Sleeping Beauties Page 17

  Behind her, picking up speed as she did, came her shadow. He did not like what he saw, which was akin to a renewal of confidence. But perhaps it was false? He bloody well hoped so, the dance she’d led him.

  With each step towards the revolving doors and the freedom of the world, she felt better. All a silly mistake. All her overworked mind. All perfectly understandable, since she was more than ready to retire. The mind plays tricks, she counselled herself, the brain gets silly. Chloe was fine. The salon was fine. The world of beauty was fine, fine, fine.

  Chloe was even educating herself – all those books, all that insight, all the sympathetic understanding it would bring. Nothing wrong at all. How silly of her to think it. After all, they were giving women what they wanted, weren’t they? If they had wanted what those nasty graffiti-bound lesbians had implied they did – they would go elsewhere.

  No, no ... Tabitha’s Beauty Parlour still had a role for women. And a good one. Their last great Bastion against the dilution of their feminity; to be beautiful, their unique role along with having babies. Had they not given up enough, without giving up the Joy of that?

  He was in trouble. He knew it. He could see by the shadow she cast on the marble walls that her chin was up, her nose towards the air and she definitely had a look, suddenly, of being sane. Damn. Bugger. And ginger nuts too.

  Near the doorway to the world outside and the clear blue of a summer sky at evening, she paused. Buses had begun to move again, taxis gleaming as they sped along, and hurrying people showed signs of smiling, faces bathed in the low golden sunlight. Near the door there was one very large painting hanging alone. Not, she saw thankfully, a portrait.

  She paused to look.

  The artist in residence had chosen this, the card said, as the key painting in his selection. Very important. A new departure in the use of paint – its thinness so daring – the hint of canvas beneath so audacious – the composition so perfect. She stared at it, seeing what he meant.

  Behind her, her shadow stared too. Very valuable picture this. He waited. He would see her off the premises completely, just to be sure she didn’t do something all of a sudden, and him miss it. Once a woman had written ‘Bingo’ in lipstick on one of the pillars of the outside portico, and no one had noticed it until they went home. He wouldn’t let that happen again. She stepped forwards, and so did he. She stared. She saw.

  Titian’s painting of a Pieta. Great, dignified, honourable art. Christ brought down from the cross, the slack paint expressing the life gone out of Him. Held on each side, tenderly, sorrowfully, by two deeply grieving women, both the Marys. The Magdalen’s face was wet with tears, the eyes wide and full of pain, beauty in agony, and fittingly so, for she was young.

  But it was to Mary the Mother that Tabitha turned. Depicted here should be a woman in the deepest grief humanly possible, more wretched than any who have not suffered the loss of a child can know, and as Tabitha stared she saw the painter had understood, had reached the heart of the mother’s ultimate darkness. Mary the devastated mother could not fail to move an observer with the agony in her face.

  And yet – Tabitha did a quick calculation on her fingers. This woman must have been in her late forties, perhaps early fifties when her son was crucified, yet the Madonna of those earlier paintings, the bright-eyed, round-cheeked girl of the Annunciation and New Motherhood, had scarcely been allowed to change physically.

  One thing, thought Tabitha sourly, to portray the new mother of God as full of beauty and light and perfection – but this woman, this old woman who had suffered so much – that she should be shown as still young, still lovely even in her grief – that was, she said loudly, ‘Sheer Bloody Travesty.’

  And then she began to sing. Even more loudly.

  Keep young and beautiful

  It’s your duty to be beautiful

  Keep young and beautiful

  If you want to be loved.

  She thought of Chloe and the women whom she had consigned to her. Three women, caught in the Beautician’s snare, anchored to her couch, while she, Tabitha, moved aside, considering herself of no value now the light was unkind. She smacked fist into palm, stamped her foot, saw red where once the light had been calm and white, and with the might of madness threw her handbag hard and strong at the offending image.

  But it was a futile gesture. She knew that. She was already far, far too late. Even had she caught a bus, flagged down a taxi, ridden the tube, she was far, far too late for Chloe.

