‘Are you happy now or would you prefer to watch everyone’s meals being prepared?’
‘No,’ laughed Fran. ‘It’s just so different to microwave lasagne.’
‘Ah, a lawyer’s lifestyle!’ Martine lamented as she sat cross-legged opposite Fran.
‘It’s just not worth the hassle for one.’
‘No husband?’
Fran shook her head as their starter approached. The smell of the food made her realise how hungry she was. Martine ordered a dry white wine. Fran ordered orange juice, claiming alcohol didn’t agree with her.
While they ate they talked about food, art and music. Fran found they shared a love of foreign, haunting melodies that gripped your heart and wrung it out. ‘The type of music you listen to with someone you love,’ whispered Martine with a faraway look in her eyes.
Fran watched as Martine travelled somewhere alone and dark. She observed the pain in her eyes and the sadness that pervaded her body.
‘I’m sorry, I just lost myself there for a moment,’ Martine apologised, reaching for the tiny cup of black coffee. ‘Did you say you were here only for the day?’
‘Hang on, I have a call to make.’ Fran grabbed her handbag and walked outside, dialling the number of The Waldorf. After making a reservation for one night she pinched her nose tightly and, using her best flu voice, left a message on the company’s answering machine.
She returned to the table. ‘Definitely until tomorrow,’ she answered Martine’s previous question. ‘Tomorrow is Covent Garden, I adore that place.’ Fran took a deep breath. ‘Care to come?’
Martine nodded and they arranged to meet in the square at midday.
Alone in her hotel room Fran wondered what had come over her. The old Frances was somewhere in Birmingham eating a meal for one out of a plastic tray, watching cable TV while looking over work notes. She could see her. What was she doing in this place, fascinated by a stranger who’d spoken to her in an art gallery?
She had no idea but she wanted to find out; she was on a roller-coaster ride and although it was new and scary she couldn’t get off. She wanted to see where it was going. She only knew that, like a kid on Christmas Eve, she couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
She slept fitfully and woke with the knowledge that she had dreamt about Martine. The haziness and distortion she couldn’t accurately recall or even the subject matter but the characters were very real and if she didn’t hurry she would be late.
She dressed quickly and paused only to apply coffee lipstick to a slightly trembling mouth. She conceded defeat when it became obvious that her lips looked almost double the size. After wiping the colouring off impatiently she walked briskly to their meeting point.
She hopped from one foot to the other as she checked her watch again. Fourteen and a half minutes past. A feeling of dread formed in the pit of her stomach: Martine wasn’t coming. For some reason she’d changed her mind. Fran felt the disappointment rise in her throat.
‘God, I’m sorry! Problems at the shop. I couldn’t get away. You okay?’
Fran nodded, feeling her heart lift at the sight of the breathless woman with a package in her hand.
Martine held out the small parcel. ‘For you.’
Fran smiled with delight. No one ever gave her presents. She unwrapped the package like a small child to reveal a framed A5 print of the painting she had been admiring yesterday. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she smiled. For once she didn’t know what to say.
‘Come with me,’ Martine instructed. ‘I’d like to show you where I work.’
Fran merely followed, trying to fight down the relief that Martine had turned up. She finally came to a halt in front of a small-fronted beauty salon that was occupied but not heaving with activity. The name above the door seemed familiar. The word ‘Images’ was carved in gold lettering that reminded Fran of wedding invitations. She had the feeling she’d seen the same sign somewhere in Birmingham.
Martine pushed the door open to the surprise of the dark-haired girl on the reception desk.
‘Martine… but… I didn’t think you were coming back today.’
How lovely, thought Fran, to have a job where you could just do that.
‘I won’t get in your way, I promise, I just want to show Frances around.’
The girl smiled tolerantly.
‘So you’re a hairdresser,’ observed Fran as she followed her through the salon. ‘This is what you do.’ She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Somehow she had imagined something far more exotic.
