The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'What d'you know about feminine hygiene?' asked Orwell, as he had already realised that Barney was a good fella off whom to bounce ideas.

  'It's a positive in itself,' said Barney, cagily. Just how had that question been intended, he wondered.

  'Can't argue with that, Sunshine,' said Orwell. 'But, you know, you get these aisles in supermarkets, which are just completely devoted to all sorts of, like, well pads and things. What is that all about? There are millions of them. It's worse than cheese. Different thicknesses, different sizes, different rates of absorption, different pads for different knickers, some have wings, some have straps, some have buttons and badges and clips and studs and knobs and switches. I mean, how many ways can there be to stick a piece of concentrated cotton wool down your pants?'

  'Wouldn't it have been someone like you who suggested all that stuff in the first place?' said Barney, fluffing away with some product, which is more or less essential with a Hugh Jackman.

  Orwell smiled quietly under his unfolding mop.

  'Good point, Batman. They said you were switched on.'

  The door opened. Rose with the two executives from Waferthin.com.

  'Your 2:10,' she said, as the women walked in. 'Ilona Strawberry and Taylor Bergerac,' she added, and then swiftly withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  At first Orwell regarded the women in the mirror, but 1.24 seconds into regarding them in the mirror, he turned round so that he could see them full on. Usually when getting your hair cut, turning round in the middle of it can lead to the most dire of consequences, however as Barney Thomson was also looking at the two women, Orwell didn't need to worry.

  Strawberry and Bergerac were cut from the same cloth, as if it was a specific requirement for executives from their firm. Late twenties, suits of rich primary colours, no make-up but for the lipstick to match their accessories, unpretentious hair, and both outstandingly beautiful.

  'Taylor Bergerac,' said the first one, extending her hand, first to Barney and then to Orwell, as he scrambled out of his chair like it was kick-off at Le Mans. So much for being cool with the ladies. Bergerac had a firm grip, clear eyes, nice smile, long auburn hair and a ridiculous name.

  'Good to meet you,' said Orwell.

  Barney said nothing, managing to retain nonchalance under pressure far better than his customer.

  'Ilona Strawberry,' said the other, giving her hand first to Barney and then Orwell. Firm grip, eyes hidden behind preposterously chic sunglasses, bit of an edge to the smile, unsure about the mouth, short black hair, totally absurd name. Barney wondered if these people had been Christened by totally absurd parents, or if they'd made the names up when they'd started a dotcom.

  'Thanks for coming over,' said Orwell. 'Sorry, I'm just getting a thing. I'm done.'

  Barney raised an eyebrow. Bergerac smiled.

  'A Hugh Jackman?' she asked.

  'Totally,' said Orwell.

  'Still got some way to go, I think,' she said, glancing at Barney for confirmation. Barney nodded.

  'Go right ahead,' said Strawberry. 'We can still talk.'

  Orwell looked at Barney as if needing confirmation from a man that this was all right. He had totally lost control of the situation; all the expertise which he usually brought to the job, all the knowledge about manipulating clients, dominating proceedings, manoeuvring meetings to your best advantage, all completely shot to oblivion because of a couple of women. Barney smiled.

  'Sit down,' he said.

  Orwell looked a little uncertain, then gestured to the women to be seated in the two chairs which he'd had brought in for the occasion, then he sat back down in the barber's chair. Barney waited until Orwell was settled, glanced at the outrageously chic women, legs crossed in the corner, and then got back to work.

  'So,' said Orwell, trying to regain the composure which he realised he had lost, 'how can we do business?'

  'Thanks for meeting with us, Mr Orwell,' said Strawberry, meeting his eyes in the mirror, from behind her dark glasses. 'We hope you can be of assistance to us.'

  Orwell parted the hands in an almost papal gesture.

  'I'll see what I can do.'

  'We want you,' said Bergerac, 'to help us get a contract.'

  Orwell switched to her, trying to look her in the eye and not the breast. Which is important.

  'Sounds interesting,' he said. 'What kind of breasts are we talking about? Contract, obviously,' he added quickly.

  'For London 2012,' said Strawberry.

  Orwell nodded. There were already most of the usual contracts out there. The endorsements that always ended up on the table of Nike and Coca Cola. And Pringles, for that matter.

