by C. B. Martin
Fur Coat No Knickers
By C. B. Martin
About the Author
C. B. Martin was born in London in 1967 to Irish parents. Caroline worked in the hair and beauty industry for over 30 years before finally pursuing her ambition of becoming an author.
Caroline finished her first book, ‘Fur Coat No knickers’ in summer 2014 and is currently working on the sequel.
Caroline currently resides in Northamptonshire, England. She has three adult children (who are the lights of her life) and a wonderful long-term partner who have all helped her realise her dreams of becoming a full-time writer.
DISCLAIMER
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978 0 992 95701 8
Copyright © C. B. Martin 2014
Acknowledgments
It was my medicine when I got sick, my friend when I got lonely; my precious Fur Coat No Knickers couldn’t have come this far without:
Editor: Teena Lyons. Thank you for believing in me.
Proofreaders/Copy Editors: Sandra Martin, Domenico Marsala, Francesca Marsala, Ellie Baldwin.
Cover Illustrator: Alex Furley of AF Designs.
I’d like to thank my mum, dad and my beautiful sisters whom I love very much.
To my sisters, you both mean the world to me. I couldn't have got through this without your continuous love, support and daily encouragement.
To my partner, SI, Thank you for your patience and still loving me while I lived in an atrocious, fluffy red dressing gown for years when writing this, my first novel. And thanks for your patience when I screamed in temper if things didn’t go my way.
To my utterly bonkers best friends; don’t ever change - I love you all. You know who you are.
To my dear friend, JM, without you, Franc (pronounced ‘Fronk’) would have never existed. I miss you.
Lastly, to my three, perfect children. I’m so glad you got the beauty and the intelligence genes. Thank you for wiping my tears when my short-term memory blew its fuse. I couldn't be more proud of you all.
And if I have missed anyone out here, my apologies, but I fully intend to blame my (bastard of an) under-active thyroid.
To Mum, the kindest and bravest woman I have ever known.
The following story is based on true events…
CHAPTER ONE
I glanced up at the tinsel-covered clock; it was nearly closing time at Glamma-Puss.
Just Siobhan’s hair to blow-dry, a quick change of clothes and I would be off to the airport to spend no doubt another crazy Christmas with my family in Dublin. I couldn’t wait. This break had been a long time coming.
As I counted down the hours to my big getaway, I could hardly believe Glamma-Puss was about to go into its second year of business. I’d loved setting up the Hair and Beauty Salon, but every aspect of it had been really hard work. I’d thought carefully about every decorative detail; I had mixed contemporary with boudoir, soft mushroom and cream walls, with dark oak wooden floors. I had really gone to town with all the accessories; mixing rich French lavish curtains in shimmering taffeta with dramatic, swooping tails in a mix of silver and pale gold. The walls were covered in large baroque silver mirrors and to add to the grandeur and opulence to the Salon, for the complete ‘wow’ factor, I invested heavily in a pale gold leather chaise longue for the reception area.
I’d been lucky enough to find a great team that complimented the feel of the Salon perfectly. Jackie, my beauty therapist, was in her early fifties; quite tiny in height and kept sharp, short, copper-coloured hairstyles. She was bubbly and always smiled. She was great for business too and was constantly stacked out with clients from opening to close.
As for my drama-queen nail technician, James, aged 23, he simply minced in like he owned the place.
‘I am your right-hand man,’ James declared, with a dramatic curtsey when he first came for an interview. I instantly loved him; although, to this day, I still don’t recall advertising for a nail technician. He arrived on opening day, white blonde hair waxed a mile high, clad head-to-toe in a neon pink boiler-suit and fluttered around like Miss World. He simply set up a portable nail bar with every colour of polish and acrylic you could think of… and promptly hired himself. I just couldn't say no.
Then there was Jayde. Aged 20, she was short, curvy, blue-eyed and blonde. She was the definition of a rough diamond. A pure, out-and-out Londoner. Despite this, from the moment I met her, I could see she was passionate about hairdressing; she just needed those rough edges smoothing down a little. She needed someone to believe in her. So, whilst she came across as bit crass, I nonetheless felt compelled to nurture her and give her a chance.
