by A B Morgan
She watched in the mirror as Edwina turned to Payson for silent advice. They engaged in a round of palms up, shrug and sigh.
‘Her name is Kat,’ Edwina said, making exaggerated movements of her lips to ensure Clare understood above the drone of the dryer. ‘Katrina Chandler. It was in all the papers, innit. She works for some marketing company or other. A cheap option the Nithercotts got in to do the flyers and publicity banners for the pretend new attraction.’
‘The escape rooms?’
‘You know about that?’ Edwina sounded taken aback and turned off the dryer. ‘You didn’t know nothing about this place, but you know all about the escape room thingy. Amazing.’
She handed the dryer to Payson before waltzing over to the reception area, her ridiculous silver boots flashing in the glare of the spotlights. Clare heard the doorbell ring as the only other customer was escorted out by Derreck with a cheery farewell and a, ‘see you next week, my dear.’
‘It was my idea,’ Clare volunteered loudly. ‘The escape room. Well, that’s not quite accurate. It was a concept I proposed to help Abi gain confidence in dealing with the public.’
Via dramatic entrance through the velvet curtains Edwina returned and handed Clare a leaflet, catching her eye.
‘Thanks. This is the one.’ Clare glanced over the pamphlet. ‘Pretend new attraction, you said. Why pretend?’
The dryer was turned off again by Payson and placed in its holster at the edge of the table. Edwina, standing at his side, jutted out her dimpled chin, closed her eyes briefly and smoothed her right eyebrow with two fingertips. ‘I knew we should’ve kept quiet about all this.’
Payson swung the chair round so that Clare was facing them as they huddled to agree, in hushed tones, what their response to her question should be. To any spectator it would’ve made for a most unusual sight and Clare began to feel like a young child asking inappropriate questions about sex who was about to get an explanation which she wouldn’t understand anyway.
Derreck approached, put his glasses into position on his nose, not to read anything, more to emphasise the seriousness of his contribution. ‘Abi was here, first thing this morning. She told Edwina that she’s holding an open day for a select few guests, tomorrow. Something is not making sense because Mr Nithercott would normally be at Le Mans this weekend. He always shows his face there.’
‘And you think she would’ve waited for him to be around for moral support?’ Clare asked, already presuming to know the answer.
Taking hold of the nearest chair, Derreck trundled it towards her before seating himself, knees together. ‘No, not exactly. Mr Oliver will be going, as will Abi’s mother, so she’ll have lots of support. No. What we’re trying to say is that she wasn’t herself this morning. Not at all. She was like a thing possessed, laughing – in a bad way, bitching at Edwina for taking too long. And you came in especially early didn’t you ’Wina?’
Edwina nodded as Derreck, now unstoppable, ranted on. ‘She was vile, simply beastly. Anyway, from what we overheard, we think she invited Katrina the girlfriend to this open day. Tomorrow.’
Clare was confused. ‘Why would the Nithercotts spend money on something that was never going to open?’
‘Think of it like a child’s game. A doll’s house. A place to play.’
Shaking her head Clare brought both hands up to her jaw. ‘This doesn’t sound good.’
Resting her talons on one of Derreck’s spindly arms, Edwina pulled at his sleeve, ‘We’ve said far too much, we—’
A bell chimed impossibly loudly as someone stepped into the salon. Clare, silenced, watched in disbelief as a curvaceous woman, dressed in Capri pants, a red blouse and fitted black jacket, walked across the reception area towards the gleaming desk. Derreck scuttled off to meet the new arrival with a falsetto greeting. ‘Hello, can I help you, my dear?’
Wondering why on earth Ella Fitzwilliam was at Pearls and Curls, Clare experienced a sinking feeling in her stomach. Listening intently, she and Payson unconsciously made a joint decision to keep quiet as Ella introduced herself.
‘Bit old for a trainee,’ Edwina whispered. ‘I do like her style though. Vintage. Bang on trend as they say.’ Payson raised a finger to his lips. They could hear Derreck making an internal call.