  'We want you,' said Bergerac, 'to help us get the gig as Official Panty Liner to the Games.'

  Orwell couldn't help it. He laughed. The smile spread across his face, but died quickly when he realised he was the only one laughing. Pretty much a rule of thumb in business, not to laugh at your clients.

  'Yeah, right,' he said, a little warily. 'Is that, like, a thing?'

  'Not at the moment,' said Strawberry.

  'We want you to ensure it gets to be a thing,' said Bergerac, 'and to ensure that it is Waferthin.com that gets the contract.'

  Orwell looked at the two women, then glanced in the mirror at Barney, as if he needed some male assistance to get him out of this. He should have let Fitzgerald take the meeting like he'd wanted to in the first place. Had to learn to trust the men under him.

  'Well, you know,' he began, aware that they were getting much the better of him, 'we can see what we can do, but, I mean, usually the promotional stuff is like sportswear and drinks and stuff. You know, stuff that athletes actually use.'

  'You don't think athletes wear panty liners?' said Strawberry.

  Orwell nodded and did something with his hands. Totally unprepared, looking stupid, this was a disaster so far.

  'For the last World Cup in Germany,' said Bergerac, 'they had an official salted snack, an official motor fuel, an official cheese, an official board game, an official lighter fluid, an official toilet duck ... Shall I go on?'

  He nodded again. He did something with his hands. He had to think of something to say, very quickly.

  'So, have you got an example of your panty liner with you today?' he asked, and then tried not to shrivel up with embarrassment at the question and the fact that he had unavoidably looked at the crotch of both of them as he'd spoken.

  'It doesn't exist yet,' said Strawberry, at least not letting him stew in his disconcertion.

  Orwell nodded his head again, unaware that he was looking like one of those awful 70's bobbing duck things.

  'Sounds good,' he said. 'Tell me more.'

  'It's a concept at the moment, rather than an actual panty liner,' said Bergerac, continuing the thing where the women alternated who spoke, to keep the opposition on its toes.

  'And when will it be an actual panty liner?' he asked.

  'Never,' said Strawberry. 'We get the contract, we market the product, we get many more contracts on the back of the Olympic gig, we take the money and then we fold. We never make the panty liner. We end up looking like just another dotcom that didn't make it.'

  Orwell stared at her. Genius. Right from the first at bat, as soon as they'd walked in. No bullshit, cut to the chase. These were remarkable women, and he'd had the stupidity to be having his hair cut.

  'Why are you telling me this? You don't know us from squat,' he said.

  'What makes you think that?' said Bergerac.

  'You got us taped and stuff?' he asked.

  There was a knock and Rose stuck her head into the room. Your timing's off, Rose, thought Orwell. I needed you five minutes ago. I'm into this now, I'm making contact with this woman here.

  'There's a call,' said Rose, and he shook his head.

  'Bad timing, Ro, catch you in twenty,' he said.

  'I think you should take it,' she said.

  'Look, Ro, I'm busy. Drop it, park it, do whatev
er with it. You know I don't like getting interrupted in the middle of stuff. I've got the women, there's the hair thing, give me twenty.'

  Rose walked into the office, despite the look he shot her, bent down and whispered into his right ear that Thomas Bethlehem was on the phone, and that they both knew that Mr. Bethlehem did not like to be kept waiting.

  Orwell stared at the two women, felt as if they knew why he was being dragged away. He was the subordinate. Bloody Bethlehem, almost as if he'd known that Orwell was hitting it off with at least one of these amazing women.

  'All right, Ro,' he said, and he looked at Barney in the mirror, so that Barney backed off.

  He stood up, as Rose walked from the office, leaving the door open so that he would be sure to follow.

  'Look, I really have to go for a few minutes. I'm sorry, I'll be back as soon as I can,' he said, directing the comment entirely at the women, rather than the man who stood behind him, cutting his hair.

  As one, Bergerac and Strawberry rose; Bergerac opened up a small case, removed a file and handed it to Orwell.

  'Everything you need is in there,' she said. 'Let us know when you've read it, and we can see what we can do for each other.'

