Life, Death and Gold Leather Trousers

by Fiona Foden

  Mum’s voice drifts upstairs: “Thanks, Lily, you’re being so helpful today! Don’t these cookies smell good? Are they ready, d’you think?”

  I hear a metal tray being set down on the worktop and the pair of them chatting excitedly. Mum’s right, they do smell good. Not like the last batch, which she incinerated because she was too busy playing her music at top volume. “Let’s try them,” Lily says.

  There’s silence, then Mum says, “What d’you think? Better than the last lot, aren’t they?”

  My stomach rumbles. Mum and Lily are down there, munching warm cookies, having a lovely time without me. Focusing on the wonky Sellotape, I lunge towards my reflection and start to cut.

  The scccrrrunch of the scissors is weirdly satisfying.

  Scccrrrunch.

  Scccrrrunch.

  Scccrrrunch. It’s rhythmic and soothing. In fact, I’m so wrapped up in what I’m doing, I’m almost sorry when it’s time to stop.

  Then I peel off the Sellotape, and … Jesus.

  I don’t mean I look like Jesus, because in pictures I’ve seen he’s had long, wavy hair – pretty cool hair, actually, for a guy who was kicking around about two thousand years ago. I mean, half the boys who hang out at the North Cove have Jesus-y hair. But no one has hair like this.

  It’s all up-and-down wonky, as if I’ve hacked at it blindfolded with plastic round-ended scissors. Even Drunk Babs wouldn’t inflict this on a person. Sweat springs from my brow as I shut my eyes tight. When I open them again, my fringe hasn’t miraculously straightened itself. How has this happened? Stupid magazine! My eyes look dark and scared. I know the tape was a bit skewed to start with, but it wasn’t this bad. Do we have mutant Sellotape? I pull another strip off the roll and hold it taut. Nope, it’s straight all right. That means it’s me that’s wobbly.

  “Clover!” Mum calls from the kitchen. “Come down, would you, love?”

  Love. I’m back in favour, obviously – at least until she sees this. My whole body tenses with fear. “OK, just a minute,” I call back in a strained voice.

  Abandoning the tape method, I cut another line into my fringe. Now it looks as if it’s been attacked by rusty garden shears.

  “Clover!” Mum shouts. “Hurry up. We’ve got something to show you.”

  My heart thuds. Do I have something to show her.

  OK, keep calm and don’t stress. My options are as follows: to use one of Mum’s hugely expensive triple-gel razors (whatever “triple gel” means) and shave my whole scalp. Or beg Mum to write:

  Dear Mrs Harding,

  This is to inform you that Clover Jones will be unable to attend your wondrous educational establishment until her fringe has grown at least three centimetres. I know this may not be viewed as a valid reason for absence, but believe me, the situation is desperate.

  Yours sincerely,

  Kerry Jones

  P.S. Don’t be too hard on Clover. It’s all my fault for not letting her go to the Cutting Room.

  As it’s nearly July and hair grows at around a centimetre per month, this’ll take until Christmas. Admittedly, my education will suffer, but at least by then I’ll look less deranged.

  “Clover!” Mum yells. “Stop sulking up there! Come on – I’ve got something to cheer you up.”

  Gritting my teeth, I grab my beanie hat, pull it down as low as it’ll go and flump downstairs.

  “What is it?” I ask, creeping into the kitchen.

  “Look, darling,” Mum says. “We made this for you.” Her eyes gleam excitedly. I follow her gaze and peer at the cookie on a plate on the table. It’s no ordinary cookie. It’s so huge, it must have needed a whole baking tray all to itself. It’s heart-shaped and covered with curly white icing patterns which have oozed into its craters. There’s icing writing too. Splodgy letters which read: CLOVER WE LOVE U xxx.

  It’s the most beautiful cookie I’ve ever seen. Not because it’s all tidy like a bought cookie, but because they made it for me.

  “I know it’s late and everything,” Mum says in a hoarse voice, “but I never got around to making you a birthday cake this year, did I? And I’m really sorry about the haircut and guitar lessons…”

  “Thanks, Mum,” I say in a jerky little voice.

