the principal dancer, isn’t she? Could you please just ask her whether she had two minutes to see me?”

  He sighed, and he opened the door. “I’ll take you in. But no getting into any mischief, and don’t stay longer than two minutes.”

  Sophie nodded, smiling to herself as she followed the security guard through the backstage corridor. He had let her in! She followed him obediently through a series of doors.

  As she walked through the first corridor, she passed a series of clothing racks on wheels, loaded with elaborate flowing dresses for the show. She followed through a second door, where dancers who looked like they’d only just finished high school, fresh faced, pubescent, were dressed in white-corseted leotards, the laces threaded up at the back with long tutu skirts. Their hair was oily and slicked back, showing their unlined faces and the workings of a can of hairspray. Many wore feather ear muffs, pinned on. They were all so youthful. Sophie wondered how long Carol could keep dancing, being almost thirty as well. Surely, these girls would be scratching to be principal dancers.

  Sophie excused herself as she stepped over girls stretching on the floor, legs horizontal. They weaved through the corridors, until the security guard stopped protectively in front of a grey door with a single gold star painted on front. He knocked.

  “Come in,” Carol called from inside.

  “Two minutes only,” the security guard instructed.

  Sophie gave him the most winsome smile. “Thank you.” He opened the dressing room door, a floral scent escaped as Sophie entered, the door closing automatically behind her.

  The room was so large, Sophie could have cart-wheeled the length. At least ten dresser mirrors bordered with light bulbs, extended across the room. Carol sat at the last dresser, surrounded by large bouquets of flowers and majestic floral arrangements.

  “Hey girl, I brought these.” Sophie approached Carol, placing her flowers next to the others, they seemed to pale into insignificance.

  Carol barely turned her head from the mirror, holding eyeliner in her hand, her friend’s lips pursed tight like a string tense on a guitar. “Thanks, Soph.”

  Sophie picked up one of the cards, scanning the signature, wondering who it was from. “Wow, look at all these. You’re a star now!”

  “They’re not for me.” Carol was applying her makeup. Her bench was clutt
ered with boxes of makeup, hair pins, and canisters of hair spray. “They’re for the sick leading lady. I’m temporarily using her dressing room, so the director knows where to find me if and when the need arrives.”

  “Well, you’ve got this room for tonight, anyway. That’s exciting!”

  Carol dropped her eyeliner pencil. “Oh, I’m a mess….” A hand came to her chest. “I can’t believe this is happening, Sophie, what if I can’t do this? All the girls do is keep whispering that I’m too old. They don’t think I can hear them, but I do. You know the average ballet dancer stays with a dance company until they’re at least thirty-five, maybe even until forty.” She swivelled in her chair, wearing the same silk dressing gown Sophie had seen earlier that day, although it now hung over a white ornate leotard and tutu.

  Sophie sat on the stool next to her. “Come on, your director gave you this opportunity for a reason, because you can do it. He wouldn’t have if he didn’t think you could do it.” She was beginning to sound like Matthew.

  “It’s only one night, I suppose. He knows I’ve been dancing forever, I’m quick to learn new steps and it is only one night, so he doesn’t care if I’m old.”

  “Why are you thinking about being old now, he picked you, didn’t he? You just said, ballet dancers are still part of a dance company up to forty. You’re way off being forty. Focus on why you’re doing this, not your insecurities. This is your dream. You can do this.” Sophie picked up the eyeliner pencil and passed it over to Carol.

  “I can’t get the eyes right tonight. They’ve got to be perfect.”

  “Let me,” Sophie noticed Carol’s hands were shaking, and she extracted the eyeliner from her. “I won’t stay long, I know you need to prepare.”

  “I’ve done one eye already.”

  Sophie nodded looking intently at the made-up eye, dark black coal pencil in thick, dramatic strokes. Sophie copied the expertly applied make-up as Carol sat quietly. Worry entered her thoughts as Carol was never quiet.

  “What if I can’t do it Soph? What if run out of stamina, what if I can’t get my breath?”