  Orwell paused, mouth slightly open, staring into Bergerac's eyes. We can see what we can do for each other. The words had poured from her mouth, laced with sexual tension. The back of his throat was dry, he had completely forgotten any resentment he had about Bethlehem.

  'Yeah, yeah,' said Orwell, 'sure. Maybe we can sleep together later.'

  'Talk later,' he added, a few seconds further on when he'd realised what he'd said.

  Bergerac smiled and nodded, gave him a wee bit of an odd look, then followed Strawberry from the room.

  Orwell watched them go, then turned to Barney and gave him a look. Barney gave him nothing in return. Orwell removed the cape, brushed a couple of times at his shoulders, checked the mirror to see what state his projected Hugh Jackman was at, ruffled his hair a bit, said, 'Top birds, eh?' and walked out, without waiting for a reply.

  Barney watched him go, then started to tidy up the detritus of what had been a half-completed Wolverine. A minute, then he laid down the brush, walked over to the window and looked down at the river.

  'There goes a man who is about to make a complete arse of himself,' he muttered softly.

  The Truth About Bing Crosby

  'You ever heard of Bing Crosby?'

  Hugo Fitzgerald smiled, making good eye contact. The evening was going well, as his evenings with women did. The general day-to-day frustrations of the office had been left behind, principally because he felt he was beginning to nicely control the whole Exron contract.

  For this evening's meal he had gone for Gordon Ramsay. The guy was so yesterday that Fitzgerald knew he was being innovative in returning to him, because there's nothing more chic than retro. Velouté of cauliflower with a brunoise of scallops to start, followed by dorade royale with a ragoût of blette, rounding it all off with oven roasted caramel bananas en papillote. Strathpeffer mineral water and an elegant Puligny Montrachet.

  'Of course I have,' said Harlequin Sweetlips and Fitzgerald nodded.

  'Name me some of his songs,' he said, smiling. The meal was past, they were sipping at their cups of New York decaf, and nibbling sexually on those mints that he'd been buying from the small chocolatiers at the far end of Bond Street for the past five years.

  Sweetlips was playing her own games.

  'Not so easy, is it?' said Bethlehem.

  'White Christmas,' she said, taking the edge from a fondant mint, the chocolate melting on her tongue. 'And Moonlight Becomes You, that was one of his.'

  Fitzgerald nodded, smiling. He polished off his glass of Montrachet, lifted the bottle, hung it over Sweetlips' glass, although he knew she wouldn't take it, then poured the remainder into his own glass at the shake of her head.

  'You know he never sung a note?' he said.

  'How do you mean?' she asked. Maybe she was bored. Maybe it was time to get on with the evening's main event.

  'It's one of those big Hollywood secrets that people don't talk about. When he made his first film, early '30s sometime, the producers signed him up 'cause they thought he had the right look. Young yet mature, take him home to your mum, boy next door crap. Trouble was, he couldn't sing a damn note.'

  'Bing Crosby?'

  'Not a damn note,' said Fitzgerald, holding his hands out in a sincere gesture. The smile was broader, so that those dimples appeared in his cheeks. 'They drafted in some other guy, even weirder to look at than Bingo, and he did the singing. A wee Jewish fella.'

  'So what happened?'

  Sweetlips ran her fingers around the rim of her defunct wine glass, an elegant creation, the small cup perched on top of a slim, six-inch stem. She thought Fitzgerald was all right. Hopelessly lost up his own rectal passage, but that came with the territory. Despite all the crap, he was a decent enough guy, and the dimples made him look cute. She could almost fancy him. Just a shame about what was going to happen.

  'Well,' said Fitzgerald, leaning more closely towards her, 'that first movie was huge, so they had to do another one. Next thing they know, boom, Crosby is bigger than Jesus. The studios were stuck with him, and Crosby was stuck with the wee Jewish fella.'

  Sweetlips sat back. Her blouse had an Oriental neckline, but the heavy silk of it lay wonderfully on the curve of her breasts, far more alluring than any brash show of cleavage.

  'Wasn't the Jewish fella fed up?' she said, playing along.

  'Hell, no. He loved it. He was quite happy hanging around in the background. Lived his life in some prodigious mansion in Beverly Hills. Plenty of money, plenty of women, he didn't care. It was perfect.'

