by kendra Smith
Suddenly, everything came together: seatbelt on, ignition, lights, a flick of the windscreen wipers. Yes, she could do this. This kind of memory was working. She wanted to do this. To prove things were getting better, that she was getting ‘back to normal’. Even if it was a new normal. She twisted in her seat as her ribs were still tender. But it wasn’t that. Her heart was somehow beating rapidly and some part of her was registering deep distress. She took a steadying breath. She was determined to gain control of at least a fragment of her life again, so she navigated out of her drive and found the shop in the middle of the High Street. Lulu had told her where to find it. Thank God it wasn’t far.
She pulled into a parking spot and turned the ignition off and leant back in her seat, quite exhausted. She flicked the visor down and looked at her reflection. Who was this woman, in the BMW, with the long bob – she looked down at her chest for the umpteenth time that day – would she ever get used to them? Sleeping was a nightmare, she just couldn’t get comfortable. James was in the spare room. ‘It happened months ago,’ he’d explained on the first night, almost amused, when she’d asked.
‘Hey!’ Someone was tapping on the window. It was Lulu, grinning. Seeing her was like a warm blanket was being thrown around her, especially as last night everyone had been so chilly. It had been excruciating at dinner. Everyone was trying to act normal, whatever that was. Although Victoria couldn’t actually remember how she would ask for the mashed potatoes to be passed, she was bloody sure it wasn’t with a sugary sweet voice and met with a dull stare by her teenage daughter. Everyone was avoiding the massive elephant in the room, and that elephant had been getting larger and larger as the minutes ticked by. Where is my memory, dammit? And where is my marriage?
And she hadn’t been able to find anything in the blasted kitchen either. Who keeps Tupperware boxes inside each other? Russian doll Tupperware. ‘You used to insist it was like that, Mummy.’ Izzy had stood, smirking, arms folded, watching her struggle. ‘Said it was neater. Complete ’mare.’ Was it Victoria’s imagination, or was there a real frustration burning underneath Izzy’s fake smile? She knew she was a teenager now, she knew things had changed between them, but she sensed Izzy wasn’t quite herself. Or perhaps it was her blasted memory playing tricks. Izzy and Jake had rushed away from the table the minute they had finished, as if their pants were on fire, claiming jetlag. Much later, she’d seen the eerie glow of white light under their bedroom doors. Time with a screen was obviously preferable to being with her.
She’d been too tired to argue, too overwhelmed. The politeness was killing her. James had sat through the whole dinner with pursed lips, like she’d served them mashed hedgehog or something, then he dutifully made sure she had taken her painkillers, helped her up the stairs as he said she looked pale, then taken himself off to the spare room saying a curt ‘good night’. She’d crawled under her duvet without washing her face and started to sob.
‘Hey, sis! You alright?’ Lulu yanked open her door. Victoria couldn’t help but notice how dull her eyes looked.
‘Think so. Well, no, actually. It’s all a bit weird.’ She took another look at her little sister. ‘Big night?’
‘Oh, um. Not really. Last minute booking. A kid’s party at a woman’s house.’ Lulu stood back to let Victoria get out the car.
‘You were out late,’ said Victoria as she shut the door and seemed to know which button on the fob to press to lock the car. ‘When I couldn’t get hold of you I called Simon – well, I found the number on my phone – and he seemed very nice but he said you’d been out late, then just crashed into bed.’
‘Yeah, it was exhausting and it took a bit longer to tidy up – hey,’ she said, glancing at the salon behind them, ‘let’s get us some “me-time”!’ As they walked into the salon, Victoria was embraced by a fug of warm air. It smelt of hairspray and singed hair.
‘Victoria, hell-o. How are you?’ An older woman with grey hair in a choppy cut, dressed in all black, was almost bowing. ‘Here for your usual? Let me take your coat. Oh, I love your earrings!’ Victoria touched her earrings and looked around for clues. Who did they think she was? Meghan Markle? Lulu had vanished round the corner for a ‘bridal hair try-out’. Victoria tried to find some images she recognised. As she sat down in the chair, the woman staring back at her was certainly not one of them. What was her usual? She nodded – much easier to agree, rather than risk her hairdresser bundling her out of the salon as a nutter. Maybe having her hair done might spark some synapses to remember more about herself – including her hairstyle.
