by Maeve Binchy
‘Say it,’ I ordered her eventually.
‘All right, well, item number one, I don’t fancy Oliver remotely, so go right ahead if you do. You aren’t stepping on any toes. But item two, he’s really very boring, clinging and boring. You’ll find that. So he’s rich and good looking but actually that’s not very important in the long run. The rich can often be tight with spending their money and the handsome are often vain. And you end up feeling guilty because you encouraged him. And he hasn’t the remotest notion of being faithful. You told me that years back and I didn’t believe you. So why should you listen to me now?’
Poppy sat there, assured and mud spattered, with a sherry in her hand and a lot of mad old people outside the window waiting for her to come out so that they could get on with digging a hole.
‘And this is better?’ I said, indicating the garden, the residents and the whole set-up with a nod of my head.
‘Vastly,’ she said.
I knew then that I had never understood her and never would. My efforts at friendship and trying to get close, admittedly late in the day, were being thrown back in my face.
As I was getting into my car I heard them cheer at the reappearance of Poppy. Well, it was what she wanted. And she had said the coast was clear.
I got my hair done and bought some smoked salmon – in case Oliver came round.
As it happened he didn’t. But he came next evening.
He never brought a gift and he did look at himself in the mirror quite a lot. And he always stayed just a little too long for me, because I had to get up early for work. Sometimes he would stay the night but that was rather disruptive too.
He never suggested that we go out anywhere. And there was something a bit clinging about him. But we weren’t married so I couldn’t divorce him or get a barring order against him. Even though at times I would have liked to. For a little peace.
There was very little laughter around at the library or at home. The days often seemed long. Compared to that madhouse at Ferns and Heathers where there was never a spare moment in the day and the inmates were laughing all the time.
Was it at all possible that Poppy could have been right? Poppy whose skin had never been cherished, whose hair had never been styled and whose wardrobe was a joke, a bad joke. Surely Poppy couldn’t have discovered the secret of life? That would be too unfair for words.
CHAPTER 14
Your Eleven O’Clock Lady
Part 1 – Pandora
I hope it’s going to be busy today at the salon. When you have to hang about between clients, time seems to drag a lot. I didn’t need any free time to think about the conversation at breakfast.
I was in at 8.45 as usual. Fabian, who is a legend not only in Rossmore but for four counties around, likes to have what he calls ‘grooming control’ before he opens the door. His salon sinks or swims, he says, by what the staff look like. No grubby fingernails, no down-at-heel shoes, and our own hair must be perfect. We had been warned about that at the very outset. Fabian expected us to have shining, well-conditioned hair every morning, any snipping or trimming he would do. It was one of the perks of the job.
Our uniforms were laundered on the premises so they always looked bandbox fresh. That’s a funny word, bandbox. I wonder what it means. Fabian insisted that we all smile a lot and look pleased to see customers. The salon wasn’t the place to be if you were going to look glum. Worries had to be left outside the salon. That was an absolute.
Fabian said he could only charge the top prices he does if people felt they were in a special place. No one with hangovers, headaches, difficult children or unhappy love lives had any place on the staff.
Unreal, you might say. And Fabian would agree.
But he said that going to an expensive hair salon was an escape for people, they didn’t want to hear of the dull or problem-filled world of ordinary people. So there was to be no talk about the traffic, or illness, or being mugged. An expensive perfume was sprayed around the salon just before opening time and several times again during the day. This was to set the tone of the place. Glamour, peace, elegance, a palace with the power to transform all who came in and paid big money.
The tips were good too, and you could work anywhere you wanted to if you had been a few years in Fabian’s. But usually you set up your own place. If you said that you were ‘late of Fabian’s’ people would come to you from far and wide.
Not that I was going to be in a position to set up my own salon. Once I thought I might – and Ian had been behind me all the way, assuring me that I was management material.
But breakfast today had changed everything.
Stop it, Pandora. Smile. Teeth and eyes, Pandora, we are nearly on show.
Pandora is my salon name, and that’s what I think of myself as being while I’m here. At home, I’m Vi. Don’t think of home. Smile, Pandora, the day is starting.
My nine o’clock lady was in the door like a greyhound out of a trap. She came every Thursday without fail, attached almost surgically to her mobile phone. Fabian was very strict about this. He only allowed phones that vibrated to show there was someone looking for you. No ring tones to disturb the other clients.
My smile was nailed to my face. Her conversation was quickfire and one way; she wanted agreement, nods of affirmation and acknowledgement, all in the right place.
You couldn’t let your mind wander here and so no thoughts of Ian and his guilty, shifty account of where he had been last night was allowed room in my head.
The nine o’clock lady was always in a lather about some aspect of her work. Some fool had done this, some idiot hadn’t done that, some bloody courier had been late, some bloody sponsor had been early. Rossmore was the boondocks of the world. All that was needed was immense sympathy, a litany of soothing sounds – and speed. The nine o’clock lady had to be out screaming at a taxi at nine-forty-five.
My nine-thirty lady had been shampooed and was deep in a magazine story about Princess Diana.
‘It’s a shame they can’t let her rest, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Do you have anything else about her that I could read, do you think?’
