Sleeping Beauties Page 4

Oh!

  Chloe knows she must try harder to grasp the two fundamental rules. And she must remember that when she is here in this salon she is no longer Maureen and this is no longer home. Here you may not do as her Mum does and ‘speak as you find’, nor do you call a spade a spade: if you have to refer to one at all you call it an elegant scoop. Get that under her belt and the rules, which she now repeats to herself, and she would be fine.

  Rule One, she addresses the tenderly curled rosebuds, is to avoid comment on any contentious issue raised by the client – including, if it comes to it, the locking of small boys in cellars for weeks on end.

  Rule Two, is to concentrate. If a man runs naked through the salon while you are applying a face mask you carry on doing it ... she smiles behind her hand ... and only run after him when it’s done.

  These, at least, are Tabitha’s rules. Hard to follow, and not very convincing for Chloe, who comes from a background where spades might be shortened to words of four letters, and where conversational gracenotes were about as alien as dining on tofu and mineral water. Women spoke plainly.

  Her mother’s large formica-topped kitchen table was witness to many long hours of female debate on a wide range of subjects, from her at Number Fourteen’s black baby, to him in the butcher’s, and his chopper – and any juicy titbits of a female gynaecological nature that might come tumbling in between. If it was the teapot and Gran it was fairly innocuous; if it was the Guinness, or port and brandy, and Gran it was usually quite highly charged.

  Chloe, growing up, and tucked out of sight beneath the formica, listening hard, absorbed it all. At the same time it gave her a good opportunity to contemplate the hairy state of the two women’s legs and to feel a very deep urge, fortunately restrained, to relieve them of their growth. Here, then, began her dreams of peddling beauty for a living.

  Given such circumstances, and with the spade-like vocabulary well developed, it was hard for Chloe to tread the verbal eggshells now required of her. If she had an opinion she generally liked to share it.

  Thus Mrs Pargeter.

  Oh!

  Chloe squeezes her cigarette packet through her overall pocket, and it affords some comfort. In particular, a Beautician should be delicate with the verbals in matters of a sexual nature. The language should gloss quite as delicately as one glosses one’s lips.

  That Mrs Pargeter should turn the conversation in this direction was not surprising – many women, lulled by the sensuous arts of the Beautician’s couch, will blossom in their womanliness and find their minds turn to the glimmerings of eroticism, the flickerings of intimate desires. A good Beautician will remain serenely above it all, never disturbing the dreams or embarrassing the dreamers with comment. Theirs is to dream, the Beautician’s to dispense. No more, no further than that.

  Chloe – alas! – forgot the Beautician’s Golden Rules.

  Mrs Pargeter – alas! – never knew them.

  She just lay back on the couch and suffered accordingly.

  Oh!

  In the matter of Depilation there is nothing more fundamentally important than a client who is relaxed. Depilation removes women from the realms of the animal and masculine, and is therefore extremely fundamental, extremely important. But it is a strenuous and painful business, however quickly the hot wax is applied, the calico strip pressed to the offensive area, the hairs pulled and the Beautician’s cool hand placed upon the angry, denuded follicles.

  Concentration is essential, as is the initial inspection of the proposed area of skin. Hairs do all manner of devious things: they grow in different directions, curl up close to the flesh, or become weak and fragile so that they break instead of coming out cleanly and honestly.

  The inspection of the skin prior to waxing gives the Beautician an opportunity to soothe the client by stroking the area with her fingertips and generally lulling both her and her follicles into a peaceful state. The most successful waxing occurs on a client who lies there gently smiling as the spatula strokes the warm, syrupy coating of beeswax across her skin.

  Chloe got carried away with Mrs Pargeter, and it was through getting carried away that the Very Serious Incident happened: the one that nearly changed her life, and which undoubtedly did change Mrs Pargeter’s – or kept it the same, depending upon your point of view.

  Mrs Pargeter, a divorcee, was about to take her first holiday on her own. Mrs Pargeter had borne her husband two children, done good works and had never tried to shine brighter than her husband’s own light. She had been a client of Tabitha’s for years, having facials, manicures and her legs and under-arms waxed for special events.

