Sleeping Beauties Read online

  All Caroline could do was think of Bernie and Rita sweating over a hot Le Creuset together. There was much to be said for domestic drudgery. Certainly as much as might be found in salting down a bloke or two for the rainy season, or using his rendered grease for hair lotion and facial moisturizers. Which, apparently, the bandits – in a heartwarming display of liberated good housewifery – did too.

  Bernie had rung to wish her goodnight, ending the call abruptly by saying, ‘Well, I’ll go now. You need your beauty sleep.’

  Needed her Beauty Sleep? He was beginning to find her unattractive already? He had never said such a thing before.

  The little beautician was right. Her plan was brave and perfect; so wicked it took your breath away, so daring it made those Bandits look like Rupert Bear.

  She sank back on the pillows. Daring it was. But did she dare?

  And she sat up again.

  Did Boudicca dare? Did Boudicca hit the Romans where it hurt?

  She did.

  Did those Indian woman, crunching on the odd male femur, fight back?

  They did.

  Who then was she, Caroline, to falter? Shouldn’t she, Caroline, follow her sisters and Have A Go?

  She should.

  The telephone beeped. That would be Bernie. On the dot of eight, so he must be feeling nervous. She answered it in a friendly, sleepy voice and he sounded relieved.

  He was relieved. The fact that he had been preparing a dinner party with his ex-wife and without his lover the night before, had not escaped him. The fact that this was not, perhaps, the most tactful way to carry on with one’s lover, had also not escaped him. Far from escaping him, it had settled round his neck like a millstone – the very pheasants themselves might have been a couple of brace of albatross, so heavy did he feel as he sewed up their bottoms.

  And now here was Caroline being her usual nice, friendly self. Phew!

  ‘Get everything done?’

  ‘Yes. Rita’s very efficient.’

  Caroline chewed the pillow.

  ‘What’s the final menu?’

  Bernie told her, beginning with the ceviche.

  ‘Sounds heaven,’ said Caroline, making pencil notes. ‘And then?’

  ‘The pheasants. We – well, she –’ – Caroline did not help him out – ‘stuffed them with grapes and walnuts and made a kind of paste.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Caroline, writing fast. ‘I see, STUFFED them.’

  He swallowed.

  ‘Vegetables?’

  ‘Cold roast peppers in olive oil, baby peas, new potatoes, then an artichoke salad with balsamic dressing.’

  I’ll balsamic her, thought Caroline, saying loudly ‘BALLSamic’.

  She scribbled away. ‘Pudding?’

  ‘My favourite,’ he said, without thinking.

  Her heart twisted, because she did not know what it was. ‘Really?’ she said, voice as light as thistledown, and she waited.

  ‘Pear and almond tart.’

  ‘Pear and almond TART,’ repeated Caroline, writing furiously. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. She’s got the wine. Red and white burgundies. Left it up to her. She’s good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘FUCK HER EYEBALLS,’ Caroline found she was writing all over the page.

  ‘We may run out.’

  ‘I’m sure we won’t.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘What fun.’

  Even to Bernie’s willing ears, this sounded odd. He did not really understand Caroline’s attitude to what was, after all, just friendship with Rita. Rita had done a brilliant job on his behalf and, as she pointed out, if Caroline was going to be jealous then it wasn’t a very sound basis. He could be Chairman of the Photographic Society if he liked, Rita said. Responsibility. Good for him. After all, life couldn’t be all fun.

  ‘Fun?’ said Bernie cautiously.

  ‘Fun,’ said Caroline positively. ‘Much more fun.’

  ‘I’m glad you understand. About the Chairmanship. Rita suggested it.’

  So those are her battle lines, she thought. She smiled. Wickedly. ‘Il faut cultiver notre jardin!’ she said. ‘Darling.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Bernie.

  ‘Voltaire, Candide. You should read it.’ She remembered the little beautician. Voltaire from her mouth certainly had a new ring to it. One could slip back into him any day.

  ‘I’ll see you this afternoon at the house,’ she said. ‘Can’t wait.’

