The Beauty Room

by Regi Claire

  Someone’s rung her doorbell. First three, then two, then again three separate jabs. The decorators, back from lunch. She really ought to let them have a set of keys. Having shut the window and balcony door, Celia gives her jaw a quick rub-and-pinch – as if that might help improve its shape. Instead, she ends up smudged from chin to earlobes, courtesy of her mother’s dusty old lace curtains – and doesn’t even notice. The three-two-three sequence keeps echoing in her head as she moves down the corridor towards the buzzer, past the sour paint fumes wafting from the lounge, its door ajar because the frame has been done.

  Three-two-three. Not the usual bland long ring of workmen.

  Then she recognises it: the signal she and her friends had used when they were kids. No one else rings like that, certainly not now. There’s a slim chance it’s Nita, come down from Albula to apologise for not making it to the funeral. (Well, you know how it is, Cel: high season in the Alps and never enough snowboarding instructors to match tourist demand.) Just as she did that other time, after Franz died.

  Celia wipes her suddenly sweaty hands on her jeans. She presses the entry buzzer. ‘Hello?’ she says. ‘Who is it?’

  Nobody answers.

  For an instant she pauses, fingers curled round the keys in the lock. Could it be Lily? On a surprise mission of round-the-world reconciliation?

  Celia all but wrenches the door off its hinges and rushes downstairs. Slips back the latch without bothering to peep through the spyhole – In case it’s a robber, rapist or killer, remember? – and pulls. Her eyes extra wide to welcome old friends.

  There’s no one there.

  She takes a step outside to review the street. Last night’s snow has been churned to slush by hundreds of tyres, only the roofs and gardens are still white. Beyond the ash tree and her neighbours’ scruffy beech hedge she can see all the way up to the Coop, and can’t see a soul – except for a big black dog waiting by the entrance. Some birds are twittering and rustling about the hedge, their beady eyes switching from her to the feeder to Schildi, who is sunning herself on a heap of leaves, pretending to be asleep.

  Across the side street where the blue-and-gold-striped awning of Bänninger’s cuts off the rest of the pavement, Deli-Doris has rolled her mountain bike into the stand and is fumbling for the keys to open up again. It couldn’t have been her, could it? Nettled into getting back at her customer for rejecting the massage? Celia hesitates, wondering whether to call out. But the girl is gone.

  The traffic has thinned now that the frantic midday rush back to work and school is over. An empty bus is slowing for the stop at the pink housing estate further down and is passed by a convoy of military jeeps rumbling in the other direction, back to base. Helmets lolling above grey inert faces, the soldiers sit zonked in their seats – too tired even for a whistle or a shout today.

  The windows of the apartment block seem to stare at her, blank and lidless, from their frozen recessed depths. Suddenly, like the blink of an eye, a curtain moves. Is someone watching her? They might have been watching all along. Watching the person who rang her doorbell … Celia is about to risk a wave when she thinks better of it. The curtain might have fluttered in a draught or because some bored pet is playing games with the furnishings – there’s that dull-witted parrot she’d heard screeching ‘naughtygirl, naughtygirl’ all summer from one of the balconies; maybe it’s testing its wings for a change?

  The cold is beginning to bite – and Celia has no desire to catch her death because of some doorbell prankster. She must have misinterpreted those rings, she tells herself, and memory’s a funny thing, tricky. Just then, someone stirs behind the fence around the vegetable plot of the farmhouse diagonally opposite … But it’s only old Frau Müller easing her back before bending down again with what looks like a knife, perhaps to harvest some snowed-over lamb’s lettuce.

  That’s when Celia’s foot stumbles against something, right next to the threshold.

  A bunch of tulips. Black tulips, forgodsake! No wrapping, no note. Whatthehell is going on? First the bouquet at the funeral, and now this! If it’s meant as a belated Valentine, it’s in bloody bad taste. One of the flower heads has been half torn off – trodden on, more like – and several frays of inky petal are mashed into the snow-and-concrete.

  As she stoops, there are faint sounds of laughter from the backyard and the scrunch of someone’s footsteps. The soft chuckle is getting louder by the second.

  ‘Well, well,’ Celia says, ‘I’d never have guessed!’

  The decorator’s assistant is gawking at her, abruptly silenced, his face red and crinkly.