Debbie, as the woman turned out to be called, was the salon manager. Apparently Victoria would only have her do her hair. She gave her a glorious head massage. (Pressure alright? Good, because normally you’re very fussy.) Then she set about snipping a tiny amount off her fringe, her layers. Products were applied, her hair was rough dried and then the straighteners had come out. Straighteners? What a performance. Normally she just washed her hair at home and let it dry. Didn’t she?
When she looked up from the magazine she was reading, there was a woman in the mirror with poker-straight hair looking at her. It looked good, yes – but it didn’t look like her. Certainly not like the Vicky she remembered, not like her at all.
‘How’s that for you?’ Debbie was holding a mirror up to the back of her head. She looked at the immaculate way the layers fell and found herself nodding.
‘Are you sure?’ Debbie rested her hands on her shoulders and looked at her in the mirror. ‘Because we don’t want you having one of your fits, like when I let one of the juniors dry your hair! Do you remember?’ She smiled at Victoria in the mirror but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she fussed around, flicking hair off her gown and chattering about everyone in the salon. Victoria didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
As she presented her credit card to pay, Debbie said, ‘Oh, just touch it, dear,’ as Victoria tried to put it into the little slot of the card machine. She did as she was told and, magically, the screen flashed up ‘paid’. She smiled tightly at Debbie wondering what had just happened.
Walking back to her car, Victoria thought about what Debbie had said. I’d have a fit if a doctor gave my children the wrong medicine, thought Victoria, I’d have a fit if James had an affair, she reasoned. But to have a fit over how her hair was dried? She shook her head. She had to find a way to convince James that the Old Vicky was back – and was giving the New Victoria a run for her money.
9 Lulu
‘What do you think?’
Markie swallows a smile. ‘Grand. I mean you look like you’ve been to the hairdresser.’
‘What does that mean: “like I’ve been to the hairdresser”?’
‘Well, you’ve got a new hair “do”, right?’ He scrunches his brows together quizzically at me, as if guessing the right wording. ‘Hey, it is grand, so it is.’ He leans back on the leather chair in The Little Norland Coffee Shop, the one by the village hall, and it makes a kind of whoosh noise.
‘So you said.’
‘Why are you looking at me like you just bit into a lemon?’
I burst out laughing. ‘I am not.’
‘You’re kind of snippy, so you are.’ A smile twitches at his lips.
‘Snippy? I’m not snippy!’ But as I say it I can feel my face twist into, well, a snippy kind of look.
His eyebrows fly up before he looks back down at his laptop. I sit down heavily in the chair next to him and yank my hair. I knew it was all wrong. My normal bouncy blonde curls have been tamed with what looked like a cooking utensil and I resemble a TV presenter on one of those American shopping channels. When I looked in the mirror at the hairdressers I nearly screamed. We’ll give you a full bridal, the girl had said, see if you like it. Markie certainly doesn’t, in fact he’s glancing sideways at me now, looking like he’s trying really hard not to piss himself.
‘You hate my hair.’
‘Lulu, my darlin’.’ He says this in a lilting way, d
ropping the ‘g’. ‘I am not the one wearing it.’
‘You don’t wear your hair.’ I fold my arms across my body but my mouth is involuntarily smiling.
I catch Markie glancing at me as he angles his laptop closer. ‘You’ll make a lovely bride, so you will. Anyway, have a look at this.’
Get Paid to Have Fun!
We are looking for an enthusiastic part-time children’s entertainer in Sussex to work for us!
The ideal candidate will have:
Bundles of personality; a desire to succeed; love working with kids! Driving licence. You will be working with 4–12-year-olds in a fast-paced environment, using cool disco decks, letting off bubbles, snow or using a smoke machine, one day you’ll be Bubble Bo Peep next, A Hungry Caterpillar! Experience not essential. Full training given. You will be accompanied by Markie Music, who will provide the musical accompaniment to all the events.
He’s wasted no time trying recruiting for my job. Why am I not delighted? I’m giving up this ‘kids’ party malarkey’ as Simon calls it. But a thought lands on my brain like a butterfly gently flapping its wings to get steady and the idea circles around and around. What will I do after I’m married? You’ll be safe, Lulu, a voice tells me. Safe. Married.
