“Once upon a time I would have thought that was easy, Mum, but I’m so used to the fetch-me carry-me scenario that I’m honestly not sure who I am any more . . . I never know what to do with myself when the kids aren’t here. My identity seemed to get lost somewhere in motherhood. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, I adore it in fact, it’s just . . .”
“Nonsense, dear,” Hattie soothed. “Motherhood is an identity. It’s rewarding, fulfulling and a far less stressful life than what these millennium-type women who try to be all things to all people have. They’ve got it wrong, darling.” Hattie patted Jude’s shoulder lovingly. Her eyes emitted a kindness but one carried with a determined conviction. “It’s you who has it right.”
Jude advanced through the wide hallway towards the front door where a pile of post had landed with careless attitude. She inhaled the fragrance from the tall vase of fresh trumpet lilies. Breathing deep, she immersed herself in a floral cosmos, dizzied by its antidote which was potent enough to induce an intravenous relaxant into the strange tenseness she had felt when her mother’s words echoed. ‘They’ve got it wrong, Jude . . . it’s you who has it right.’
Jude trusted her mother with her life and what she said went. After all, she always had her best interests at heart and Jude’s life had turned out to be rich and fulfilled with many achievements. But few of them for herself or about herself. How on earth, Jude wondered, could something so right suddenly feel so wrong? There was something missing in her life, a void which needed filling.
Her eyes lit up as she gathered up the post. She spotted her lifeline – it was screaming out to her to be undressed – needing a release of oxygen to bring it to life.
Interior Designs was the highlight of Jude’s month. She literally counted down the days for the next publication. Her heart raced and her mouth dried at the wonderment of its content as she speculated over the latest fabrics, wondered at the new spring colours. With life-dependent speed, Jude jumped into it with both feet.
The salon was state-of-the-art and cutting-edge and the people who worked in it were as glamorous as any of the Hollywood ‘A’ list – both males and females.
All Sophie Kane’s decisions were calculated to the nth degree. She hired not only the most talented of stylists to work in her Kane’n’Able salons, but those who looked the part from physique to dental impeccability. They were the window to her business, a sample of the goods on offer and a prototype of the transformations available – all at a costly premium.
Sophie stood at the retro reception desk chatting to Karl, her right-hand man. A lustful smirk stained her flawless face.
To anyone else she simply looked like a contented woman glad to be at work, but to Karl Keating she looked like the woman she had been last night – or, more accurately, the woman who had been with a man last night.
Karl watched Sophie take the brush from Mandy, an Academy trainee. He watched as she demonstated the correct way to hold the brush, allowing it to grab the hair from the roots, blow-drying it upwards for greater height, holding the nozzle pointing down to follow the natural shafts of hair.
Sophie stood and watched Mandy for a few minutes until she was satisfied that the client would be satisfied. More than satisfied. As a general rule of thumb, most stylists wouldn’t care too much about the students or freeloaders – they got a free hair-do out of it every Tuesday morning – but Sophie felt differently. Today’s students were tomorrow’s customers and they were treated with all the respect of those spending obscene amounts of money. Everyone that walked out of Kane’n’Able felt the experience. Sophie had created more than just a salon – and she was about to create another.
“Karl, can you hold the fort for me later on for you know what?” she said.
An exasperated Karl glanced at Sophie. His grey eyes delivered an incongruous message of affectionate frustration. He tutted loudly. “Miss Kane. I am the manager here, not you.” He shook his head at her, narrowing his eyes. Behind them his true feelings oozed. Sophie needed to step back and let him manage without her continuous interference; give him some space. “What on earth do you pay me for?”
Sophie let out a belt of raucous laughter. “You know, sometimes I ask myself that very question.”
Karl had to laugh. “I left myself wide open for that, didn’t I?”
Sophie licked her lips lasciviously. “Talking of wide open –”
“Sophie Kane, will I ever make a lady of you?” Karl interrupted with a clipped tone which Sophie heard loud and clear. “Who was the poor bastard this time?”
