by A B Morgan
‘You know about that?’
‘I’m a friend. She’d hardly recommend you to me if we weren’t close.’
‘No, I see what you mean. And you’ve your own secret to keep, of course. You look amazing by the way.’
Apparently “amazing” was the only adjective in use at Pearls and Curls and it didn’t apply to Clare, no matter how many times they repeated it. She knew she did not look amazing. Frumpy, that’s how she looked. Tall, ungainly, frumpy and out of place and she wished she’d worn jeans.
She stuck out like a cow in a field of sheep.
Clare was a menopausal widow with wine in the fridge, a sad crush on a local GP and an airy-fairy job helping rich folk feel better about themselves. She didn’t belong in Pearls and Curls.
She thought back to the conversation Edwina had with her not moments earlier about whether she was pre or post.
Clare mulled it over.
Drag queens, effeminate men and wigs. Pre or post. With dreadful acknowledgement of her own poor dress sense, messy hair, half-hearted make-up, and nervous arrival, Clare began to see where an error might have occurred. Being so tall and more of a Tomboy than most, could so easily lead to assumptions being made about the degree to which she could be seen as feminine. And then suddenly it came to her. Pre or post op was what Edwina meant.
Oh, come on! They can’t really think I’m a man. Can they?
What a farce this had turned into. Clare sat immobilised by the ghastly realisation. She physically sagged as her mood plummeted and she could’ve cried. But that would never do. Misconceptions notwithstanding, she was getting nowhere nearer the facts. Had Abigail disclosed her obsession with Logan Peplow to her hairdresser or not? Was she dangerous?
Clare took a deep breath and made a most apposite statement in the hope of gaining a defining response from Payson. ‘Thanks. I don’t feel amazing, but perhaps, when I improve my dress sense, I too can pull myself an international sports star. You never know.’
Then came the reaction she hoped for.
Payson stopped rinsing the shampoo from her hair and squeezed the excess water out far too vigorously. Trying not to wince, Clare could sense the unease.
‘Perhaps.’ Payson’s tone was sharp.
‘Does Abigail come every week?
‘She comes whenever she likes.’ The words were spoken without a smile.
‘No appointment necessary?’
‘Not if you own the place.’
‘Guy and Abi Nithercott own this salon?’
Payson clasped Clare’s wet hair in a soggy bunch and forced her upright. He wrapped her head in a towel, twisting it round and round, tighter and tighter until the skin on Clare’s face threatened to rip. When he’d finished, he stood in front of her, hairbrush aimed at her chest like a soldier taking up an interrogation stance. The face wasn’t friendly. He leant towards her, a hand on one shoulder, brush bristles pricking into the material of her nylon cape. Trapped against the sink, she could feel the edge of the ceramic bowl digging into her shoulder blades.
‘If you really were a friend of Abi’s you’d have known that fact,’ he said, jaws clenched. ‘So, who are you? And what do you want?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Spy time again
They hastily pulled together a plan, and after agreeing it Ella and Mal remained in his car to make the phone call to Pearls and Curls.
‘Good morning. My name is George Williams,’ Mal said in a newly-acquired posh voice. ‘I’m from Bosworth Bishops Job Centre Plus. Could I speak to Mr Oliver Renfrew please?’
He glanced across at Ella who was staring in fascination at the view she had of Pearls and Curls. They were parked in a side street which afforded a partial view of her destination and Ella could make out a dated red brick building resembling an elongated factory unit much in need of running repairs. It most definitely didn’t look the sort of hair salon Ella would choose to visit.
Mal’s head bobbed. ‘Thanks. I’ll hold.’ There were a few seconds delay before he spoke again, maintaining his well-spoken accent. ‘Good morning, Mr Renfrew, this is George Williams, placement officer. We’ve a candidate for your position of trainee and I wanted to double check that you still have the vacancy available.’ He smiled. ‘You do? That’s excellent. Would it be possible to send her along today?’
At this question Mal’s face dropped. ‘No. I quite understand. I’m sure you are very busy… Yes, we’ve made it abundantly clear to the young lady that your business is bespoke and that your customers require the utmost discretion. She is one of the most well-suited candidates we could hope for.’
