‘Morning.’
I rolled over to feel something soft on the other side of my bed.
‘I thought you said no same-sex experience on the list?’ Emelie
mumbled.
‘If I went gay, it wouldn’t be with you,’ I replied.
Why was Emelie in my bed? Where was Simon? Why did my brain feel
as if it had been taken out, tumble dried without so much as a sheet of
Bounce and shoved back up my nose?
Oh.
Right.
‘It’s too early,’ I rolled back over and mumbled into my pillowcase.
Maybe if I lay face down long enough, I’d smother myself into a coma.
That would be a nice long nap, wouldn’t it? A lovely, lovely coma.
Alternatively, I realized, opening my eyes, I should get up and be with other
human beings as there was every chance I wasn’t terribly mentally stable.
Wishing yourself into a coma isn’t usually A Good Thing. ‘I want a lie-in.’
‘It’s almost ten, that is a lie-in,’ Em said, bouncing up and off the bed like
an Andrex puppy. ‘Today is the first day of your single life. That’s exciting.
Get. Up.’
I felt the sunshine on my face and made a mental note to pick up some
blackout curtains as soon as humanly possible. Silver lining number one.
‘I feel like shit.’ I pushed my legs over the side of the bed, hoping they
would somehow catapult the rest of my body over there. ‘Is this part of
being single?’
Em stretched and nodded. ‘We need to work on your alcohol tolerance.
I’ll put the kettle on, see if he’s up.’
After passing out on the sofa, the rest of last night was a bit of a blur. I
remembered waking up around seven, throwing up again, drinking tea,
ordering a pizza and playing ‘guess who’s going to die?’ when Matthew
turned on Casualty. Afternoon hangovers were the worst. Once it had been
established that I wasn’t going to cry myself to sleep, Matthew and Em had
allowed me to slope off to bed. Still, it made a change from my regular
Saturday rituals of doing the washing, watching DVDs and going down to
Pizza Express early enough to be home for Match of the Day.
Yawning, I combed my hair out of my face and tethered it behind my
head. Was it weird that yesterday had probably been more fun than any
other Saturday in years? Maybe fun wasn’t the right word. It was definitely
the most interesting.
The hardwood floor in my bedroom was never warm, not even when the
sun was streaming in, like it was this morning, but only one foot was cold
as I forced myself to stand up. Glancing down, I saw that was because one
foot was standing on something white. Something soft. I dropped back onto
the bed, releasing the fabric. It was Simon’s T-shirt. It must have got thrown
under the bed during our Friday night sexcapades. Closing my eyes, I held
onto the worn cotton tightly and tried to breathe slowly. The main reason I
hadn’t cried myself to sleep the night before was that I was just exhausted.
My body’s first line of self-defence was to shut down and go to sleep, but
that wasn’t an option today. I was going to have to do something.
‘Do you want shower or tea first?’ Em stuck her head round the door.
‘Matthew’s in there now but you can go next if you want?’
I shoved the T-shirt into my pillowcase and stood a bit too quickly. The
afternoon hangover had definitely become a morning hangover, bleurgh.
‘Shower.’ I was desperate to get out of the room, to put some distance
between me and that T-shirt. ‘Definitely shower.’
Sitting down and drinking tea would inevitably lead to conversation.
Conversation would inevitably lead to talking about Simon. Talking about
Simon would inevitably lead to my brain exploding. I needed a distraction.
A six foot four gay man in a towel wasn’t quite what I was thinking about,
but that was what I found in the living room. And I supposed it was
technically a distraction. Just not as good a distraction as the other thing I
found in the living room. My single girl’s to-do list.
‘Jesus, how much did we drink last night?’ Matthew pinched the bridge
of his nose and leaned his wet hair back against the sofa. ‘Or, actually, all
day? I haven’t felt this shit in ages.’
‘Apparently we need to build up our alcohol tolerance,’ I said, trying not
to catch sight of myself in the mirror. The glimpse of the scarecrow-cumcrypt-
keeper I’d got before I could avert my eyes was bad enough. ‘I don’t
know how she does this.’
I picked up the knackered napkin and took a pit stop on the sofa beside
Matthew. His skin was still hot from the shower and he smelled clean. I
smelled like evil.
