“So what did you have in mind?” she asked, raking her fingers through my hair from behind.
“Something ace,” I told her. “We’re hitting the town tonight.”
“Oooh,” she crowed. “Somewhere special?”
I smiled but didn’t answer. Flamingo Harry’s could hardly be described as special, but it was the only place to be on a Friday night. We could dance until our legs gave way and make the most of happy hour, which confusingly ran from six until nine.
The problem was, we weren’t the only ones who enjoyed the music and cheap drinks. The rest of the Denton crew made the most of it too, including Mandy Brewer and her henchman, Sharon.
“The club should be bursting tonight,” said Charlene. “I heard they’re having a live band.”
I grinned at her through the mirror. “Duran Duran?”
“At Flamingo Harry’s?” she choked. “I flippin’ doubt it.”
“You need colour,” interjected Becky. “Then we’ll put it up – maybe a French roll with some curls on top.” She twisted my long hair and piled it on top of my head.
Nerves got the better of me then as flashbacks of Gill’s Rod Stewart do flooded my mind. “What colour?” I asked. “Nothing crazy.”
Becky grabbed a colour chart from her trolley and dropped it onto my lap. “Pick one,” she said. “A lovely burgundy tint would suit you.”
“Fi, you can’t,” hissed Charlene from the corner of her mouth. “Your mam will kill you.”
She was right. Despite the tight budget, I was expected to do my mother proud as an elegant and sophisticated bride, which meant a hip dye job would never fly. The only burgundy at my wedding would be the cheap box wine.
“How about this one?” I asked, pointing at a shade of brown that was very similar to my natural colour. “Chestnut Victory.”
Becky snatched the colour chart. “Not much of a flippin’ victory if you ask me,” she replied. “But it’s your head.”
Becky Cox could talk the hind leg off a donkey. The woman was a waif – so tiny that her chic denim jumpsuit might well have come from the Marks and Spencer’s children’s catalogue. Too curious for my own good, I once asked her how she stayed so thin.
“Simple,” she replied with a casual shrug. “I haven’t had a meal since 1978.”
As small as she was, her mouth was huge. She talked as she worked, barely pausing for breath as she brought us up to speed on the local gossip. I didn’t know most of the people she was talking about, but it didn’t make it any less fascinating.
“I heard that Bruce was shagging the bird from the off-license weeks ago,” she said, roughly dabbing at my scalp with the dye-laden brush. “But Elaine refused to believe it.” She smirked at me through the mirror. “She does now, though.”
“What changed her mind?” asked Charlene.
“A nasty case of the clap,” Becky revealed with a giggle. “The fire in her heart is out, but her lady parts are still burning.”
I cracked up laughing, but poor Charlene looked mortified. “Oh dear,” she mumbled.
The stories only got more sordid from that point on. By the time the dye was rinsed from my hair, we had dirt on half the town. As Becky led me back to my chair from the sink, she swore us both to secrecy. “You mustn’t repeat a word,” she warned. “I don’t want people thinking I’m a gossip.”
Becky Cox wasn’t merely a gossip. She was an educator. The circle that I moved in was insular and tame – a world away from the likes of Elaine and her itchy crotch. It highlighted just how naïve and sheltered we were, and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Another thing that wasn’t particularly good was Becky’s listening skills. As soon as I caught a glimpse of my wet hair in the mirror, I knew she’d ignored my Chestnut Victory request.
“Flippin’ hellfire,” gasped Charlene.
For her, it was a crass outburst, but nothing compared with the slew of curse words that tumbled out of my mouth.
My mother was going to murder me.
Long, wet, claret coloured strands flew in every direction as Becky towelled my hair. “Grape Delight,” she announced. “Much more lively than boring old brown.”
“I’m getting married in a few weeks, Becky!” I shrieked. “You have to change it back before my mam sees it.”
Completely ignoring my desperate demand, she reached for the hairdryer. “It’s edgy,” she insisted. “Like a popstar.”