  Oh Joy! thought the attendant. Oh Joy, Oh Joy! She must surely have dented it at least.

  22

  Chloe sat in front of her mirror, waiting for Gemma.

  She was musing over what got into print nowadays, having discovered quite a long piece of writing in Great Authors Salute the Ladies which had read very much like Chloe’s own attempts at school composition. Not a full stop or a comma in sight, but there was no teacher standing at the front of the class with a nasty smile on her mouth, reading it out at a breathless gallop so that the whole of 5D laughed their horrible heads off.

  All there was, was a bit at the beginning saying that the man who wrote it was considered to be one of the finest modern writers, and – a bit bloody stupid in Chloe’s opinion – one of the finest users of the English Language – and he was Irish! Well, that sounded a bit Irish to her, frankly. Anyway, she thought she would read it to Gemma at some point because it seemed quite suitable, and Gemma would be impressed.

  Gemma. Poor old thing. Gemma, she thought, stretching her mouth wide as a clown’s, would be easy. Gemma, she thought, outlining her lips with Cha-Cha Crimson, was basically about Mouth. Gemma, she thought, pouting now to brush in the colour, needed to have the emphasis taken away from what Chloe could recognize perfectly well as her victim’s eyes. Right away from the eyes and concentrated on those potentially sexy lips. Everybody had some good feature or other, she supposed. That was Number Three’s. Such lips, if emphasized and displayed, would not stumble over saying Yes, Yes.

  She blotted her own mouth and smiled at her reflection, slipping the piece of tissue between the relevant pages of the book. She was really getting into all this now. She could never go back to being merely an assistant again.

  Gemma met Jim on the doorstep as she was leaving for the beauty parlour. She was holding up the lipstick like some kind of crucifix, and found his hunted, shifty look as he focused on it deeply irritating. Whereupon she looked into the hall mirror, did a quick whip round the oral region, and turned back with a provocative smile, a very red provocative smile. She put her head on one side, a hand on one hip, half closed her eyes Monroe-style and said ‘Mmm?’ And when he remained speechless and staring, she had a sudden rush of pure wickedness, as one with mouth so coloured might, and leaned towards him, pouting.

  ‘Do you think it’s a bit too red?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  And off she skipped.

  Chloe, leaning up against the reception desk, held up a lipstick and said, ‘I wonder when they first thought of this –’

  And then wished she hadn’t because, as always happened with old people, Betty knew and Betty was going to tell her.

  ‘Certainly the Egyptians, who were the masters of artifice, knew its value. They made theirs out of henna and cochineal – makes quite a good colour I believe. At any rate it lasts: some of the mummies still had red lips when the tombs were opened – everything else withered and dead and the lips bright red. Rather a nice touch, putting on make-up for the last journey to the gods.’

  ‘Of course, in our culture it’s not the same,’ she paused to make a pencil note in the margin of her notepad. ‘For instance, they made up Marilyn Monroe with such a vivid scarlet mouth that the priest refused to bury her, said she wouldn’t be let in to see God looking like a harlot. They had to clean her up and start again. They finished her off with baby pink. Or so I read.’

  ‘Cochineal,’ said Chloe, buffering her Cha-Cha nails, ‘what’s that?’


  ‘Ground-up beetle, dear,’ said Betty.

  Chloe put the buffer down again. ‘Filthy buggers,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t say buggers, dear,’ said Betty mildly. ‘And needs must when the devil drives. Red lips have always been seductive. Femme fatale. Homme fatal. Men used to wear it too. Certainly the Egyptians did.’

  ‘Foreigners!’ said Chloe. But she was thoughtful.

  Irritatingly, Betty continued. ‘Femme fatale. The Painted Lady. The Wicked Lady. Remember Margaret Lockwood?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Before your time. Film star. Now there was a mouth. Full, red, and shaped like the bows of Agincourt. A devilish mouth. Fatal. Women have always wanted to be the femme fatale. I wonder why?’

  ‘Here comes Number Three,’ said Chloe thankfully, hurrying to the door.

