‘Well, if you’re going to do it, you need to do it right.’ She took the magazine and thumbed through the pages, stopping every so often to hold a glossy picture up next to my face and compare. ‘What do you think, Shauna? With her face shape?’
‘I don’t know,’ Shauna said, with a slight tilt to her head. ‘She’s more heart than round. What if you did a bias cut?’ She took over the magazine, flipping pages intently.
Blah blah blah – this went on for an eternity, or at least thirty minutes. Finally, after confirming with every stylist, nail tech, make-up artist, masseuse and customer, they chose the perfect style. The first one I’d shown them.
Two for two. Maybe I do know myself after all.
Back in the chair, my heart raced as the stylist unclipped the banana clip (this time like a pro), gathered my hair into a ponytail with one hand and brushed it through with the other. My palms grew moist. What was I doing? Maybe I shouldn’t. This was craz—
Too late.
I glanced down. A huge mass of curly red locks lay on the floor beneath me. With one skilled snip, she had sliced straight through my whole identity.
Another hour of shaping, and it was done.
God, what had I done?
My signature long locks were reduced to a mop of loose curls high above my shoulders in a short curly bob. I was Baby from Dirty Dancing. There’s a character I never once considered. She was dorky, yet confident. She carried a watermelon, but stole Johnny’s heart. I could be Baby, yeah, because no one put her in the corner! And I do like watermelon.
But now? Here I sit, blinking at my reflection in the taxi window. My neck’s exposed, and it’s cold. I never knew it could catch a chill. I also didn’t know I had a skinny neck – finally, I can say something on my body is.
I’m like ET when the little girl dressed him up with the wig. Except it’s not a wig, and I’m not blonde – and I can’t go home, because I’ve already arrived at my destination. I’m sitting outside the banquet hall entrance where my not-so-surprise birthday party is under way inside.
‘Lady, is this the right place?’ the cabbie asks for the second or third time.
‘Yeah, I, ah . . . I just need another minute.’ Tonight is meant to be a new start, but as usual, I can’t get started. I’m stalled in the cab.
Peering at my reflection again, I give myself a small mental pep talk. You’re a new and improved woman. You can do this. I eyeball the springy locks that frame my face. You’re also a poodle. Ugh. Maybe I need a nudge that everything’s going to be fine. Just a small sign would help.
Knock-knock-knock.
‘Aah!’ I jump, startled by the man with long wild black hair and mirrored sunglasses pressed up against the glass. He’s also wearing a top hat.
‘Hi! I’ve been waiting on you!’ His voice is distorted through the glass.
‘He yer date?’ nosy cab man asks, with a smirk.
‘Let’s hope not,’ I say, debating whether I should tell him to hurry up and take off, or roll the window down and ask the guy for an autograph – he’s dressed like Slash from Guns N’ Roses.
‘Libby, it’s me.’ The man lifts the shades slightly and smiles.
I crack the window a hair, still uncertain, then blink with narrowed eyes. ‘Dr Theo?’ Oh God, why is he here? Like that?
‘Hi, Libby!’ Another head pops out from behind his shoulder. No wig, but he’s wearing a Members Only jacket and has a clip-on earring. ‘Dr Weaver, remember?’
Busy hands burst between them, a flurry of activity with neon fingernails. Translation woman’s here, too.
I asked for a sign, not someone who signs.
‘So, ya good?’ cabbie man asks.
I sigh, pay, and since they’re not leaving, pop the latch and force them back a little with the car door. Stepping out, I fake a smile while I take them in. ‘Wow.’ That’s all I say.
‘Wowza is right. You cut your hair,’ Dr Weaver says, pointing.
Sign woman translates. Who knew wowza could be signed? I’m staring at them, they’re staring at me.
‘Great costume,’ Dr Weaver says. ‘I love Molly Ringwald.’
‘I’m not in costume.’ I glance down at the pinkish shirt and double strand of long pearls. Add those to the short reddish hair and yeah, OK. Whatever. ‘So, you’re here because?’ It’s an almost question. The kind that begs for explanation, but really maybe I don’t want to know.
‘“Welcome to the Jungle” – well, welcome to your party,’ Dr Theo says, sing-song. ‘Dora asked us to escort you inside. And we’re happy to, you know, to make sure you don’t overdo it—’
‘With your condition and all,’ Dr Weaver adds while looping an arm through mine, leading me forward, making me hesitate even more. ‘Are you feeling OK? Any fevers of late?’