And bored.
The truth is I haven’t been able to think about it – it’s been all ‘wedding dress this’ and ‘wedding flowers that’. The snarky voice is quietly whispering to me – you have been able to think. ‘Art classes’ Simon said a few days ago as if a lightbulb had gone off in his head, as he stirred some béchamel sauce. As if, just because I am ‘creative’, I’d suddenly be able to wield a paintbrush and be any good at that. ‘It’s completely different Simon,’ I’d said patiently, ‘painting, to singing, to being on an actual stage, you know, in front of people instead of being in front of a canvas. There’s a live reaction when you perform. The canvas doesn’t give you that.’ I tried not to sound sarcastic. How could he think those things were similar? His world is figures and spreadsheets, I know, but still. And then I tried to explain to him about my dream, about the West End, I couldn’t tell him why it had all gone wrong – that will have to wait till I’m ready – but I needed him to understand it was where I felt alive. ‘You don’t want to bother with all that, you’ll be married soon’ was his response. I’m still processing it. But it was the most annoyed I’ve been with him since we met.
‘Well?’ Markie seems oddly pleased with himself. ‘I’ve got fifty CVs to look through! Result!’
‘You’ll need the right person, not everybody can do this job you know.’ I close my mouth, because I do sound prickly. I’m glad he’s getting on with it. He needs to, as he’s running out of time.
Markie looks towards the café door. ‘Course they can’t. Nobody can replace you!’ Is he serious or messing with me?
‘No, well, I’m trained, you know, and I’m only doing this—’
‘Because you haven’t got anything else.’
‘Thanks a bunch.’ I cross my legs and sit back.
‘Whoa, Lulu, I mean it,’ he places his hand on my forearm gently. I’m acting like a four-year-old, but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. ‘It’s a shame you haven’t got anything else,’ he takes a sip of coffee. ‘I happen to believe that this is actually quite a difficult job, and, for what it’s worth, you’re great at it because you’re trained. But you’re wasted here, Lulu. And I shouldn’t be saying that about my own business, but it’s true.’ He leans in closer. ‘And you know you are. But I’ve been lucky to have you.’ He smiles at me and releases his grip. There’s an odd whirling at the pit of my stomach.
‘Just don’t you forget it.’ I use my best schoolteacher voice.
‘Hey, will you help me interview? Got a girl lined up who I think is perfect. I’m meeting her here.’ He glances at his watch. ‘In ten minutes.’
A surge of unease lands in my stomach as I nod.
‘Hiya! I’m Katia – you must be Markie, good to meet you!’ A girl with an elfin face is grinning and holding out a hand expectantly to him. She’s about five-foot-seven, with long blonde hair pushed jauntily in place by a polka dot hairband; pink raincoat, tight black jumper and short pink netted skirt; opaque black tights and thigh-high boots. Is she in fancy dress?
Markie stands up instantly and takes her hand. ‘Great to meet you Katia.’ He’s grinning from ear to ear. ‘Have a seat. This is Lulu.’
‘Hi,’ I say, folding my arms across my chest. Markie snatches a look at me.
‘Oh wow, this is exciting! Thanks for seeing me!’ Katia sits down on the chair next to Markie and, with a flurry of hair flicking, takes off her raincoat.
‘Shall I hang that up?’ Markie bounds out of his seat and hooks the coat on a nearby peg.
Markie chats animatedly as I try not to notice her perfectly polished fingernails, her tiny waist, and try to focus on what she’s saying: she’s doing teacher training at college, is a trainee drama teacher, looking for extra work, she just loves kids, been on the stage herself since she was ten years old, parents couldn’t drag her off it – bet they couldn’t. I look away at the door to distract myself from this nauseating Mary Poppins of a girl. When I zone in again I hear her tell Markie she’s come up with a new song for the Bo Peep character. Couldn’t help myself and thought I’d just sketch something up.
I think I might be sick. I cough and excuse myself to the Ladies’. When I get back, Markie is tapping away at his laptop. He looks up at me when I sit down. ‘She was perfect! Don’t you think?’ He turns to me.