Jayde’s mum had died of cancer when she was just three years old and she never knew her dad, not even his name. Jayde had spent most of her life being fostered out. Luckily, her last set of carers had generously put her through college to learn the art of Hairdressing.
I remember the day of the interview; Jayde arrived an hour early, wide-eyed and eager to show me what she was made of. With crumpled shopping bags, she asked if she could use the staff toilets to change. She emerged in a jacket and trousers combo that in no way formed a matching suit. Worse still, the price tags were dangling for all to see.
‘If I don’t get the job, let me know, cos I’ve still got the receipt for me outfit see. Otherwise I’ll just bring it straight back to New Look,’ she said unashamedly, fiddling with one of her many gold hooped earrings.
I couldn’t help but enquire about Jayde’s background. After her answering my 21 questions, I simply couldn’t get over her resilience and happy-go-lucky attitude, despite having such a harsh start in life. Jayde considered herself to be one of the lucky ones, which humbled me. I just wanted to take her under my wing, so I offered her a few trial days at the Salon.
Jayde displayed such a fresh, artistic approach and incredible creations in such a short space of time, I made her permanent on day two of her trial. She burst into tears, squeezing me so tight I thought my silicones were going to rupture.
I was on a roll and was thrilled to be hiring another valuable member of staff. Sheila, an aesthetic nurse practitioner joined us for one day a month to perform a range of cosmetic skin treatments and non-surgical procedures. She was a 1940’s screen goddess if ever there was one. Her signature retro hairstyles, siren red lipstick and hourglass figure were admired by all who met her. She was the perfect candidate for my expanding business; adding another exciting string to my fledgling enterprise.
Of course, this diverse mix of staff meant there was never a dull moment at Glamma-Puss, and once you threw my best friend Siobhan into the mix, you’d never know what might happen.
‘Howerya everyone…? Meeeeerrrrrryyyy [hic] Christmas!’ slurred Siobhan as she stumbled through the Salon door as if on cue. That’s Siobhan; she always likes to make an entrance.
‘Hi Siobhan! Been on the sauce already I see? You lucky thing you. I’ll be with you in five. James, take Siobhan’s coat. Jayde, shampoo her for me, please?’
I walked into the staffroom with Jackie to go over the running of the Salon while I was away. As I crossed the floor, I could hear the usual rapid-fire banter begin.
‘Hi [hic] James,’ said Siobhan with a lop-sided grin, ‘howerya?’
‘Oh my! That’s a rathe
r gorgeous coat. Is it from the new Dior collection?’ James asked, stroking it as he hung it up. He stepped back, a hand planted firmly on each of his slim hips and gave it a fuller inspection.
‘What? That old thing?’ Siobhan enquired with a dismissive swipe of her hand. ‘No, it’s a Primani special! Does it look like the [hic]… the new Dior coat?’
‘Eww… actually, on closer inspection, it certainly does not,’ retorted James, instantly dismissing it. He then promptly turned on his neatly polished slip-ons and pointedly distanced himself from the offending garment.
‘Ha ha!’ cackled Jayde. ‘The poof got it wrong!’
‘Get on and do your job, you filthy little scrubber,’ James shot back sharply.
‘So someone’s a bit grumpy today…’ Siobhan whispered to Jayde.
‘Ignore him - he’s been a whiney bitch all day,’ answered Jayde deliberately loud enough so James could hear her.
‘Jayde!’ pointed out James furiously, ‘had you not made such a catastrophe of my crowning glory, I would not be so upset. You’ve completely annihilated my asymmetrical fringe for the party season!’
‘Ah, come on now James, your hair is… well… it’s lovely,’ said Siobhan, leaning her head back into the washbasin.