He absentmindedly picked at some fluff on his trousers. ‘Mr Renfrew, I was wondering if there would be anyone who could show her around today, so she can familiarise herself with the requirements of the job. Then, if you like the look of her, you can decide whether to interview or not, and in the meantime, I’ll send her CV. She’s very keen.’
Mal pulled such a strange face that Ella nearly laughed. She queried him with a silent, ‘well?’
‘That’s brilliant. Her name is Ella Fitzwilliam. She’ll make her way to you… say… in the next half an hour or so.’ He paused again, taking instructions. ‘I’ll tell her to ask for a man called Derek. That’s very accommodating of you, Mr Renfrew. No, it’s our pleasure.’
Mal ended the call.
Ella turned side on. ‘Let’s run through this again,’ she said. ‘Pearls and Curls make theatrical wigs and special hairpieces for anyone who may require them. They are owned by Global Enterprises who took them over nearly five years ago. This makes sound business sense because they supply the vast majority of the West End productions, the British film industry and the nation’s pantomime dames with outlandish and spectacular wiggature, if that is a word.’ Ella smiled at her own inventiveness.
‘The previous owner still manages the business, although he’s semi-retired. And he just so happens to be Oliver Renfrew, father of Abigail Nithercott and therefore Guy’s father-in-law. She, Abigail, is a customer of theirs we think. Strangely enough, she’s only been attending the salon for the past few months.’
‘She may of course be visiting her dad for a chat and a cuppa, because she’s made the decision not to be a recluse anymore,’ Mal said.
‘Maybe.’ Ella was not swayed.
‘And don’t forget that your therapist, the very lofty Clare Gray, is in there somewhere.’
Ella hadn’t forgotten, but she had a plan to make their inevitable meeting appear genuinely unexpected. Clare knew Ella was job hunting and, on that basis, it would be no surprise to see her. It was far more likely to be embarrassing for Clare. What excuse would she give for making use of such a shabby-looking hair salon?
‘What about my CV?’ Ella asked. ‘I didn’t finish the Job Centre online application form for Pearls and Curls because it was too far to pedal my bike. What are we going to do about that?’
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Mal said, dialling another number. ‘Lorna? She’s going in for a visit. Yeah, well it’s what you pay us for, luv. We’re good at this private detective stuff.’ He laughed at something Lorna said. ‘If I give you her access details, can you take a look at Ella’s Job Finder account and complete the application form? I said we’d email the CV which is going to be tricky. Good Idea. I’ll leave it to you then. Thanks, luv.’
Mal was beaming. ‘No excuses now,’ he said. ‘You need to ask for a man called—’
‘Derek. Yes, I heard. I’ll do my best to make a good impression, so they invite me back again. How long ’til I can go in?’ Ella fished out a glossy ruby-red lipstick from her handbag and having pulled down the sun visor and flipped open the mirror there, she applied it carefully. ‘Will I do?’
Mal stared at her for too long, unsettling her. His usual wit and charm were put aside, and he was oddly serious.
‘When I first met you,’ he said, ‘I was blown away by your style, your sense of fun, your generosity, your… you.’ Taking his eyes from her he
stared through the windscreen, saddened. ‘But, when you ended up in that friggin’ awful hospital and they stuffed you full of drugs, you disappeared. I lost you. I thought I’d never see you again. Not the real you.’
Looking flustered he stumbled over his words. ‘I mean. What I’m trying to say, luv, in my bumbling and idiotic way, is that you look as good to me now as you did then, and the old Ella is back.’ He flashed a wide toothy smile. ‘You’ll do. You’ll more than do. Whatever happens we need to take care of you. I’m relieved as hell that you’re not going to Espionage Escapades. Less stress for you.’
He nodded towards Pearls and Curls. ‘Stay safe in there, just do what you have to. Get an interview, plant a little listening device and a seed of doubt and we’ll take it from there.’