Nothing could be heard over the sound of the roaring hairdryer so the next ten minutes were spent staring helplessly at my reflection, trying to imagine how I’d look as a popstar bride.
Hideous, I concluded.
Based on the fact that she could barely look at me, Charlene obviously agreed. Words weren’t forthcoming either. We’d long escaped the salon and almost made it to the bus stop before she finally spoke.
“At least you don’t look like Rod Stewart.”
I grinded to a halt and turned to face her. “What do I look like, Charlene?”
“Awful.” Her shoulders lifted – and stayed there. “But we’ll sort it. Gill will know what to do.”
“And if she doesn’t?” I asked.
“Run away to London,” Charlene suggested. “Pierce your ears with safety pins and join the punk scene.” Ever the optimist, she followed up with a dreamy sigh. “London would be so exciting,” she breathed.
I almost laughed at the absurdity. “My hair is as red as a radish and my wedding is going to be ruined because of it,” I reminded her. “I don’t need any more excitement.”
Somehow, we made it all the way to Charlene’s house without running into anyone we knew. The shock of seeing my garish new do was reserved entirely for Gill, who showed up at a little after six.
“Bloody hell, Fi,” she gasped. “That’s a bit out there, isn’t it?”
“Shush,” warned Charlene, pushing her bedroom door closed. “Keep your voice down.”
I didn’t think there was any need to speak quietly. The four million stuffed animals taking up space in her bedroom had to provide soundproofing.
“How do we fix it?” I asked.
Gill shrugged. “Shave it off?”
“That’s the best you’ve got?”
“I actually quite like it,” she replied, raising her arm to deflect the Smurf I’d just hurled at her. “It’s dead contemporary.”
I wasn’t a fan of contemporary. I was a royalist who favoured tradition and elegance. I had a Mel Lazar clutch bag to prove it for crying out loud.
I slumped down on the edge of the bed and put my hands to my face. “It’s hopeless.”
“It’ll be okay, Fi,” soothed Charlene.
Gill’s attempt at placating me was a little less orthodox, but far more effective. She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of Green Totty Cider.
“Get this into yer.” The bottle hissed as she twisted the lid. “You’ll feel better in no time.”
We passed the Totty around until the bottle was empty, and like magic, I did begin to feel better.
“Sod my hair,” I grumbled. “Let’s go to Flamingo Harry’s and dance.”
Maybe the dull lighting in the club worked in my favour.
One bloke at the bar said my new do reminded him of the pretty girl from Bucks Fizz. I was quite chuffed until Charlene reminded me that they’re both blonde.
It was all downhill from there.
Trevor spent the whole night showing off his break dancing moves. The DJ came over the mic and called him talented. Gill called him a wanker, which was closer to the mark.
He looked like a skinny giraffe in tight pants having a seizure.
Andrew never showed up at all. Worse than that, Mandy Brewer was a no-show too.
Book of The Week: A Recipe for Romance
Honeymoon fund: £69.00
Chapter Eight
Gill and I both spent the night at Charlene’s. Bedding down on a half inflated air mattress and a dozen stuffed teddy bears is never comfo
rtable, but it was a darn sight less painful than dealing with my mother.
Charlene woke first, and had used the time alone to research. She waved a magazine at me. “I’m glad you’re awake.” Her tone was much too chipper for someone who’d consumed a whole jug of Blue Lagoon cocktails by herself the night before. “I found an article in Glam Girl. It says laundry powder will strip the colour from your hair.”
I wasn’t convinced, but Gill piped up in agreement. “You need the good stuff, though,” she said mid yawn. “Cheap-arse Daz won’t cut it, you need Persil.”
Charlene threw back the covers and leapt out of bed. “We use Persil!”
“Of course you do,” mumbled Gill. “Only the best for Lady Charlene.”
“Shut up, Gill,” snapped Charlene. “Your mam uses Persil too.”
It was an argument that I wasn’t prepared to weigh in on. My head was pounding. “I just want to get it sorted,” I said, struggling to sit up. “Then I’m going home.”