  She nods with relief. ‘So it was you.’

  But he clearly intends to keep on playing the clown. ‘Now where did you grow these?’ he asks, pointing to the flowers in her hand and chuckling again. ‘In the darkroom perhaps?’

  ‘They’re from you, aren’t they? They have to be,’ Celia insists for she wants to believe it, can’t afford not to. He has nearly reached her, his fingers pointing at her face now. Damn rude. He’ll be stroking her cheek next if she doesn’t move or say something, anything: ‘From you. To apologise for your inane remarks.’

  He’s stopped dead, both arms by his side, his hands like shot birds.

  Got you, Celia smirks to herself. You and your jokes about tulip cornices and rosettes. Turning away, she hears an almost imperceptible blip, a slippery wet sound, as if he’s raised his eyelids too quickly. She doesn’t glance back.

  ‘Problems, Dominic?’ Lehmann has rounded the corner from the backyard. He is hugging a tin of Amethyst acrylic eggshell for the lounge radiators.

  Dominic merely shrugs, twitches his mouth into a grin. ‘Naw,’ he says, his eyes safely hooded once more. He watches Celia mount the short flight of stairs and disappear through her door. ‘Stupid cow,’ he mutters, and can’t quite stifle a guffaw. What on earth’s up with her? He’d be the last person to give anyone flowers, let alone black ones! And those charcoal marks on her face – like spiderwebs along lintels needing to be brushed off. A woman expecting anything more at her age … A sad case.

  Moments later the two men are standing in the lounge and shaking their heads at their handiwork so far. The second coat of Deadly Nightshade on the walls is almost dry. The door and window frames glisten, still untouchable. Seriously wicked, Dominic thinks, wrinkling his nose, the whole room’s begun to have a seriously wicked atmosphere. Nothing to do with the smell of paint (he’s used to that, after all). This is different. No amount of airing will ever get rid of it, not even the icy gusts blowing in through the window, batting the loose sheets of lining paper about.

  Alex is gazing at the dull magenta of the ceiling. The way it’s punched in the middle and squared at the sides by those rows of purplish tulips reminds him of a patch of flesh that’s been cut and bruised, then stitched up – a thoroughly unprofessional thought he suppresses immediately.

  But he’s never been any good at suppression, or repression, or whatever the hell it’s called. Already there’s yesterday’s scene again with Pascal, his younger son, who is ill with inflamed tonsils. He’d pinned the boy’s tongue down with a finger for a quick fatherly inspection, gingerly (because he hates that fat vibrant slug feel, hates it even when he makes love to Jacqueline, which is seldom enough these days). The tongue had rippled and squirmed and flailed under his touch. Then, without warning, the mouth snapped shut – he’s still got the bite marks. He’d fought the urge to swear, to hit out, and asked Pascal instead to please be sensible, he wasn’t going to hurt him … just open up, dammit. In the end he’d been forced to use a wooden spatula, prising the teeth apart like a puppy’s.

  Dominic sees his boss wince and grimaces back in return. ‘Seems those tulips in the cornice and rosette aren’t enough for her. She’s going for the real thing now. In bunches.’ He strides over to the window, closes it, and the flapping paper noises cease; the room calms down.

  ‘What?’ Lehmann is rubbing his finger.

  ‘Real tu
lips. Fucking black ones, man,’ Dominic says and, looking sidelong at the finger that’s being rubbed as if it’s got frostbite, he adds, ‘She was at the door with them when I arrived. Accused me of giving them to her. ME! Christ! I never –’

  ‘I think I’d better go and speak to her … about that radiator paint.’ Alex hurriedly picks up the tin he has brought in from the van. There’s nothing wrong with the paint of course, but he needs to get out of this room for a while.

  ‘Hey, don’t forget to try her for coffee,’ Dominic shouts after him. Then he has a rummage through the cassettes in the sports bag. A few spiky-sharp pieces of rap and he, for one, won’t be in danger of losing his marbles. The jobs left to do for the present are quick and straightforward: the door itself, the fireplace surround, the two radiators, and the skirting. He starts on the inside panels of the door, wishing the tin of Burgundy chosen by the woman was drinkable.