‘Planning your bungee jump?’ he asked, eyeing the list.
‘Maybe not today,’ I replied, considering each point. Hmm.
‘We really do have some bright ideas when we’ve had a drink, don’t we?’
Makeover. Exercise. Bungee jump. Tattoo. Date for the wedding.
‘Still, kept you from slitting your wrists – and, you know, avoiding that
in the first twenty-four hours is pretty important.’
Buy something. Write a letter to your ex. Travel. Find your first crush.
Break the law.
‘Are you safe in the shower this morning or do you need a buddy?’
Matthew was still talking. ‘I can see from here your legs need shaving and I
don’t know if you’re safe with a blade.’
‘I’m safe,’ I promised, placing the list on the coffee table and heading
purposefully into the shower. ‘Trust me.’
The mirror was still misty from Matthew’s shower – that boy was always
in there for a lifetime, but one quick swipe with my hand revealed just how
bad my situation was. Straw-like ponytail, dull skin, yesterday’s T-shirt. As
a make-up artist, I was used to scrutinizing faces, looking at every different
angle, settling for nothing less than perfection, but I never turned that same
gaze on myself.
If I was being entirely objective, what did I see? My skin was grey and
dull, my eyes red and swollen and the angles of my face were lost in the
shadows of my hair. My hair … I would never let a model go on set looking
this way. It was horrible. Awful. And Simon loved it. Suddenly I couldn’t
bear the weight of it dragging me down for another second. Without one
more look at the girl with the long blonde hair, I opened the bathroom
cabinet, grabbed the scissors out of the first-aid kit and hacked away at the
ponytail, right underneath the hair tie. When I looked back in the mirror, I
had a pair of scissors in one hand and a two-foot-long ponytail in the other.
‘MATTHEW.’
‘What?’ He peeked through the door cautiously. ‘Are you naked? Is there
a spider? Are you naked?’
I held up both hands as the ponytail holder slipped out of my newly
bobbed hair and hit the floor. My new do fluttered defiantly above my
shoulders. And not in a good way.
‘Oh sweet baby Jesus.’ Matthew slapped his hand over his mouth, eyes a
mirror of mine. Wide, confused and slightly insane. ‘What have you done?
EMELIE.’
I could feel my bottom lip starting to tremble but I couldn’t let go of the
scissors or the hair. And now I’d turned away from the mirror, I didn’t dare
look back.
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered. ‘Have I gone mad?’
‘It’s a bit Girl, Interrupted but it’s fine,’ he said, reaching out for the
scissors. ‘Why don’t you give those to me, Angelina?’
‘Does it look awful?’ I already knew the answer to that.
‘Rachel,’ Emelie appeared behind Matthew. ‘Your hair.’
‘Looks great,’ Putting the scissors on the shelf, high out of my reach,
Matthew took the poor ponytail out of my hand. ‘I’ll just, um, I’ll take this.’
‘I can’t go outside,’ I said in a tiny voice. I was too afraid to touch it, in
case it fell out. ‘I look like a boy. Oh god, I look like Justin Bieber.’
‘He looks like a girl anyway,’ Em said, putting her arm around my
shoulders in a gesture that was both supportive and, ingeniously, kept me
away from the mirror. ‘It’s cute. Really. And you needed a change.’
‘I did need a change,’ I repeated. My head felt so light, as though it might
float up off my shoulders and fly away. ‘It was on the list anyway.’
‘List?’ Em ran her fingers through the ends of my hair. ‘You did this
because of the list?’
I nodded.
‘Riiiight,’ she tugged manically on Matthew’s sleeve.
‘Before you start bungee jumping off the roof, just shower, wash your
hair and get dressed,’ Matthew commanded, patting Emelie’s arm. ‘It’s
going to be OK.’
‘Yes, it’s going to be OK,’ Emelie agreed, poking the ends of my hair.
‘Actually, this will save us a lot of time on blow drying.’
Silver lining number two.
Once I’d showered, shampooed and stopped staring at myself in the mirror,
I slipped into my fluffy towelling dressing gown and prepared myself for
whatever intervention would be waiting for me in the living room. Matthew
and Emelie were sitting silently on opposite ends of the sofa, the napkin
from the night before in between them.