  She stared at him, the smile a fraction under her lips.

  'Nah,' she said eventually, 'don't buy it. People would've known.'

  'Course they knew,' said Fitzgerald. 'Hell, at first everyone in the business knew. But in those days, there were all sorts of secrets. Every second star was gay or lesbian or a lizard, Jesus all sorts. Still are. Next to that, the Crosby thing was nothing. And eventually, it just got forgotten about. That's how these things go.'

  She coyly let the faintest edge of a smile come to her lips.

  'All right,' she said, lazily. 'It's possible.'

  'It's a crazy world out there, Harley,' said Fitzgerald.

  'Now that,' she said, 'I do believe.'

  'So what do you think?' he asked, and his face moved a little closer across the table, his forearms flattened out. His eyes were bright; his teeth were white. 'True or false?'

  'Bing?'

  'Yep.'

  She started to give it some serious thought, then decided to be magnanimous. Give the poor sod one last triumph to take to his grave.

  'True,' she said. 'Not entirely convinced, but I'll buy it.'

  The smile widened on Fitzgerald's face, and now the dimples, on closer inspection, actually looked a little disfiguring.

  'Nice try, Batgirl,' he said, and the eyebrows were raised to accompany the smile. 'I made it up.'

  Well! I am shocked, she thought. She giggled and threw her hair back.

  'See what I mean?' he said. 'That's how it is these days. Fact is, Harley, if you say anything in life with conviction, you'll be believed. They'll fall for it every time. Lower fat? What the Hell is that? Who cares? The pond life still buy the damn stuff, and when they don't lose weight, they blame it on the fifteen bottles of Tesco's Chilean Chenin they quaffed at New Year's. People'll buy any crap you tell 'em if you look 'em in the eye and mean what you say. That's what we're good at.'

  'The company is awesome,' he continued, as she was giving him some space. He was warming to his subject, building to the climax that would result in his evening's conquest. 'We are totally going to be kings. That's why you're making a good move, babe. Bethlehem is good, Orwell's good, but you and me together, we can be better than any of them.'

  'Still,' she said, the smile a l
ittle more wicked than before, 'only the eighth biggest in Britain at the moment.'

  'Seventh,' he said. 'Three years ago we weren't in the top twenty. Now we're kicking butt. Thomas for sure, but all of us. Another two years and we'll be up there, especially with you and me at the helm.'

  She ran her finger along her bottom lip. A fine final eruption of enthusiasm from the lad Fitzgerald, she thought, and now presumably he will make his move. Good luck to him.

  Fitzgerald incorrectly read the whole finger along the lip thing, but that was inevitable, given that had he known the true agenda of Harlequin Sweetlips it was pretty much a dead cert that he wouldn't have invited her to dinner.

  'It's time,' he said. She nodded.

  His hand shot out. He grabbed her roughly by the hair, and brought her head forward so that their faces met across the table. His tongue plunged into her mouth. Her head twitched, her lips matched his, she took it for a few seconds, then bit hard onto his tongue.

  His head shot back, surprise on his face, tasting blood in his mouth, but the smile broader than before, the pain flaming his desire. He loved pain; loved it when they fought back.

  'Hey!' he said. 'That was brutal.'

  She didn't say anything. Her eyes blazed.

  'Let's do it,' he said, leaning forward again.

  She nodded her head slowly.

  'Yeah,' she said. 'Let's.'

  She lifted her empty wine glass and held it up to show him, as if offering it for a toast. He looked at her quizzically, assuming she had some weird sexual thing in mind. But when she moved it was with speed and grace, an almost balletic quality to the motion.

  She brought the wine glass down on the edge of the table, so that the cup snapped off with a loud crack at the top of the stem and spiralled into the air, then in the same flowing movement she brought the stem up and plunged it into his right eye, through the ball and deep into the socket, forcing it in the full six inches, so that the base of the glass rested up against his face.

  The initial spurt of blood was arrested by the bottom of the glass, so that as Fitzgerald pitched forward, his head thudding noisily on the table, the blood squirmed uneasily from underneath the glass and began to spread across the white table cloth, which had up until now only been despoiled by a smidge of blette.