Overwhelmed by Mal’s words Ella stifled an emotion-laden sob and, as he passed her a pen, she slouched in the car seat. ‘Oh no. Not another one of your spy toys. What do I do with this?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Walk like a man
A fine drop of water ran from her hairline under the towel and made its way to Clare’s ear. It tickled and made her shudder. She raised one hand and delicately wiped it away, staring back at Payson.
‘I’m Abi’s life coach. A therapist of sorts.’ She decided to be honest. Pretence was too much to bear and she was not a natural liar.
‘Pull the other one, darlin’. It’s got bells on.’ Edwina arrived to stand beside Payson, and they had Clare firmly fixed with intense stares.
‘What does she need therapy for?’
This was an unforeseen question and Clare was again confronted with a professional quandary. Payson repeated the question using a different selection of words. ‘What type of therapy does she see you for?’
‘I’m not sure why you need to know.’
Payson grabbed Edwina’s elbow and they turned their backs, leaving Clare in a damp fragrant turban, in suspense. ‘Why is it important?’ she asked.
‘Stay where you are,’ Edwina commanded, ‘we need time to think.’
Clare didn’t intend leaving the salon with her head wrapped in a towel, and with events unfurling as they were, it was becoming unlikely that she would be on her way any time soon. Her handbag rested against her right leg, but as she started to reach down for it, find her phone and get a message to Niall Jameson, Payson and Edwin returned with Derreck, who spoke for them as their democratically elected leader.
‘We’ve made an executive decision,’ he said in hushed tones, so as not to arouse the curiosity of the remaining client. ‘Payson will finish conditioning your hair, Edwina will restyle and blow-dry your hair, and while we do what we are employed to do, you will tell us why you’ve come here. Deal?’
The inquisition began as soon as she rested her head back into the neck-slot of the sink. The warm water flowed, conditioner was applied, and Payson asked questions as he combed the creamy liquid through Clare’s hair.
‘Let’s try again shall we? Why does Abi come to see you for therapy?’
‘I’m being careful about confidentiality and privacy, but broadly I help people like Abi to find confidence and manage anxiety.’
‘Hmmm. That makes sense.’
‘Because it’s true.’
‘Then why are you here trying to find out more?’
Clare braced herself. She wasn’t confident about sharing her fears in such unconventional company but, as Abigail Nithercott was unlikely to be using her services again and there was a potential risk to some unsuspecting sporting hero, she had little choice.
‘When I saw Abi on Wednesday she was behaving very irrationally, and I believe she may be experiencing some serious mental health problems. I want to help her, but she left before I had chance to. She stormed out of my office and drove off.’
With fingers spread wide, encasing Clare’s scalp, Payson held her head firmly. ‘Thank God.’ Clare felt his relief. Heard him breathe out. Intuitively she knew he was worried about Abi’s inclinations. ‘What sort of things did you discuss?’ Payson asked. ‘You know about her crush on the rugby man because you said as much.’
From her prone position, the rear of her head in the sink, facing the ceiling, Clare looked up into Payson’s angelic face. ‘She only mentioned it this week. I nearly gave up on her, she was very late, and she’s missed several appointments recently, but she’s become like a different person over the time I’ve been involved with her. She even becomes angry if I call her Abigail instead of Abi. Do you have the same worries about her?’ Clare hesitated, waiting for Payson to speak. He waited for her to do the same and, without the luxury of time to waste, Clare volunteered her main concern.
‘I think she may be stalking the rugby man.’
Without saying a word, Payson placed a dry warm towel on her head and helped her to sit upright, evoking a strong sense of déjà vu.
He spoke quietly, bowing forward enabling her to hear his words. ‘We think you may be right. Quentin got the sack for blabbing about it and he hasn’t been seen or heard of since. But we are convinced Abi has been following the rugby chap, maybe even texting him. Leaving messages.’
‘Without getting caught?’
‘There’s a way of using Wi-Fi and online apps to text without revealing the sender’s phone number. I don’t know how it works, but she does. She was hounding the poor chap. He never replied, but she would scan through any of his social media announcements and …’ Payson shrugged.