‘So,’ Matthew pointed towards the empty armchair. I sat obediently.
‘You’re taking this list thing seriously, then?’
‘Yes?’ I shrugged. ‘I didn’t realize it wasn’t serious.’
‘You’re really going to do a bungee jump? Even though you’re so scared
of heights I have to come over and change your light bulbs when Simon’s
out?’ Em asked. ‘And you’re actually going to break the law?’
‘Bungee jump or similar,’ I reminded them. ‘And I suppose so, yes.
Somehow. I mean, I’m not going to plan an armed robbery but there must
be something faintly criminal that I can get away with. If it’s on the list, I’m
going to do it. And since you’re responsible for most of these, you’re going
to help me.’
‘Rachel, I have to tell you something.’ Emelie leaned forward and took
my hand in hers. ‘I have never in my entire life been so incredibly proud to
know you.’
Matthew held his head in his hands. ‘As much as I of course second Ms
Stevens’ support, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, it’s not like I
don’t know how hard break-ups can be, but throwing yourself into
something dramatic might be a bit much.’
‘I think I need to throw myself into something a bit dramatic,’ I replied.
‘I haven’t thrown myself into anything even slightly dramatic in a very long
time.’
‘As long as you don’t take such a drastic approach to breaking the law.’
He didn’t look convinced. ‘I don’t want to see the two of you on the news
after a failed bank heist.’
‘We could totally pull off a bank heist,’ Em pouted.
I switched from chair to sofa and wrapped my arms around my best
friends. ‘Which is why I need your help with this,’ I explained. ‘I want to
do this. You’re both right, I’ve never been single, I don’t know how to be
single. I don’t want to walk into my dad’s wedding looking like some feeble
tramp who spent a fortnight listening to Power Ballads ’89 and watching
Bridget Jones’s Diary over and over, crying “that will never happen for me”
and eating ice cream until I lapse into a diabetic coma.’
‘That would be quite dramatic given that you’re not even diabetic,’
Matthew replied. ‘You could just not go to your dad’s wedding. It’s not like
there won’t be another one.’
‘It’s just too tragic that it’s his fourth and I’m not even engaged.’ I ran
my fingers through my short, wet hair. ‘I’m twenty-eight. Everyone’s going
to ask if I turned up alone. And you know my brother is going to appear
with some random slag he’s picked up the night before and everyone’s
going to think it’s charming.’
‘Um,’ Em coughed awkwardly. ‘About your brother.’
‘Not now, Stevens,’ Matthew gave me a sturdy side hug. ‘Right. In that
case, we’ve got a lot of work to do, haven’t we?’
‘We really have.’ I heaved myself off the sofa, catching sight of my hair
in the mirror. ‘We really, really have.’
One of the benefits of being a make-up artist was a wealth of helpful
connections in the beauty world, connections I’d never really taken
advantage of before. But with just a few texts, I’d called in enough favours
to get an appointment at a great salon with a great stylist inside the hour.
Given that Matthew had less than no interest in hair, make-up, clothes or
anything else that happened on or to girls, he’d been left in charge of
clearing Simon’s influence out of the flat: getting the locks changed,
clearing out his stuff and preparing for redecoration. I was on a mission. By
the end of the day, I wanted to feel like a new woman. If he didn’t want me
in his life, I didn’t want him in mine. There was some debate over whether
or not changing the locks was overkill, but the idea of Simon just being able
to let himself in whenever he wanted actually made me feel sick to my
stomach.
Which was more or less the reaction Tina Morgan, hair stylist to the stars
(if you counted the cast of Hollyoaks as stars) had to my hair.
‘Fuckin’ hell, Summers,’ she barked with cigarette-scented laughter as I
dropped down in the styling chair. ‘Who did this?’
‘I did,’ I replied, trying not to regret my decision. I’d known Tina since
college and she was amazing with hair. Her make-up work erred more
towards drunk Pussycat Doll, but when it came to hair? First class.
‘Right, you never did do well in the hair modules, did you?’ She pulled
the strands through her fingers, measuring out the lengths. ‘I’ve been dying
to get my hands on your hair for years. Well, you’ve fucked this up good
and proper, haven’t you?’