  On the way she winked at the twisted cherub. Her last – and who knows – maybe her best.

  *

  Gemma had bought herself a Hot Little Number and damn the expense. She knew it was exquisite, and she knew she would feel exquisite wearing it. But little Joseph suits in pearl-grey silk do not come cheap. She told the bank manager it was money needed for an operation – which it is, she thought, in a manner of speaking. It had cost so much she felt faint afterwards, but you could not go half measures in a venture such as this. A man with half a château, an MG and a taste for good living can soon spot if it’s Marks and Spencer, or The Biz. You could convince yourself of anything once you had done it.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Chloe, who personally thought it could be cut an inch lower, and an inch higher all round.

  ‘What about my body?’ said Gemma doubtfully, feeling the pneumatic depths of her midriff, squidging bits of herself up in her fingers.

  ‘It’ll do,’ said Chloe, who was not here to flatter. ‘And the mouth will take his eyes off everything else.’ She sounded very positive.

  Gemma told her about the incident with Jim.

  Chloe took it very seriously. ‘It is always good,’ she said, ‘to try things out where you can. I’ll bet he’s got the hots for it now and she’s getting the benefit.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Gemma, ‘she’s welcome. I certainly don’t want him.’ And she told Chloe of her bargain with God.

  ‘Always good to take fate by the balls,’ said Chloe.

  Gemma decided that this frankness in such a setting was no bad thing. Times change, she decided. And so must she.

  Chloe would show the way. Lipstick was the feature for Gemma, there was no doubt about it. A large red, willing mouth would say Yes, I Will.

  You did not open the bidding with your worst card, after all, said Chloe, thinking of Otto. ‘Take it or leave it,’ she had said to him, right at the beginning, and he had. Taken it. Oh yes, that was what you did. She was in control there, too. You eased the way, soothed the masculine doubts, played the game of Will She, Won’t She, Stay – made yourself more special than any of the others. Power. Real Power. Very Pleasing Power. But first – as she had said – You Have To Hook Him.

  Last week, when Gemma actually pronounced the words ‘Marriage’ and ‘Babies’, Chloe nearly vomited on the spot. And she quickly shoved a hand over her client’s mouth whether the watchful Tabitha could see it or not. For she had been shocked beyond all reason. If ever a woman required an Initial Consultation, Number Three had.

  You don’t say that.

  You don’t give a hint that you are anything but a fun girl.

  Fun in a château? Easy.

  Fun in an MG? No problem.

  Fun in the bedroom. CERTAINLY.

  But not – I want to tie you down, want to pin you down, want to hold you down with weddings and homemaking and staying in for the telly on a Saturday night.

  Leave it out, as Chloe remarked. What you say is – Me? Want that? You have to be joking.

  Smile at it, laugh at it, say it through scornful lips, big fat red lips. A red lipstick, if loud enough, if bright enough, if applied thickly enough, will say all this and more.

  That was when Chloe saw that Gemma’s eyes were victim’s eyes. For she had forgotten both the tune and the words of How To Be Predatory.

  ‘Red lipstick,’ said Chloe firmly.

  ‘I have one,’ said Gemma. ‘I will bring it.’

  And now, Good Girl, she had.

  Gemma handed over Evening Crimson to Chloe who opened it and sniffed it.

  ‘But next time, buy one from here,’ she said. Deciding to take another run at the verbal hill, she gestured to the display of lipsticks on the trolley: ‘I think you should definitely purchase all your future requirements from our wide range of beauty products available.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Gemma.

  So much, thought Chloe, for the verbal runs. There was really no answer to that, except her commission. Nobody ever said ‘Why?’ to Tabitha. Well – just wait. When she was in charge she would make it a condition of treatment that you had to buy the stuff from her. Like champagne in nightclubs.

  Perhaps, thought Gemma, Evening Crimson would be a talisman. Despite being sceptical (apart from touching wood, never picking up a dropped glove, declining to walk under ladders) Gemma thought that it might bring her luck. Something had to.

