by Shari Low
‘I didn’t sleep with him.’
‘Oh. Do you want a caramel wafer?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
I managed to get a few rollers in on the crown of her head before she regrouped.
‘So what’s with the slouched shoulders then? Look, don’t worry about the police thing. We’ve all done it. And I won’t tell you what I had to do to get off with it back in my day.’
I decided not to ask and focus instead on the general situation.
‘It’s not that,’ I said, with a shrug of the slouched shoulders. ‘It’s just that . . . I’ve been offered full time at the salon.’
‘And are you going to take it?’ she asked. I could detect an edge of wariness in her voice. Josie always hesitated like that – it gave me time to consider the options, think things through, come to a considered opinion, make my own mind up . . . then she’d storm in like some SWAT team guidance counsellor and tell me exactly what she thought I should do.
I’d been working at the salon on Saturdays and after school since the day of my fourteenth birthday. Even though I was the youngest, the rest of the girls who worked there treated me like I was just like them. I loved it. I loved the gossip, I loved that there was never a dull moment and I loved that we played loud music except when old Mrs. Clooney was in because the vibrations set off her seizures.
For a while I’d thought about other jobs. Perhaps a translator (overlooking the fact that I barely scraped through O level French). Or a nurse (overlooking the fact that anything remotely gory made me faint). Or a journalist. Although, I didn’t think I’d be able to bang on people’s doors after they’d lost their whole family in a six-car pile-up and beg for an interview. And anyway, that would mean going to college for four years, where I’d have to drink cider and wear black eyeliner out to my ears and that’s a look I could never carry off. Besides, the reality was that university and college were definitely out because my parents had made it quite clear that they wouldn’t be supporting any of that further education stuff and to be honest, the sooner I got a job, the sooner I could get out of that house and get on with living my life.
But then, earning £35 a week for standing all day, every day, for the duration of the mandatory three-year apprenticeship, inhaling the giddy scent of perming lotions and hair dye, probably had its drawbacks too. The hours were long. The pay, let’s face it, was rubbish.
‘And on those wages I won’t be able to afford to leave the house for years.’ It was a few seconds before I realised that I’d said that part out loud.
That was the crux of it. Since I’d hit my teens, all I’d looked forward to was the day that I could move out and if I took this job with such paltry wages then there was a chance that day would be a long, long way off.
‘You know that you can always come and live here, love. Of course, you might have to share the spare room with Mr. Patel, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s always chanting with his eyes shut so he probably wouldn’t notice.’ Her laughter was cut short when she popped a Benson & Hedges in her mouth and lit up. Great. Between the nicotine and the perm lotion chemicals, I’d be lucky if I made it out before my cardiovascular system collapsed.
Josie had been offering to put me up for years but I loved her too much to be such an imposition. She already had her hands full and the last thing she needed was yet another person to look after.
So back to my options. The way I saw it I could take the apprenticeship in the salon, earn £39.50 per week plus tips for three years until I made it to junior stylist and the rewards grew.
Or I could stay on at school for another year, get some highers and hope that would lead to a better paid job, maybe in an office or something, that would get me out of Dodge sooner and give me an outside chance of getting a head start on a really good career.
Or . . . ‘You could go on the game.’
That was Josie’s contribution. I hoped she was joking. I was on to the second half of her head now and she was looking vaguely like something Doctor Who would fight to the death for attacking the tardis.
‘Or I could go on the game,’ I repeated with a rueful grin. ‘Yes, I want to be a high-class hooker when I grow up.’
Auntie Josie clutched her heart dramatically and adopted the disposition of an overemotional Oscar winner.
‘My darling, you make me so proud!’ she solemnly declared, before her trademark laughter snapped her back to normal and she yelled, ‘Mr. Patel, there’s a cup of tea here for you.’
I’ve no idea where the yoga guru transpired from, but he immediately appeared in the doorway and thanked Josie before disappearing again.