It was a shame that her talent was matched with an almost complete
absence of social skills, which I supposed was why she was still curling
WAGs’ extensions in a salon off Regent Street on Sundays, instead of
tending to the A-list in LA. Happily, that was working in my favour today.
White-blonde hair, hot pink lipstick, skintight blue jeans and a mouth the
size of Guernsey. And I was putting myself in her hands.
‘Yes I have, but here’s your chance.’ I took a deep breath and forced the
words out of my mouth. ‘I want a complete change. Do whatever you
want.’
Tina stepped back from the mirror. ‘Anything?’
‘Anything,’ I said, closing my eyes. ‘Just – I want to look good.’
‘One guess,’ she stepped up to the plate. ‘Break-up?’
I bit my lip. ‘Not to be a dick, but I don’t really want to talk. I just want
to look amazing.’
‘As if I’d let you leave here looking any other way.’ She slapped me
round the back of the head. ‘So colour, cut, long, short?’
‘I want to look completely different,’ I said, catching Emelie’s eye in the
mirror behind me. She was totally chatting up one of the other stylists. She
gave me a surreptitious thumbs-up and carried on. Shameless. ‘Just make
me look different.’
‘Oh, this is going to be fun.’ Tina could hardly control the joy in her
voice.
One last look at what was left of my long, blonde hair and I closed my
eyes. ‘Yeah. Everyone keeps telling me that.’
It was another three hours and forty-five minutes of sheer torture before
Tina managed to say something that made me smile.
‘And you’re done.’
Never one to miss an opportunity for drama, she’d had the mirror at my
station covered until she’d decided she was finished. Given how much hair
I’d lost already that day, I had been a little alarmed to see chunks falling all
around me, but not nearly as concerned as I’d been by the variety of colour
processes that had been burning my scalp. My hair had never been exposed
to anything more aggressive than Sun-In before today. I’d always been a
blonde. Not a sexy Brigitte Bardot blonde or anything but definitely blonde.
I wasn’t mysterious enough to carry off brunette and highlights needed too
much attention. What had she done?
‘Can I see?’ I asked, not sure I actually wanted to. If she pulled the towel
off the mirror and my hair was purple, I was going to have to go the full
Britney. Shaved head, trashing her car with an umbrella, barefoot eating
Cheetos in the loo, everything.
‘Ta-da,’ she pulled away the towel with a flourish.
Woah.
My almost waist-length blonde hair had been replaced by a short, red bob
that bounced around my chin. I hadn’t had a fringe since I was a little girl
but now there were long, sweeping strands framing a pair of bright blue
eyes. Were my eyes always this colour? My hair was red. Really, really red.
I looked like someone else. And she looked amazing.
‘No way!’ Em leapt out of the seat she’d been occupying for the last hour
or so while every straight stylist in the place pawed at her in between
appointments. ‘You’re a redhead! Like me!’
‘I’d say you’re more auburn,’ Tina sniffed, still picking up pieces of my
hair and dropping them down by my ears. ‘Sort of drab your hair, isn’t it?’
‘Pouffiasse,’ Emelie remarked with a tight smile.
‘Can I touch it?’ I asked, raising a tentative hand to my new fringe. ‘Is it
permanent?’
‘It is and you can,’ she confirmed. ‘You know what, I’m really bloody
good at my job.’
I had to admit she was right. ‘You are,’ I agreed, eyes locked on my own
hair, a smile spreading across my face. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘You’re going to need to come in for the roots doing about once a month,
same for fringe trims and I’ll show you which shampoo and conditioner you
need …’
Tina continued to outline the aftercare my new hair required but I really
wasn’t listening. I was too busy imagining my new do swishing around
town. Redhead Rachel sipping cocktails at Bourne & Hollingsworth.
Redhead Rachel laughing with friends on Primrose Hill. Redhead Rachel
and her sophisticated date enjoying dinner at … well, somewhere I hadn’t
been before because I’d never been on a date with a sophisticated man.
While she debated with herself over the benefits of a colour-depositing
shampoo over a colour-preserving conditioner, I reached into my handbag
and pulled out the tatty napkin. Makeover. Done. I placed a very large, very
satisfying tick beside Matthew’s scrawl and smiled happily. Genuine
happiness. It felt strange. And nice.