Charlene slipped out of the room, presumably to raid her mother’s laundry supplies. I made a start on folding up the bedding, but Gill was more intent on mischief. She threw open the wardrobe doors and made a grab for the empty cider bottle that Charlene had hidden the night before. “Besides the hair, what’s wrong?” she asked.
I was almost impressed that she noticed I was out of sorts. Gill wasn’t renowned for her caring and sensitive side. She was more of a crack-skulls-and-apologise-later kind of gal.
“Andrew never showed up last night,” I muttered. “Where do you suppose he was?”
Setting her sights on a dopey looking plush panda sitting on the bookshelf, Gill wrapped its paws around the cider bottle. “Do you want me to lie and make you feel better or do you want the truth?”
The panda slumped to the side, but I remained steady. “The truth,” I said bravely.
“I think he was probably up to no good,” she said, straightening the toy up. “I’ve never known him to miss Friday night happy hour before.”
Nor had I, and Mandy Brewer certainly never missed an opportunity to dance all night and drink on the cheap.
“Do you think he’s stepping out on me, Gill?”
She pointed at the defiled panda. “If it walks like a drunk panda, and talks like a drunk panda, it’s a drunk panda.”
“Very insightful, thank you,” I grumbled.
“Look,” she continued, slightly penitently. “I think you should at least find out one way or another before you follow the numbskull down the aisle.”
“I’m scared to find out,” I admitted. “I’d be so humiliated if I had to call it all off.”
“Listen to yourself, Fi,” she urged. “You’re more worried about losing your wedding day than your groom.”
Gill’s no-nonsense opinions were notoriously hard to listen to, usually because she was right. I’d spent months planning the perfect wedding day, but it had always been a solo pursuit. Andrew Pidgeon didn’t give a damn about any of it, and maybe that meant he didn’t give a damn about the marriage either.
According to Glam Girl magazine, the answer to my hair problems was a thick paste made of washing powder and water.
But Glam Magazine was shaping up to be a crock.
An hour later, my hair felt like wet straw and was still a hideous shade of claret. On the plus side, I smelled like freshly washed sheets.
“I’m destined to be a ginger forever,” I wailed, studying my reflection in the dressing table mirror.
Charlene was undeterred. She sat down on her bed and re-read the article, looking for further instruction. “It says you might have to repeat the process three or four times.”
Gill snatched the magazine from her grasp. “She won’t have any flippin’ hair left at this rate,” she grumbled. “You should leave it alone for a few days, Fi.”
As much as it pained me, I tended to agree. Being a stop-light redhead is one thing, but being bald would be a whole new level of horror.
“I’ll try it again tomorrow,” I said wanly. “Thanks for trying.”
Gill grinned at me through the mirror. “We’re always here for you, Ginge.”
Charlene let out a squeal that made me jump, but it had nothing to do with Gill’s wise crack. “What have you done to my panda?” She ripped the cider bottle from its grasp and thrust it at Gill. “I didn’t invite you over here to besmirch my animals.”
I tried not to laugh but it was impossible. Gill didn’t even try. She howled with laughter. “Besmirched?” she asked, mid cackle. “Who even says that?”
“I bet Princess Di does,” I replied.
“Yes,” agreed Charlene. “So there.”
“Bloody ancient royalists.” Gill handed the cider back to Charlene. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s 1983. Get with the times.”
My mam doesn’t use Persil. She doesn’t use tact or discretion either.
“Bleedin’ hellfire, Fiona!” She screamed. “What have you done?”
Showing up at the shop probably wasn’t the best idea, but I figured there would be safety in numbers.
Clearly, I was wrong.
She didn’t give a damn about making a scene in front of her customers. When one quietly asked her to calm down, Mam turned on her in an instant. “You bloody calm down, Vera!” she snapped. “It’s not your daughter who’s traipsing around town looking like a dog’s dinner.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Vera Smedley was Sharon’s mother. More often than not, her daughter traipsed around town looking like the dog that ate the dog’s dinner.
