by Pip Adam
There was an older guy, Mark, who worked there. His whole book was sets and blow waves and he never spoke to anyone. When he was in the staffroom – he always booked himself a lunch – he’d just read his paper. He finished every day at 5, or 7.30 on a late night, and he loved rugby. He never worked Saturdays. That day though, when he saw the shit-storm that was happening around him, he quietly came off lunch and started shampooing and rinsing, getting cups of coffee and sweeping. Still without talking. It was the only time Carla ever saw him at the basins. He never washed his own clients’ hair, but he did that night.
Donna was another senior stylist they drank with. They’d go out to Alfies on a Thursday, after late night, and she wanted them to know she was their friend. That day she kept looking past them, didn’t lift a finger to help. She wasn’t busy at all, she kept going to the appointment book and looking at it. They were paper in those days, filled with pencil and rubbings-out and arrows, and she just stood there looking at it, intently, while Mark shampooed, Mark, who didn’t even sweep his own station. It was an awful day.
Every time she thought about it, Carla expected she would remember the end as a triumphant credits roll kind of scene, but she didn’t. Donna had asked if they wanted to go out and both of them said, ‘No.’ Mark didn’t mention it. He just kind of left, like he always did. There was no deeper bonding. And she wasn’t sure if this was just her brain immortalising it, combining one very awful day with one very awful event, but it was the first day she noticed how empty everything was and wondered about leaving it all behind.
‘Is Sharona all right?’ Elodie pulled some chewing gum from her pocket and started chewing it. They were outside now, under the single streetlight, like in a noir film. There’d been a night service in the church across the road but it was gated now. A light shower had dampened the footpath – maybe there would be more rain.
‘Yeah.’ Carla didn’t want any chewing gum when Elodie offered it to her. She’d left Duey upstairs, but Duey would hold her own, and Sharona. Duey would look after Sharona because Duey was kind and patient and not like everyone else. Not like Carla. Not angry. Duey was understanding. Patient and kind. Duey knew who she was, because who she was was hard-won. But was that right? Maybe it was more that Duey knew who she wasn’t.
‘Duey’s lovely, eh?’ Elodie said. It surprised Carla that people still chewed gum. It was odd to her. People always looked so strange when they ate. Especially young people. She couldn’t put her finger on why they looked strange, but they did. It wasn’t any kind of judgement. Like they should know better. It was more to do with – well, just the way they looked. In a fashion workroom, around photographers and models, food looked like some extinct thing. And yet, here was Elodie, chewing, right here. Why didn’t she smoke?
‘Sorry?’ Carla couldn’t stop looking at her.
‘Duey.’ Elodie flicked her head back towards the door, the stairs, the workroom. ‘What a catch.’ Then she laughed.
Carla nodded. This is how it was. She finally saw she had swapped Duey for this. Saint Duey, for Elodie. But this wasn’t Duey, this was Elodie. She had to say it to herself over and over again. She suspected this was why she had fucked Elodie. To cement it into her head that this was Elodie, who she had fucked. Not Duey, who she had not fucked. Not even 20 years ago, when their friendship was so easy and good and filled every part of her. This was Elodie. Elodie, who was also sleeping with Tommy and Kurt, Elodie, who was soft and fey, who you could put your hand right through. And I, she had thought to herself as she went down on Elodie, am a sad old woman.
‘You didn’t return my call,’ Elodie said.
‘I did.’ Carla went back over her day. Had she returned the call?
‘Nuh uh.’ Elodie shook her head. ‘I wanted to see you. When I asked Kurt where you were, he said, “Usually with Duey.” That’ll be on your headstone.’
‘You were with Kurt.’
‘Doesn’t mean I don’t want you to call me back. You should call me back.’
‘But I thought we talked about the shoot being tomorrow and the’ – Carla went back over all of it. Of course she’d returned Elodie’s call.
‘I’m playing with you,’ Elodie said. She walked over and kissed Carla. Held her head for a moment, held their faces together.