‘Wow. You look amazing.’
Oh. A very handsome man appeared in the mirror at the side of me.
‘Seriously, you look beautiful.’ He reached out to run his hands through
my hair, making me jump. This also felt strange and nice. Behold the power
of the list! A strange, hot man was touching me without prompting! So
what if it was only because he had a vested professional interest?
‘Yuh-huh,’ something that was supposed to sound like a laugh but came
out sounding a little bit more like a sneezing donkey. Always attractive.
I wasn’t good at accepting compliments. It had been a while since I’d had
one that wasn’t from my mum. OK, so he obviously worked here and was
obliged to tell me my hair looked nice, but still. ‘I looked shit before.’
‘OK then.’ His smile faltered slightly. Well, this was only stage one of
the transformation. Fail.
‘I think you look stunning.’ Emelie sidled up to him, slipping her hand up
his arm and putting on her best Bambi eyes. ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?
Doesn’t she look as though she was born to be a redhead?’
‘She does.’ The light reappeared in his eyes at Em’s touch. How did she
do that? How did anyone flirt successfully? It really was a mystery as to
how I’d ever snagged Simon in the first place. Oh wait a minute, no it
wasn’t. Wedding reception, open bar, awkward snog and then, before I
really knew what was happening, we were watching EastEnders at his
parents’ house on Christmas Day. One of my friends was going to have to
stop being so bloody selfish and get married soon or I’d be stuck telling hot
hairdressers I looked shit until some middle-aged divorced neighbour took
pity on me and marched me down the register office.
I went back to marvelling at my hair while Em flirted with Hot
Hairdresser, leaving Tina to fuss around with the ends of my new do.
‘Seriously, Tina, thanks so much.’ Standing up was challenging, after
three hours on my arse. My legs felt like jelly. ‘If there’s anything I can do
for you, just let me know.’
‘Actually,’ she tapped glossy navy blue nails against her fuchsia lips,
‘there is something. Dan Fraser. You two are big mates, aren’t you?’
I wrinkled my nose. Ooh, even that looked cute with my new hair. More
like a playful minx and less like a truffle pig. ‘I wouldn’t say big mates, but
we work together a lot.’
‘You’ve got his number though? He never answers on Facebook.’
I genuinely couldn’t cover up my surprise. ‘You want Dan’s phone
number?’
‘I want more than his phone number,’ she replied. Ew. ‘I’ve had my eye
on that for years, but whenever I’ve managed to get a job with him, he’s
been in a serious relationship.’ She stuck her fingers down her throat and
gagged. ‘Criminal.’
What was the polite way of telling the woman who’d just totally
transformed your hair for free that Dan Fraser hadn’t had a girlfriend in the
six years I’d known him, serious or otherwise. Mostly because he was too
busy shagging every model stupid enough to fall for his lines.
Unsurprisingly that was quite a lot of models.
‘Yes. He has had a number of very serious girlfriends.’
If in doubt, lie.
‘But I just thought, you know, fuck it. May as well send him a text
outlining exactly what I’m offering. Nothing to lose at this point.’
Oh dear god, she was disgusting. I needed to be more like this.
‘Right. Despite his very serious girlfriends?’
‘I heard he was shagging Ana now. That can’t be serious, can it? She’s a
right slag.’ She pulled the smock from around my shoulders. My T-shirt
looked so sad next to my fabulous new hair. ‘More of a slag than me.’
‘Yeah, she is,’ I waited for Tina to be offended. I’d have been waiting a
long time. ‘She’s a massive slag.’
At last, something that wasn’t a lie.
‘So you’ve got his number?’ Tina raised an eyebrow and pulled an
iPhone out of her back pocket. Against my better judgement, I took out
mine and read out Dan’s number. I knew I felt bad for facilitating this, but I
wasn’t sure for whom. Tina, who was going to get shot down, or Dan, who
was going to have to do the shooting. All I knew was that I really wanted to
listen in on the phone call.
