Slowly, Dusty raised her glance to meet the woman’s. ‘Can’t say as I do.’
‘I’m Mrs Fuller. Sonia Fuller. Terry sees to me personally. I don’t usually come in at the weekend, I—’
‘You mean you haven’t got an appointment.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Sonia sucked in her cheeks, stared about her as if she were about to explode, then leaned close to Dusty and spat through her even white teeth: ‘Call Terry. Tell him I’m here.’ Then she straightened up, and flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘Now.’
‘Sorry, Terry’s in the New York salon all this week. I’m surprised you didn’t know.’ With that, she looked straight past Sonia and flashed a friendly smile at Jackie. Angie might as well have been invisible. ‘Welcome to Michaelton’s. I’m Dusty. Do you have an appointment?’
Before Angie could object, Dusty and Jackie had whisked her past the now puce-faced blonde to the basins for her consultation with a stylist, who was described as a junior, but whose skills would have set her apart as positively senior in the place where Angie had her usual twice-yearly trim.
But this was Michaelton’s, hairdressers to the trendy, the famous, and the absolutely gorgeous; the place where Dusty worked on Saturdays for a pittance – after a full week’s slog in an office in the Tottenham Court Road – all in the hope that she would get spotted by a photographer collecting one of his girlfriends. And then she would start appearing in her rightful place: the front cover of every fashion magazine in Europe. It had happened to at least two girls already. Maybe three. Everyone knew that.
Dusty loved Michaelton’s, and she loved having one over on rich, snooty old cows like Sonia Fuller, who couldn’t cope with not being nineteen any more. And what a neat revenge this was: a little girl coming up to Kensington for the day from the suburbs being seen immediately, while she, Sonia Fuller, got a knock back. Dusty only wished she could have made a real show by taking the boring-looking kid straight over to Terry. That would have been perfect.
‘Terry left a note that Miss Knight here was to be made a special fuss of,’ Dusty had lied loudly over her shoulder in the direction of Marcie, the junior stylist, making sure that Sonia, who was struggling back into her linen coat, could hear every word. ‘And do your very best to squeeze her friend in as well, will you? As a favour to Terry.’
That showed the old bag.
Unaware that Angie was at that very moment about to be shampooed, conditioned and set about with scissors by an expert in stylish shaping and cutting, Sarah Pearson was fretting about her family. Despite being in her fifties, she, Sarah, prided herself in keeping up a smart, clean appearance, and could only wonder about how her daughter and granddaughter lived.
They were both lovely, of course, but the last time Sarah had seen Violet, she was painting herself like a cheap tart and wearing skirts that showed most of what she had, and as for young Angie, she didn’t seem interested in how she looked at all. It was such a shame. She could have really made something of herself.
Deep down, Sarah knew why Angie was the way she was: her thoughtless, self-regarding daughter, Violet, had knocked all the confidence out of the poor little love. She kept her as little more than a skivvy, so that she didn’t have to soil her own lazy hands either doing stuff indoors or, God forbid, going out and finding a job somewhere.
Sarah just hoped that Vi hadn’t conned Angie out of the ten pounds she’d given her for her birthday. She was such a soft touch. It made Sarah weep.
To take her mind off things, Sarah was popping along to see her friend Doris Barker for a chat. She only lived a few flats away, just along the balcony, but Sarah only saw her once or twice a week. Unlike many of the women in Lancaster Buildings, Sarah Pearson liked to keep herself to herself. She was friendly, of course, but she was a proud woman and liked her privacy, just as she liked to keep herself looking nice.
She rapped on the door, as she called through the letterbox. ‘Only me, Doris.’
Going into Doris Barker’s flat was like entering a department store. Apart from the kitchen, which was kept ‘clean’ for unexpected visitors, it was crammed with everything from lacy underwear to overcoats, all the things from the West End that she fenced for the group of hoisters – shoplifters – who lived on and around the estate.
Doris’s was a profitable business, which she spoke of as if it were some kind of community service; her view being that it provided gainful employment for local women, who would otherwise not be able to care for their broods of kids, who, regardless of their mothers’ circumstances, still needed new shoes and bigger-sized jackets for school.