Carla wanted to hate her. Wanted to hate Duey. Wanted there to be a reason to make it okay to hate them both. There wasn’t one, except that Carla was awful.
Elodie had her phone out. She was looking at her face in the camera. ‘Do I look a bit like Duey?’
‘You don’t understand,’ Carla said.
‘You say that. Like it’s something that the world has never seen before. But I totally understand. Completely. Maybe you don’t understand.’ Elodie was smiling. It was like she was running backwards through an enchanted wood, pulling Carla in.
‘It doesn’t really concern you.’
‘No.’ Elodie was swiping through her phone. ‘No. It certainly doesn’t. I’m just saying. She’s a saint. She’s going to make someone so happy one day. It must have been good to know she was here when you went away. To know she knew where you were.’
‘Not you,’ Carla said.
‘What?’ said Elodie, smiling, interested.
‘She’s not going to make you happy one day.’
‘Who knows?’ Elodie said, but it wasn’t a question. She was swaying now, still looking at her phone. ‘Like, if we’re honest with ourselves. Who really knows?’
Carla smiled. Looked at her feet.
‘Maybe people never saw this coming,’ Elodie said.
‘You and me?’ Carla shook her head. She felt every ounce of shame throughout every inch of her body. Everyone wanted Elodie. Except Duey. Duey didn’t want a bar of it. Fuck. She felt all her 45 years. She was wearing the same type of clothes as them, she listened to the same music, she knew exactly what they were talking about, but right now she knew she was old. Not cute, cool old, just very old and she had slept with Elodie and she felt old and desperate. She tried to look at her now, tried to look deep into what the fuck it was that had slain her. There was nothing there because it wasn’t something that could be separated from Elodie. Elodie had integrity the whole way through. If Carla had been drunk it would be a funny story. If Carla had been drunk it would be one of those stories where everyone can feel a bit impressed about what was impressive, but also forgive her for what was shameful and desperate. If Carla had been drunk she would be able to tell Duey, and laugh about it. ‘No,’ Carla said. ‘I think everyone saw you and me coming.’
She felt like a predatory old lesbian. She never used that word about herself. Never. But right now she could see who she was, what she looked like to the imaginary other version of herself keeping score in her head. And through it all, the hard work, the ridiculousness of the photo shoot tomorrow, she could almost see what Elodie saw. Elodie saw a way to listen in. She’d somehow bought Carla, who’d been cheap as chips.
Carla looked down the street. She’d have to go back and get Duey. She could message and get Duey to meet her somewhere. That would be the end of it. She could go and get a job, like a proper job, like the sort of job a 45-year-old gets. She could get a better flat, a car. She looked down the street. It was so late, there were hardly any people around. And as she looked at Elodie she remembered what she was like at Elodie’s age. The way, every now and then, her black-and-whites would bleed into grey and she would become bemused. Baffled. It wasn’t far from here, where she and Elodie were now, that Carla had said goodbye to Duey before she went away. Not thinking there would be any consequences. Thinking Duey would just say, ‘Okay. Cool. See you soon.’ Which she might have. And when she’d come back, long-haired and barefoot, Carla expected to pick up where they’d left off. Expected Duey to be uncomplicatedly happy to see her. For years, they’d danced like this, but the air was coming out of it now.
‘Well,’ Carla said. ‘Best be getting back.’
As she walked slowly up the
stairs behind Elodie, Carla’s actions and this end that she and Duey seemed to be sliding towards settled beside each other until they looked like cause and effect.
The first person she saw in the workroom was Duey. She was sitting, legs out, oiling and aligning Carla’s clippers. It was nearly midnight and Duey was there. And Carla realised Duey had forgiven her and she hated her and saw she was capable of it all over again, that she could leave anytime she wanted – without Duey, without Elodie, without anyone. But the worst thing was there was nothing to be done. It was just the end of her and Duey’s friendship. Carla was hurt and broken at a deep level and all her time away had done nothing to change her because, she realised now, she hadn’t gone away to make any kind of transformation. She’d gone away for herself. But none of it mattered. It was the friendship that was giving up, the thing that arrived when Duey and Carla were together. Neither of them had done anything wrong, and therefore there was nothing either of them could do. It was the worst possible outcome and maybe that was what she had come back for. Maybe it created the exact conditions that she needed to go away again – properly.