‘He doesn’t look very bendy,’ I couldn’t help commenting as he shuffled off.
‘Oh he is. Last night he took a banana out of his mouth with his toes.’
My raised eyebrow provoked an indignant response.
‘What? Look, telly was rubbish, we were just passing the time.’
Again, some things were just better left un-probed.
I rolled in the last perming rod, squirted what was left of the lotion over Josie’s head, and put the cellophane cover over the entire operation, tying it in a knot at the base of her neck. Naturally, she complemented this avant-garde look by lighting up another ciggy, flicking the kettle on and launching into an account of neighbourhood gossip so outlandish and scandalous that it was like listening to an audio version of the News of the World.
‘Look, love, I’m not going to preach to you, but money isn’t the most important thing in life. What do you really want to do?’
This I knew. I’d spent hours daydreaming about what I wanted out of life. Hours. I’d contemplated my hopes, my dreams, my desires and the attainable goals. Then I discarded the ‘attainable’ bit.
‘Travel. See the world. Go surfing in Hawaii. Live in a penthouse in New York. Have an international, phenomenally successful career. Get in to size ten jeans. Join Bananarama. Marry Tom Cruise. Then when I’m old, like thirty, I want to have a great career, a gorgeous international superstar husband that adores me, four kids and a car like the one out of Starsky and Hutch. I want to have it all.’
It was the truth. In an ideal world, if I was, say, junior royalty or a character from a Jackie Collins novel or drunk on Malibu and optimism, then that’s what I’d want. Unfortunately, the only things I was drunk on were perming fluids and reality.
Josie mentally absorbed my revelation, took it all on board, processed it in a meaningful and profound way, and then reached the obvious conclusion. ‘So you’re going to end up working in hairdresser’s for the rest of your life then?’
‘Pretty much,’ I confirmed. Yep, ‘attainable’ was back. ‘But look on the bright side, Aunt Josie – if I take the full time job at the salon, you’ll get your hair done there for free.’
She ignored my attempt at highlighting the silver lining.
‘Just promise me you won’t have unprotected sex with that twat you’re seeing, then get knocked up and marry him. I honestly don’t think I could spend a lifetime of Christmases listening to how he was going to join the next Duran Duran just as soon as he gets the hang of a few more chords on the guitar.’
‘I promise.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘Almost completely.’
And as I contemplated her warning while unravelling sixty-eight perm rods, I realised that sometimes you just have to go with the flow. Roll with the punches.
Like Mr. Patel’s party trick with the banana, sometimes life just requires a little bit of flexibility.
When I got home Della and Dave were lying intertwined on the couch, a Rod Stewart album playing on the stereo, with one of the corner lamps providing the only illumination on their romantic evening. They both looked less than impressed when I spoiled the moment by arriving home. I was used to it.
You would think having two parents that were totally loved up was a good thing. A couple of the girls at school had parents who were divorcing and they hat
ed every minute of it so I suppose I was lucky – there were no fights, no arguments, no sulks or threats. There was no need for any of those things in a relationship that was built on adoration and obedience.
‘I’ve been thinking about what I should do. You know, about school and work and stuff.’
Awkward. Why did I always feel like I was five and in the way when I was speaking to them? Neither of them spoke, so I just carried on.
‘I thought I’d stay on at school for one more year and just keep working in the salon at nights and weekends.’ I was starting to squirm now. ‘Thought it would be smarter to get some more qualifications and then decide after that what I want to do.’
My mother immediately looked at my dad for his reaction. It was the law in her world – find out what he thought and then agree.
‘What’s the point of that?’ he asked.
‘Because . . . because . . . if I go full time in the salon just now then that’ll be it and I don’t know if that’s what I want to do yet. I was thinking I could wait a year, get some more qualifications, see how it goes.’