‘That’s just it Siobhan… I don’t do lovely… I do fabuliscious or magnificent!’ protested James. ‘How can I do my blonde-with-strategically-placed-violet-tips hair flick and pout now that my fringe no longer rests on my high cheekbones? That is sooo the point of asymmertricalness. It’s a good job I have a diamante headband to cover this abomination on my head!’ ranted James. ‘It’s simple; it all has to be perfect - something you don't know the meaning of, Jayde. It’s all about tight-arsed glory!’ He barely paused to breathe as he swung around, wiggled his toosh and threw his tall but tiny frame into a ‘slut drop’ for good measure (this being one of his best party tricks. The clients loved it).
‘This,’ James added dramatically, lowering his arm theatrically down his body, ‘has to resemble a piece of art. Do you think this all comes naturally? No, no, it does not! For example… if I may continue?’ glared James, as Jayde began to mimic him. ‘These freckles, or, as I prefer to call them, “clustered beauty spots”, have been cleverly blended by one of my bestest friends. No, not you Jayde - the sun bed! Artfully amalgamating them through years of baking and frying one’s self has giveth moi a sexy tan, and viola!’ James lifted his Jean Paul Gaultier floral shirt, revealing a toned, tanned and boyish body. His freckles had indeed formed together to give the illusion of an even tan.
It had to be said; he was such a pretty boy. His feline features accentuated his continual purr of pride as he performed to his captive audience. In fact, I’m sure some clients booked in just to watch ‘The James Show’, rather than for a particular treatment. The James Show nearly always included dramas about his latest love conquest; or the highs and lows of whichever ‘rubber-arsed bastard’ had broken his heart this time. The gossip of his constant sexual onslaughts was complicated, dramatic and thoroughly entertaining to say the least.
Having such strong personalities in our den of madness inevitably meant there were sometimes clashes amongst the ranks. However, I could never figure out why there was so much tension between James and Jayde. James’ barrage of bitchy comments had a real barbed edge when it came to Jayde. It was as though he really meant it; whereas with everyone else, it was clearly a part of his carefully crafted diva personality. I often wondered what he saw in her that no one else did. He certainly wasn’t swayed by any pity for her tough upbringing.
Jayde, for her part, was used to fighting her own battles. She’d made it clear from the start she wasn’t going to tolerate any flack and so gave as good as she got.
The resulting battles were highly entertaining, as long as you didn’t listen too closely. Now and again though, they made you catch your breath in wonder how they could say this stuff.
Of course, Siobhan loved to disturb the peace so lobbed in the odd verbal grenade if she ever sensed hostilities were flagging.
‘So James, come here till I ask you… have you been in receipt of any swollen goods [hic]… lately?’ Siobhan asked, her voice full of innuendo.
‘Hmmm… it’s a sore subject,’ James quietly said, pouting, ‘I’d rather not talk about it now. Well, certainly not in front of her anyway,’ he added, narrowing his intense stare in Jayde’s direction.
‘Might dat subject be your arse, you dirty fecker?’ Siobhan chuckled whilst Jayde continued to massage shampoo into her hair.
‘Na, the only thing what’s been down his designer fong lately is Jackie with a wax strip, innit!’ howled Jayde, cackling like a hyena on speed.
‘Ooow, go and cram another tray of mince pies in that hole in your face before I fill it full of acrylic!’ James spat back in fury. ‘And by the way… I saw the state of those scissors after you had been hacking away at your pubic jungle!’
‘Arrghh! Shut up, you fudge packer!’ Jayde hollowed back. ‘You know damn well it was Mrs. Johnson’s Afro barnet what done that!’
‘Ah g’wan! Get him in the crown jewels, Jayde!’ squealed Siobhan in childish excitement.
‘Siobhan, please keep your head back!’ insisted Jayde. ‘I can’t wash ya locks while you’re windmillin’ like an ape.’
‘Sorry, but this is even better than the Jerry feckin’ Springer show!’ shrieked Siobhan.
She was right. The Salon was always pretty entertaining, but when Siobhan came in, it always had that extra edge. Everything just seemed crazier somehow.
