By the time she’s off the phone, I’ve got several appointments, the first of which is only a few minutes off.
My assistant is clearly in her element and having a whale of a time. She gets someone to cover her till while she takes me down the lower ground floor and the treatment rooms. It’s all so good-natured that I’m carried along on the wave of enthusiasm, and when I’m handed over to Rhoda in the beauty centre, I’ve surrendered all control over my day. Before long, I’m lying on a bed with Rhoda massaging my face, spreading some kind of clay mixture on it, putting cool discs on my eyes and leaving me to bake for a while. It’s a wonderfully relaxing experience, the kind of thing I’ve always assumed is meant for other people and not for me, but as the gentle fingers begin to wipe away the mask and anoint me with unguents and creams, I think: Why not me? Why shouldn’t I have this?
‘All done,’ Rhoda says, handing me a sheaf of complimentary product testers. ‘And you look great.’
I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror as I pay – it’s not exactly on the house, even if I have had some strings pulled for me – and I do seem to be glowing. Or is it my imagination? Who cares? The whole experience was amazing.
‘You’re expected on the top floor,’ Rhoda informs me. ‘For your hair.’
A short lift ride and before I know it, I’m ensconced in a high chair, a black nylon cape clipped around my neck and a pile of the latest glossies in front of me. A slender young man in a black T-shirt and with an improbable swoop of blond hair over his forehead talks me through what we might do with my hair. I’ve experimented with colours and cuts in the past but for the last few months, I haven’t bothered. The result is that I have a gradation of colour, from dry straw at the ends to dark mouse at the roots, and any attempt at a style has long since grown out into shaggy ends.
Cedric takes me in hand. With practised ease, he paints my hair with the contents of some little plastic dishes, and folds it into tin foil, then leaves me with a magazine to amuse me while I cook under a revolving neon disc. After half an hour, he passes me on to a girl with delightfully soft hands who rubs and rinses and massages all the chemicals from my scalp and replaces them with something that leaves my hair slippery smooth and smelling of coconut.
Cedric reappears, brandishing scissors. Now it’s time to comb and snip, and he chats away as he lifts long dark ribbons of hair and slashes into the ends with the slender blades. I watch myself in the mirror, wondering what is going to greet me at the end of all of this. When the cutting is done, Cedric sprays my hair with something, picks up his hairdryer and says, ‘How glam do we want to go?’
I look at myself in the mirror and say, ‘Glam.’
In my mind, I’m meeting Mr R for dinner. Tonight, he doesn’t want that woman I’ve seen him with. Tonight, he’s going to see me and gasp. ‘Are you the girl from Celia’s apartment?’ he’ll say, amazed, unable to believe his eyes. ‘That little girl from the fifth floor opposite my flat? But you’re . . . you’re . . .’
I’m lost in a happy dream as the dryer roars around me, burning the tips of my ears bright red and singeing my scalp. Cedric is busy now with a spiky brush, rolling my hair hard, pulling it tight, blasting it with hot air and then releasing it with a twisting movement that leaves behind a loose ringlet. When he’s worked his way all around my head, I have a halo of golden, glimmering waves. He sprays hairspray into his palm, rubs his hands together and then scrunches my hair, smoothes it, pulls it back and releases it. I have a long bob, a fringe that sweeps down over my face and falls seductively over one eye. It’s a rich, shimmering gold.
‘Do you like it?’ asks Cedric, stepping back, putting his head to one side and examining his work critically.
‘It’s . . . beautiful,’ I say, a little choked. I’m remembering what I looked like only very recently, when I stared in my bedroom mirror after a fit of crying over Adam, and saw a lank-haired, puffy-eyed, dull-skinned girl with nothing left of her sparkle. She seems very far away now and I’m relieved to see the back of her.
Cedric smiles. ‘I’m thrilled, babe. I knew I could make something of you. Now . . . apparently you’re due on the ground floor. You’ve got some make-up and nails coming your way.’
I don’t care, I don’t care what it costs, I think recklessly as I hand my debit card over at the till. They’re all being so lovely to me. They don’t have to, but they are. And it’s bloody fantastic.
When my lift arrives on the ground floor, I feel like royalty. Someone is there to meet me and take me over to the make-up counter that’s been selected for me. Then a whole other session begins. A young make-up girl, looking old beyond her years in the store uniform and the obligatory pancake-thick cosmetics, gets to work. She moisturises my skin, applies serum and sprays my face with ionised liquid, then begins with tinted moisturisers, foundations and secret concealers. All the while, she murmurs compliments about my skin, my eyes, my lashes, my lips. It’s all I can do not to believe that I’ve somehow become one of the most beautiful women on earth, but even while I retain a healthy scepticism, it’s a seductive feeling.
Colours are applied to my brows, my lashes, my cheeks and my lips. I’m given glow and shimmer and something called ‘pops’ of colour. Eventually, when all that can be painted has been painted, the girl stands back happily and tells me I’m finished. Then she hands me the mirror.
I gasp. Then I tell myself – it’s their job to make you look like this and buy their products. These people are make-up artists.