‘Really?’ Oh, crap he was annoyed and my mother was beginning to get that slightly panicked look around the eyes. ‘What do you think this is – a hotel? You think you can just stay here and have everything laid on a plate for you and act like Lady Muck until you get around to deciding what you want to do? Nope, doesn’t work that way. We’re not just here, working our arses off to finance you, while you float around doing sod all.’
Here we go. I could point out that I hadn’t had a penny off them since I was fourteen and started working Saturdays. I bought my own clothes, my own make-up, my own books. I could mention that most parents would be delighted that their kid wanted to focus on education, get a better job, do something that would deliver a good long-term career. I could say that a few of my teachers thought I had a pretty good chance of getting great results.
But . . .
‘Lou, this isn’t a free ride. You should be bloody thrilled that you got offered a job and I’m disappointed that you’re even thinking about refusing it. You’re sixteen – time you started acting like it.’
‘I don’t know if it’s what I want to do though and . . .’
‘Lou, discussion over. You want to live here, you’ll pay fifteen quid rent a week from now on. I’m not here to support you and your delusions of grandeur, lady.’
‘Mum . . . ?’
‘Your dad’s right, Lou.’
Of course he was. Of course. Wasn’t he always? Wasn’t he almost fucking papal when it came to infallibility? Nope, scratch that – he was a god. A god who decreed on high to his congregation of one – Della Cairney, chief apostle and worshipper.
So that was that then. Decision made. I was leaving school, going to work in the salon whether I liked it or not. God said so and the only option was obedience.
‘No.’
It took me a moment to realise that no one had informed my mouth about the obedience thing. It took me another moment to realise that my dad was looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and mounting rage.
Shite. This wasn’t going to go anywhere good.
‘Actually, forget that.’ I shrugged. ‘You know what, I’ll take the job. But my rent money? I think I’ll spend that elsewhere.’
With that I turned and stormed out, attempting to add drama with a door slam but the draught excluder got in the way and instead I tripped, lunged forwards and my forehead met with the banister in the hall.
‘What happened to your head?’ were Josie’s first words when she answered the door.
‘Had a fight with the banister,’ I replied. ‘Aunt Josie, I need a favour.’
‘Anything, my ladyship,’ she replied with a jokey bow.
I took one step to the side to reveal a black bin bag containing all my worldly goods. ‘Any chance you can ask Mr. Patel to budge up and make room for me?’
Four
‘You smell kinda strange.’
Gary did his best not to sneer when he said it. He learned that lesson a few months ago when I declared my boobs a no-go area after he commented on a previous pungent aroma. How was I to know that the combination of Tic-Tacs and Eau De Charlie would fail to trump that other heady combination of Silk Cut Menthols and a tuna and onion baked potato?
‘Perming lotion. I did Josie’s hair today.’ I flicked my navy-blue asymmetric fringe out of my face.
‘You’re really good at stuff like that,’ he said casually.
‘She looks like the weird science guy out of Back to the Future.’
‘Right.’ The resulting silence was broken by the drumming of his hand on the steering wheel of the car. Yes, in a resounding kick in the balls to my powers of judgement, he’d actually gone and passed his driving test.
So now he was the best-looking man in our town with a car.
He was officially the Weirbank equivalent of a Sex God. One that should clearly be with the Weirbank equivalent of a Sex Goddess, not the Weirbank equivalent of the lead singer of Siouxsie and the Banshees.
Actually, now I thought about it . . . What was going on? He was usually all over me by now, desperate to get from the statutory kissing stage, to the groping, to the optimistic probing in the nether area. This was invariably followed by my apologetic but firm rejection and then he’d pretend not to mind before rushing me home in case Josie discovered what we were up to and phoned the police. Maybe he was even more anxious than usual now that I ‘had form’. Ooh, yes, after that bust for underage drinking was practically a seasoned hood.
‘So you passed your test then?’ Lou Cairney, winning the Olympic gold in the category of ‘stating the obvious’.