  She smiles at me, looking relieved. “Why are you wearing your hat, love?”

  “Um, I’m cold,” I mumble.

  “You can’t be,” Mum insists. “It’s so hot in here with the oven on…”

  “Honestly, I just felt a bit chilly upstairs…”

  “Oh, silly!” Mum giggles, snatching the beanie from my head and dropping her jaw in horror.

  “Mum, I…”

  She gawps at me as if I’ve sliced off my ear. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “What have you done?”

  I gulp, and try to focus on the cookie. “I … wanted a shorter fringe,” I croak.

  Mum hesitates, and her eyes moisten. “So you cut it yourself…”

  I nod, ears burning. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, Clover, sweetheart,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “I can’t believe you’ve done this to your beautiful hair. Why didn’t you say?”

  I did say, actually, but it feels so good being in Mum’s arms, I don’t want to bring up our row.

  “It looks so funny,” Lily chuckles. “Your forehead looks like a big plate!”

  I choose to ignore this.

  “Hey.” Mum pulls away and squints at me. “We’ll figure out something, OK?”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll phone that new place – the Cutting Room, is it? – and I’ll make you an appointment. They’ll be able to fix it.”

  “Will you?” I gasp.

  “Just this once, all right? I’m not doing this every time you need a trim. Honestly, Clover, you wouldn’t believe how tight things are with money at the moment…”

  “I won’t go then,” I say firmly. “I’ll let Babs do it.”

  Mum shakes her head. “Look, I know how cut up you are about your guitar lessons, and I’m sorry you’ve had a rough time lately…” She tries for a smile, but it trembles, and I know she’s thinking about Dad. “So I think you deserve a little treat,” she adds quickly.

  I swallow hard. It seems wrong now to spend so much on a haircut, but I can’t imagine Babs being able to fix this mess. “Thanks, Mum,” I say, snapping off the heart-cookie’s point and popping it into my mouth. It melts on my tongue, sweet, buttery and delicious.

  “And then,” Mum adds eagerly, “I’ll show you the lovely fur fabric I bought for our carnival costumes.”

  For the next few days, I keep a low profile. At least at the weekend I can keep my hat on all the time, and for school I manage to figure out a complicated system of clips to push my fringe to one side so it looks like I’m trying out a new style (sort of). I’m desperate to have it cut properly, but Mum couldn’t get me an appointment until Friday – a whole eight days after my scissor disaster. Even Dad can hardly keep a straight face when he takes me and Lily out for lunch again (more Jurassic burgers – yum – but at least we haven’t had to face meeting Bernice yet). I keep catching him glancing at my hair as if I’m wearing some kind of mad wig, but neither of us are allowed to mention it. I also call Niall, pretending to be ill, because I can’t bring myself to tell him that we can’t afford my lessons.

  If all that’s not enough to cause major stress, I’m also taking special care to avoid Riley as much as possible at school. For one thing, I still cringe every time I think about him coming round to our place when Mum was blasting her music. Another problem is that he’s bound to mention my fringe. Every time he says hi and looks like he wants to chat, I scuttle away as if there’s someone else I desperately need to talk to.

  Friday rolls around at last. At lunchtime, having gobbled our canteen offeri
ngs at top speed, Jess and I head out to the park. Although it’s a scorching hot day, I’ve got my beanie hat on which is making my scalp sweat like crazy. “Does Riley know you can’t go to guitar lessons any more?” Jess asks as we perch on the low wall in the park.

  “No,” I tell her. “We haven’t really spoken all week apart from a quick hi and stuff. After he heard Mum’s music he probably thinks we’re all crazy.”

  “Don’t you think he might be a bit hurt?” she asks, frowning. “I mean, you invited him round, then didn’t let him in, and you’ve been acting all weird around him ever since…”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” I say glumly. “Anyway, there’s no point practising guitar with him now, is there? He’ll keep going to Niall and get better and better and he won’t need to learn anything from me.”