But still, I look nothing like I’ve ever looked. My blue eyes are defined in a way I’ve never managed with my trusty kohl, with long swooping dark lashes, and they glitter appealingly. My cheeks are flushed with pink-gold and my lips are an invitingly moist cherry red. I feel like I’ve stepped from the pages of a magazine.
I buy quite a lot of what has been applied to my face, which is no doubt the idea, and then I’m taken across to have my nails painted bright red while an animated girl from the East End tells me all about her boyfriend troubles. I hardly listen, to tell the truth. I’m thinking about Mr R. I’m lost in a fantasy world where I’m walking towards him across the restaurant, and he’s rising to his feet, his mouth dropping open in amazement, and then, as I come to him, he’s unable to resist taking me in his arms and . . .
‘All done, love!’ announces the nail girl, satisfied. ‘Now leave it for twenty minutes to be on the safe side, yeah?’
There’s one last task to be done before they release me from their care. I’ve got a pair of shoes to buy, something that will go with the black dress. My debit card already feels hot in my hand from the amount I’ve used it, but I’ve come so far that I have to go on. A stint in the shoe department brings me a pair of high black shoes with pointed toes, and then, after everything, I’m back where I started with my original assistant.
‘Oh!’ she exclaims, clapping her hands together. ‘You look . . . amazing! I really never thought you’d look this good. Honestly, it’s a transformation.’
She’s right. I know she is. When the dress is on, the shoes, along with the hair and make-up . . . well, my confidence soars. Perhaps there is life after Adam. Perhaps someone else might love me, want me, desire me . . . Mr R, of course, is a pipe dream, but someone might.
‘Thank you,’ I say with deep sincerity. ‘You’ve been so kind. I appreciate it so much.’
‘Don’t be silly, you deserve it.’ She leans in towards me with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Now go out there, enjoy your party and knock them dead!’
I leave the department store feeling like everyone is looking at me, admiring my new dress and my freshly done hair. Three days ago I arrived in London sweaty and shabby. Now look at me: I hope I look like someone Celia would be proud of.
I chance upon a small square hidden down an alley off the main road, and decide to have something to eat in one of the restaurants that line it. The whole process has taken hours and I’m so hungry that I don’t care that I’ll be eating alone. As I
devour a plate of delicious pasta, I remember how, when I arrived, I was far too frightened to even think about doing such a thing. Well, look, here I am eating alone and nothing awful has happened. No one has stormed in to ask me how I dare do such a thing, no waiter has turned his nose up at me with a sneer and refused my order. I’ve been treated with quiet respect and it feels rather nice.
Afterwards, I’m not quite ready to go home even though it’s now late afternoon. I wander north, back towards the chic area I discovered on my first day where I went food shopping. I’m not meeting Mr R of course, that little dream only exists in my imagination, but I don’t want this pleasant flight of fantasy to end. It’s only because I’m in this mood that, when I see the card in the window, I have the courage to go in. Behind the window is a large, light, blond-wood-floored gallery, its white walls adorned with large pieces of modern art. My eye is drawn to it at once because part of my degree focused on the development of Expressionism and art between the First and Second World Wars. The paintings here look as if they might be directly influenced by that era.
In the window is a white card, handwritten in beautifully neat lettering:
Experienced gallery assistant required. Temporary position. Please enquire within.
I stare at it for a moment, seeing my own shadowy reflection in the glass. I came to London with the idea that I would look for some kind of summer job to keep me busy and perhaps to be the first step on a new path. After all, I can’t stay working in my hometown cafe for ever, and so many friends are moving to London to start the next phase of their post-uni lives that it makes sense to see if I can find a future for myself here. I felt that I had missed the boat by not sorting anything out but maybe it’s not too late. Laura asked me to come and live with her in London and share a flat or a house, but I hadn’t seen how I would afford the rent without a job, and anyway I intended to stay with Adam.
I see a movement inside the gallery and catch a glimpse of a tall thin man with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. He’s in a dark suit and moving about near a desk halfway down the gallery. Has he seen me?
I decide to walk away and forget about it but something stops me. I’m as polished and primped as I’ll ever look. If I can’t impress a future employer looking like this, I never will. Before I really know what I’m doing, I’ve pushed open the door and am walking confidently towards the man, my high heels tapping on the wooden floor. He turns to look at me, and I can see that he has short blond-grey hair cut to a speckled stubble at the sides and with a neat bald patch on top. His grey eyes are hooded and beneath the impressive jutting nose, he has thin lips and a well-shaped chin. He wears a pair of gold-framed spectacles so discreet they’re almost invisible. His hands are extremely graceful, and overall he projects an air of elegance and culture.
He says nothing as I approach but raises his eyebrows enquiringly.
‘I saw your card in the window,’ I say in my most confident voice. ‘Are you still looking for someone? I wondered if you might consider me for the position.’
His eyebrows rise even higher as his gaze flickers quickly over me, taking in the dress, shoes and make-up.
‘Yes, I am still looking, but I have some interviews this later today and’ – he smiles in a friendly but distant way – ‘I’m afraid I am looking for someone with experience.’