‘I think maybe the Ana thing might be a bit serious, so don’t get – you
know – upset if he doesn’t reply.’ It was the best I could do without
screaming ‘you deluded cow’ in her face. ‘And he’s not very good at
replying to texts.’
Aaand right back to the lies.
‘You could always put a good word in for me,’ she suggested. ‘Tell him
how amazing I am.’
‘Why not?’ Redhead Rachel was a natural. I’d already started lying, may
as well carry on.
Hot Hairdresser was giving Em his card, presumably not to organize a
shampoo and set, and Tina was already busy texting Dan while I stood
quietly in the corner, clutching my bag and hoping the popular girls would
hurry up. Oh dear god, it was Year Ten all over again. Except this time I had
a bright red bob instead of Sun-In streaks. This was a vast improvement.
‘All right, bye then.’ I gave Tina an awkward half-hug and grabbed hold
of Em’s hand. ‘Thanks again.’
‘You can be my bridesmaid.’ She fluffed up my hair one more time. ‘As
long as you’ve never shagged him, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
I had more chance of marrying Dan than she did. Matthew had more
chance of marrying Dan than she did.
Regent Street on a Sunday. Usually, central London at the weekend was my
idea of torture, but this time every single bum-bag-wearing tourist was just
another admirer, put on Earth to give my hair a second glance. Those lucky,
lucky people. I skipped through the crowds, Emelie pulling me along as she
scooted off to some undeclared destination. After a couple of busy minutes,
she dragged me down a considerably quieter side road, just off Carnaby
Street.
‘Dude, that hairdresser was totally into you.’ Em wrapped her arms
around my neck, after we’d found a few feet of space to claim as our own.
‘Didn’t you think he was cute?’
‘Yes,’ I breathed in deeply, trying to get the scent of hair dye out of my
lungs. ‘But I didn’t know what to say. And he was only talking to me to get
to you, anyway.’
‘Whatever.’ She jumped on my back in a half-piggy-back. Which was
difficult given that she was at least four inches taller than me. ‘You need to
get more confidence. That hair does not blush at hot men and fade into the
background. It doesn’t wear baggy-kneed leggings and drink cheap white
wine in The Lexington.’
I looked down at my regulation leggings and T-shirt uniform. She had a
point. Oh dear god, there was going to have to be shopping.
I was terrified of shopping.
‘Even if we just get you a pair of jeans?’ Em bargained.
Jeans were the hardest thing! Nothing was designed to destroy your selfesteem
like the purchase of new denim unless you were six feet tall and a
size zero.
‘Rach, the hair wants new clothes.’ She placed a convincing hand on my
arm. ‘It wants pretty things. It wants to have fun. Your outfit wants to go
back to some sort of eastern European country and eat potatoes. Do you feel
good about that?’
‘There does seem to be a bit of a mismatch.’ I caught the coppery tones
out of the corner of my eye. My hair was red. ‘Maybe a tiny little mini bit
of shopping? But not jeans.’
Before she could reply, I spotted a not-at-all unattractive man nudge his
not-at-all unattractive friend and give us the eye. Men! Men were looking at
us! And not a man who was contractually obliged to compliment me on my
hair just because he worked in the salon where it had been coloured!
‘Right, this is happening then,’ she linked her arm through mine. ‘I’m
fairly certain that list of yours says complete transformation You look
amazing. You look like cocktail dresses, dirty martinis and never paying for
dinner. I like.’
‘Who knew hair could say so much?’ I asked, checking it out in a shop
window. Yep, still there. Still red. As was the amazing azure blue silk shift
dress staring back at me on the other side of the glass. ‘Em, my hair says it
wants that dress.’
‘Yes it does,’ Em agreed. ‘And who are we to say no to it?’
Stepping inside the store was like travelling back in time. My experience
of shopping in central London was usually limited to a smash and grab
through M&S’s lingerie department, a speedy spin through Topshop or
standing outside Primark while Emelie took one for the team. I wasn’t
qualified for Primark. This place was something else. Rows of beautiful
block colours lined one wall while the other was covered in a million
different patterns, each and every one of them glistening silk or crinkling
crinolines. It was clearly vintage heaven. And if I was out of my depth in
Primark, I wasn’t even experienced enough to cross the threshold of this
place. Nope, I told myself, daring to press a finger against a delicate lace
glove hanging elegantly out of a battered old suitcase. Old Rachel would
never have come in here. New Rachel would totally come in here. Which
made a lot of sense given that I was actually already inside and someone
was going to have to rein in Emelie and her overspending.