  Jess smiles. “You think that’s why Riley likes you? ’Cause you’re so good at guitar?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I say firmly.

  “You think that’s all he likes?” She wiggles her eyebrows, and even though she’s my best friend, my ears flame up instantly.

  “Yes!” I insist, laughing.

  “Well, you know what you’ve got to do? Go and see Niall and explain what’s happened, instead of this pretending-to-be-ill stuff, and see if he’ll give you cheaper lessons or maybe not even charge you at all…”

  “He won’t do that,” I scoff. “He’s got a baby, it’s his job…”

  Jess looks exasperated. “You’re his star pupil, aren’t you? Surely he’ll make an exception? It’s got to be worth a try…”

  “OK,” I say, sighing. “What should I say?”

  Jess throws open her arms. “I don’t know! Tell him about your mum having no money and … hey, you’re having your hair cut later, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “So you’re going to feel so good and confident,” she charges on. “Why not go and see him straight afterwards?”

  Sometimes, I wonder where I’d be without her. “OK, boss,” I say with a grin.

  By the time I’ve taken Lily home after school, then legged it back into town for my appointment, my bravado’s all shrivelled up. Instead of marching right into the salon, I sidle past its glass door and walk on. I hope my casual expression says: “I’m not too freaked out to come in here – what gave you that idea? It’s just that, before I make my grand entrance, I need to check out the buckets of rotting flowers outside Bloomin’ Marvellous and the sad-looking unsold cakes in the bakery.”

  Having performed flower/cake duties, I creep back, my scalp itching beneath my beanie. The salon door flies open. Skelling’s mother looms over me, newly high-lighted to match her darling daughter, frosted pink lips forming a scary grin. “Oh, Clover!” she gushes. “Are you coming in? Didn’t know this was your kind of place!”

  “Er, I come here all the time,” I say firmly, transfixed by her mouth. Crystal goes to the same gym as Mum, although thankfully they’re not especially friendly. Right now, her lipstick’s so thick, it’s a wonder it doesn’t drip off and form a pink puddle on the pavement.

  “Really?” she says, then adds, “I saw your mum in the Steak Shack last night. Looked like she was having a great time…” The gloopy lips form a smirk.

  “It can’t have been Mum,” I say firmly. “She just went for a quick drink with a friend.”

  “Oh, it was definitely her,” she insists, “looking very glam, all done up in a sparkly dress. Very short, it was. She’s got the figure though, lucky thing…”

  “Er, yeah,” I mutter.

  “Listen,” she adds, dropping her voice to a whisper, “I know she’s had a terrible time lately. So it was good to see her having fun with her, her … friend.” She raises an over-plucked brow.

  I fix her with a firm look, hoping it’ll stop her from going on about Mum. OK, it’s a bit weird that she didn’t mention any restaurant last night. Maybe she felt guilty about spending money on steak. So she should, too. Aren’t we supposed to be saving every penny?

  Crystal smiles, engulfing me with her gag-making perfume. It’s hard to believe this woman’s an actual fashion designer. How the heck did she end up designing knickers for royalty? Do they phone her up personally every time they need a new order?

  “I’d better go in,” I say quickly, barging into the salon as Crystal swishes off down the street.

  The receptionist scans the appointments book for my name. She has dark purple hair that’s about five centimetres long all over. The salon smells of exotic fruit, and there’s faint music that sounds like it’s from somewhere like Brazil. I’m not used to this. I’m used to Babs lurching drunkenly for her hair gel.

  “Oh, here you are,” the receptionist says brightly, jabbing my name in the book. “Come over and we’ll get you shampooed.” She smiles kindly. “But better take your hat off first.”

  Reluctantly, I yank it off and stuff it into my bag. Another girl leads me to a basin. I’m draped with a rustling cape and swirled with suds that smell nothing like our blue hospitally stuff at home. Then I’m plonked in a chair in front of a vast mirror.

  A woman with tumbling auburn waves drifts towards me. “Hi!” she says, combing out my damp hair. “What kind of thing d’you want today?”

