The Beauty Room

by Regi Claire

  Celia is hunched up on the toilet seat, face in hands, knees cuffed together by the metal-grey fabric of her tights. She hasn’t pulled down her knickers. Her elbows are pressing into the flesh of her thighs.

  Of course she’s had other boyfriends besides Franz. Several with whom she slept, a few with whom she laughed but didn’t sleep, and two or three she laughed and cried and slept with. Franz has outlasted them all. A prerogative of the dead, perhaps their only one: they never leave you. Even if she hadn’t moved back to her mother’s, even if she had chucked in her job and gone abroad like Walter and Lily, the memory of Franz’s death would have followed her like a shadow.

  But she doesn’t want to be celibate, goddammit. Or jealous. She knows there’s no chance in hell she could ever compete with a smooth-complexioned olive-skinned soft-bodied girl like Angelina. No chance she could ever claim Henry’s sexual favours. Damn right she knows.

  It’s warm in the cubicle. The radiator on the wall next to her gives out puffs of hot dopey air.

  Celia doesn’t stir.

  She’s not really the jealous type, is she? Temporarily a little more distrustful perhaps, a little more emotional – which is hardly surprising. And those blasted tulips yesterday didn’t help. As if her mother had employed some kind of spirit messenger to taunt her now that she herself is no longer around.

  Celia pictures her kitchen table with the vase of tulips dead centre: the stems are in contortions and the waxy black heads have split open towards the pale light seeping through the unwashed net curtains. (She’ll buy new ones when the paint job’s done, when her kitchen is sunny day and night – ‘Yellow and orange, with the merest hint of red,’ she’d told the decorator on their tour of the flat. ‘The warmest tones you can get.’ By that stage he had no longer put up a fight, just sighed and beamed his electronic measuring tape round the room, then scribbled in his notebook.)

  The two men will be having their mid-morning break about now, complete with meat-filled rolls from Bänninger’s and Nescafé from the jar out on the worktop, prominently displayed next to two old mugs and spoons, some sachets of sugar, cream in portions, and the pink post-it with her office phone number. They might be going into the kitchen this very moment. Celia can almost see the arm reaching out to push the vase roughly up against the wall so the tulip heads bob and shake, raining pollen on the shiny wood inlay. Easy to guess who the arm belongs to. No one but Lehmann’s assistant would behave in that carefree manner.

  ‘Cheers to the lady of the house,’ she imagines him saying, his mug of coffee lifted grandiose-style, the way he’d raised his brush yesterday to wave her out of the lounge after his boss had test-painted a radiator panel for her, ‘and thanks for leaving us alone.’ Then he’ll take a bite out of his roll, his mouth stretched wide.

  Lehmann, who is no doubt munching away already, may just give a noncommittal nod while squinting at a lock of hair he’s holding pinched between the fingers of his free hand, scrutinising it for paint stains. He’ll be glad she isn’t there. No danger of her bursting from the Beauty Room like yesterday afternoon when she’d made him jump nearly out of his skin. All she’d wanted was to fetch the agate vase (a birthday present to her mother, hence its tasteful interbanding of light greys and reddish browns) for the tulips.

  At first she assumed he’d jumped like that because she’d surprised him hanging around the corridor mirror checking on his haircut or the Vandyke, and she smiled in spite of herself. In spite of her still-angry feelings towards whoever had left those flowers on her doorstep like a threat.

  ‘Oh, hello again,’ she said, trying to avoid the blue eyes. ‘Anything you need?’ Swiftly, after a glance at her reflection, she rubbed some dust off her chin.

  He seemed slightly awkward. ‘The music in there’s a bit loud, no wonder you couldn’t hear me.’

  That’s when she spotted the peeled-off wallpaper, the scratches and scrape marks on the wall beside the mirror. So it wasn’t mere vanity, he must have been busy and genuinely startled.

  He held up a tin. ‘The radiator paint. Just checking this is the shade you asked for: Amethyst. I had it made up specially.’ He’d paused until she looked at him, losing herself in those electric blue eyes. ‘Perhaps I could show you –’

  Someone has opened the washroom door. ‘Celia? I’m sorry …’ Angelina. Come to apologise for that silly incident before. Sexy Angelina, the victim of her own desires. Like Lily.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m okay.’ Celia has taken her elbows off her thighs and is examining the reddened flesh. ‘Branded all right,’ she mutters to herself.