  Even during the worst excesses of the divorce Tabitha had maintained a constant air of calm, for which Mrs Pargeter – though frustrated by it at the time – was grateful. She had made too many humiliating scenes in other areas during the painful process of legal separation, not to be glad of the salon’s respite. At Tabitha’s she had never sunk lower than a few tears, a little sobbing and Tabitha’s nodding, impartial sympathy.

  Now she had come to be depilated for her trip to Tunisia. She was excited. She was afraid. She was convinced such a holiday was written in the stars of timeliness, for she could even celebrate to herself, as she sat waiting, that her period had arrived on schedule; its flow was nearly over, the flight to Tunis was the day after tomorrow, and she was not even going to have that irritating difficulty to overcome.

  She would arrive at her hotel, strip off her clothes, put on her bikini and run down to the beach to lie on golden sands, rub in oil and look as perfect as a woman of not quite forty could look, which – thanks to Tabitha she was sure – was considerably younger than she might have otherwise appeared.

  Mrs Pargeter was on an up. Privately, she hoped to meet a man and fall in love among the palm trees. She hoped she would share bottles of wine with him, that they would dance close together, and that at the end of the evening they would have sex. Mrs Pargeter had not had sex since her husband left her some two years ago, and she felt – though nervous – that she was now quite ready for it. The children were staying with Frank in Ruislip. She was looking forward to collecting them with a smug and dewy look upon her face. And she wanted it all to be perfect.

  Which left the vexed question of her bikini line. Trying on the somewhat brief bottoms of the new ensemble, she had been embarrassed to see how much dark curly hair was revealed either side of the pink lycra. More dark, more curly and more apparent that most other women’s, she felt sure, and much to her shame. No matter how she flattened the hair and tried to tuck it in, it sprang out in all directions, as if challenging her. Her new underwear accommodated such hirsute straggles because it was silky and billowy, and did not cling – but the bikini was quite different.

  She was still anxiously considering this phenomenon when she arrived at Tabitha’s salon for her pre-holiday leg and arm wax.

  She was wearing some of her best underwear because it helped her continue to feel up. Before the divorce her underwear had been rather basic. Now she put on frills and lace, even if she had her period, like today, because nothing, as her counsellor assured her, should be seen as detracting from the whole person she really was. Menstruation was part of her womanliness, as was her desire to wear grey paisley satin next to her skin, and to deny one by the other could only mean that she did not value herself.

  So, celebrating both aspects of her femininity, she arrived at the salon, a menstruating woman in search of boudoir ministrations. Here you could celebrate such things, for here it was All Girls Together.

  Despite this sisterliness, Mrs Pargeter was sure that these two All Girls Together had perfectly neat triangles at the top of their legs, unlike her, and she hoped she could summon the courage to at least mention the problem.

  Tabitha had a request. Tabitha was gradually moving Chloe out of Grade One general duties to some of the more intimate services. Would Mrs Pargeter mind very much if Chloe depilated her today? She had depilated Tabitha’s legs very satisfactorily
and also the legs and underarms of a couple of her friends, so Tabitha was quite confident she would do the job well. Since it was only leg and arm waxing, which Mrs Pargeter was quite at home with, it would be a great help if she agreed.

  Mrs Pargeter put aside the anxious phenomenon of her bikini line and concurred. Here she felt safe. Here they were kind. Here they understood her. She knew Chloe well: a pretty, kindly girl, always there to hand her a tissue if her eyes spilled, always at hand with a cup of herbal tea. She nodded enthusiastically; it would be nice to encourage Chloe.

  She removed all but her pretty knickers, wrapped a fluffy towel around her midriff and lay on the couch wrapped in its soft, sweet-smelling comfort. She waited, quite at peace, and could almost hear the lapping of water on warm sand, the shushing of westerly breezes in metallic palm leaves, the whisper of a masculine breath in her ear.

  Chloe smiled as she tested the hot wax against her wrist. Tabitha stood to one side, observing the procedures and nodding. When the first leg was completed and Chloe’s cool hands prepared to work on the second, Tabitha went away. She was quite satisfied Chloe was capable, and she had her own client for some rather urgent electrolysis.

  The atmosphere was easy. Chloe worked deftly. The conversation centred upon foreign travel and Mrs Pargeter’s proposed holiday, a conversational level in keeping with the salon’s policy. Tabitha, nodding and smiling with her own client, could hear the relaxed hum of their voices, the relaxed hum that spoke of uncontentious matters. Good. Good. Chloe was coming along well.