‘What about the hives?’ Dr Theo asks from the other side. ‘Any more reactions?’
I laugh. ‘I’m having a pretty strong one right now.’
Inside, Dead or Alive’s ‘You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)’ thumps and vibrates, but I’m the one turned round. I’ve time-warped. The hall is blinged-out Eighties. And I didn’t need a souped-up DeLorean that requires a nuclear reaction to generate the 1.21 gigawatts of electricity to get me here. All it took was Dora. A pregnant, hormonally-charged force of nature.
I’m pretty sure they raided my store to decorate. Now I understand why Jasper kept calling me every ten minutes, asking me where things were stored.
‘She’s here!’ Finn yells from somewhere, but I don’t see him.
No, wait, there he is. He sees me, then ducks out of sight. What’s that about? Dr Theo says something about getting everyone a drink. The interpreter interprets and then follows him, leaving me with Dr Weaver. He’s snapping his fingers, completely off beat. Maybe he’s already had a few?
‘Can you excuse me?’ I don’t wait for a response, and dart into the crowd on a mission to find Dora. There are seriously a lot of people crammed in here.
‘Whoa, your hair.’ It’s Robbie, one of the teens who work weekends at Pretty in Pink. He’s wearing a ‘Save Ferris’ T-shirt from the store.
I think ‘Save Libby’ would be more fitting.
‘Are you Molly Ringwald?’ His eyebrows arch as he regards my hair. ‘Cool, ’cause that so fits with Pretty in Pink and all.’
‘Where’s Jasper?’ I ask, ignoring the question.
He shrugs. ‘Dunno. He called asking where you were.’
I keep going on the prowl for Dora, Dean – ‘Finn!’ He’s already gone again. Why is my dentist here? ‘Hi, Dr Meyers.’ I wave, hoping he doesn’t remember I was a no-show for my last cleaning. They always scrape too hard, and I swear there’s a conspiracy. I only have cavities after a visit.
‘Libby!’
I turn, and . . . ‘Here Comes the Hammer’, or rather, Nigel Harrington, the Athlete. He’s shirtless, a huge gold chain draped across his bare muscular chest, wearing black drop pants and gold-rimmed glasses, but that’s not the worst of it: he has the parrot. Not the real one that ended up with the Criminal, but the mangled one from mini-golf. It’s wearing a neck brace, and is fastened to his suspenders.
‘What d’ya think?’ He’s shuffling back and forth in a weird hobbling motion while pumping his massive arms and singing ‘Can’t Touch This’.
Don’t want to. ‘What are you doing here?’ And why would he have that blasted parrot?
‘Finn invited us, and since you sent the card, I thought we were cool, so . . .’
‘Oh, right, definitely.’ I smile, remembering Finn’s glowing testimony of him: Strong Man champion in Vegas, gym owner, helps troubled youth. We can be friends. I have room for new friends. ‘I’m really glad you’re here, Nigel. Thanks for coming.’
‘Too Legit, Too Legit to Quit.’ He’s dancing again – he needs to quit. He puffs his chest and pulses his pecs, left then right, to match the chorus he’s still singing.
I debate whether I should point out that MC Hammer’s p
eak of popularity was really in the early Nineties, but decide against it. ‘Nigel, Nigel,’ I say, interrupting his me-party. ‘Where is Finn?’
‘Oh, I think he’s at the bar. Did you want something?’ He stops gyrating and wipes at his forehead, where small beads of sweat have formed.
‘Yes, please. Something strong.’
‘Cool, and when I get back, we’re gonna “Turn This Mother Out”.’ Another left-right pulse of the pecs, and he’s gone.
Oh my God. Something catches my eye behind a man in purple Prince attire – it’s Finn’s head popping out from one side of him. He pulls it back and juts it out to the man’s other side.
‘I see you, Finn!’ I shout, my voice breaking in the middle as I make tracks in his direction, cutting around people.
‘Happy Birthday, Libby!’
‘Wow, your hair. Great costume.’
‘Didn’t even recognize you!’
‘Hi! Hi, thank you,’ I smile-nod and keep moving. Damn. I’ve lost him again. They’re all up to something, I know it. I turn and scan the dance floor.
‘Libby!’ A hand’s held high, waving frantically.
Oh, come on . . .