‘Mr Oliver? A young lady has just arrived, she says—’
The rest of the conversation could not be discerned. Derreck, cut short in his explanation, replaced the handset and spoke to Ella as if she were an unwelcome nuisance. ‘The Job Centre sent you along, did they? Just like that. I’ve been told to show you the salon and answer your questions before I take you upstairs to meet Mr Oliver. What do you want to know?’
When she spoke, Ella sounded confident, and listening to her from only a few yards away, Clare felt a sense of pride in how well she dealt with Derreck’s ungracious manner.
‘Thank you for allowing me to take up some of your precious time, Derreck. I’m sure the last thing you need on a busy Friday is an unscheduled job seeker, but here we are… I’ll follow you, shall I?’
The sounds of Ella’s high heels clicking on the tiled floor immediately galvanised action from Edwina and Payson. He busied himself rolling towels and placing them neatly and symmetrically on racks by the sinks, while Edwina put the finishing touches to Clare’s bouffant hair and Victory rolls. Clare took a deep breath and greeted Ella with her best effort at sounding surprised.
‘Hello, Ella, fancy seeing you here.’
Ella returned the acknowledgement. ‘Oh, hello, Clare. Your hair looks wonderful,’ she said waving her hands in a wide circular gesture. ‘That’s just my sort of hairdo. Very nineteen-forties film starlet. Wow.’
Feeling awkward about her choice of hairstyle, Clare could only reply to the compliment with a shy, ‘thanks’.
‘I’m hoping to get an interview for a trainee job here,’ Ella explained. ‘I’ve come for a visit to see what I’m letting myself in for. Are you a regular customer?’
Clare almost laughed at the thought but caught herself just in time. ‘Actually, it’s my first visit here too. I do hope you get that interview.’ Edwina swept Clare’s shoulders with the corner of a towel and reached across to untie the nylon cape from her neck, allowing her to stand and make excuses to leave without the need for a full conversation.
‘Nice to see you,’ Clare said as she picked up her handbag and headed past Ella to the reception desk to pay her bill.
‘You too. Maybe see you tomorrow?’
Clare was caught on the hop. ‘Perhaps. I’m not sure yet.’
‘Oh. I thought… the hair,’ Ella said pointing to Clare’s head.
Clare looked away in embarrassment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Pens are for writing with
Ella clutched a reporter’s spiral bound notepad, her pen clipped into a breast pocket; mostly for show, but also intentionally as a way of ensuring Mal could hear the entirety of her visit. She felt safer knowing he was just around the corner, listening in via the “spy pen”.
‘I know I’m not your usual trainee school leaver, but I’m hoping a bit of maturity will go a long way. I’m a fast learner. I don’t mind hard work. I’ve done some background research, and I understand you make a variety of wigs and hairpieces here. Can I see that part of the business today?’ she asked.
‘Patience is a virtue, my dear,’ Derreck said, a semblance of politeness and goodwill emerging with every positive remark Ella made. ‘At least you’re taking an interest in what we do. You wouldn’t believe the imbeciles we’ve had apply for this post. Follow me,’ he announced breezily. ‘Come back through to reception and I’ll buzz Mr Oliver. Let’s see if the wig department can spare a minute or two.’
The phone rang and he dashed off ahead of Ella to answer it, giving her time to say a proper hello to Edwina and Payson who hadn’t been allowed to take part in Derreck’s cursory guided tour. They seemed bemused by the whole idea.
‘Is this kinda like an
orientation then?’ Edwina asked.
‘I suppose so,’ Ella replied. ‘A way of me finding out what you do before I waste your time. This way you can meet me and decide if I’m worth interviewing. I hope so, I need the money.’
Payson seemed to be eyeing the potential new recruit with suspicion. ‘You know Clare?’
Ella was waiting for this question, but she was taken aback by Payson’s cut-glass accent. ‘I don’t know her all that well. Sort of . . . in passing,’ she said with a placatory smile. But he was more astute than she’d given him credit for, and while Derreck remained distracted by the phone call, Payson made another probing enquiry.
‘It sounded to me like you’ve been invited to the preview of Espionage Escapades tomorrow. Top Field Farm will be a veritable hive of activity.’