He was only keeping everyone here now so they would be sharp tomorrow. He didn’t want anyone thinking they were finished but Tommy was pretty sure he was finished. He felt like he’d been finished as soon as he saw the T-shirt. The T-shirt was magnificent. If he was honest with himself, which he was, he had nothing to hide from, he’d only really started the company so he could make one beautiful T-shirt, and this was it. The stylist didn’t know what he was talking about. Stylists never did. All he needed in a stylist was malleability and contrition. Tommy knew the look and the story and he could put it together, but they needed a stylist. Cal and Kurt needed a stylist. It gave the impression of an impartial fourth. He was playing all of them. That was what people did, great people. He was a people person. That was the thing, everyone thought businessmen and artists were business people and art people, but really what everyone needed to be was a people person. It was all about that. His merchandise, really, what he made, was people.
He stopped for a moment. The others were talking and talking and he just thought for a moment about that. That was a great line. He was interviewed a lot, especially round Fashion Week, but he would save that. Maybe he would write a book. Fuck, he thought, I sound like a fucking Bond villain.
He was getting tired. Kurt was yawning. It had been a long day and now Elodie was gone. Probably her and Carla were having a meeting about the hair and makeup – probably. He wanted to go home all of a sudden, upstairs, he wanted to lie down and watch something on TV.
‘Is there anything else anyone needs?’ Tommy said it quietly but everyone stopped and looked towards him and nodded. Carla had just walked back into the room and she nodded too. Elodie just smiled. That was enough, though. That was enough. ‘I think we should call it a night.’
Sharona would have to stay but that was okay. He often found her in the morning, drinking coffee, usually in new clothes but with the same hair-tie in her hair. Tommy had a spare room, but there was no way of having that conversation and she wouldn’t want it anyway – the conversation, or the bed. People, he thought. That was really what it was all about. He looked over at Cal and Kurt. They understood the money and the market and the selling and what was needed. The corporate line was their idea. It was Tommy’s father’s idea, but they’d been the ones who had agreed with him first. But he understood people, how to get it all together. How to make it happen. He looked at Carla. The others often asked what was going on in her mind. ‘What is up with her?’ they’d say, after a meeting, after she’d been quiet and strange in a meeting. ‘Isn’t there anyone else?’ they’d ask, when they were meeting before the meeting, deciding on a team. They would go through names, they’d go through portfolios they’d been sent, they’d look online but they always came back to her. Carla was their hairdresser. Carla got the story. There was no getting round it. Tommy wasn’t sure why they worried. He knew how to handle her. He knew how to get the best out of her. And Sharona, he looked at Sharona, she was unpicking something. Always. Always. But not tonight. Tommy thought about what had happened tonight, ran the whole fight over in his head and assimilated it with what he knew about Sharona – he grew it.
He was a keen observer. That was what the others lacked. That was what made him the right choice for head of the company. People. In the end there was business but business was nothing without people. He’d be fine. The company would be fine. They could bring the corporate collection to the next meeting with their fathers, their investors. Tomorrow morning he could take them the Polaroids from tonight. Explain they were shooting today. Why they hadn’t waited for the samples. Explain how the online market was different. They were getting so mature. He looked at Cal and Kurt. Kurt had had long hair forever, but it was thinning now, he’d have to cut it soon. He joked about how it was the business that had made it thin. Would they be doing this at 40?
