by Pip Adam
Jerry looked back at the spreadsheet. ‘I don’t know about this debt,’ he said, pointing at the paper.
‘It’s for the corporate line,’ Tommy said, although he wasn’t sure.
‘Then I guess you need to get that right.’ Jerry laughed slightly to underline how right they needed to get it. ‘Does it look good?’
‘It doesn’t really matter whether it looks good or not,’ Tommy said. His phone had stopped ringing. ‘As long as it looks good in the photos.’
‘Selling hope,’ his father said.
‘Selling a story,’ Tommy corrected him.
Jerry laughed and looked at his watch. ‘Have you got time for dinner, Thomas?’
The fundraiser started soon but it could wait. Tommy could make a donation on the website or be there next time. ‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at his dad, ‘that’d be great.’
‘I’ll call your mother.’ Jerry picked up the phone on his desk.
As his father talked to Rachel, Tommy heard his phone leap into a hum again inside his bag, which was sitting on the floor beside the chair he was on. It wouldn’t be Carla again. She wouldn’t be needy like that. She might be angry but she was different from his mother, she knew what to wear and what to say and she worked hard. Carla would find a way through. She could cut Dominic’s hair before the shoot tomorrow – Tommy had seen her do it before, had a feeling she liked the drama of it. Surely she could do that. That would be easy. He was sure of it. For one second it felt like if he could work Carla out, he could work anything out. His bag hummed. It was the tiniest of shakes. His father didn’t hear it. It seemed possible that Tommy couldn’t hear it himself. He was in a meeting, with an investor. An important meeting and then it stopped, and the bag sat still again.
Sharona looked at her phone. Her call had gone to Tommy’s voicemail. He probably didn’t want to know anyway. She looked at the empty space of the workroom. The absence of boxes. She was probably just ringing him to get some assurance, probably just to hear his voice and the confidence in it, or maybe just to remember what an idiot she thought he was. So she could remember that it didn’t really matter. Because it didn’t, not really. No one would die. ‘It’s not brain surgery,’ she told herself, out loud.
She swiped through her emails, just to check – again. The manufacturer had promised her the boxes would be there by 3pm. That they’d been in the country since Sunday. It was nearly five. She looked at the clothes rack against the back wall. Tommy had called her from the meeting. He could have come down, he could have shouted from the top of the stairs for her to come up, but he’d called. Sharona had made a small noise about maybe they should wait until the clothes arrived. That’s what he’d have called it when he spoke to the photographer. ‘Sharona’s making a small noise about waiting until the clothes are here, but it’ll be fine.’ Then he would have laughed, with the photographer and Carla. Carla would have laughed too – maybe – and then he’d say to her, as he looked at his phone to hang it up, ‘Ye of little faith.’ And everyone would have smiled again.
The workroom was nice when it was quiet. Sharona had sent everyone else home at four, with the understanding that if the clothes arrived and were bad and she needed the others then she’d call them back. Tommy had gone to a meeting with an investor.
She looked again at the rack on the back wall. They could use those samples. The samples on the rack on the back wall were not the real samples. They were the ones that had been left here. The real samples were in Indonesia, but they could use these ones. The ones that hadn’t been good enough to send to Indonesia. She didn’t want to move any closer to them because she knew they couldn’t use these samples. They wouldn’t work, they needed altering and there was none of the sample fabric left in the workroom, but she couldn’t quite face that. Not yet.