‘Yeah.’ He shrugged, oozing nonchalance. ‘What do you think of the car?’
‘It’s, er . . . green. And really cool.’ I hadn’t gone out with him this long without learning a thing or two about exaggeration. In truth, it was a bit of a battered old banger in a screaming shade of Kermit, but at least it worked most of the time (he’d already sussed that parking it on a downward slope made jump-starting it easier).
I flicked on the radio to break the unusual subdued mood that had descended and got on with the business of feeling entirely awkward. Gary was definitely acting strange. Maybe now that he had a car he was going to chuck me for someone more flash. Maybe he’d finally hooked up with Rosaline Harper. Maybe he . . . aaah, stomach churning, mouth now drier than the ancient pine tree air freshener that was dangling from the rear-view mirror. God, I was hopeless in situations like this. I was hesitant to speak because I knew that I was guaranteed to come out with something highly stupid/ridiculous/inappropriate/inane. I would then delete as applicable. Nervous situations had that effect on me. I couldn’t even pretend to be rapt with the view around us because the sleeting rain drumming off the windows reduced the vision to zero. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. We were sitting in the Car Park in the Sky, a local snogging spot on the outskirts of the nearby town of Paisley. The area we were parked in had been given its name because it was halfway up a ruddy great hill and it allowed a stunning view over the whole of the town. It was especially beautiful at night when it really did feel like you were floating in the sky surrounded by stars . . . until inevitably an over-enthusiastic coupling in the next car caused a violent rocking commotion that detracted from the beauty of it all. Despite the scenic vista, I was quite glad the windows were so steamed up we were now in a zero-visibility situation because a) the car next to ours looked scarily like the one owned by my biology teacher Mrs. Tucker and b) there was less chance of anyone spotting me and, in view of my criminal status, reporting me to Interpol.
So . . . No view, weird atmosphere, risk of stupid/ridiculous/ inappropriate/inane outburst. There was only one thing to do: I stared at Gary instead. He was looking particularly cute tonight. The black leather trousers were almost identical to the ones that John Taylor wore – it didn’t even matter that Gary’s were PVC and the heat rash would last way into
next week. On the top he was wearing a string vest, with a white shirt over it, the buttons undone down to the waist. And his jet-black hair had been cut over his ears, was spiky at the top and then fell down really long at the back. Deadly. Totally hubba hubba. Me, on the other hand? Pink pyjamas. I hadn’t wanted to risk Josie hearing the midnight rustle of my black bin bag, so I’d just thrown on a long petrol-blue jumper and a pair of legwarmers over my fleecy pink night-time fashion statement and pulled on my purple suede tukka boots. I could have cried when I misjudged the drop from the box-room window and my right foot scraped all the way down the pebble dash. I was going to have to come up with a really good explanation as to why one of the boots was now missing a toe. But I’d worry about that later. Right here, right now, I was sitting with my gorgeous, beautiful, sexy boyfriend, and even his weird mood couldn’t spoil it. In fact, there was nothing on earth that could detract from how lovely this was. Nothing. Not a thi… aaaaargh! The bars of a familiar song started on the radio and I immediately snapped it off before it made my skin itch and my teeth hurt. If only that female who met Chris de Burgh had dressed in bloody orange, or yellow, or any other flipping colour but red, then we might all have been spared the agony.
Where was I? Oh yep, even his weird mood wasn’t going to spoil this. In fact, he’d actually climbed up the scale of my estimation given that he’d defied my Auntie Josie’s predictions (OK, I’d thought it too) about his driving capabilities. I could now strike his boast that he was buying a car off the ‘exaggeration/big fat porkie’ list. The fact that it still technically belonged to his Uncle Cyril and he was paying it up at £10 a week didn’t matter. What a breakthrough. I didn’t care that he’d never get his own place or sing in a real band – I loved him. We were simply meant to be. Destined.
‘Lou, I’ve been thinking . . .’