She turned to look in the immaculately gleaming circular mirror which hung behind the curved reception desk, tucking her hair behind her ears, puckering her lips for deliberate effect. She knew only too well how annoyed Karl got when she talked to him about her sexual escapades. His thwarted behaviour shone through as he made no attempts to hide his annoyance. When Sophie was feeling especially provocative she took great pleasure in watching his mounting irritation. So what? The guy was gay. What she did mattered little to him, surely?
“Clive Wesbtury. He’s quite a good lay actually. Particularly for a lawyer.”
“What! How could you do that to Jude, for crying out loud!” he whispered crossly.
“I’m kidding, Karl!” Sophie was taken aback that for a moment he actually believed that she was capable of sleeping with one of her best friends’ husbands.
“It sooo wasn’t funny . . . besides I wouldn’t put anything past you!” Karl teased her, the relief changing his tone mid-sentence. “Floosy!”
Sophie shot him a hurt glare. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Karl. Anyway, Miss Frigid-pants Veronica seems to think that one of us is shagging one of their husbands . . . I know full well everyone will think it’s me.”
“When did she say that?” Karl swept a piece of stray hair from the steel reception counter into his hand and straight into the bin. He hated mess of any kind.
“She didn’t say it, the Curry Club did, but I know full well it was her comment, Karl. What I don’t know is where the hell it came from . . . but if it is true, it’s definitely not me that’s getting it!”
Karl exhaled as the moment of worry dispersed. Sometimes Sophie was so unpredictable that he daren’t think about her true capabilities. For a moment he had believed her tongue-in-cheek sarcasm and he was glad of her admission.
“Okay, who was the poor bastard then? Not Peter or James, I take it!”
“I don’t know and I don’t care, Karl, but by God was he a good shag!” Sophie looked serious for a moment. It didn’t suit her playful blue eyes nor her dangerously bee-stung lips. “You know, he might just be the one.”
“The one for what?” Karl laughed out loud. “The one where you actually bother to ask his name?”
“That I’ll never do. Men are there at my disposal and to be used and abused by my good self.” Her face contorted with a flash of anger. “It could quite easily be the other way around, you know, Karl. It’s alright for you guys to go out getting your end away all in the name of testosterone but when we women do it we’re labelled slags.” She retouched her lip gloss, applying an extra dollop on her bottom lip. She put the small tube back into the pocket of her Diesel jeans. “So for all the single, independent ladies out there . . . I’m doin’ it for you!” she sang.
Karl sniggered. As far as he could see singing was her one weakness – well, that and her loose morals – but those apart she was perfection personified.
“The one, Karl,” she said, reverting to his cynical question. “The one where I actually go back for more, you eejit.” She stood back waiting for him to react.
He turned his face to avoid her gaze, to bury deep his feelings. He was conscious that she was still his boss regardless of his opinions on her night’s activities.
“What is it, Karl?”
Karl metamorphosed in real time from a disdained man to a masked street performer and his expression shifted to one contrived and in full character. “Nothin
g, Sophie. I just think you can do so much better than picking up one-night stands, never to see them again.”
“I’ve just said I might see this one again.”
“Forgive my cynisism but that’s hardly ringing wedding bells, is it!”
Sophie, for once, allowed herself to hear the subtle but watchful tone of his voice. But, as in the case of all men, Sophie didn’t take him seriously.
“I’m sorry that my personal life offends you so much, Karl. Anyway, who else did you have in mind?” she snorted. “You?”
Karl thought for a moment that had he not known the real Sophie Kane he wouldn’t have lasted more than two minutes working for her. Not only was the place cutting-edge, she was cutting-edge.
No, actually, she was just cutting.
Helena dragged on a cigarette, inhaling it with such vigour that her epitaph began to engrave itself. In her mind it did anyway. She was a loser, Nathan was an even bigger loser, and she was still in the same job she had taken on a temporary basis after graduation and was still wishing she hadn’t.