  She’s a bit older than Mum – but then, everyone says Mum looks young, which gives me a warped view of other adults’ ages. “I … I’m not sure,” I say awkwardly. “You see…” I look down at my lap. “I cut my fringe myself. At least I tried to…” My jaw clenches.

  Amazingly, the hairdresser doesn’t laugh. She just smiles and says, “We’ve all done that, sweetheart. Reckon you got off lightly. But I’m going to suggest going much shorter to show off your lovely eyes and cheekbones … is that OK with you?”

  I glance towards the receptionist. “Not that short,” she adds quickly. “I’m thinking of soft layers to make the most of your gorgeous bone structure.”

  She glides away to grab some magazines from a table. I stare at my reflection, astounded. Gorgeous bone structure? I’d never realized I have one. Lovely eyes? Was she really talking to me? Then she’s back, and we’re flicking through magazines together, her honeyed voice washing over me like sunshine.

  I hear myself agreeing to everything she suggests, and go all dreamy as she starts cutting. When Babs stabs at my hair, cackling with Mum, I’m usually a nervous wreck. Here I feel mellow and pampered.

  “So what d’you like doing in your spare time?” she asks.

  Normally, that’d sound like the kind of clunky old question adults come out with. But because she’s so sweet and kind, I say, “Playing guitar, mostly.”

  “Really? When did you start?” she asks.

  “When I was really little. About seven, I think.”

  “Gosh, that’s young…”

  “I had this uncle,” I hear myself telling her. “Jupe, his name was…”

  “That’s an unusual name.” She smiles at me in the mirror, encouraging me to go on.

  “It was short for Jupiter. He was in a band…”

  “Not that Jupe?” she gasps, holding her scissors mid-air.

  “You knew him?” I ask.

  “Of course I did! Everyone knew him. We had all his records at our house…”

  “It’s funny,” I tell her. “You see, he was just Jupe to me. Well, not just Jupe. Me, my mum, dad and sister went for loads of holidays at his place in Cornwall when I was younger. It’s probably all we could afford – I mean, we never went on proper abroad holidays – but I loved it anyway because I’d spend pretty much the whole time on the beach, or playing music with Jupe in his house. So,” I add, realizing I’ve been babbling madly, “I almost forgot he was famous. Because he wasn’t then, you see. It was sort of over for him.”

  She smiles. “They must have been brilliant holidays…”

  I nod. “Yeah, they we
re.”

  “And didn’t he…” She pauses, and her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly.

  “Yes, he died. It was about a month ago now. How did you know?”

  “Well,” she says, flushing slightly, “there was quite a bit in the papers. Obituaries and things.”

  “Oh yes. Of course.” Now I wish we hadn’t started this conversation. She’s nice and everything, but she’s also a stranger. What was I thinking, telling her about Jupe? Apart from Jess, no one even knew about him at school. I was always worried that, if word got out, people would bring in embarrassing pictures of him that they’d printed off from the internet.

  As if sensing my unease, the hairdresser starts cutting again. “Bet you’re a good musician,” she says, “if it’s in the blood.”

  I shrug. “I know I can play. Writing songs is hard, though, because you want to sound like yourself and not like you’re copying anyone else…”

  “I’m sure you’ll make it,” she says. “There’s something about you, I can tell.”

  I start to relax again as she finishes the cut, then nips off to the back room to fetch products. And it actually works. When she comes back and blow dries my hair, a new girl starts to emerge. Someone who might actually be someone one day. When I glance into the mirror, that’s what I see: a new, improved Clover, with bone structure.

  “Like it?” the hairdresser asks.

  “Yes, I love it!” I enthuse. I look brighter all over. My skin’s glowing and even my eyes are a more intense shade of green.

  “I’m glad,” she says, holding my gaze for a moment in the mirror. “I’m really glad, Clover.”

  It shocks me, the way she uses my name. Of course, it was in the appointments book along with everyone else’s name. All those normal people who are allowed to come to proper hairdressers all the time instead of being held captive by drunk women with scissors. Even so, I wouldn’t have thought a hairdresser in the poshest salon in town would have remembered my name.