Martine’s amusement was obvious. ‘Aha, perfect!’ she breathed as the entrance door opened. Fran’s gaze automatically followed. The woman had medium-length mousy hair that matched the colour of her tights and hung untidily on her grey rainmac. Wearing little make-up she appeared pale and drawn with her worries held in the visible sacks of flesh below tired eyes. She carried a green plastic shopping bag that had seen better days.
‘Cut and blow dry?’ Fran asked.
Martine’s eyes held amused interest. ‘Why do you assume that?’
‘Well, it’s, er…’ She realised quickly how that had sounded.
Martine guided her to the rear of the salon. ‘You’re right about the fact that she’s not very well off but it’s not only wealthy people that come here. Our prices are high, yes, but we’re the best at what we do.’ She paused to look around the shop for an example. ‘Mrs King-Thorne over there can afford to come every day if she wants to but Dorothy Tromans saves a little from the housekeeping each week and comes every three months. To her, this is a well-deserved treat.’
She gave Fran the chance to digest her words. ‘Now for the guided tour. The whole of this floor is devoted to physical appearance. The salon is a small part of what we do.’
Martine guided her through a door that she’d assumed to be a storeroom. A short corridor, well lit and furnished with familiar prints, led to a sunny room where assistants were busy manicuring and pedicuring, chatting cheerfully with their clients.
The room leading off from that housed seven sunbeds and next to that a smaller room with two theatre-lit make-up mirrors for beauty advice and demonstrations. All of the rooms had speakers that played low instrumentals.
A second floor stretched above the store next door. The first room they entered was aromatherapy. Fran couldn’t get enough of the smells of jasmine and lavender and many others that she couldn’t name. She watched as an assistant mixed various oils and counted the drops. The assistant saw Martine behind her and explained what she was doing. ‘I’m making up a blend for general relaxation.’ She listed the various ingredients and the number of drops needed. Some Fran had never heard of. She watched in awe as the drops were painstakingly counted into the electronic mixer.
‘Is this for a massage?’ she asked.
‘No, this is for a burner. With massage oils you have to blend to a base oil such as peach kernel or apricot kernel and add one drop to each millimetre of base vegetable oil.’ She demonstrated. She then turned the bottle upside down a few times and rolled it between her palms to disperse the oil.
‘Do you use all of that?’ enquired Fran.
‘No, a teaspoon is normally enough.’
‘Do the clients choose their own ingredients?’ Fran asked, entranced by the entirely relaxing effect that the room possessed.
‘Once we’ve obtained a brief medical history, yes.’
Fran was intrigued. ‘Why, surely the oils can’t harm you?’
The assistant looked over Fran’s shoulder and, seeing that Martine stood chatting to the woman lying face down on what looked like a hospital stretcher, continued to explain. ‘Bergamot, for example, increases susceptibility to sunburn. Black pepper, cajeput and lemongrass can cause skin irritations. Camphor, fennel, hyssop and sage cannot be used on people with epilepsy and many of the oils such as cedarwood, clary sage and juniper, to name only a few, should not be used during pregnancy.’
Fran was amazed – she had no idea that oils a
ffected people so strongly. She could have talked to the assistant all day but Martine pulled her to the far corner of the room so as not to infringe on the privacy of the client.
‘That movement Anita is using is called effleurage. It relaxes the nervous system. The kneading motion that she’ll change to shortly unlocks tense muscles, particularly the trapezium muscle.’ Martine jabbed the area between Fran’s neck and shoulders. ‘There. You see she used both hands in a rhythmic sequence picking up and gently squeezing the tense muscle.’
‘I’m going limp just watching,’ said Fran, only half joking.
‘Now she’s using friction strokes to penetrate deep muscle tissue. Her thumbs are more effective for releasing knotted muscle.’ Martine watched for another moment or two and content with what she saw said, ‘Come on, reflexology next.’
Fran couldn’t wait. She had no idea what that meant until she saw an assistant using small circular movements on the client’s feet. The assistant appeared to be in trance-like concentration. Martine ushered her back out of the room. ‘She’s listening to the pain.’