How useless her psychology degree had turned out to be! Although, in fairness to her, she excelled with everyone else and their problems – but try as she might to free herself from her own, she drew the short straw every time. Psychology might well have helped her with Nathan during his numerous bouts of depression, or during the time he went stir crazy after receiving yet another batch of rejection letters, but one thing it couldn’t do was pay the bills. Nothing could unless it made a ‘ker-ching’ sound.
Nathan Bream was the son of Herbie Bream, a failed inventor, who died trying to invent a vacuum which hoovered all by itself. Or the voice-activated television remote control. Nathan, it seemed, had inherited his father’s eccentric and egotistical ways.
In their earlier courting years, Helena had supported Nathan out of love and a conviction that one day his board games would be snapped up by one of the worlds multinational corporations and be dropped down the chimney into every domestic dwelling, like Swingball or Monopoly, and he too would become a hugely recognisable brand. Only a decade later, Nathan had received only a few thousand pounds as option payments, but no-one had bitten the bullet enough to commission any orders. The response was always ‘It could do with a little modification.’ or ‘Two players are too few.’ They were at a juncture where life was tough, money a scarcity and Helena knew with gut-wrenching desperation that something had to change. She just didn’t know what.
She stubbed the cigarette butt against the wall, dropping it through the hole into the chrome cigarette bin, squinting as the spring sun tickled her face with its mild rays. Her nose itched with the early signs of pollen. Helena loved the sun and the summertime particularly, but her hayfever was a killer.
She mounted the steps to the bank reluctantly, taking them a deliberate one at a time, sniffing on every step as though the steps themselves were wrapped in pollen of the highest levels. She prayed silently for free prescriptions, knowing well enough that she didn’t have sufficient money to buy her much-needed antihistamine. She didn’t have enough money to buy anything in life as it stood.
Inside the banking hall the queues were endless and Helena watched the customers jump from queue to queue in the hope that the next one would be quicker than the one before. This amused her, always had in fact, and she wondered why they lacked the ability, the control to remain still and at least accepting of their situation. It was a queue for heaven’s sakes – it wasn’t a life or death situation. A little waiting wouldn’t harm a person.
“Can I help you, sir?” Helena approached an elderly gentleman, taking him from the queue and escorting him over to her Personal Banking desk which sat in the foyer of the opulent banking hall. Its position was close to the door so that she could answer on-the-spot queries or point customers in the appropriate direction. She was a meet-and-greet member of staff and a cashier too when needed.
Helena took her rightful place, plonking herself down on her chair, rolling in closer to the staid mahogony desk. The desk was equipped with an abundant supply of paper slips, compartmentalised in a black-plastic desktop sorter, all within grabbing distance of an extended arm. A black plastic pen was chained to its holder and a brass desk-lamp sat bent over and shy in the corner – angled for aesthetic effect. The lamp was on permanently, so dark was the building’s interior.
Helena smiled at her customer. Those that knew her well enough would know that the smile was contrived like everything she did when she was at work. She hated it.
“Thank you for taking me out of the queue, erm . . .” he smiled at her, taking in her name badge, “Helena. I’m not sure how long my legs would have held up. It’s always so busy in here.”
“That’s what I’m here for, sir. Now what can I do for you?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she suppressed a smirk as she saw an oversized pinstriped suit hop from queue to queue. He was only missing the relay baton, she giggled away in her mischievous mind. The exercise would do him the world of good by the looks of things.
“I’d like to withdraw some money, please, Helena.”
Helena took a red passbook from the elderly gentleman. She removed its plastic cover and opened the book, stifling a gasp at its balance.
The man beamed with pride. “I’d like to withdrawn forty thousand pounds please, dear. It’s my grandson’s 21st birthday and I want to give him a deposit for a house.”