“It’s just hair, Mam,” I said flatly.
With an expression of pure thunder, she ordered me out of the shop. “I’ll deal with you later.”
“There’s nothing to deal with.” I spoke strongly, mainly for Vera’s benefit. “I’m a ginger now.”
I was a twenty-year-old woman on the verge of getting married. Any plan my mam had of banishing me to my room and giving me a good hiding wasn’t likely to happen, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t scared of her.
Backchat wasn’t my forte so the loud bang I heard as I trudged toward the door could’ve been her collapsing to the floor, but I didn’t look back and check. I headed straight home, grabbed a box of washing powder and locked myself in the bathroom.
There’s merit in being persistent. Ignoring the threat of baldness, I slapped another round of washing powder paste on my head, left it on as long as I could stand and was rewarded with a good result. Dark burgundy locks weren’t exactly ideal, but it was acceptable.
Mam wasn’t so easily pacified. When I finally opened the bathroom door, she was standing in the hall waiting for me. “I’ll book you in at Becky Cox’s tomorrow,” she snapped. “She’ll get it sorted in no time.”
I inched past her and let out a growl. “Becky’s the one who dyed it, Mam.”
She was hot on my heels as I took the few short steps across the hall to my bedroom. “I’ll bloody strangle her!”
I grabbed the small mirror off my dressing table and checked my reflection for the umpteenth time. “It’s not too bad now,” I replied, fluffing my hair.
Mam sat down on the edge of my bed. “It’s not suitable for a bride,” she insisted. “You look like a trollop.”
The name calling didn’t reduce me to tears. It was the mention of the wedding that made me unravel. My poor mother didn’t know what to make of it. She reached for my hand and pulled me close, awkwardly hugging my head as I sat beside her on the bed.
“What on earth is wrong?” she asked quietly.
I didn’t know where to start. Bringing her up to speed with a disjointed ramble was the best I could do.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” she uttered. “Andrew would never be unfaithful.”
“But what if it’s true, Mam?”
She smoothed her hand through my tortured hair. “You’re a Black, my girl,” she said with reverence. “We’re dignified in times of trouble. You hold your head high and carry on.�
�
“I’d be gutted if I have to call the wedding off,” I cried.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Her voice was quiet but stern. “Weather the storm, Fiona. No matter what happens.”
As horrified as I was by her attitude, I wasn’t surprised. To my mother, appearances are everything.
“I can’t go through with it if – ”
“Go and wash your face,” she said, cutting me off. “You’ll feel much better.”
The conversation was over, but at least I knew where I stood. The invitations had gone out and the flowers had been ordered. Despite the fact that my fiancé might be a cheating scumbag, a deal is a deal. I was getting married whether I wanted to or not.
Charles and Diana are touring Canada. It was the leading story on the news tonight.
Charles didn’t crack a smile, but I could tell he was happy. How could he not be? The queen lent him the royal yacht.
Di looked dead lovely, dressed in yellow from head to toe.
Imagine how ace her life must be!
True love, riches and a tiara for every day of the week.
I’d be happy with true love and one tiara but most days, both seem out of reach.
Book of the week: A Recipe for Romance
Honeymoon Fund: £63.00
Chapter Nine
Private phone calls are practically impossible in our tiny flat, especially if they’re taking place between nine and ten on a Saturday night when Mam is watching Dynasty. She refused to leave the room when Andrew called so the conversation was short.
He made no apology for being a no-show the night before, nor did he offer an explanation. Instead, he offered to take me out to lunch the next day. It wasn’t likely to be a grand affair, but I still wanted to look nice.
When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I realised that meant I needed to rethink my choice of outfit. My favourite green dress clashed horribly with my hair, making me look like a dead ringer for a Christmas elf. Thankfully, my second favourite dress looked much less festive. I teamed it with a wide silver belt, slipped on some strappy sandals and headed out the door.
Silk Queen Page 3