Fran nearly laughed out loud.
Martine pointed to a huge picture of a pair of feet with shapes and arrows pointing to names of body parts. ‘In the 1930s an American physiotherapist mapped the entire body on the tops and bottoms of the feet, but various forms of reflexology were used by the Egyptians 3,000 years ago.’
Fran was entranced. It was like another world.
‘The theory is that the body is divided into ten zones that run lengthways from head to toe,’ Martine went on. ‘They’re equally split either side of a vertical, central line. Organs on the left side of the body can only be influenced by the left side of the foot. If the constant flow of energy or “qi” is impeded by a blockage, a reflexologist can break down the blockage which enables the body’s own healing mechanisms to kick in. It actually treats the whole body.’
Fran tried to digest all the information. Martine smiled. ‘Just tell me if I’m going too quickly. I’m afraid I’m one of those sad people who lives to work.’
‘What job do you do?’
There was an impish delight in Martine’s eyes. ‘Let’s just say I oversee all aspects.’
Fran shook her head, realising the truth. ‘You own Images. Oh my goodness, and I called you a hairdresser! I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m not offended, I love what I do.’
Fran sensed with regret that the tour was coming to an end. Transfixed by this woman’s pride in what she did, she admired Martine’s passion for her work.
‘Does all of this work?’ Fran asked as they returned to the salon.
‘Different techniques work for different people. Every woman has beauty, many only need to discover it within themselves.’
Easy for you to say, thought Fran, who now knew that nothing about this woman was artificial. Only foundation and a touch of lipstick were used to enhance the ethereal beauty.
Martine nudged her in the direction of the reception area. ‘I think that lady is ready to leave.’ Again, Fran followed her gaze. Her sharp intake of breath brought a triumphant smile to Martine’s face. Fran didn’t mean to stare at the sleek hairstyle that cupped the attractive oval face or the expertly applied make-up or the confident stride with which the woman now moved. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Tromans,’ Martine called out pleasantly.
‘Wow, I can’t believe that’s her’ whispered Fran.
Martine turned satisfied eyes towards her. ‘Now you understand what we do.’
Fran tried to hide her discomfort as she followed Martine out of the front door.
She felt like a schoolgirl as they toured the market stalls. She fell in love with the specialist boutiques, like Nicole Farhi, where she purchased a silk scarf.
They sat on the edge of the square eating hot dogs layered with mustard. ‘So where exactly are you from?’ asked Fran as they each took bites. Martine chewed for a moment. God, she can even make eating a hot dog look graceful, thought Fran.
‘Good question. Listen carefully, it gets complicated and there’ll be questions later. My mother is half Italian and half English – killer combination,’ she joked, looking at the hot dog. ‘I get to love the food that I eat and then feel guilty for it.’
‘What about your father?’
‘French, hence the name. We moved from France when I was three so I don’t remember much about it but they still live in Cornwall and are as sickeningly happy as they were twenty years ago,’ she said fondly.
Fran felt a pang not unlike homesickness yet there wasn’t anywhere to be homesick for. She thought of her own parents. To her they were like the perfect figures atop a multi-tiered wedding cake: isolated and alone. She remained on the bottom layer of the cake with all the icing she could eat but not a soul for miles.
‘Did they listen to you?’ she blurted out.
‘Oh yes, I think that children who are ignored grow up with less social skills because they didn’t have that total security in which to practise, so by the time they experiment with humour and opinions with their peers, one mistake, one ridicule and they withdraw.’ She chuckled, low in her throat. ‘My father and I debated what day of the week it was. Every time I formed an opinion I would go home and test it out on him. If I could maintain my argument against my father, the opinion was mine forever. We argued one day about drink driving. The debate became quite heated. I stormed off in anger unable to believe that he agreed with it. He waited for me to cool off in the garden before he explained that he did in fact agree with me, but it was arrogant to ignore the point of view of another person just because you don’t agree with them. I never forgot that lesson,’ she finished fondly.