Helena looked morose as she stared absently at the pages before her. She thought about her own student-type digs with its eclectic mix of second-hand furniture. At thirty-one she should be well on the property ladder by now, but with only one income – hers – unless something changed drastically this was never likely to happen.
Helena snapped out of her own cruel world back into the real one.
“Certainly, Mr Peters.”
She leaned forward, pulling two slips of paper from the perfectly organised plastic tray to the side of her.
“If you could just sign this withdrawal slip for me, please, Mr Peters, that would be great.”
Helena watched his hand as it shook uncontrollably in perfect rhythm to his leg which tremored beneath the table. She felt the effects of it banging against the hollow bottom of the desk and she wondered if this was excitement or old age. She also wondered if she would end up like him. Not old. But rich. She thought not. Ever the realist.
“Do you have identification, Mr Peters, please?” Helena hated asking this question. It was obvious he wasn’t a crook. “It’s simply to make sure that it really is you withdrawing your own money, sir. Our job is to protect your money from fraud by carrying out these protective identity checks.”
Unperturbed, he handed over a wad of utility bills rolled up and held together with an elastic band. Helena listened as the elastic played a tune with each roll as she fought to remove it. It really did sound quite musical, especially the ping at the end as it almost flew out of her hand. It reminded her of the percussion triangle she played in her primary-school orchestra – its ever-familiar tinging sound.
Hiding her amusement once more, Helena checked over the documents, copying down their printed reference details on to the second slip of paper in the small box marked Identification. Satisfied that everything was in order she stapled the paper slips together, moving around the desk to help the elderly man from his chair.
“We will have it ready for you by 3p.m., Mr Peters. It needs to be counted twice over for accuracy and given it’s such a significant sum of money, it might take a while! Is there anything you can do while you’re in town . . . you know, to keep busy?”
“There’s always stuff for me to do.” He winked at her playfully. “I’ll have one for the road while I’m waiting.”
“Have one for me too while you’re at it,” Helena joked. She would have killed for a beer at that very moment. She wasn’t sure why but she was in a giddy mood that afternoon. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to have the money transferred electronically,
Mr Peters? It’s a lot of money to walk around with, don’t you think?”
He stood, wobbling a little, and Helena noticed that his eyes hadn’t aged but his body had. They sparkled like a teenager’s when she looked deep into them. The ageing process baffled her. Little changed on the inside but the outside bore the brunt of the cruel but inevitable process.
“I’m going to ring my sons once I’ve collected the money and wait here for them to take me home,” he reassured her. “They’re gym junkies the pair of them. I can’t see anyone messing with me while I’ve got my lads by my side.”
Helena took his arm and headed for the exit at a snail’s pace. She pushed the silver-and-blue disability button on the left of the exit and watched as the doors opened. She helped Mr Peters through the doors and down the concrete steps until he was safely at the bottom. It felt good.
Helena watched him hobble along the busy high street until he made a sharp right turn, disappearing from sight. She breathed in the second-hand smoke from her colleagues as they took their ‘fresh air’ break. It was all she could do for now. She had used up her last smoke earlier on and she had no money to buy another packet.
Helena thought bitterly about the man’s grandson. Her face contorted with the injustice of it all. Having all that money handed to him on a plate. The lucky bastard. Maybe she should dump Nathan and date him? The grandson, not the grandfather. But she knew that was never likely to happen. Nathan had her just where he wanted her, and for all her understanding of psychology she had realised very early on in their relationship that Nathan would always outwit her. What she couldn’t quite work out was why she allowed it.
The music boomed from outside the gym studio. Its hardcore beat was a complete contrast to the pipe music which floated and danced its way into the psyches of Kath’s Tai Chi class.
“Okay, ladies, this move takes a little coordination but keep practising. Here we go!”
The high-energy chant continued to boom through aggressively and Kath tutted, peering through the glass walls of the workout studio, desperately trying to catch the eye of someone on the reception desk. Its volume was disrupting her class.
Some Like it Hot Page 3