Siobhan and I had only known each other a year, but already she was like family to me; except, she never judged me - unlike my biological sisters.
Watching her staggering around the Salon bantering with Jayde and James, I was reminded of the day we met last December. Siobhan burst into the Salon wearing a shocking peach bridesmaid dress and covered her face up with a bouquet of plastic flowers, demanding a pot of wax. I’d had a hard time understanding her through the flowers, but in a broad Irish accent she was mumbling something about being ‘mortified’; with a few ‘feckers’ and ‘gobshites’ thrown in. Seeing my look of puzzlement, she had whisked the bouquet from her face and slurred a fuller explanation:
‘I didn't want to go to the poxy wedding anyway… I was only going for the free bar!’ she ranted, as though I should know what the hell she was talking about. Suddenly however, the floodgates were open and I didn’t have a chance to interrupt.
‘(Sobbing)… There we were, me and me fella, all ready to go to this stupid wedding, when the gobshite started eyeballing me,’ she cried. ‘He turns around to me and says: “you've a moustache when the sunlight hits your face”. Then he says, “I don’t know whether to fight you or fuck you.” He thought it was hysterical! He’s a feckin’ gobshite! That’s not funny, sure it’s not?’
Even now, the thought of that moment makes me smile. At the time, I had to turn around, as I couldn’t suppress the grin on my face. I managed to say that Jackie would be able to sort her out, but when I saw Siobhan pawing at her top lip and imitating a male voice, I couldn’t hold back any longer and burst out laughing. Luckily, she cracked too and soon enough the tears were rolling down our faces. And that was it; our friendship was made from that single moment of madness.
Despite the entertainment value, I did often have to bring everyone back down to earth and remind them that this was a professional and high-end establishment. It was my business after all.
‘Oh c’mon you guys - it’s Christmas Eve! Where’s your sense of forgiveness?’ I asked the battling pair in frustration, as I signalled Siobhan to come and take a seat so I could blow-dry her hair. ‘Let’s call a truce.’
‘Hmm. You’d be alright if ya stopped snorting that acrylic,’ whispered Jayde under her breath, shooting a look of daggers at James.
‘I heard that - you uneducated bitch!’ responded James furiously. In an instant, hostilities had resumed.
‘I am a d
esigner nail technician - getting high off the fumes is part of my job!’ he said in mock indignation.
‘It’s gone to your ‘ed,’ Jayde chortled. ‘I’m telling ya! I mean, you could totally do with sorting out that tan of yours. You look like a malnourished Oompa-Loompa.’
‘As much as I’d like to thank you for my malnourishment compliment, Jayde, I’d also like to point out that your pores are so diabolically huge they should be paying council tax!’
‘Ho-ho-ho!’ belted Siobhan like a referee Santa Claus, ‘round two: DING-DING-DING!’
‘James, Jayde!’ I pleaded, ‘drop your weapons, now! I’m not in the mood for hair and beauty tools at dawn!’
‘Ah come on now,’ pouted Siobhan, ‘there’s only me here, we’re all only playing.’
‘Stop now, that’s enough!’ I commanded. ‘Siobhan, please don’t encourage them.’ I rolled my eyes to the heavens, turned my back on the pair of them and switched on the hair-dryer to drown out their bickering.
Is this what I have really signed up for? A life of keeping this lot in place?
I began to daydream. I should have a rock-solid, perfect, gob-smackingly gorgeous husband by now; who dotes completely on me and our perfectly behaved, impeccable children. We would call them Hugo, Tommy and Mercedes. They’d attend the finest of schools. Hubby would be here with me right now, keeping this lot in order, but only after he’s finished preparing the three-course Michelin style meal that would be waiting for me when I got home. Yes, he’d be a top chef, I mused to myself. Not one who screams and shouts and loses his temper, although I have to admit: Gordon Ramsey telling me to ‘get my fucking head down’ on him would be nothing other than an absolute pleasure.