Fran tried not to be envious. One memory like that. Just one to remember, to share.
‘Anything else you want to know?’ Martine asked.
For some reason everything, thought Fran. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’
Martine moved away slightly as though uncomfortable with their proximity. ‘Let’s walk,’ she murmured quietly.
They wandered through Leicester Square and pushed through the crowds along Piccadilly without realising how far they’d walked, talking of past experiences, education, family, school and food. Everything except partners and spouses.
They wandered up through Shepherd Market, which was quiet, after the stallholders had left. Small groups of people lazed under canopies, drinking cappuccinos in the late afternoon sunshine. Sunglasses and mobile phones littered wrought-iron tables.
They stopped at a small corner coffee shop boasting one outside table beneath an arched entrance way leading towards Mayfair. Window boxes filled with marigolds, ivy and trailing fuchsias decorated the old, brickwork archway.
Fran sat back in her chair while Martine fetched coffees, letting the sunshine bathe her. The busy roads and heaving crowds could have been miles away; the only sounds present were quiet voices and muffled laughs of complete relaxation.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ said Martine, reading her thoughts.
‘Mmm… I could live here. Just in this corner.’
The surroundings were conducive to honesty, Fran thought, and realised she wanted to know more about this enigmatic woman she’d known for just twenty-four hours.
She decided to push. ‘Last night in the restaurant you left me for a while. You looked pained. Lost love?’
‘Or you could ask me something simple, like have I got a dog?’
‘Don’t hedge. You can tell me or not.’ Her gaze didn’t waver as she waited for an answer.
‘Are you sure you want to know?’ she asked seriously.
Fran nodded.
Martine took a deep breath. ‘Quite honestly I lost a limb. At least that’s how it felt. I could still do things but not as easily. Do you know what I mean?’
Fran shook her head. To be perfectly truthful, she didn’t.
‘You’re very lucky. Quite simply I lost the only person I’ve ever loved.’
Fran heard the soft, hus
ky voice begin to shake. She hated causing the pain that was like a freshly opened wound in her eyes but she had to know more. She placed a reassuring hand on Martine’s arm and squeezed.
Martine didn’t look up. ‘Her name was Cristina. She was Portuguese. We met here in London and clicked immediately. We shared each other’s thoughts. She was bubbly and outgoing, the life and soul of everywhere she went. In private things were different. Her mood swings were like nothing I’d ever seen before. We’d been together about four months when I realised that the extreme nature of her personality was due to a medical condition.’ Martine turned haunted eyes full of pain towards the sky. ‘She was a manic depressive, bipolar.’
Fran had heard the term but wasn’t sure of the details. ‘To quote Cristina, she was either on the ceiling or on the floor but never on the sofa. Sometimes she’d want to stay up all night and talk and other days she was unable to leave the bed and talked only of wanting to die. I learned to recognise the signs. I knew when dark days were coming and I was able to rearrange my schedule so I could be with her.’
Martine ran her graceful fingers through her short blonde hair, which fell back into place. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…’
‘Please carry on,’ urged Fran. For some reason she had instantly known that it would have been a woman and she didn’t know why. What she hadn’t expected was the stabbing jealousy that was forcing her jaws to clench.
‘During a two-day visit to her mother’s house in Greenwich she was persuaded that her problem was due to her “unsavoury lifestyle”. Cristina called and told me she wouldn’t be coming back. I accepted this as a period in her life that she needed to work through. You see, I’d come to accept what and who I was at a very young age…’ Martine’s voice became no more than a whisper. ‘Two days later she killed herself.’
The lump that had formed in Fran’s throat was not for Cristina – she was now at peace – but for the woman before her who was not.
They sat silently while Martine composed herself. Fran had no words of comfort. Martine broke the silence. ‘Well, I sure am glad I didn’t put a damper on the day. When do you have to leave?’ she asked.
The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Page 11