Clare was feeling dizzy, partly because of the change of position and partly because she was overheating thanks to an ill-timed hot flush. These tropical moments were unpredictable and extremely unhelpful. As a result, she was slow in her movements as she made her way to the chair she sat in previously. Any increase in physical exertion would add to the rivulets of perspiration snaking their way down her back between both buttocks to join the pool of sweat which had taken up residence in her knickers. Clare’s thighs were glued at the top.
The appalling sight of her glistening ruddy face staring back at her, made her sag with dismay.
And finally, … the clammy bloke in a dress, with a face like a tomato, emerges from the sink.
A hollow laugh escaped.
Refusing to be demoralised, she took her own advice to find the positive in every difficult situation and decided to focus on Payson in the mirror. He brushed her wet tresses before Edwina joined the conversation, preparing to trim Clare’s uninteresting mane with the snapping scissors in her right hand. She made a parting with a comb and lifted a section of hair.
‘It’s not the man you should be worried about, darlin’. It’s his girlfriend. Abi hates her. Really hates her. I dread to think what might happen if they ever met face to face.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Collapse of the curls
Well ahead of her trip to town to keep the appointment at Pearls and Curls, Clare should’ve spent time thinking about what she was trying to achieve. Instead, she wasted those precious hours getting in a stew about what she should wear.
Thanks to Niall Jameson, she at least knew a little more about Logan Peplow, and gleaned the odd scrap of tittle-tattle about his recent marital tribulations from a gossip magazine in her own waiting room, but that was it. Not a lot to go on.
When it came to Abigail Nithercott, she’d spent fruitless hours trying to gain an understanding of her and hadn’t found any chink of light to peep into her soul – if she had one. Convinced that Abigail and Abi were separate manifestations of the same person, she dragged what she could out of Edwina who snipped at her hair.
‘Yeah. I get what you’re saying, innit. Abigail is shy and she don’t go out. Abi is more confident … but then how are they the same person? It don’t make no sense.’
Edwina seemed to struggle with the whole concept, so Clare likened it to putting on a brave face in times of adversity. ‘I bet you do it without thinking,’ she said. ‘There must be days when you come into work feeling miserable, upset, maybe ill, and yet
you somehow manage to pretend that you are as cheerful as ever. We all do it. The difference in Abigail’s case, if I’m right, is that she totally separates from herself.’
Edwina’s doubtful look gave her away. ‘Like Rosetta?’
‘What do you mean?’
Edwina pursed her lips. ‘Well, when Rosie’s not in drag she’s a drab nobody what used to work in a building society. A man with no personality and no social life. Put on the slap, the clothes and the hair and voi-bloody-la!’ She spread her arms wide to match her nicotine grin.
Clare grinned back at her; the mist of confusion slowly lifting, thanks to Edwina. She could well have solved one messy puzzle with her analogy.
‘Do you know, you could be right. When Abigail dresses to perfection, adds makeup and thick hair, she has the guts to venture out and join the rest of the world – albeit briefly, but it’s been progress after all.’ Clare was chuffed. Perhaps her efforts had not been a waste of time and money. ‘When she’s Abigail, what does she look like?’
Edwina shrugged. ‘How the hell would I know. I’ve only ever met Abi.’
‘So, in simple terms as Abi, Abigail has found enough courage to go out and is now infatuated with a man who is not her husband. Or perhaps the infatuation came first. Having abandoned her usual solitary, avoidant, hermit-like existence for the last… however long, she has been following this man about like she had a sad teenage crush.’
Edwina stopped cutting and began sorting out a selection of attachments to place on the nozzle of the hairdryer in her hand.
‘What do you know about Logan Peplow’s girlfriend?’ Clare asked. ‘Who is she? Where can I find her?’ She shouted these next enquiries over the sound of the hairdryer Edwina was wielding with intent, blowing hair into Clare’s eyes, making her blink.
‘You want to know because Abi hates her?’ Edwina asked aiming at the nape of Clare’s neck.
‘Because I think Abi may be planning… I don’t know… something.’ The rest of the sentence died on Clare’s lips because she didn’t have an answer.