Ella couldn’t very well deny this, but the best she could do was to down-play it. ‘I’ve no idea who else is going, and she didn’t mention it when I bumped into Clare on Wednesday, but it seems we’ve both been invited; at least that’s what I assumed when I saw her brilliant hair.’ Ella looked for a reaction and took in the exchange of glances between Payson and Edwina. ‘Mind you, judging from Clare’s reaction I must be wrong.’
The conversation ended when Derreck called out, ‘young lady, don’t keep me waiting.’
The phone rang again as Ella ducked round the edge of one velvet curtain. Exit stage right, she thought.
Everything about Pearls and Curls was theatrical. Especially Derreck. He was occupied, occasionally licking a forefinger, flicking through diary pages and trying to find a suitable date and time for the client on the phone to book an appointment for a weave.
With no option but to bide her time, Ella politely took up position at the far end of the chaise longue in reception and opened her bag. She pulled out her phone. Texting seemed to be the best option for confirming with Mal that he could hear well enough through the miniscule microphone embedded in the tip of her pen.
❖
‘Getting all this, I hope? Tell Konrad that I’m sure Clare is going to Esp. Esc. After all. I may need to reconsider too. How about asking Ada to come with me?’
❖
That would do, Ella thought. Best stick to the facts and keep it short. The idea of taking Ada with her had popped into her head just moments ago and it seemed like a workable option. Besides, Ada was always nagging to spend more time with her, and she seemed a wise choice. A cheerful Yorkshire lass through and through, Ada was level-headed and outspoken. On top of that she had no direct connection with Konrad or Lorna. With Ada in tow, Ella could safely rock up in all innocence with a neutral friend. That would throw the Nithercotts.
A text came back.
❖
‘Broadsword calling Danny Boy. I hear you loud and clear. Like your thinking about Ada. Nice one. I’ll talk it through with Konrad.’
❖
Her mobile phone made a series of beeps. ‘Bugger,’ Ella announced rather too loudly, winning her an over-the-glasses frown from Derreck. The battery on her mobile phone was draining faster than usual and it was about to die. She realised too many apps were running in the background, using up juice. She flicked them away with her finger, closing them down and made a mental note to plug in when she returned to Mal’s car.
Derreck coughed, ‘Ahem’.
As Ella looked up, she was finally able to place why he looked so incredibly familiar. She gave him a warm and genuine smile of affection. He used to be called Horace and he’d lived in a hutch in the garage when she was about eight years old. Horace was Ella’s pet guinea pig and he’d sported the same Mr Whippy white quiff of hair on top of his head and the same shiny apple-pip eyes and long front teeth.
‘Sorry, Ho–, Derreck. I’m ready whenever you are.’
He pulled himself taller. ‘Now then, young lady, you are going to enter the top-secret world of Olly the Cactus and the amazing creations upstairs.’ He leapt from behind the desk and opened a door camouflaged within the flock wallpaper. ‘He’s not been in a generous frame of mind for the last few weeks, there’s been a tragic death in the family, so forgive his rather brusque manner.’
With a sympathetic sigh and a flourish, Derreck placed his tiny left hand to his chest. ‘Be respectful and, whatever you do, my dear, you are not to divulge any trade secrets or any names of our customers if you should overhear them or see them written on the merchandise. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Abundantly, Derreck, I completely understand. Although I’m not sure who Olly the Cactus is,’ Ella said stepping through the doorway as he led the way upstairs.
‘Oh dear, did I say that? Did I? Never mind. Ignore me, my dear.’ He seemed to dismiss the question, but the wobble of his white meringue peak gave him away. He was flustered.
Slip of the tongue, perhaps.
They tramped up the narrow flight of stairs following a strong odour of adhesive and soon enough they sourced the sound of Shirley Bassey busting her lungs accompanied by two powerful backing singers filling the toxic air.
The plain white gloss door at the top of the stairway was opened by an attentive Derreck displaying impeccable manners, and, as he drew it back, a large bright workshop was revealed. All the windows were open and extraction fans were working hard to expel the fumes generated by an elderly bald man and a thick-set ginger woman as they worked at high benches, seated on tall stools.
Each had a faceless canvas head in front of them, on a pedestal, in various stages of wig construction and with their backs to Ella, both were singing, ‘diamonds are forever, forever, forever…’ mouths wide, heads back in joyful harmony. The protective facemasks they were supposed to wear were wedged on top of their heads like Mickey Mouse hairbands.