‘Yeah, she was great.’ I bite my fingernails. But as much of an actress as I am, I can’t hide my feeling of unease. Perhaps it’s just a hangover, perhaps it’s the stress of the wedding. I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m waking up at 2 a.m. most nights, staring at the ceiling, wondering about life, about my past, about it. I shake my head. Markie is frowning at me. The concern in those green eyes is almost too much and I feel tears threaten. I don’t want to burden him. I focus on the crinkly bit at the side of his eyes as he says he’ll get us another coffee and gives me a friendly wink.
I watch him walk back to me, carrying a tray. His concentration is immense, eyebrows knitted, and I smile watching him. A bit of coffee spills from his cup and he swears under his breath. ‘I got you a hot chocolate instead, with whipped cream, I know you like them.’ He places the tray on the table and mops up the spilt coffee with a napkin, making a mess of it. Then he looks up at me. ‘Are you alright for the gig later? Only I can’t really fit into Bo Peep’s frock?’ He looks at me deadpan.
‘Of course, Bo Peep at your service.’ I channel all my acting skills and muster a fake smile and salute. As long as I have a few drinks back at the flat, I’ll be the best Bo Peep ever.
Markie holds out his hand and I take it. It’s soft and warm and for a fleeting second I imagine pulling him into the hay bale with me. I start to giggle. ‘Did you see Stuck-Up Mum’s face when I forgot the lyrics?’
I can tell Markie’s fighting with his professional side and trying not to laugh; he’s biting his cheek, one of his little habits. ‘C’mon mo-stoirin,’ he grins. That’s his little name for me, his Irish pet name. ‘I used to call my dog that,’ he told me when I first met him. His dog? But still, it made me smile. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’ He pulls me up to a standing position and then gently nudges me to sit on the hay bale. ‘And I’ll just have this.’ He reaches out for my glass and puts it on a nearby table.
‘But we’re off duty!’
‘Yes, but I have to get you back to your fiancé in a fit state.’
I yank down my bonnet and scratch under my wig. I hate the word ‘fiancé’, it’s so priggish. And I hate Little Bo Peep parties, especially as we had to control two very horny sheep earlier on. I suggested to Markie that perhaps it should be the last time we use a ewe and a ram, but he’d just smiled his relaxed, lop-sided smile at me and told me to chill. The sheep had been tethered outside; earlier the ram had
baa-ed at a nervous four-year-old who was now sedated with Calpol. I reach for my ‘water’ bottle in my bag. One more won’t hurt. I’m seeing Victoria next and I feel a rush of guilt as I take a swig, but this always helps; helps to calm the clashing voices in my head.
‘You’ll not get us any repeat business, so you won’t.’ Markie winks at me. ‘It’s not every day you change the words in The Wheels on the Bus to “the wipers on the bus go piss, piss, piss” instead of “swish, swish, swish”. I saw that lassie screw up her nose at you as she was singing along. And the mam was raising her eyebrows.’
‘Serve her right. That mam, she’s a madam. Capital “m”.’ I seem to be shouting. I steady myself on the hay bale.
‘Lulu! keep your voice down.’ Markie frowns at me.
‘And the kid’s a spoilt brat too!’ I stage-whisper.
‘Lulu!’ Markie glances to his right.
I’d better stop having a go at the parents. It is Markie’s business after all. It’s just that sitting in a marquee in Sussex on a bale of hay isn’t how I’d planned my life. What I’d planned – well, it’s too late. I pull a strand of straw from out of my fringe just as my phone pings. I pull it out of my skirt pocket. It’s Victoria, telling me she’s early and is parked outside the wedding dress shop.
I sigh and reflect how I’ve got to this place. When Simon whisked me off my feet for a surprise trip on the Eurostar to Paris, where he produced his grandmother’s ring, I was swept up in a tsunami of emotion, confusion – and I was grateful. Plus, I hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Instead, I’d poured myself another glass of champagne, and we’d had such a fun weekend, not that I can remember much of it. But he is a good man. He’s restored my faith in men. I take another slug from the water bottle. And anyway, all that glitters isn’t gold, is it? I’m not sure another man would take me on, not after—