It’s the Princess. So far he’s the only one that has the Eighties done right: caked eyeliner, thick white smudges across each cheek, dangly earrings. He’s Adam Ant. He sashays in my direction, twirls me round by my hand and kisses it in the most dramatic fashion. ‘Look at you. Love the hair. Molly Ringwald, right?’
‘Sure,’ I say, without inflection. I’ve given up trying to explain it wasn’t intentional. Maybe it was unintentionally intentional? Dr P. would have a field day with this one. ‘Where’s Finn?’
‘Ah . . .’ Adrian spins, his index finger pointed like a wand. ‘Probably backstage.’
‘Backstage? There’s a stage?’ I look through the crowd, and yup, there is in fact a small platform in the rear of the hall. My stomach turns. Finn’s head’s up again – well, his hair. It’s spiked so high it’s like the Jaws fin swimming through the mob. I follow, making a quick and direct line across the dance floor. I plan on making waves, but stop short, because there she is. The indomitable Dora.
I think. She’s head-to-toe neon, wearing a blonde bobbed wig and wound in pendants. I eye the jewellery. All mine, so it’s definitely Dora. When she turns in my direction, it confirms it. She’s Madonna from ‘Vogue’, although pregnant, so definitely not ‘Like A Virgin’. I charge. ‘You completely raided my closet and my store!’
Her eyes narrow, then go wide. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God! Libby? You’re here? You’re here!’ She squeals with a little bounce skip-step, her hands covering her gaping mouth while staring at my hair. ‘Dean, look! Look at Libbs!’
Dean turns, and the whole scene’s repeated. ‘Whoa . . . I don’t even recognize you.’
I don’t recognize Dean. He’s in parachute pants with his hair gelled back like Elvis. I’m not sure it’s a cohesive Eighties ensemble, but it shows effort. I also think those might be my pants.
He inhales sharply. ‘Oh, you’re that chick from those movies, right?’
‘Sure.’ Why fight it?
‘It really is you.’ Finn appears from nowhere, reaches out and touches my hair.
‘Don’t even act like you didn’t see me.’ I point, then turn to the others. ‘And what is all this? It’s Eighties? And you invited the Athlete, the Brain, the Princess and—’
‘Hi, Libby!’
I squint to be sure. ‘My dry cleaner?’
‘We invited everyone.’ Dora smiles. ‘Dean, call Jas and tell him she’s here.’
‘Call him?’
‘Apparently you’ve been missing.’
‘Missing? No . . .’ I wave a hand to present myself. ‘I’ve been—’
‘Becoming Molly?’ Finn’s lips pull down.
Mine pull up to mock him.
‘Anyone need a drink? ’Cause I do.’ Like that, he’s gone.
Dora smacks my arm. ‘Don’t move – we need to get things rolling.’
Oh, God.
CHAPTER 21
‘Don’t You Forget About Me’
Simple Minds, 1985
Never have, never will
Dora leaves me, only to appear on stage a few minutes later. She has a mic. I’m already afraid and looking for exits.
‘Hello?’ She taps it a few times and fiddles with the switch. ‘OK, yes, it’s working . . .’ Dora’s speaking really loud, so her voice echoes from the small amp and squelches. ‘Everyone gather round, because we have a few announcements.’
Bye. I turn. Dean stops me. Or Elvis. I’m really not sure. He actually has sideburns.
Finn jumps on stage and smiles. I shake my head to mean, you’re rotten. He smiles even wider to say, I know.
Dora begins. ‘First, let me start by thanking everyone for coming to celebrate Libby London’s birthday!’ She points to me. Dean nudges me towards her, so I push back. As the room fills with applause, I turn to make my escape.
‘Hi.’ It’s my chiropractor, Dr Hong. He’s wearing a red leather jacket. He waves. That’s when I notice the sparkly white glove. Nice.
I smile and turn back round. I hate them. My neck’s warm, and now without my hair as cover, the splotches are on display for all to see. I plaster on a smile and tug at the pearls round my neck.
Dora continues. ‘Our dear Libby London was perpetually lost in the Eighties.’
‘So we stepped in to help her find her way,’ Finn leans over, claiming the mic and the spotlight. ‘As everyone’s aware, a few weeks ago we surprised Libby with an Eighties intervention. We started with a modern makeover. But this being an Eighties-themed shindig . . .’ He motions to me again. ‘Of course she’s gone Molly.’