Ella focussed in on the shelves beyond. Fibreglass wigs for theatrical productions sat on featureless heads alongside those made of real hair, curly wigs, silky wigs and everything in between. Of note were the giant vibrant coloured wigs bedecked with jewels and ribbons as well as the occasional butterfly or hummingbird. On the walls above were rows of framed posters proudly displaying the most dramatic poses from at least a dozen pantomime dames wearing their stunning hairpieces with exaggerated flamboyant pride.
The workers carried on singing until the last notes faded, at which point Derreck and Ella erupted into spontaneous applause.
From her perspective the man Ella assumed to be Mr Oliver Renfrew was an ordinary elderly fellow with an extraordinary singing voice. He sat in a pair of khaki shorts, a David Bowie “Aladdin Sane” t-shirt worn tight over his lean form, clean-shaven, legs splayed, diligently placing fine clusters of hair in place ready to be glued. At his feet, curled up on an old jumper, was a tiny Jack Russell terrier. It took a brief look at Ella and wagged a stumpy tail before resting its muzzle back on front paws.
On closer inspection, the chunky redhead was wearing her own wig and wasn’t a woman at all. The drag queen, the slim ordinary man and the dog looked an incongruous trio, and Ella wondered what the whole story was. How had they met? Why were they there?
Whether it was the heady fumes of the workshop or her natural ability to adjust to unnatural circumstances, she didn’t know, but at that particular moment, how Oliver Renfrew ended up as a wig maker at Pearls and Curls dropped to second on her list of fascinating life histories to be uncovered; top of the pops was still that of the Nithercotts. Mr Oliver Renfrew would have details of both tantalising tales, and almost certainly they would be intertwined with dark secrets.
He would know why Abigail was allowed to marry Guy even though she was his sibling. Ella couldn’t have cared less if she was talking to him or to his pet dog, as long as one of them gave her something concrete to go on.
‘Mr Oliver, this is Ella Fitzgerald,’ Derreck said with hesitancy.
‘Fitzwilliam,’ Ella corrected, holding out her hand. It was ignored and Ella was raked by a scornful glance instead. The expression on Oliver Renfrew’s face said it all. He was sceptical, dubious about her motives
for being in his domain.
‘I dare say you’ll tell me how excited you are about working here and that it’s your life-long ambition to make wigs.’
‘Not at all,’ Ella replied. ‘I’m not that shallow.’
As Oliver Renfrew slid from his stool, Derreck stepped back nervously and headed to the door. He wasn’t made welcome either.
‘Yes, away with you, Derreck. Get your backside down those stairs. Do some work for a change,’ Oliver Renfrew said, snarling his distaste at Derreck’s yellow tanktopped back. It didn’t take a genius to work out they did not gel and Oliver’s snide comment as Derreck closed the door was proof, if proof were needed. ‘Slimy little creep.’
Olly the Cactus was prickly.
‘Right, lass. This is it. This is what you’ll be doing. Helping me and Rosie here.’ Rosie waved a cheery hello. Oliver continued without bothering to introduce her more fully to Ella. ‘If you learn fast, you’ll do well, but if you’re a slacker you may as well sling ya hook. No time for wasters. I need somebody to pick up the workload so I can get back to my retirement.’
Reaching out with one long-fingered hand he pressed the off button on an antiquated hi-fi that stood in the centre of the workbench, speckled with all manner of unidentifiable blobs. He then clopped in a pair of leather-topped wooden clogs towards an ancient battered table where he unplugged his mobile phone from the charger lead.
‘I won’t be interviewing you without your CV and assurances that you’re not some journalist.’
‘Journalist? Why would I be a journalist?’ Ella asked, her tongue suddenly blotting up every drop of moisture in her mouth at the challenge.
Oliver Renfrew didn’t look up from his phone. ‘It seems your CV has arrived. That fella from the job centre emailed it over, like he said he would. Fair enough.’ He drew a resigned breath. ‘The company I work for don’t like journalists. Let’s just leave it at that shall we?’ He sniffed and wiped the back of one hand across his nostrils.