She was a regular also, trying out a different style every week until she found the perfect way to look at her daughter’s wedding which was going to be a huge affair. The nine-thirty lady had not been invited to get involved in the planning of it all. There was a wedding organiser. Nothing in her whole life had ever hurt her so much. Her only daughter had turned her back on her on this the most important day of her life. Mighty soothing was called for here also. Huge reassurance that it had been a kindness rather than a rejection on the daughter’s part. Useless bleatings that it gave her much more time now to concentrate on her own hair, her own outfit, her own enjoyment of the day. The nine-thirty lady had wanted to be in the centre of it, fussing, bossing and driving everyone mad.
‘Don’t marry, Pandora,’ she warned me as she left. ‘It’s never worth it, believe me, I know.’
I had told her many times in answer to her absent-minded questioning that I was married, to Ian. But she didn’t remember, and as Fabian said, we mustn’t expect them to remember anything about us. They are centre stage when they come in here. We are just a well-groomed, charming set of props. Certainly not the occasion to tell her that she was spot on about marriage. It was indeed, judging by the way this morning was going, far from worth it.
The ten o’clock was an out-of-town person who had seen a write-up of Fabian’s in a magazine. She had come to the town to get fabric for soft furnishings. She had decided to have a hairdo as well. No, nothing new, thank you, she knew what suited her, like she knew what fabrics she needed. The tedium and monotony of her life seeped all over me. I wondered: if possibly my life with Ian was at the moment anxious and unsettling, it might be better than the living death that the ten o’clock lady seemed to be living.
My ten-thirty was a model. Well, actually she was a glamour model, for a photo catalogue for underwear, but she called herself a model. S
he was nice actually, she came in every six weeks to have her roots done.
‘You look a bit peaky today,’ she said.
I suppose it was good that she even saw me, most of them didn’t. But to be seen and identified as peaky wasn’t good. It was a funny phrase, something people said in British soap operas to someone who was about to die or who was pregnant or getting dumped.
Peaky.
Not a good thing to look. I hoped that Fabian hadn’t heard. I smiled more brightly than ever, hoping to beat off whatever dull, dead sort of vibes I must be giving out.
‘I know, I know. I have to smile like that every night,’ the ten-thirty said sympathetically. ‘Sometimes I feel like a big bawling session and that’s when I have to smile most.’
She was very kind, interested and made me think she cared. I’m sure she’s very good at her job, making ladies feel confident about lingerie – I bet they all confide things to her at her work because she sounds interested in other people. I looked around to see whether Fabian was in earshot. We had strict rules about not burdening the clients with our own personal problems.
‘It’s just my husband, I think he’s seeing someone else.’
‘Believe me, he is,’ she said, applying her lip liner.
‘What?’ I cried.
‘Sweetheart, I work for a place that is packed to the gills every night with people’s husbands getting the catalogues just to ogle over them. That’s what husbands do. It’s not a problem unless you make it into one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Listen to me – I know this, they like to look at the pictures and chat up birds. They don’t want to leave their wives. They’re not sorry they married them, it’s just that they hate to think that it’s all over and that they are missing out on whatever else is on offer. They sometimes feel that they’ve been filed away under “Married Man”. Cross-reference, “Dull Man”. A sensible wife would make nothing of it; the problem is a lot of them make a great, useless fuss about it – weakening everything as a result.’
I looked at her in amazement. How did she get such wisdom? This woman whose modelling name was Katerina but who was probably called Vi, like myself at home.
‘You mean, put up with infidelity and cheating and pretend it isn’t happening? You seriously mean that?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, in a way I did mean that, for a bit anyway, until you know definitely it’s true – and even if it is you must know definitely if it’s going to be the end of the world if he has a bit of a whirl. Soon it could be nothing but a confused memory.’
‘But suppose it’s not just a bit of a whirl. Suppose he really does love her and not me. What happens then?’
‘Well, then he walks,’ said Katerina. ‘And there’s nothing any of us can do. I’m just saying that the very worst scenario is to make a fuss now. Right?’ She looked as if she had finished with the subject so I went on to autopilot again, got her hair rinsed and blow-dried it to perfection. As she left she gave me a big tip.
‘You’ll survive, Pandora, see you in six weeks,’ she said and glided like a lithe panther out of the salon.
‘Your eleven o’clock lady not in yet, Pandora?’ Fabian had a control of the salon that would have been envied by any military leader in a war room. He knew what was going on, or not going on, in every corner. Together we looked at the appointment book. New client. A Ms Desmond. It meant nothing to either of us.
‘Find out how she heard of us, won’t you, Pandora?’ he said, on the ball about work twenty-four hours a day.
‘Yes, of course, Fabian,’ I said automatically.
Actually I would spend the time trying to find out how this had happened, my five-year-old marriage to Ian unravelling.
First I had accidentally seen the bracelet in his drawer. ‘For my darling, to celebrate the new moon, all my love, Ian.’ I had no idea what he meant. We hadn’t seen any new moon together recently or that I could remember at all.