I can see that he doesn’t think for a moment I’m up to it. Maybe my appearance is actually working against me. He thinks I’m a bimbo, too interested in lipstick to know anything about art. This annoys me. Surely any modern man should know that a woman shouldn’t be judged on her looks alone? Surprises come in a variety of packages after all.
I can feel a spark of my old confidence come back. ‘If it’s experience with people you need, I’ve spent years working with customers in a retail environment.’ This isn’t strictly true – is a cafe a retail environment? But we did sell some knick-knacks, postcards and a motley collection of antique china, so perhaps it counts. I continue without missing a beat: ‘And if it’s knowledge of the subject you’re after, my degree is in the History of Art, and I concentrated on the early twentieth-century schools, the pre-First World War movements of Fauvism and Cubism and their growth after the war into a variety of Expressionist movements and Modernism. I can see from the artist you’re showing here that you might be interested in this area too. This artist is definitely influenced by post-Expressionism and the Bloomsbury Group: I love those simple shapes and faded tones, the naivety. That painting of a chair and the vase of flowers could be a Duncan Grant original.’
The gallery owner is staring at me, then a smile creeps around his thin lips and the next moment he has burst out laughing. ‘Well, you’re certainly enthusiastic, I’ll give you that. History of Art degree, eh? That’s a good qualification. Sit down, we’ll have a chat. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea?’
‘Great.’ I beam at him and sit down where he’s indicated. From then on, we get on very well. He’s easy to talk to – charming, in fact, with beautiful manners – and I don’t feel any interview nerves at all. It’s more like a pleasant chat with a kindly teacher, except that he has miles more style than any teacher at my old school. He’s extremely good at getting information out of me without my really noticing it and I tell him all about my degree, my life at uni, my favourite artists and why I’ve always been drawn to art even though I’m rubbish at drawing and painting.
‘The world needs people who love things as well as who do them,’ he remarks. ‘Theatre, for example, isn’t just made of up actors and directors. There are the agents, the producers, the impresarios and financiers, who keep the whole thing running. Books don’t exist simply because of writers, but because of publishers and editors and all the people who run bookshops for the love of it. Art, of course, is the same. You don’t have to paint like Renoir to appreciate art and to work in the delicate but important business of promoting artists and buying and selling their work.’
I feel enthused about the possibility of a career in the art world, and I suppose he can see my excitement because he looks at me over the top of his gold-framed spectacles and says not unkindly, ‘But all these worlds are very difficult to work in because the competition is intense. Getting your foot in the door is vital. I’ve already had a dozen answers to my card in the window. People know that it’s an excellent opportunity to get experience.’
I must look deflated because he smiles and says, ‘But I like you, Beth. And you clearly adore your subject and know a lot about it. As a matter of fact, I know one of the tutors on your course, he’s an old friend of mine, so I know you’ll have an excellent grounding in modern art. I tell you what. I’m seeing some other people later but I’ll certainly remember this conversation.’ He looks serious for a moment. ‘I must stress that the position is a temporary one. My full-time assistant has been unexpectedly taken into hospital and will be away for several weeks, but he’ll be returning to the position when he’s recovered.’
I nod. ‘I understand.’ I don’t tell him that I’m a temporary Londoner myself. I can work all that out if I get the job, which doesn’t sound very likely.
He hands me an ivory business card engraved with navy copperplate. It reads:
James McAndrew
Riding House Gallery
Below are his contact details. I give him my mobile number and email address which he writes down on a pad on the desk. His writing is, like him, measured, elegant and a little old-fashioned.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ James says, with another of those wise smiles of his, and a moment later, I’m back on the high street, feeling jubilant. I grin at my reflection in shop windows as I pass them, still getting used to my blonde waves and the curvaceous figure my black dress gives me. Even if I don’t get the job, I’m pleased that I had the courage to walk in off the street and give it my best shot. I decide that, no matter what, I’ll go back and see James and get some advice on what I should do next if I want to work in the art world.
I’m
surprised when I look at my watch and see that it’s getting late. I head back for home. Amazing how much time shopping and preening can take if you let it.
The flat opposite is in darkness. I stare at it for a while, hoping that the light will suddenly go on and reveal Mr R there. I’m desperate to see him. He’s been buzzing around in my mind all day, constantly there, almost as though he’s the one who’s secretly watching me as I go about my day. Tonight, I feel ready for him in a different way. Even before I go into the sitting room to see what’s happening opposite, I’ve refreshed my make-up, run my fingers through my hair and smoothed my dress down over my hips. I feel sophisticated and sexy, as though I made a tiny step towards being as polished as his girlfriend.
Like he’s really going to notice!
So when his apartment stays resolutely in darkness, I feel the sting of disappointment. The window opposite remains opaque all the way through my solitary supper and afterwards. There is something very lonely about an empty flat, the way it sinks into a blank slumber without an inhabitant to bring it to life. Nothing has a meaning without someone to look at it, use it, live in it. De Havilland is cross with me because I won’t let him sit on my lap, but I don’t want cat hairs all over my new dress. He goes over to the sofa sulkily, curls up with his back to me and pointedly ignores me.
Then a plan that has been subtly brewing in my head all day almost without my realising it comes to fruition.
Fire After Dark Page 6