She looked at her phone again. The courier would come soon and if the courier didn’t come, say the courier didn’t come by ten, she’d take those samples, on the rack on the back wall, and make them like the ones that went to Indonesia. The ones that were in Indonesia, now. She’d have to fudge the fabric – most of the clothes were white. She looked behind her at the fabric store. There was a bolt of white cotton that might work. She looked back at her phone. Everyone else shot from samples. But Tommy had sent the samples away because he’d wanted to start manufacture before they shot the photos. The orders had been slow but he was convinced online sales would be better, that they needed stock for the online sales. No one else did this. But Tommy was sure they were leading, that they were on the epoch of a new kind of business and they needed stock – fast. So he’d convinced Kurt and Cal and sent the samples away for manufacture – the good samples – before they could make another set. Sharona wound through Facebook. She hated it so much. Only people she hated were still on Facebook and she hated it, but she couldn’t prise herself from it, because what if something happened? She flicked back to Twitter. It gave her a special kind of sickness. It felt like watching too much porn. How you start with the graze of a breast, an ecstatic look, then move to embraces, hands on waists, then before you know it, you’re looking at fisting Vines. Oozing vaginas and warmth. She swiped over to Tumblr. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d masturbated in the workroom. Sometimes she wondered if that was why she sent everyone away. She wondered if this was the only reason she stayed, so that she could masturbate late in the dark. She’d fucked people in here too. It was so fucking sad, she’d see them, they’d see her, they’d maybe know her, the younger ones, she wouldn’t want to take them home, she’d bring them here, then she’d fake a call or a text and say, ‘My boss is coming.’ And some of them would say, ‘Can I meet them?’ Girls loved Tommy, Cal and Kurt. They had this idea that men who worked with women’s clothes could see women in a way men who didn’t work with women’s clothes couldn’t. Maybe they could. Maybe.
As she wound through images of women, tied and suspended, most of them in high heels, her phone rang.
It wasn’t Tommy. It should have been Tommy. He’d organised a shoot for less than 24 hours from now and he had no clothes. It would cost him a fortune if he had to cancel it. It was Duey.
‘Are you coming to dinner?’ Duey said, before Sharona could say hello.
‘I’m, um. I’m ...’
‘Have they not arrived?’ She was laughing now. Sharona could hear Carla there too. The noise of the salon in the background, and Carla. ‘Carla wants to know, “Have they not arrived yet?”’
‘Um,’ Sharona was laughing now too.
‘Carla wants to know if you’re by yourself.’
‘Um.’
‘Carla wants to know if Tommy’s there? One of the models hasn’t shown up. Carla says Tommy’s phone is off.’
‘Um. Yeah.’ Sharona looked around the workroom. ‘Yeah. Nah.’
Duey talked away from the phone. ‘Sharona says, “Yeah. Nah.”’
In the background Carla shouted, ‘Where is he, Sharona?’
‘Carla wants to know where he is,’ Duey said.
‘Are you at the salon?’ Sharona asked.
‘Yup. But we only have one boy. Did Tommy say anything about the other boy?’
‘I should probably wait here.’
‘Carla says don’t stay there. She says the courier will call.’
‘Sometimes they don’t,’ Sharona said.
‘Are you masturbating?’ Duey said.
‘Not yet.’
‘Carla says, “Don’t let her stand us up for her fucking fist.”’
‘I better stay here. ’Cause they don’t always call.’
‘And you want to come.’
‘And I want to come all over this fucking place.’
‘Carla wants to know what we should do about the boy?’
‘If it was me, and it’s not, but if it was me, I’d resign myself to tomorrow being awful. I’d say to myself – I will most likely be cutting this boy’s hair at the shoot, tomorrow,’ Sharona said.
‘Is there a basin at the
place?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Carla’s asking, “What about the bedroom?”’
‘They’ve got an art department.’
‘Oh. So not a real bedroom?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Well, we might go, then. Do you want us to bring you some kai?’ Duey asked.
‘Um. Nah. They’ll be here soon.’
‘Or they won’t.’
‘Or they won’t’
‘Or they will and they’ll catch you wanking.’
‘Or they will and they’ll catch me wanking.’
‘Goodnight Sharona.’
‘Goodnight Duey. Say goodnight to Carla for me.’
Away from the phone again, ‘Sharona says goodnight.’ Then back at the phone, ‘Carla says goodnight.’
Sharona hung up. She knew Carla didn’t normally think of her. But when they had a job together she did. They’d been tight, in the 90s. The three of them. Then Carla had gone away. And then June had become Duey in plain sight, slowly, week after week. Duey had become Duey. Sharona had been there, Carla hadn’t. Sharona would see Duey out and they’d talk and have fun but they never quite arranged to meet each other anywhere, it was always by chance. For a while they’d gone and done different things, but eventually she and Duey were very close. So that by the time Carla was back, with her sore eyes and her bad skin, things were different. They were much older.