  The truth was, neither could Bernie. There was no doubt one felt the slightest bit hampered in matters of the bedroom if an ex-wife was likely to pop in.

  ‘Me too,’ he said fervently.

  At least that was on target.

  She leapt out of bed. She would do it; she would do it. It was a waste of a very good idea otherwise. And she had better get going because she had a little bit of shopping to do before school.

  Clutching a small plastic bag, she let herself into Bernie’s house about an hour before he was due home. She went straight to the kitchen. Later, she let herself out of Bernie’s house, still clutching the small plastic bag, which she squashed down deep into a litter bin. She then returned to Bernie’s house, arriving on the doorstep just as he did.

  ‘Come and see,’ he said excitedly. And he showed her the food with pride.

  Such a prettily prepared ceviche, all innocent in its clingfilm.

  Such plumply stuffed pheasants, coldly awaiting roasting, neatly stitched-up tight little bottoms.

  The peas, so prettily snuggling up to the pearly little potatoes.

  The salad so daintily arranged, with its jug of balsamic dressing standing sentry – aromatic perfection.

  Miraculously pretty the tart, with its pears so fat and white, the almonds so evenly browned, the crust so crisply glittering.

  Made your mouth water.

  ‘It all looks splendid,’ said Caroline enthusiastically.

  ‘Oh it will be,’ said Bernie. ‘Rita’s never let me down yet.’

  ‘No?’ said Caroline indulgently. ‘Well, that’s good.’ She shut the refrigerator door. ‘Something about those pheasants’ bums,’ she murmured in his ear, ‘reminds me of her. Now let’s go to bed.’

  Surreptitiously she looked at her watch. Wouldn’t do to be late for the Beauty Parlour.

  *

  Gemma sat in the bath singing. Something told her that tonight she would win. Even her naked body looked perkier. Gravity, that nasty thing discovered by the misogynistic Mr Newton, seemed to have developed another law all of its own, and retracted a little. Nose, chin, breasts all appeared to be uplifted once more. Amazing, she conceded to the sponge, what a bit of hope can bring.

  Who, she had asked the Wandsworth skyline when she had indulged in that ropey Martell, will close my eyes and hold my hand and miss me when I go? And the bobbing daffodil dead-heads had not had a satisfactory answer. If Jim had dared to spend more than half a minute in the flat he would have refitted the window-box – but he hadn’t, and so they wobbled about in the various breezes on offer, desiccated memento mori. No longer. From tonight it would all be different.

  Megan banged on the door. Gemma sang louder. Usually it was Megan getting ready for a night out with Jim, and Gemma who sat around having no one to get ready for. ‘Up Yours’, she sang to the tune of ‘My Way’, and sank further under the bubbles. Nothing could go wrong. As the little beautician said.

  Megan banged again. Gemma knew she was miffed. Not only because of the bathroom being occupied but – well – because Gemma had not behaved very well the night before.

  Jim had arrived early, and just for once he had to wait while Megan finished changing. And if she hadn’t settled him down on the settee so smugly – a human version of the sponge-bag really – Gemma would have more or less ignored him. As it was, with his hands clutching and unclutching his knees and his whole manner being one of desperate unease, well – it was too easy really.


  Gemma began talking about the beauty parlour. Describing its pinkness and its smells, describing some of the intimate practices on offer. Jim’s eyes began – she could swear – to revolve.

  ‘You shouldn’t really be privy to any of this,’ she said knowingly. ‘It’s girl talk.’

  Megan being out of the room, Gemma moved the pouffe a little bit closer to his stolid brogues and described the Beautiful Chloe. Described how the Beautiful Chloe had pinched and stroked her flesh and then moved on to the much more interesting subject of the way women, and Gemma in particular, should handle their men.

  Basically, the message was to keep it light at any cost and don’t say you have hopes or dreams or feelings. Pretty Draconian, but she had argued the case convincingly.

  She felt like teasing. Was the Beautiful Chloe right, she wanted to know? His eyes picked up velocity. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘would you run a mile if Megan told you she felt deeply about you?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim.