He looked at Carla and Duey laughing privately with each other while they packed up Carla’s stuff. You can’t be an enfant terrible in your 40s. He might start with that, at the meeting with the investors. Elodie would be leaving with Kurt. They’d try to cover it up by leaving separately, or maybe they wouldn’t, maybe that was where it was at. That place where they lay in bed looking at the ceiling, saying things like, ‘Poor Tommy,’ and ‘But really, we don’t need to think about Tommy’s feelings. We’re all grown-ups.’ When he looked at Elodie, like dwelled on her, he didn’t feel very grown up. She hadn’t left in a huff, there wasn’t any shouting, he’d just said it wasn’t working for him and she’d smiled and left and then not come back. It was so ridiculous, how he was around her. Tommy could see that.
The room moved around him. Everywhere they were moving. The models stood in the middle of the room while everyone took photos of them with their phones. Then Sharona came over and, bagging the T-shirt out so it didn’t touch Dominic’s skin, lifted it carefully over his head. He stepped out of the trousers and stood for a moment in his underwear. Like a professional, he was probably thinking, like his body was the thing he had made to sell. Surely Tommy wouldn’t be doing this at 40. Surely.
Carla looked at the image in her phone and then at Dominic in his underwear. She took her phone over to Duey.
‘Is that right?’ she said. Pointing at the nape.
Duey took the phone and looked at it. ‘Yeah.’ Then she looked at Dominic. ‘It’ll look different tomorrow, anyway. He’s a hairy boy.’
‘But’ – Carla leaned over Duey and spread her index and third finger to enlarge the image – ‘but.’
‘Don’t do that.’ Duey pulled the phone away from her. ‘That’s not the way they’re going to look.’
‘If they’re on a poster they will.’
‘If they’re on a poster they can Photoshop it.’ She batted Carla’s hands away. ‘Stop it.’
Sharona’s breathing sounded bad. Did it? Was Sharona any more upset than she had been when they’d all arrived? Carla couldn’t tell. She looked at the photo on her phone in Duey’s hand. She’d taken the sides and nape off to the skin, but Dominic was a hairy man and the hair at his nape grew in all directions so she’d shaped it into a hard square line. Fuck the nape. Maybe Duey was right – maybe the nape could sleep. No one was going to die if the nape wasn’t right. Fuck the nape. Sharona hadn’t raised her head since she’d shouted. For a moment Carla felt angry at her. Why didn’t she leave? Why didn’t she shut up? She couldn’t have it both ways. None of them could. Not even Duey. Duey thought she was freer than Carla and Sharona. She thought she was living the self-determined life, but she wasn’t. None of them had the money to do that. It was money. She was haemorrhaging money at the moment – Doug was ripping everything to pieces. And that was only the beginning. She’d lose her bond – she couldn’t see a world where anything else would happen, and then she’d need a new flat and there was nothing. She’d been looking. There was nothing at all and her landlord wouldn’t
give her a reference after what Doug was doing to the flat, what she was doing right now to the flat, so really it wasn’t even worth looking. She put her stuff in her bag. The tub of putty felt light, like it was confirming everything she was thinking. ‘Yup,’ it seemed to say, ‘you need to buy more putty.’ Tommy and Kurt were talking and Elodie was smiling in the back, waiting for Kurt, taking a long time to do a task that should have taken a short time. Putting each brush carefully back in its pouch, but not before running her fingers through it.
They’d be slow to pay. They always were. Carla should bring her invoice tomorrow, hand it to them as they all left. Make a point. She would email them and then not hear from them for a week, then she’d have to email again, like she was begging, nagging, and they wouldn’t reply for another week, and then they would and it would be to say she needed to talk to someone else and that they’d find their name. She was pretty sure this was how it worked everywhere. It was all high gloss, high glamour out the front. But inside, not far below the surface, hardly any distance, it was ghetto. That’s what they’d call it, but none of them had ever lived in a ghetto, possibly never been to a ghetto. It was their way of reminding each other it wasn’t so bad. ‘We know how ghetto it is,’ someone would say to Carla, probably the woman she would finally contact about the invoice. ‘We know it’s not all spangles and catwalks. But yeah, you just need to be patient.’