There’s a huge difference between 18 and 28, Sharona had decided. Some of their friends had kids. Sharona had a kid. Well, she’d given birth to a kid but she didn’t have it ‘about my person’, she’d joke. ‘Not with me.’ She’d left the baby early on – like six weeks in. Having a baby was awful. She didn’t like it at all. It was like the second the small girl took her first breath someone pushed Sharona off a cliff and she just flailed from then on. There was no control in it. She was expecting to be back at work in three weeks, but it was useless. The child needed her for everything.
She’d left early one morning, after a fight. Billy had run out to the car, baby in his arms, screaming at her. Then, finding Sharona in the car with the engine on, he’d lowered his voice slightly. Wouldn’t she stay just for the next feed? Wouldn’t that be fair? Just until the shops opened so he could get some formula? Sharona had looked at the baby and then at him and she knew it was a trick. Her stupid, young, 21-year-old self said to her, ‘If I do this, they’ll depend on me forever and it’s best if we start the way we plan to carry on.’ And she’d driven off. It was her car.
They hadn’t pooled their resources. They still split all the bills down the middle, so it was an easy extrication. He could keep the baby, she would take the car. When she thought about it now, 23 years later, she realised she must have thought she’d be able to go back for her clothes. That he’d get over it. That it would just be a door that would stay shut unless she needed to open it – for her clothes and the other stuff she’d left behind that morning. That she didn’t owe anyone anything. From here she could see how wrong she was. From here, the place after the family support claims, and the judgements people made, and the watching of the shambles he dragged that little girl up in, and the awkward coffees with someone who hated you so much for hating them when they were a baby, hating them enough to leave. Like really, the coffees were only for that, to give Alice a chance to show Sharona how much she hated her and to give Sharona a chance to sit across the table from someone who reminded her of how much she had perhaps got it wrong. But not really, it was never going to work.
Sharona looked at the empty space where the boxes should be. Maybe she had made it work. Maybe this was it, working. It wasn’t like she’d got off scot-free. The baby didn’t go away, it got bigger and louder, and Billy didn’t go away, he just got weirder and older and sicker. He’d just married a 28-year-old. She’d seen the pictures on Facebook. In his lounge. He’d been sick. He always had people around him who felt for him. It defined him, bringing up a small girl on his own. Having a teenager when most people were just starting to have children. She’d given him that. He would have gone. She was sure of it. It was like a game of chicken. She’d pulled away first, and he’d won. Although it didn’t look like winning at first, he’d won.
Carla had been away for it all. And June was gone. So Carla and Sharona didn’t get together much anymore. But when they were working together and when a model didn’t show up and Tommy had his phone turned off, Carla would call Sharona and have her on about masturbating, because she knew how much Sharona loved porn and how busy she was and the awful choices she made in sex partners.
Carla knew Sharona would wait all night, but she was sure the clothes wouldn’t come. ‘She should come and have dinner with us,’ Carla said. ‘You should have convinced her better.’
Duey didn’t hear her. The haircut was finished. The model had gone home. He’d arrived a bit in awe. Guy was earnest and wide-eyed. He’d kept saying ‘Cool, cool,’ and nodding his head a lot. As if he was pathologically interested and caring. Duey had made faces at him as she walked back and forth in the salon, out of Guy’s line of sight so only Carla could see.