Apart from her almost tangerine, dyed hair, which was teased and lacquered into a bouf of high, swirling curls, Doris was a plainly presented, middle-aged woman who opted for rather matronly Crimplene frocks in shades of muted blue or beige to cover her ample sideboard of a figure. She thought that her subdued wardrobe afforded her some sort of invisibility, the protection of anonymity, but she might just as well have dressed in pink lurex tops, leopardskin capri pants and matching stilettoes. Everyone in the area knew about Doris’s entrepreneurial activities.
Not only did most of the neighbourhood do business with her – if they weren’t selling, they were buying – but most of the older members of the local police force had, over the years, happily accepted ‘gifts’ for their wives and children from her. Their justification being that while the business was kept at a domestic level in Doris Barker’s flat in Lancaster Buildings, then it was all OK. It wasn’t as if she was involved in the rapidly escalating drugs business that was now taking a hold outside the once almost exclusively West End market, and that was the talk of police stations throughout the country. And, anyway, most of them had relatives, aunties, mothers even, who were as good as employed by the old girl.
The door was opened by a thin, pasty-faced woman in her sixties. ‘Morning,’ she said, letting Sarah into the hall. ‘She’s through in the kitchen.’
Doris was sitting at a blue Formica table dipping a Marie biscuit into her tea. ‘Morning, Sarah. Nice out again,’ she said, pulling out the chair next to her. ‘Another cup before you go, Val?’
The woman who had opened the door shook her head. ‘No thanks, Doris. I’m working this morning and I don’t want to have to find a lav when I’ve got me drawers full of gear.’
The three women laughed at the vision of Val being caught short with her hoister’s drawers, the specially designed shoplifter’s underwear, stuffed full of swag.
‘You’d better spend a penny before you go,’ Doris said good-naturedly. ‘Give the street door a good slam after you.’
‘Will do. Bye, Sarah. Bye, Doris. I’ll be round later.’
Doris raised her hand in a little wave. ‘See you, love. Mind how you go.’
‘Now, you’ll have a cup won’t you, Sal?’
‘Please.’ Sarah dipped into her apron pocket and pulled out the crocheted flying helmet that had so humiliated her poor little Angie. ‘You ain’t got these in a bigger size have you, Doris?’
‘I told you they were knock-off copies for little ones.’
‘I know, I just thought it might do her. She’s been a bit … you know.’
‘Sal.’ She hesitated, knowing how touchy her old friend Sarah could be about her family. ‘Have you thought about going round to see your Violet about her?’
Sarah looked levelly at her neighbour. ‘No business of your own to worry about, Doris?’
Mikey Tilson bashed on the door of the Canvas Club with the flat of his hand, and kept bashing until Jeff let him in. ‘I want a word with you.’
Jeff had been expecting this particular visit. He stood well back and let Mikey in at arm’s length. With his sore nose still bothering him, he was buggered if he was going to put himself in the range of any more slammed doors.
He ushered Mikey through, with a lift of his chin. ‘Drink?’
Mikey settled himself at the bar. The Canvas Club was surprisingly stylish f
or a discothèque, even in the harsh reality of natural daylight. Unlike most similar clubs, that were little more than matt-black-painted spaces with tiny makeshift stages, this one had been decorated to an exceptionally high standard. It had imported, mosaic-style mirror tiles on the walls, a properly sprung dance floor, professional-grade sound systems, two bars with high stools and plenty of sofas and low tables. Before she had grown bored with it, Sonia had made the Canvas one of her projects and, for once, she had been right about spending so much money. The club raked in a weekly fortune. But the takings were suddenly down five per cent, and Mikey had the hump. It meant he wasn’t able to rake his usual cream off the top – the cream that he had been emboldened to scoop since he had started seeing Sonia – without it all looking like it had gone boss-eyed, when it so obviously hadn’t.
Mikey missed that cream; it had kept him in the manner to which he had recently become very agreeably accustomed. And Sonia wasn’t a cheap hobby either.