  ‘Pardon?’ Then a flurry of words: ‘There’s a phone call for you. They wouldn’t give their name. Said you’d know. It’s a man, I think. Or a woman with a smoker’s voice.’

  It can’t be a woman; none of her female friends or acquaintances smoke that much. Most likely it’s Lehmann. Hoping to discuss paints and colours over the phone now, godforbid.

  ‘Guess who?’ The voice is deep all right, with a faint foreign-sounding twang, It reminds Celia of someone she can’t quite place. Definitely not the decorator.

  ‘Hello?’ she shouts into the mouthpiece, pretending not to understand, ‘Who did you say?’ She is sitting with her legs folded, her left hand tracing the red patch under her tights, just below the hemline of her skirt.

  ‘You didn’t step on them, did you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would have been a shame, such beautiful flowers …’ A delicate cough, then the line goes silent.

  ‘Bloodycrank,’ Celia says, replacing the receiver.

  Angelina and Henry are looking at her from the dispatch counter. Angelina’s screen saver is on: a sea-floor scene of acid-green weeds, crabs and multicoloured fish glug-glugging away. ‘What do you mean? Of course it’s a real aquarium,’ Celia had overheard Angelina say into the phone on various occasions. ‘Here at Eric Krüger’s everything is real. We don’t go in for imitation and fake, you should know.’ Angelina’s a cheeky little flirt the way Celia has never, never been.

  ‘Bloodycrankbloodystupidcrank,’ Celia whispers down into her décolleté. She’d taken off her bra before leaving the cubicle and now she can see her nipples. They’re hard and unashamed, and the sight of them makes her feel strangely invincible all of a sudden.

  She’s not afraid. No, no, not really. She is safe here at Eric’s. Couldn’t, indeed, be safer. She almost laughs out loud as she sits contemplating the video surveillance system, the steel-enforced entrance to the office premises, the bullet-proof glass partition and windows.

  14

  RETURNING FROM THE Co-op after work, Celia finds the door to her flat unlocked. Lehmann and Co. must have left in a blind rush to catch the last few hours of Carnival action in the local bars and restaurants, no doubt hoping for a final good ogle-and-grab at the waitresses in their skimpy sex-goddess outfits before they’re transformed back into Anders housewives once more, cleaning and washing and cooking in their no-nonsense family homes. She’ll have to speak to the men tomorrow.

  She’s just set down her shopping bags to put on the corridor light when she hears a faint sound from inside the flat. Then it comes again. Her finger bends away from the plastic switch. She breathes in quietly, listens. Nothing. Not Schildi.

  It’s after six. With the wallpaper steamed off, gargoyle figures have begun to lurk in the shallow indentations of the corridor walls. Shadows have crawled in among the coats and jackets on the hangers near her, hulking them into dummies which are swaying a little in the draught she’s caused on entering, swaying without noise, slyly alive.

  The door of the Beauty Room is shut, but she now notices a streak of light from underneath. Someone’s in there – with or without black tulips. She’ll show them. She’s had enough. Leave me ALONE, she wants to scream, you STUPIDSTUPID-CRANK!

  Her heart is thudding against her ribs as she slips into the shifting shadows of the coat rack, reaches for the old torch – nice and heavy, the perfect t
runcheon to fight off intruders – which her mother had always kept on the slatted top in case of unexpected power cuts. Then she glides towards the thin line of light and shoves open the door.

  He is in plain view, down on his knees at the far end of the room. Still in his dirty white overalls, his hands and forearms inside the built-in vanity cabinet with her mother’s jumble of beauty products. His head has swivelled round in slow-motion embarrassment, making his wavy blond-bleached hair fan out like a woman’s.

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ Celia exclaims, lowering the torch she’s held at shoulder height, ready to strike.

  ‘I was just leaving. Thought I’d give the back of the cupboard a quick check to see whether it’ll need painted too.’

  Lehmann’s mouth tries to smile at her, but his lips have got stuck to his teeth and only lift at the corners.

  ‘The back of the cupboard?’ she repeats lamely, wondering what he is talking about.

  She takes a few paces into the room, stops. She feels weak, bereft somehow. They’re alone in the flat, just the two of them. She clutches the torch in despair; she must avoid his eyes, mustmustmust avoid his eyes.