Duey really hated some people. It was one of the things Carla loved about her. They were both old and people thought they were bitter. Carla was menopausal, probably, and people expected her to be an old wench, dried up and grumpy. She knew that was something they’d use against her, professionally, so she tried not to be like that. She matched Guy’s animation. Spoke softly and asked how his day was. Kind was the new cool, for the moment. Change was easy for her. She knew that about herself. It might be her superpower. She could always see the change coming. She would look at her surroundings and watch. Watch. Watch. What everyone was up to. How people were holding themselves. Most of the people her age had stopped; the ones who worked in fashion only looked at the clothes – at hemlines, silhouettes – and then they would say things like, ‘Oh, it’s the 80s,’ or ‘Oh, it’s like that Madonna blond – “Who’s That Girl” blond,’ and they’d reproduce it like it was last time. What Carla knew was that it was never the same. Not quite. Young people were smarter than that. A few years ago it was the 80s but it wasn’t one facet of the 80s; it was fluorescents and drop crotch pants – you wouldn’t have seen anyone in the 80s wearing both. She’d noticed it when the fluorescents came out.
‘It’s like all the worst bits of our youth,’ she’d said to Duey. They were sitting up in Raw Power at the window that looked out over Vulcan Lane, watching people eating burgers and walking around.
Duey said, ‘But those were good?’ She was pointing to the shape of a large jumper a woman was wearing. It was long and skinny, like a fisherman rib. Carla nodded.
It was like that with personalities as well. They never came back quite the same way. Other people her age would think, ‘Oh, Guy, he’s Ducky from Pretty in Pink.’ But he was also Blane. There was something Blane in his wealth and how sad he was in his privilege. He was slightly downcast in the eyes. He looked like the guy who would always be the girl’s friend, but he had something of Blane about him. The kind of concern he showed read a bit like condescension. Like at any stage he would say, ‘Oh. Poor you.’ That was why Carla had to change. So that she could say, ‘Oh. Poor you,’ to Guy before he said it to her. And so that when Elodie said, ‘It’s not anyone’s fault,’ Carla could match her in acceptance and lightness in a way that made it look like a belief that went to Carla’s core, like she too had the self-assurance of a loved child.
Carla had changed so much she wasn’t sure what she actually was but, she suspected, it was annoyed and angry because these were the things she was fighting most to suppress. That’s why she was glad Duey was here. She could have done the haircut somewhere else, but Duey, freed years ago of any menopausal future, did a great line in annoyed and angry. Something of the younger, less ambiguous Duey remained in these moments. The way she held herself. Something remains, thought Carla, and she knew how wrong it was to think this. How she could never share a thought like th
at with anyone.
The cut went well, though. She was happy with it. Duey had a look at it. Ran her hand from nape to crown. Carla raised her eyebrows at her and Duey said, ‘There,’ rubbing her hand down a bit further. And she was right. Carla had missed it, but Duey had found it. While she cut Guy’s hair, Duey cut three women and consulted on a colour and she was still finished before Carla. All three haircuts were better than the one Carla did.
Women loved Duey. Especially rich women. They came from miles around. Duey and Carla had been watching it all their working lives. The small communities of excitement around a male hairdresser. It started as a status symbol. The hairdresser would do stand-out work. The type of work that made people stop their clients in the streets to ask, ‘Who cuts your hair?’ Personal recommendation was a hairdresser’s gold. They always told you that at sales seminars, but no one needed to tell Carla or Duey. You could see it. You would start recognising a hairdresser’s work in the street, on television, at parties. People would talk to each other about it – especially rich people. It became like a clothing label. Duey was a remarkable hairdresser. She was at a point where she could do it all with ease. Not much threw her.
‘This is what you get when you stick at something,’ she’d say to Carla, although not so much now, because Carla would meet her with sarcasm and fury.
She’d never not done hair. While Carla was away, while everyone else went off and sold things or managed things, Duey cut hair. Carla had watched her finish up one of her clients today. The woman had been talking without pausing to breathe. Duey smiled, brushed her neck, gently took her cape off, smiling, always smiling. She knew when she was on. She knew how to make things easy for herself. Listened to their news, asked about their jobs. Duey contained herself through it. Only making faces when she was well clear of the extent of the client’s mirror view. Mainly making faces to herself but sometimes, if Carla was there, to her as well. A shake of her head, raised eyes, a shudder. Duey just wanted to be left alone. They left her alone faster if she just smiled and nodded, so she smiled and nodded and they left her alone.