  The second armpit was all but done. Chloe was just giving the denuded flesh a quick going-over with the tweezers and feeling pleased with the way the session had gone, when Mrs Pargeter said, ‘Do you know, I have not had a lover since my husband and I parted.’ And Chloe, tweezers poised, said spontaneously, ‘Fuck a duck, that’s terrible.’ Closely followed by, ‘You’ll never get over the bastard until you do.’

  Mrs Pargeter was rather shocked.

  But so was Chloe.

  Shocked and completely uncomprehending.

  She felt obliged to give counsel.

  ‘There’s nothing like getting laid to make you feel better about being dumped,’ she said sagely. ‘You should try it.’

  Wise words. But from the tongue of a Beautician?

  She paused, putting her hand to her mouth. Had she gone a little too far? She bent her head to her task, fixed her eyes, clamped her mouth tight, just in case she had.

  Too late. Mrs Pargeter’s eyes gleamed. Her tongue came out, pink and quivering, and she licked her lips. ‘Getting laid?’ she said. ‘That’s a very crude way of putting it.’

  And Chloe, dabbing talcum powder on the newly raw armpits, could not resist such a point of view. She unfixed her eyes, unclamped her mouth, and said, ‘Well, it is crude, isn’t it, sex? When it’s good. I mean, it’s not something you do on your best behaviour, is it?’

  Mrs Pargeter rather felt it might have been. Her mind was fired. Her heart went bump. ‘Tell me more,’ she said. But the treatment was ended. Legs bare, arms bare, nothing to wait for.

  She took a deep breath and made the gigantic step. ‘Chloe,’ she said, ‘I think I will have my bikini line done.’

  And Chloe, who could see no reason to disturb the very delicate process of electrolysis next door, decided to Go For It and set about preparing everything, while Mrs Pargeter engaged her in conversation of a much more personal and altogether more risqué level.

  She told Chloe about the loneliness of the nights, how the cuddles of her children were not enough, how she hoped to take a lover in Tunisia, how she had bought herself lots of lovely underwear and was beginning to understand that there was nothing more important under the sun than to make the physical best of herself and get some love. Chloe nodded, and looked askance at the springing tufts before her. ‘Well, you won’t be wanting these,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s for sure.’ And with some difficulty she tucked the filmy knickers up around Mrs Pargeter’s groin so that the wax would not damage them.

  What she should have said to her client was that in future she should wear plain briefs for such a treatment, that frills and froths had no place in the Beauty Parlour. And she should have steered her away from the deeply personal towards the more generally impersonal.

  Mrs Pargeter did not wish to be steered anywhere. She was absorbing this unaccustomed intimacy and enjoying every minute of it – so much so that she omitted to mention she had never had her bikini line done before and was quite nervous. The nervousness had reached her lower abdomen and the muscles were beginning to clench, both out of fear of what was to come, and on behalf of her vestigial period. Still, she could feel the tampon quite securely in there, which was at least a comfort.

  The two women talked. Chloe kept her voice low, given Tabitha’s proximity, but what she said was of high-pitched content. Mrs Pargeter’s fascination became tinged with anxiety. Chloe talked about the ways of seduction, the ways of the one-night bed, the art of come-hither, the art of getting the best from the guy you chose.

  Mrs Pargeter had not quite imagined herself doing the choosing. She had imagined it would all fall into place, with the man doing most of the courtship, taking her through the complications of the bed with gentle attentions. According to Chloe this did not generally happen.

  As Mrs Pargeter listened she began to feel more tense, and slightly humiliated. After all, this girl leaning over her and scrutinizing her most private area was almost young enough to be her daughter. Tunisia began to loom as a place full of passive men who sat around waiting for women to come to them with challenge in their eyes and a list of sexual requirements.

  ‘If you want good head nowadays,’ Chloe said almost absent-mindedly as she stirred the wax pot, ‘you have to be very clear about it. You have to come right out with it and say so.’

  Mrs Pargeter felt even more humiliated.

  Good Head?

  She pondered.

  Did that mean brains?

  Stimulating intellectual conversation?