  Chloe then trotted out her little piece about ‘it’s what lovers desire and what husbands fear’ – to her client’s perplexity.

  ‘Well what,’ Gemma asked, ‘do you do about that? I mean, if you start off being the hottest thing since Mata Hari –’

  ‘Martha Who?’

  ‘Er – Madonna?’

  ‘Got you.’

  ‘If you start off like that, and then you want to transmogrify ...’

  ‘I’d keep that to yourself if I was you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That last bit. I don’t think you’d get very far suggesting that. Well, not unless he was a bit that way inclined himself.’

  Gemma frowned.

  ‘Don’t do that, either,’ said Chloe.

  ‘What way inclined?’

  ‘You know – dressing up in women’s clothes sort of thing.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Gemma, ‘it never occurred to me he might like that.’ Perhaps it was more of the New Wave. A stylistic thing? Like multicoloured and flavoured condoms in her own heyday? The little beautician seemed to know everything.

  ‘Well, he might go for it,’ said Chloe with sympathetic brightness, thinking that you wouldn’t think it to look at her. ‘They often like you to take a bit of a lead. You could test it out later on. You know, slip into a pair of Y-fronts – say it’s a bit of a joke – that sort of thing. He might really go for it.’ She sounded doubtful.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Gemma fervently. Suddenly she felt quite weak, talisman lipstick or not. ‘I don’t think I could.’

  ‘Could what?’

  ‘Go for transvestism.’

  Chloe shrugged with irritation. ‘Well, one minute you say you want to and the next you don’t. You should have a clear point of view about things like that. He could get very confused.’

  ‘I never said I liked it –’

  ‘You did. You said it after you mentioned that Martha something.’

  Gemma laughed.

  It was true, even unmade-up, her mouth was delightful. ‘Mata Hari,’ she laughed, ‘was a beautiful woman spy who got her way by using sex.’ And she laughed more. Chloe felt quite cheesed off.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she said, with less than her customary decorum. ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘And I said transmogrify – not transvestism. It just means to change your shape.’

  It was on the tip of Chloe’s pert little tongue to say Gemma could certainly benefit from Transwhatevering in the bum department, but she stopped herself. This was Number Three and she wanted it to be really good. But she did not like to look thick. It weakened her hold. So she reached for her book, opened it, and removed the blotted tissue which had left, in a neat little O, a very slight imprint of her lips. It reminded Chloe to check on something
.

  ‘By the way – Jo-Jo’s lipstick story. The one I said to use as an icebreaker ...’

  Gemma nodded. ‘Word perfect,’ she said.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Chloe. ‘He’ll love it to death. Everyone I tell thinks it’s great. They love all that.’

  No need to ask who They were, since Chloe was clearly not talking about Argentinian peasants.

  ‘They want,’ she said, ‘what They think They can handle, and never can ... ’ She pushed at the side of her nose. ‘What lovers love ...’ she pushed again ‘... and what husbands fear. Remember that.’

  Then she began to read:

  ‘Or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.’

  Then she closed the book, leaned across towards Gemma, tapped its cover with her finger and said, ‘And that’s supposed to be fucking art. Can’t even put in a full stop. But you get the drift?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Gemma lying back on the couch, ‘I get the drift.’

  As Chloe switched on the steamer and prepared to dim the lights she said, ‘Remember now – avoid the truth at all costs. You can tell whopping great lies out of a shiny red mouth and they just slip out without being noticed.’

  ‘Lies?’ said Gemma dreamily.

  ‘Fibs then,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Cautiousness?’ said Gemma, happier with the word.

  While her client steamed the dirt of the world away, Chloe wandered around the salon touching the pink walls, eyeing the chandelier, running distasteful fingers over the fluted shells. Then she clicked her fingers, wiggled her bottom and did a little dance step or two. With Otto behind her, so to speak, there’d be no problem. She wandered back to the reception desk and the scribbling Betty.

  ‘What did the salon you trained in look like then?’ she asked loudly. ‘Like this?’