  After making her brisk getaway from the assistant, Celia has collapsed on her mother’s stool in the Beauty Room. The wind has blown the sky into a gigantic wad of grime-yellow cotton-wool that’s pushing up against the bare window and balcony door, but she’s turned her back on the outside world and sits facing the cosmetics trolley.

  Laid out on the glass top, empty for months now of its glittering flasks, gold-capped tubes and pots, its tray of scissors, tweezers, orange sticks and emery boards, are the tulips. They look as if suspended in mid-air, their black heads splayed slightly, doleful and drooping, their leaves like stunted wings straining upward in vain. The remains of the broken-necked specimen are in the silver pedal bin, leaking darkness into the mass of scrumpled-up lace curtains.

  Celia tries to think logically, gathering reason round her like a shawl, drawing it close so nothing irrational can slip through.

  First of all: if she really wanted to, it wouldn’t be too hard to trace the shop which had sold those flowers. Black tulips are a rarity. Even for a funeral.

  God, that funeral reception had been so exhausting; the black-beamed ceilings of the Schlosshotel had felt like burdens on her shoulders and her feet had seemed to drown in the lush carpets as she played the daughter-and-son-and-host’s part in the very place where Walter had done his apprenticeship … She’d been glad when it was over. When the mourners had had their fill of Dôle Blanche du Valais, bouillon aux chanterelles, vol-au-vent au ris de veau, saffron rice and French beans, with strawberry mousse and café au lait for dessert (venue and menu had been stipulated by her mother, in a handwritten note affixed to the will). When they’d pressed her hand, looked into her tired eyes, kissed her goodbye, saying in low reassuring voices how they were sorry but that it was a release, wasn’t it? (Sorry for what? Celia had wondered. For whom? Sorry they could no longer go visiting at the nursing home, no longer linger over her mother’s decay? Sorry to find that now they were next in line?)

  Celia shakes herself, tries to pull the invisible shawl tighter around her shoulders. She mustn’t let her mind wander again.

  So, point two: the assistant, or Lehmann himself for that matter, can’t have anything to do with this. They were engaged after the funeral, which means the paint job on the plaster tulips is quite unrelated. Celia smiles up at the cornice opposite; for an instant the flower figures seem to unfurl their leaves and wave at her, nodding their faceless heads. And anyway, how could the men possibly have known about the three–two–three doorbell signal? No, no, it’s all a lot closer to home, this much she has to admit. And despite the shawl – yes, she can almost feel the wool fibres scratch the nape of her neck – Celia shivers.

  A sudden burst of rap music followed by outrageous work noises brings her back to the present. Her rare flowers need tended to. Not that she’ll tear out their petals again, not this time. She slides open the drawers of the vanity cabinet which complements the wall-length mirror, and starts searching for a pin. Because the best way to preserve tulips, her mother had taught her, is to prick the base of their heads. Was this maybe what her mother had been hoping to achieve during those hateful (and short-lived) violin practice sessions in the lounge – pin-pricking little Celia’s fingers back into position to make the notes sound more pure?

  Instead of pins Celia finds half a dozen metal nailfiles, a couple of them with tips so scalpel sharp they draw blood when she tests them. One by one she sets to pricking the flower heads. Pain in exchange for a new lease of life, for new life full stop. Like giving birth. Not that she can speak from experience, of course – and never will, sohelphergod. No need to repeat her mother’s mistakes, even if middle-aged motherhood has become fashionable.

  For a moment she stares at the flower pictures on the walls: only orchids, roses and edelweiss had been deemed exclusive enough for her mother’s beauty clients.

  Most people around her have kids, and every time she dares to confess that yes, she quite likes children, but no, she doesn’t really want them herself, she prefers to remain childfree (and carefree), thank you, she gets either lashed with good advice and stories of oh-so-happy families and oh-so-lonely childlessness, or tarred and feathered with snide remarks and sideways glances (just like when she showed her new red nightdress to Carmen).

  Celia replaces the last of the tulips on the trolley. Pierced and prostrate, the flowers remind her that refusing to join the club of harassed parenthood is still regarded as a major offence: a betrayal of the human race. All the feminism in the world (or post-feminism, she’s lost track of the terminology) hasn’t changed that.