  ‘Or showed signs of fear that you might go away?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim.

  ‘Or said she wanted more than just fun, she wanted commitment?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim.

  ‘The girl in the beauty parlour wouldn’t believe you. She said that if – er – Keith – starts saying lovey-dovey things I should still stay cool. Be desirable ... ’ She edged a little closer. Short of standing up and immediately falling over her, Jim could do no more than go on sitting and clutching at his knees. ‘... but distant. Or he’ll run a mile. Would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim.

  ‘What would make you pull out?’ she asked wilfully.

  But just then Megan came back into the room.

  ‘What’s she saying now?’ she asked, as if Gemma were a gaga geriatric.

  ‘I was just telling him about the beauty parlour.’

  ‘Oh –’ said Megan. ‘Not the sort of thing you’re interested in. Is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim.

  *

  Bang, bang, bang she now went on the door. Big hands, thought Gemma, riffling her own through the bubbles. Sausagey fingers. People could be so unattractive. Like the little beautician said, you had to really care about your looks if you were going to get anywhere.

  Looks were linked to demographics. No doubt about it. The Beautiful Chloe probably came from somewhere like Barnes, or Reigate. Whereas Gemma had a fight on her hands, coming originally from Morden. But she had overcome. Morden was drab: fifties boxes; neither country nor town; neither soul nor sense of humour; stultifying. Most people who remained in such an area looked like extras in a Fellini. Most people who remained in any of those areas deserved to look like extras in a Fellini.

  All those South London places she recently visited, for instance: the Streathams, the Mitchams, the Tolworths. Full of unpleasant-looking people emulating their surroundings. Quite unnecessarily. Look at Gemma: down to her beam-ends, but she was still pitching. Interestingly, none of those dreary places had boasted a beauty parlour. Hairdressers of course, run-down-looking affairs – but no Tabithas in sight. Which backed up exactly what the little beautician had said. People who aren’t interested in improving their looks aren’t interested in improving their lives either.

  And out there, banging on the bathroom door, was the living proof. Port Talbot and Chapel. Yuk!

  All the same, she shouldn’t have told them the little beautician’s lipstick story. It was unfair. Nor should she have told it as enthusiastically as it had been told to her. But she had. She had winked once, and begun:

  ‘An Australian called Jo-Jo had a friend called Mike who told her this story about his friends Pam and Eric ... ’

  Neither of them could speak afterwards, as indeed Gemma had been struck dumb in the salon. But she did notice the gleam of interest in Jim’s usually deadpan eyes. Satisfying. And if it worked on him, it was bound to work on M. Le Château.

  Eventually Megan had stood up, made a magnificent rally for dignity and swung her overnight bag on to her arm, as usual, just a little too obviously.

  ‘Don’t want to be late, Jim, now do we?’

  ‘That’ll give you something to think about, on your stroll through the park,’ said Gemma innocently. ‘Will it not?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim.

  But whether he spoke in reply to Megan or herself, she could not be quite sure.

  Gemma pulled out the plug. Better get out of the bath and face the music she supposed. Or the banging. Besides, if she didn’t get going she’d be late for the salon. The last appointment of the day, she was to be, and she wondered what, exactly, the Beautiful Chloe had in store. Any more lipstick stories? Exciting! N’est-ce pas?

  18

  Chloe had a real urge to shout ‘Fire!’ or something, just to see what desiccated old Betty would do about it, but she probably wouldn’t even see the joke. Couldn’t see anything very much, let alone hear. If you wanted to know about the sauna arrangements on the Ark, or about giving a face mask to Mrs Methuselah, she could oblige – but if you wanted anything more lively, forget it.

  Last time she was here she’d offered the meter-man a forearm waxing, she was so blind. He’d whipped his shirt-sleeves down quicker than a bride’s knickers. How Tabitha could prefer her to Jo-Jo was a real mystery. There she was sitting at the reception desk, still writing her history book, past sell-by date, definitely no advert, best ignored.