‘What’s going on here? Eh?’ He picked up the large vodka and ice that Jeff had pushed across the bar to him. ‘I’ve been collecting five per cent less every night this week. How am I mean to rake me bit of bunce off that?’ He tossed back almost the whole glassful, and continued with barely a pause. ‘Have you been opening that big, ugly gob of yours? Or have you got yourself some little scheme going with one of your black bastard mates? I know how you lot stick together.’
Jeff pulled himself up to his full six foot three. He would take crap from David Fuller, he was his guvnor and he treated him a lot more fairly than anyone else he’d ever worked for. But being expected to take crap, especially crap like that, from a stupid prick like Mikey Tilson who kept his brains in his underpants?
‘Do you want to think again about what you just said, Tilson?’ Slowly, he took the long serrated knife from under the bar that, in a raid, could just about pass for a lemon slicer, and slapped it down – whack! – on the shiny wooden surface. ‘I don’t think I like your tone.’
Mikey drained the rest of his drink. ‘Don’t be so fucking touchy.’
Jeff raised the blade and touched it to Mikey’s pale, smooth throat. ‘Tell me, do you whiteys bleed the same colour as us black bastards?’
‘Jeff.’ Mikey put his hands up in surrender. ‘Don’t get aerated, mate. I’m upset, that’s all. Take no notice of me.’
‘No notice?’
‘I’m sorry. All right?’
‘You make me sick. Now clear off. If you’ve got any questions about the takings, you ask Mr Fuller.’
Mikey stood up to leave.
‘Only I don’t think you will ask him, will you, Mikey boy? And let’s face it, you won’t exactly be going without, will you? Knowing your past form, you’ve got some rich old tart keeping you. Paying you for your services.’ Jeff stared at Mikey’s groin. ‘Ain’t there a name for blokes who do that?’
Mikey shrugged down into his expensive tonic mohair jacket and sneered his derision. ‘You want to mind your own business, then perhaps you won’t get that nose of yours bashed in no more than it already is.’ He swaggered over to the door. ‘See you tonight.’ He turned and looked the other man up and down with slow contempt. ‘Jeffrey.’
Angie felt like a star as she stepped out of the hairdresser’s with her glossy, conker-brown hair shaped into the very latest geometric cut.
Dusty’s words were ringing in her ears. Her hair was a ‘perfect frame for her lovely green eyes’, and her ‘really pretty face’. Pretty!
Jackie followed her out of the salon, with her shoulder-length fair wavy locks frosted to a pale, Nordic blonde and relaxed into a dead-straight, centre-parted style with a heavy fringe. Marcie’s colleague, Mojo, had achieved the look with the help of up-to-the-minute smoothing tongs and a styling brush, a bit different from the iron-and-brown-paper job that Jackie used at home.
Mojo had insisted that it made her look just like Julie Christie.
Marcie, the bemused junior stylist, had taken real care with Angie, and had made sure that Jackie was fitted in as well – as a favour to Terry – and kept insisting that everything was absolutely ‘no trouble at all’. Typical Terry, she had thought, as she had smilingly asked Mojo to help her out, he was always meeting these little girls and promising them the earth. She just wished he could actually carry out the promises himself sometimes. Mind you, she’d been a bit shocked at first, when she’d seen the state of the dark-haired one, but once she’d taken a closer look she realized the potential that Terry had seen in her. With a bit of know-how, she could be quite a stunner, far more attractive than her more obviously pretty friend. Terry had taste all right. But then that was probably why he owned a string of top salons around the world and why she was only a junior stylist.
Jackie would never have admitted it to her friend, but she had been as terrified as Angie about going into the celebrated hairdresser’s. She had never met people called Dusty, or Mojo, or Marcie before, and they scared the life out of her. It was only because she had casually tossed the name Michaelton around in their conversation in the Wimpy, when she and Angie were planning her transformation, that she hadn’t been able to back out.
She just hoped her nerve held out, now that they were going clothes shopping in Kensington Church Street, and that she would find the courage to actually go inside the trendy boutiques she had been frantically reading up about since she had rashly made all these promises to Angie.
While Jackie took a deep breath, lifted her chin in the air, and prepared to hustle Angie into a terrifyingly trendy shop, with black-painted windows, a pulsating light show and throbbing music, Sonia was climbing into the taxi she had flagged down outside a boutique just a few doors away.