But it might be referring to something that was about to happen. I checked the diary: there would be a new moon on Saturday next. Possibly he was going to take me away somewhere to celebrate it. I wouldn’t spoil the surprise. But there was no mention of an outing on Saturday, instead the rather depressing news that Ian would be away for the weekend on a conference. Still it didn’t dawn on me. I must be very foolish. Thick? Trusting? Apply which word you choose.
But last night Ian was very late home from the office and I went to bed at eleven because I was exhausted. I woke at four and he still wasn’t back. Now this was worrying. He has a mobile phone, he could have called me. I tried calling him but he had the phone on voicemail. But at that very moment I heard his key in the door. I was so angry with him that I decided to pretend to be asleep and avoid a row. He took ages to come to bed, but I never opened my eyes. At one stage he went to his sock drawer and took out the bracelet. I opened my eyes just wide enough to see him smiling at the engraving and then he put it away. Deep in his briefcase.
Ian always left the house earlier than I did. It took him ages to get to work in his car but he needed it for work. And for who knew what else? He could only have had three hours’ sleep. He asked me what time I had gone to bed.
‘Eleven o’clock, I’m afraid I was dropping. What time did you come back?’ I asked.
‘Oh, early hours of the morning, you were sleeping so very peacefully I didn’t want to wake you. Such a bloody great fuss on at the office …’
‘Still, think of all the overtime,’ I reassured him, trying to force the suspicion out of my mind.
‘Not sure they’ll pay anyway and listen, love, I have to go away for the weekend, there’s a conference, bit of an honour really – I suppose I should be pleased but I know it’s your weekend off so I’m so sorry.’ He put on his little-boy face that I used to find endearing. Until this morning when I found it sickening.
He was having an affair.
Lots of things fitted into place now. I had made a list of all these things when he left.
I had an hour before I needed to go out myself but I did not feel like washing up after Ian’s breakfast, cleaning Ian’s house, preparing Ian’s dinner. I put on my coat and headed out the door as soon as I heard his car leave. I got on the first bus that came to the stop. It wasn’t going to the part of Rossmore where Fabian’s was but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get away from the house where I had once been so happy. Once. But it was now like a prison.
The bus stopped at the far edge of Whitethorn Woods and then was going to turn round and go back to wherever it had come from. Like a zombie I walked up through the woods. People said that they were going to be dug up to make a new road but that might just be a rumour. Anyway if the woods did go it would be nice to have a look at them now.
I walked on fighting back the sick feeling of dread in my chest, the feeling that it was all over and Ian loved someone else. Some horrible, scheming girl.
He had been taken in by her, bought her a bracelet and was going to see the new moon with her.
I had followed the wooden signs to the well. We used to come here when we were kids but I hadn’t been since. Even at this early hour there were people praying. An old woman with her eyes closed. Two children with a picture of someone, their mother probably, asking for a cure. It was unreal and kind of sad.
Yet, I thought, now that I’m here, it can’t do any harm. I told St Ann the situation. Quite simply. It was amazing what a short story it was really. Boy loves girl, boy finds other girl, first girl heartbroken. There must have been thousands and thousands of similar stories told here.
I didn’t feel any sense of hope or anything. In fact I felt a bit foolish. I didn’t know what I was asking her.
To afflict this new woman with some awful illness maybe? St Ann wouldn’t do that.
To change Ian’s mind, really, I suppose that’s all I wanted.
Then I walked briskly to the gates of the woods and caught a bus to work.
I travelled with a grim face i
nto Rossmore and all morning I kept remembering more damning proof of the affair. The way he had refused to go bowling last week – normally he couldn’t be kept away from it. How he had changed the subject twice when I asked him to do a business plan on buying that corner newsagents near us out in our suburb which was for sale and making it into a salon.
‘Let’s not be too hasty,’ he had said. ‘Who knows where we’ll be in a year or two?’
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted.
‘Your eleven o’clock lady is in,’ one of the juniors called.
Ms Desmond was waiting at the desk. She had a nice smile and she asked me to call her Brenda.
‘What a lovely name, Pandora!’ she said wistfully. ‘I’d love to have been called that.’
Fabian didn’t encourage us to tell clients that these were made-up names, in fact he actively discouraged it.
‘I think my mother was reading an over-fancy book at the time,’ I said, taking the grandeur away from it to reassure her.
I liked this woman. Brenda Desmond handed her coat to the junior and sat down while we looked at her in the mirror.
‘I want to look terrific for the weekend,’ she said. ‘I’m going off to a really gorgeous place in the country to look at the new moon with a new fellow.’
I looked at her reflection in the mirror and told myself that all over this town there were people going away for the weekend with new fellows. It didn’t have to be Ian. My pleasant interested smile was still there.
‘That’s nice,’ I heard myself say. ‘And are you serious about him?’
‘Well, as much as I can be, he’s not entirely free, alas, he says that’s no problem but, you know, it does throw a wrench in the works. Funny phrase, that, I wonder where it comes from.’
‘Probably it’s quite a literal thing, like, you know, if a wrench falls into the works of some machine or is thrown into it, it sort of wrecks the whole machine,’ I said.
She listened, interested.
‘You’re right, it’s probably quite straightforward. Are you interested in phrases and where they come from?’