  He has withdrawn his hands and, straightening up, wipes them surreptitiously on the paint-splashed camouflage of his overalls.

  No stains will show on there any more, not even her mother’s fluffy Magic-Pink cream.

  ‘Well …’ Celia straggles to say something. ‘Maybe I forgot to mention it to you last Tuesday, but I’d decided this room was to be my new bedroom and –’ Dumbfounded, she breaks off; whenthehell had she decided if not right now, put on the spot, as it were?

  The man’s lips are frozen in the same silent grimace as before.

  ‘So, you see, the vanity cabinet and the wall shelving will have to go – once I’ve cleared her out … pardon me, cleared out my mother’s things.’ Celia laughs nervously. ‘Except for the washbasin. And the mirror. I’ll keep them.’ She shrugs. ‘Call me sentimental.’

  Lehmann has managed to unstick his lips and is passing and repassing his tongue over his teeth. He is looking at the picture of the spider orchid behind her. Eventually he says, ‘So sorry,’ and Celia realises her little joke has fallen rather flat.

  She ought to be angry with him, she tells herself, for desecrating her mother’s shrine. Surely she ought to be angry. Raging like one of those furies with snakes for hair. How dare he touch her mother’s possessions? All the exquisitely presented lotions, creams and oils? The jarfuls of gleamy-capped kohl pencils, mascaras and make-up brushes she remembers flanking the mirror above, multiplied in reflection? The trays studded with rainbow selections of eye shadows and nail varnish, with sleekly glistening lipsticks, bottles of foundation, concealer sticks, flasks of perfume? Instead of anger, though, she is aware only of gratitude – and relief. A little-girl relief at not having to be the first to tamper with those relics.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says towards his flickering gaze, doing her best not to sound too exuberant, ‘as I said, that stuff’s going to be thrown out. Help yourself to whatever you fancy.’

  Yes, this will be her new bedroom. Spacious and bright – bright pink in fact, apart from the leaf-green and pure white tulip cornice and rosette – with a balcony that gets the sun all afternoon. Triumphantly she smiles beyond the decorator, into the mirror. But as she crosses over to him, her fingers loosen and tighten, loosen and tighten on the torch.

  Lehmann mutters, ‘Dominic might be interested, thank you. For his girlfriend. I’d better head off. Bye.’ He swerves away, sidling past the window, the balcony door, past the plinth and the two padded chairs pushed up against the back wall, his face averted.

  Then Celia’s fingers unclench. She is in complete control now. She has seen what he’s trying to hide, seen the feathery grey smudges on his lids, the glitter trail along his hairline, the trace of garnet-red lipstick. He hasn’t merely investigated the contents of the vanity cabinet, he has actually used them, forcing and prising open, unscrewing, twisting off lids! Doing himself up for the Carnival bars probably. Celia can’t imagine any other reason; in her opinion, the only males to get away with wearing make-up as a matter of course are pop stars.

  Beyond the snow glimmer of the balcony floor, the darkness seems to be growing thicker, more impenetrable. She shivers. All of a sudden she is desperate to keep the man in the room with her, just a bit longer.

  He has almost reached the door.

  ‘One more thing, Herr Lehmann.’ She beckons to him. ‘Would you mind?’

  She has no idea what to say next. Could she offer him a cup of coffee perhaps? Or compliment him on the work in progress? Ask how they’re getting on with the steaming? The torch handle feels slippery. She grips it harder as he comes strolling back, and watches him wipe his mouth and eyelids in a clumsy pretence at tiredness.

  ‘Yes?’ he yawns.

  What will she say, forpitysake, what?

  The torch in her hand flashes on as if of its own accord. Its beam arcs across the mirror, settles on the colour-speckled Reeboks which have stopped dead in their tracks, two steps away still. She must be quick now, and playful. The light flits up his shins, past his knees and over the bulge of his thighs, resting on his crotch rather longer than necessary – until he looks down in alarm and she changes the angle to pick out his face. His eyes are staring. They’re so blue. Much more brilliant than she remembers. Magnetic.

  ‘That glitter suits you,’ she says hurriedly. ‘It really does. Let me …’

  Now her coat has slid off and she’s touching his hair, the torch somewhere on the floor.