  She looked at Chloe. Chloe did not look like the sort of girl who would find stimulating intellectual conversation a plus in a lover. Come to that, Mrs Pargeter was not convinced that she would either.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, as nonchalantly as she could muster and with what she hoped was a suitable hint of a leer, ‘I am not too bothered about their minds.’

  ‘Best way,’ said Chloe, selecting a spatula.

  Mrs Pargeter felt better. She smiled. ‘I’ve never heard it called Head before,’ she said.

  Chloe smiled too. ‘Well – better than saying Eating Pussy.’ She smiled. ‘I think that’s very crude.’ She smiled even more broadly to encourage the rather rigid fixedness of Mrs Pargeter’s expression.

  Mrs Pargeter had a sudden, not altogether pleasing vision of a would-be lover demonstrating his ardour by biting the head off a passing cat.

  ‘Well – I suppose,’ said Chloe cheerfully, ‘eating pussy might do ...’ She continued to smile, a bon mot having occurred to her. ‘And now to tidy yours up a bit and wait for the hungry hordes.’ She gave her client a wink. And ran the syrupy spatula over Mrs Pargeter’s inner thigh, now drum-tense.

  Mrs Pargeter felt the penny drop. ‘Oh,’ she said faintly, ‘of course ... You mean ...’ And her hands were suddenly clammy.

  ‘Hold the skin down here,’ said Chloe, ‘and when I say pull, pull tight – that way we’ll have enough tension to get them out in one.’

  Mrs Pargeter did not need to hold anything down to create tension. Mrs Pargeter, light dawned, penny dropped, illuminated, was perfectly, wonderfully, gold-medally rigid.

  The frilly knickers got in the way a bit. Conversation was suspended momentarily as Chloe rearranged them. Then, with that firm deftness of the good Beautician, she took a linen strip, laid it upon the waxed section of springing hair, pushed at the thigh to get a little more purchase, and gave a good, firm, once-and-for-all pull.

  With surprising resul
ts.

  Mrs Pargeter, wrested from rigidity, shot across the room as if propelled by the blast from a circus cannon, giving a yell, as she went, to curdle the blood of the most hardened aggressor. Chloe stared in open-mouthed surprise – first at Mrs Pargeter, now altogether off the couch and cowering by the washhand basin, and then, still open-mouthed, back to the linen strip in her hand. This, as expected, contained a film of wax covered by a coating of hair. But alas! It also held something else: dangling from the strip, as pathetic as a mouse hung by its tail, was Mrs Pargeter’s tampon.

  Fortunately, Tabitha had finished with the electrolysis treatment by the time Mrs Pargeter suffered what she was later to describe as an experience very near to rape in reverse, and could therefore go at once to deal with the commotion. She calmed matters down, and with some persuasiveness encouraged Mrs Pargeter to lie back on the couch while she swiftly dealt with the offensive hairs remaining.

  Chloe listened, and hung her head, for Tabitha talked with gentle banter until Mrs Pargeter was relaxed again.

  ‘One minute,’ said the pale recumbent woman, ‘we were talking of the way men are in bed’ – she swallowed more water – ‘and what not’ – more water still – ‘and the next I felt myself turned inside out.’

  Tabitha gave Chloe a long, critical look and shook her head imperceptibly. Chloe knew it would be some time before she was allowed to take on any high-grade treatments again. And it was.

  For the first time in her life, as she waited for Tabitha to see Mrs Pargeter out, Chloe remembered praying. ‘God,’ she begged, ‘God make me good at it. Don’t let me screw it up again. Remind me, if I forget, that it is not done to bring The Streets Into The Boudoir. Remind me if I forget that Reality Has No Place In The Boudoir. Remind me and remind me that if I Bring Reality Into The Boudoir I Destroy The Dream. At least until the Dream becomes mine ...’

  Mrs Pargeter left the salon feeling far less confident and a good deal more confused than when she had entered it. My God, she thought, is a stranger going to want to do that? When she reached home she undressed and stared at the newly denuded flesh. It looked very red, very angry, and as if she had been transformed into a plucked chicken. And though the memory faded a little along with the raised rawness, Mrs Pargeter could not relax. If she saw a head she thought of pussy. It was deeply confusing and she had no time left before Tunisia to get to her therapist to sort it out.