Oh my God. ‘I’m not Molly Ring . . . I mean, I didn’t do it on—’ My words are lost in the applause. I scan over their heads for a bar. Is there even one here? I really need a drink.
Dora’s loving this. She also loves the mic. She swipes it from Finn again. ‘To bring our Eighties girl into the twenty-first century, we set her up on a series of blind dates from the movie that defined the decade she’s been stuck in: The Breakfast Club.’
Giving up on the mic war, Finn just leans over. ‘And in case you’ve been under a rock and haven’t been following our now sponsored hashtag, #80sIntervention, on Twitter and Instagram – here’s some highlights as we give introductions.’
‘Sponsored?’ I ask to anyone within earshot.
Dr Hong’s wife, standing beside him, nods. ‘Oh yeah, they have a salon donating a free makeover experience for the best Eighties photo. It’s been a hoot to follow.’ Roaring laughter fills the room.
I turn, look up, and oh. Dear. God.
It’s me.
All their stupid snap-flash photobombs and selfies plastered for the world to see – actually, that one’s kinda cute, but God.
‘You still won,’ Dr Hong’s wife says. ‘And the salon did a fabulous job.’
‘What?’ I have to think about whether I paid my stylist today. Did I? Maybe I didn’t. I’ve won best Eighties photo, even now? As pics of each Breakfast Club date appear on the pull-down screen, they wave and take a formal bow. Nigel throws both massive arms into the air and Adrian does a fancy spin. The sign-language woman lifts a drink to say cheers. I have no idea where Dr Theo and Dr Weaver are. Probably at the bar. Where I’d rather be.
I throw accusatory glances at Dora and Finn, scared of what this is leading up to. When the presentation starts to loop, the music’s dimmed down. Finn has the mic again, and his smile is epic. It reminds me of when we were kids and he and Ollie were up to something. I’m instantly on edge.
‘So, yes, we set poor Libby up on five stereotypical dates—’
‘Five?’ someone shouts. ‘I see only three.’
‘Right, well, the Criminal turned out to be one – sorry, love.’ He nods to me. ‘And the Basket Case . . .’ His hand splays on his chest, right across his heart. ‘Well, this whole thing
was designed to give one poor unfortunate soul the chance to shine. And that was—’
‘Me,’ a voice says from the crowd.
Everyone spins round.
I focus to where heads are turned, and – short styled hair, clean-shaven jaw, fully modern-cut suit – ‘Jasper?’
His smile’s crooked.
Mine’s full. ‘What is this?’ My heart’s beating triple time.
Dora rips the mic from Finn’s hands, triumphantly. ‘You did date the Basket Case, Libbs. You guys hung out a few times. And in fact, he set this whole thing up.’
‘Big gesture,’ Jas yells, pulling back my attention.
‘Really big gesture,’ I say, more to myself, completely stunned and still trying to piece it all together. If he wanted to go out with me, why have me date others? Before I can ask or acknowledge him, the screen behind Dora blasts Bowling for Soup’s ‘1985’ video and she starts barrelling towards me, mic still in hand.
‘Happy birthday to my best friend, our Eighties girl, and your Libby London! She’s finally caught up to the rest of us!’ Dora wraps me in a one-armed, awkward pregnant squeeze, whispering near my ear. ‘I’m so proud of you, Libbs.’
‘Aren’t you lovely, just like Samantha from that movie.’
‘Leave it to Libby London to do the Eighties right.’
‘Happy Birthday, Moll – er, Libby.’
Fine. So in trying to de-Eighties, I’m finally seen as my Eighties icon. Makes no sense, but whatever. I smile, nod and thank everyone. I’m still trying to wrap my head around Jasper doing this Eighties intervention when I spot him. I take a sharp breath to open my lungs from the emotional grip, and smile as he approaches.
‘Can we talk?’ He rests one hand behind my back; the other motions towards the door.
Mine are mindlessly playing with the looped beads around my now-exposed neck. Why am I so nervous? Outside, the music’s instantly muffled. The static inside my mind, however, snaps, crackles and pops.
‘No one knew where you were all day. But I guess we know now . . .’ He steps close, his blue eyes scanning over my head. ‘Wow, you really cut your hair.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, finger-combing it, braced for whatever he may say. He likes it, he hates it . . .
Holding Out for a Hero Page 20