  Alex stands immobile, guilty and confused. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist,’ he says. He has no excuse. The woman could ruin him and his business if she chose to. He’s never before committed an indiscretion like this (sneaking those keys was a brief aberration, he swears), and never will again (unless you count the occasional private note or letter left lying around, simply begging to be read).

  He lowers his eyes. And then can’t tear them away from what he can’t help seeing – either it’s freezing out in the streets or her blouse is too flimsy. Nothing else. Nothing.

  NO. NO. NO.

  Jacqueline and the boys will be waiting for him, their supper on the table: tubs of tepid chocolate yoghurt, in the bread basket Bürli rolls and slices of Zopf, the butter with its trademark imprint of a grinning fox melting at the edges, on the cheeseboard sallow wedges of Tilsiter, Gruyère and Appenzeller covered in droplets of saltwater – like sweat on a girl’s skin … One day, he has vowed to himself, he’ll grab a wedge when no one’s looking. Grab it and lick it clean. But not just yet.

  He jerks his eyes free. Moves away.

  Celia follows him praying inwardly, Pleasegodlethimstayafewmoreminutes onlyafewmoreminutes pleasepleaseplease. It’s unbearably dark outside; the glass panes have turned into mirrors and the room seems suddenly flustered with couples. A moment later, the heel of her right boot gets tangled in the coat on the floor and she’s losing her balance.

  When she comes round, Lehmann is squatting at her shoulder. He is holding one of her mother’s flasks of perfume to her nostrils and pressing a wet cloth to the back of her head where it hurts most. On her chest she senses a former weight, as if he’d been feeling for her heartbeat.

  ‘Frau Roth? You all right?’ His voice trembles a little. ‘You tripped and hit yourself on the stool here.’

  Celia blinks, heaves a sigh. ‘Thanks,’ she says. She gropes for his hand, clasps it. Then, taking one-two-three deep breaths, she quickly draws it towards her, and on to her left breast.

  Alex tries to pull away. This is insane. The woman’s head must have got muddled in the fall and she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Pretty unexpected after her little shows of coyness – he hasn’t forgotten how she brandished the stripping knife to hustle Dominic and him out of the house before dark that first afternoon; nor the ancient monogrammed bedsheets spread over her furniture like she wanted to protect it from contami
nation. He tries to block out the memory of the other time. The time when she seemed to go into that trance.

  Her fingers have locked round, his wrist now and, keeping it steady, start guiding it up and down and over her breasts. Up and down and across like it’s a gear lever. And he a bloody engine. But already he can feel himself warming up.

  ‘A good seeing-to is what this one needs,’ Dominic had said only yesterday.

  What about Jacqueline, though? He mustn’t do this to her, he mustn’t cheat on her. Poor Jacqueline with her familiar floppy thighs and buttocks that won’t strain or push any more, merely flounder at his thrusts. Jacqueline with her big lazy mouth reserved strictly for kissing. His wife. The mother of his two sons. Doesn’t he remember how they were born? Each of them ripping her open with pain, and love for him?

  Alex’s eyes have begun to sting; his face is damp. It’s the heat, he tells himself; he’s feeling so very, very hot. The body next to him is gasping and quivering, invading his thoughts.

  His fingers have nearly undone her blouse. She isn’t wearing anything underneath.

  ‘Lovely,’ he says. ‘Lovely!’ He squeezes, bites a little and sucks to taste her skin, rubbing her long mermaid’s hair all over her. All over, till she is panting and grinding her hips against him. He recognises the look of wildness that’s come into her eyes.

  She moans as he runs his tongue along her earlobe and round the shimmering shell inside.

  She’s slid up her skirt, her moans more urgent now. His overalls are unbuttoned easily enough, his jeans have a zip. And her hands are already unbuckling his belt.

  Gently he moves closer. He kisses her eyes, her nose, nuzzles the softness of her lips, careful to avoid her tongue.

  15

  THE PHONE SHRILLS Celia awake. Alex, she whispers and reaches out a hand. The space on the carpet beside her is empty. He’s gone, having left her wrapped in the winter coat, sleeves tied loosely across her chest. Swaddled like a newborn babe. Which is just how she feels. Chuckling to herself, she blunders out into the corridor. The light is on, thankgod, and there’s no sign of him.