‘Everything is so beautiful.’ My mother had always been a huge advocate
of the ‘look but don’t touch’ school of shopping when said shop did not
have visible price tags. This was such an establishment, but I just couldn’t
keep my mitts off the beautiful, beautiful things. ‘I just want all of it.’
‘The hair has spoken.’ Em held up a gorgeous sky blue dress. It looked
like silk, square neckline, sleeveless, tiny fitted waist and a flirty flared
skirt. It was the kind of dress a girl who always curled the ends of her hair
would wear. A girl who matched her handbag to her shoes. In other words,
any girl who wasn’t me. ‘Try this on.’
‘Can I open a fitting room for you?’ The girl I’d just described in my
head appeared from nowhere and took the dress from Emelie. Resplendent
in a coral polka-dot wrap dress, Mary Jane shoes and white ankle socks, she
gave us both a grin and nodded for us to follow. ‘Are you looking for
anything in particular?’
‘Everything,’ Em answered before I could open my mouth. ‘We’re in the
middle of a bit of a style overhaul.’
‘I just coloured my hair,’ I added. ‘I’m just looking to try some new stuff,
dresses aren’t usually my thing.’
‘We’d better get to changing that quickly then.’ The shop girl opened a
large wooden door and shooed us inside the changing room. Not that you
could really call it a changing room; it was like walking onto a set, all duckegg
blue walls, three huge freestanding mirrors and a pair of overstuffed
chaise lounges. My hair was perfectly at home but oh my, how my outfit let
me down. I looked back at the dresses hanging outside the changing room.
How was this bigger than the entire rest of the shop? It was like a fashion
Tardis. ‘You’ve got a great shape for vintage, everything tends to run a little
bit small. Let me pull some pieces. Just dresses?’
‘Anything you think would work.’ My heart raced at the idea that being a
short-arse would be paying off for the first time ever, and at the sight of all
the different colours being pulled from the racks out front. For someone
who only really wore monochrome, this was like taking couture LSD. I saw
ice blues, pale yellows, jade greens, stripes, spots, florals and solids, all
coming my way.
‘Most of these are vintage.’ Shop Girl transferred the outfits from her
arms to the hanging rail in my changing boudoir. ‘But there are a couple of
new pieces as well. There’s nothing too out there, it’s all very wearable, I
promise.’
Apparently she could see the fear in my eyes.
‘I’ve just never worn anything so pretty before,’ I blushed. It was
shameful. ‘I don’t know when I’d wear it.’
Shop Girl looked as if she understood. Or at least as if she really wanted
to make a sale.
‘Every day when I get dressed, I think, what do I wish would happen
today? And I dress for that. I’d never forgive myself if Johnny Depp walked
by and asked me to join him in Monte Carlo for the weekend and I was
wearing jeans. I would totally get over being in the queue for a lottery ticket
in high heels.’
You couldn’t argue with the woman, really.
‘I’ll be outside, give me a shout when you’re done.’ She closed the door
behind her and left me and Emelie alone to play dress-up.
‘Get this one on before I buy it first.’ Em threw the sky blue silk at me.
‘It might be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.’
Disappearing behind the curtain and trying not to be too ashamed of my
old underwear, I slipped into the new dress. The sensation of the cool silk
against my skin combined with the sight of my bouncy bob in the mirror
was enough to draw out a gasp. The dress was beautiful. My hair was
beautiful. My big dark circles and dull skin were not beautiful. But still.
‘Oh Rach.’ Emelie stuck her head around the curtain. ‘You look like a
girl.’
‘Thanks,’ nothing like a backhanded compliment to make you bounce up
and down with joy. ‘I feel like a girl. It’s weird.’