  Whereas she – Chloe looked in the mirror and cracked her fingers – she looked great. Tabitha had been pleased at the healthy, shining, natural look and had left for her day out looking better than she’d looked for weeks.

  It was so easy. You just opened a magazine, and there it was – Tweed and Silk Can Combine in the Country. Makeover Number One was going into the country, so Makover Number One would look like this. Chloe’s resolve faltered momentarily, remembering what Makeover Number One really looked like – but then she rallied. Here they could do magic. Or even miracles.

  Crack, crack, crack.

  The foundation was pale gold, the blush tawny as if the sun had made its mark, the lashes curved sweetly, apparently by nature, and there was even a fine sprinkling of pale amber ephelides (false, fortunately, thank you). It looked natural, though of course, it was Art.

  Those of us who have strode across morning-wet fields in the misty sun generally come back with flushed cheeks, red noses, hair in damp tendrils and soggy eyelashes; Chloe looked as if she had just stepped out of a Laura Ashley catalogue, and that is what she would attempt with Margery. A bloody hard slog, though, she said with distaste into the mirror. But if she showed each of her clients how she could do it, it would give them a bit of confidence. And then – she cracked the other hand – then they would come back.

  Without Tabitha in the way she could put her own theories into practice. This one was the Carrot, and the client was the Donkey – and she’d keep that thought to herself. But clients needed a show. Not Tabitha’s Calm Centre of Unity – another of her incomprehensibles – but Tricks.

  Chloe was not entirely clear about Margery’s proposed outfit, the description being very muddled, but she knew the date was out of doors and had planned rustic demureness for her accordingly. Clever, thought Chloe, admiring herself in the mirror. Clever. And she pouted, pleased.

  It took a lot to make Chloe’s pretty jaw drop. Yet, on hearing a taxi and sauntering to the window, and looking out, her jaw – so pretty – did indeed drop quite dramatically. Number One Client was unloading what appeared to be her home on to the pavement, while a taxi driver sat in the cab, staring straight ahead, as if he were bravely paraplegic.

  Chloe rallied. This was no time to falter.

  She hitched up her jaw, strode out on to the pavement, stepped around picnic hampers, bags, vacuum flasks and boxes, went up to the taxi driver’s open window, and said very sweetly into his ear:

  ‘If you want paying, let alone a tip, mate, I’d give a hand if I was you.’

  The taxi driv
er turned, stared coldly, got the return equivalent of an icicle up his bum, and got out of his cab. He recognized, despite the charming simplicity of her rural get-up, a dirty fighter when he saw one. Movement instantly returned to his legs.

  The belongings were taken into the salon and stacked in the Client Corner. The taxi driver was dismissed, grumbling at the smallness of his portion and staring about him in fear and wonder at the unequivocal femininity of the surroundings. It confirmed all his worst fears about women: they were nothing less than a ruddy secret society. He held his breath against the thickly perfumed air, glad to get out unharmed.

  ‘And what,’ said Chloe sweetly, folding her hands, ‘are we going to wear?’

  Margery started rummaging among all the stuff. ‘Hope it’s not creased,’ she said anxiously, and pulled out the gingham frock. She shook it so that its ruffles bobbed and swung, and smoothed it so that the full skirt hung to best advantage. She held it up against herself.

  Chloe stared. She had not in all her wildest imaginings (and they could be wild) considered being faced with a gingham cream puff. Oh no. She had not anticipated this. Frankly, no one would have anticipated this. And she wondered briefly whether Reginald Postgate had also not anticipated this? Had this woman seen Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? She could be sued for copyright.

  Chloe took a deep breath. She smoothed out the towels and adjusted the head of the couch. She beckoned. I’d like to be a bee in their hive when he cops that lot, she thought.

  ‘Lovely!’ she said, and still smiling sweetly, she settled Margery on the couch.

  She looked again at the swinging monstrosity. And reverted in crisis. Fuck a duck, she thought. Someone walking down the High Road in a rubber wet-suit and dog muzzle is considered barmy, while someone walking down the High Road in that frock is considered respectable? Didn’t make sense.