She had stood there, seething, while the driver – who was thinking that this arrogant mare had better come up with a decent tip – stuffed the back of his cab with all her glossy carrier bags. But despite having spent the entire morning venting her anger on the world, and on ‘Dusty’ in particular, by seeing just how much of David’s money she could manage to get rid of before lunchtime, Sonia was still in a bad mood. A very bad mood indeed.
‘Let’s have a look, then.’ Jackie emptied the bags on to her bed and held up a navy chiffon, A-line, sleeveless shift, covered with tiny white dots. ‘See, it didn’t matter we couldn’t afford West End prices,’ she said airily. ‘This is smashing. Romford market’s always got the latest styles. And you don’t get taken on like a mug.’
‘I think it’s smashing too.’ Angie held it against her and looked into the full-length mirror on Jackie’s dressing unit. The dress finished a clear four inches above her knee. ‘And I think it was definitely worth blowing all that on the haircut.’
‘So do I, Ange. Now let’s see. With the navy one you’ve got there.’ She rubbed her hand thoughtfully over her chin. ‘The two I got. A few of my other bits and pieces you can borrow. Then there’s all the material we bought – I’ll show you how to make that up later. Yeah, I reckon you’ll be able to get by for a good couple of weeks. Till you’ve saved up enough to buy something else.’
‘I’ll have to get some shoes.’
Jackie jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards the see-through plastic racks hanging on the back of her door. ‘There are more shoes in there, Ange, than there are in the Oxford Street Dolcis. Everything from black patent Mary Janes to a purple suede tap style – thank you, Mum’s catalogue – and I’m only half a size bigger than you.’ She picked up the lime-green dress she had bought earlier. ‘I might wear this tonight.’ Then she picked up the other one, which was almost the same, but with a pattern of bold psychedelic swirls. ‘Mind you, this is nice as well. What do you think?’
This was novel; Jackie never asked Angie’s opinion about anything to do with fashion or appearance. ‘I …’ She hesitated.
‘Yeah?’
Here goes, she thought. ‘I think the bright colours in the patterned one show off your hair really well, and the lime-green one would look really good wi
th my eyes.’
‘Right. That’s what we’ll wear tonight.’ She tossed the dresses on to the bed. ‘Now, let’s have a good look at that material we got.’ Jackie studied the lengths of fake Pucci cloth bought from a remnants stall in Romford market. ‘We’ll have to use the pattern I had to make my maroon halter-neck. This’d look great in that style.’
‘When shall we do it?’
‘Tell you what, instead of us doing it, I’ll be nice to Mum and get her to run it up for us.’ She screwed up her nose. ‘It’ll be a bit of a nuisance. We’ll have to re-sew the hems. She won’t make anything shorter than mid-knee. But it doesn’t matter what our sewing’s like, we’ll only wear them once or twice.’
Angie carefully folded the navy and lime-green dresses. ‘I’d better get home now, Jack. By the time I have a bath it’ll be almost time to go out. And you said you wouldn’t mind—’
‘—doing your make-up. Course I don’t. I’m just pleased you’re actually coming out with me for once.’ She raised her shoulders and grinned. ‘This is like playing dressing up.’ She gave Angie a big kiss on the forehead. ‘With a great big, real-life doll.’
Angie grinned back.
They were both still grinning as Jackie saw Angie to the street door.
‘Watcha, Squirt.’
Angie spun round to see Martin, with just a bath towel wrapped around his waist and a smaller towel draped round his neck, appearing from the bathroom.
‘Hello, Martin.’
‘Look at you,’ he said appreciatively. ‘With your hair all pretty like that, you’re going to make me jealous.’
‘You’re right there, Martin.’ It was Tilly Murray, red-faced from doing yet another batch of baking. ‘Doesn’t she look a picture? But it’s a shame about your hair, Jackie. If you’re not careful you’re really going to spoil it. Other girls’d love having all them waves you keep getting rid of.’
As Jackie rolled her eyes at Angie, sharing the knowledge that Mrs Murray was such a square, Angie could not remember feeling happier in her entire life, until that was, Martin winked broadly at her, grabbed the banister rail and raced up the stairs two at a time.
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