  For a second she sees her boss, the master of gems, holding court in his king-size swivel chair, his slack thighs resting on the leather seat like two worn-out cushions. She giggles, then breaks off, shamefaced. No, Eric would never do. But how about some toyboy eager to be taken under her jewel-studded wing, dazzled into affection by a fairy godmother? Celia smiles to herself. Handsome Henry would be the perfect candidate. And he’s got a kid already. A kid that might need a weekend mother, if those continual quarrels with his wife are anything to go by. She could always try him. Play at motherhood with him.

  Celia’s hand squeezes and squeezes the tulip leaves – until they give a crisp sappy creak.

  ‘Frau Roth, could I have a word, please?’ Alex wishes his voice was firmer and curses the queasiness in his stomach. Tugging some stray blond strands of hair from under the straps of his overalls, he strolls across to the large oval mirror. Frowns self-critically at his reflection: plenty of life in the old dog yet. He’s proud of his pale-blue eyes and strong teeth (all his own), the thick natural curls (dyed, but so bloody what?), the jet-black eyebrows and neatly trimmed beard. Only the skin could be a trifle less freckled perhaps and certainly less blotchy along the hairline where the allergy has struck again. He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Strawhead’ is what Dominic calls him sometimes when he’s riled. Dominic with his round-the-clock cap ‘to protect myself against the vagaries of the job, man’ – well, Alex suspects it’s more a case of a thinning crown. From the lounge comes a loud surge of drums, then monotonous talking, more drums, then both.

  ‘Frau Roth?’ This time he shouts. He knows the woman’s around. Impatiently he bounces the tin of radiator paint against the wall beside the mirror. Knock-knock, knock-knock it goes, but no one appears. The old wall-covering is as rubbery tough as a devil and gives a nasty retch when he claws a strip off. Bastard’ll need a proper hedgehogging all right. That’ll be his task – an ideal opportunity to check out the woman’s movements at closer quarters …

  Then he notices the keys. They’re poking from under a jumble of bills and letters on the telephone table. The hook nearby is empty and he can see another set stuck in the front door. Acting quite without thought, Alex removes the keys from the table, slips them into his pocket. Just like that.

  Five hours later, at home having supper, he hardly listens to his older son’s recent football exploits and his wife’s tale of how she’d clinched a deal for wood finishes ‘thanks to my skill and charm!’ Frankly, he couldn’t care less. />
  He chews away at some Bündnerfleisch and hopes to Christ the Roth woman won’t miss her keys. She didn’t give him a ghost of a chance, did she, opening that door so abruptly? Of course he would have put them back. He is an honest man. Has never done anything like this before. Bloody stupid. Never taken anything. What the hell got into him? If the woman hadn’t distracted him, he would have put them back. It’ll have to be tomorrow now, soon as he gets there. End of story.

  Still, Alex feels vaguely excited, and guilty at feeling that way.

  On waking the following morning Celia resolves to go back to the office. When the two men arrive, she is all dressed up and in the middle of towel-drying her hair – making it swirl and swish about her head, more than ever reminding Alex of a mermaid – not really paying any attention to them.

  Before she leaves, she unlocks the store room so they can get the shutters.

  ‘That’s me off,’ she calls out from the lounge door. ‘There’s a spare set of keys on the telephone table for you. Bye.’

  Alex nods. ‘Have a nice day,’ he says and smiles over at her from the radiator he is giving its second coat of Amethyst – the picture of innocence.

  12

  BY THE TIME Eric has removed his reading glasses and heaved himself out of his king-size swivel chair, Lapis is already running in and out of Celia’s legs, panting with pleasure at having his ears flapped, his tail like a brush that furs her shiny grey tights black and white.

  Lapis is allowed to do pretty much anything, Celia knows. One of his predecessors, also a spaniel, had been an incurable thief apparently, with an appetite for sweet rolls and soft-boiled eggs. One day he’d snatched away Eric’s T-bone steak. Eric had yelled at him to let go, but the dog had bolted it down whole. Then died of a heart attack. Ever since, Eric has been a lenient master. When Lapis, as a puppy, mistook a cat’s-eye cabochon for a choc drop, he merely gave a shrug. ‘It’ll re-emerge, Celia, don’t worry,’ he said, helping himself to a butter biscuit. ‘A proper rinse-and-polish and no one will ever be any the wiser.’ They’d sold the cabochon soon afterwards.