But some sort of girl-instinct kicked in and, before I knew it, I couldn’t
stop twisting backwards and forwards at the waist, making the dress flare
and kick out. I was like a little girl in her birthday frock. Not that my
mother had ever put me in a birthday frock for fear of me scratching out her
eyes. Even though I was the older sibling, I’d spent most of my childhood
in Paul’s hand-me-downs. Jeans were much more practical for climbing
trees and riding bikes. It was a mystery to everyone how I’d ended up as a
make-up artist. Made total sense to me; I’d been living vicariously through
my models for years but now I was done with vicarious living. Time to give
actual life a go.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said to the mirror as much to Emelie. ‘I just can’t
imagine wearing it.’
‘What’s to imagine?’ She snapped a pic with her phone. ‘You’re wearing
it. Now take it off and get the yellow one on.’
Emelie and the world’s best shop assistant had a point. Just because I’d
never worn a dress down to Tesco before didn’t mean I couldn’t start now.
Probably wouldn’t pop down to the post office in the floor-length emerald
green silk gown Em was admiring at that second, but I could see myself
chowing down on a tuna niçoise at Pizza Express in this cute little sundress.
‘Oh, look at you,’ Shop Girl reappeared at the door. ‘Betty and Joan all
rolled into one.’
‘We’re not doing Mad Men references right now.’ Em drew a finger
across her throat. ‘But you’re so right.’
Betty and Joan all rolled into one? That was a lot of pressure on a girl
who wasn’t even a Peggy twelve hours ago. The stress must have registered
on my face.
‘Try on the stripes.’ Shop Girl pointed at a black and white number
hanging on the rail. ‘Your friend and I can pick out some shoes.’
Without even knowing, she’d used Emelie’s magic word. That girl would
leave me to burn in a fire at the first sniff of a kitten heel. Alone for the first
time since I’d GI Jane’d myself, it was strange not to have the buzz of
reassuring chatter around me. And it was even stranger to see myself with
new hair, a new dress, a new look in my eyes. Time for another professional
appraisal. The hair certainly looked better and the dress really did fit me
wonderfully. The full fitted skirt was sympathetic to the Christmas weight
around my thighs (Christmas weight I was still carrying around in August)
and gave me a waist that really wasn’t there. The colour, a pale dandelion
yellow decorated with tiny white swallows, was so delicate, and the fitted
bodice, with its tiny little tie-up straps, would really only work on someone
who didn’t have much in the way of boobs, e.g. me. At last, a reward for
suffering the nickname ‘Two Backs Summers’ all through Year Eleven. I
could honestly say, in this dress, I looked pretty. And since the biggest
compliment I could pay any of my old outfits was ‘I’m not naked’, that
pretty much meant I was sold. On pretty much everything.
A couple of hours and one awkward conversation with the credit-card
company regarding ‘unusual activity’ later, Emelie and I fell through my
front door, heavy on shopping bags and light on cash.
‘What do you want to do now?’ Em asked, cheeks flushed with the fever
of her own spending spree. ‘Dinner?’
‘Nope,’ I yelled from the hallway. ‘Matthew, bin bag.’
Without stopping to take off my shoes, I marched straight into the
bedroom and pulled open my wardrobe door. I was a woman on a mission.
Jeans. T-shirts. Baggy jumpers. Old dresses that were too big, too small or
just OK. Not a single thing I’d want to be seen out in should I run into Ryan
Reynolds down the post office. Which meant they all had to go in the bin.
Where was the point in chopping my hair off, going red, buying enough
new dresses to clothe India and then falling back into old, sloppy,
knackered habits? With one swoop, I scooped all my old clothes into the
bag Matthew was holding open, before moving on to the drawers. I didn’t
flinch once. There wasn’t a single item that tugged at my heartstrings and
begged to stay. Nothing sentimental, nothing so pretty it begged for a
second chance. Every single item accepted defeat gracefully. It didn’t take
long before everything baggy and saggy and slightly grey was gone,
replaced by a rainbow of pretty dresses, each and every one worthy of an Alist
lover. It was a miracle.
In the living room, Matthew had worked a miracle of his own. By the
time Emelie and I arrived home, the locks had been changed, all of the
photos had been taken down and every single thing of Simon’s was stashed
in bin bags in the basement. If only he was down there with them. It was
impressive; the place was spotless. Turned out I actually owned a vacuum
cleaner. You learn something new every day …
‘You really do look great.’ Matthew made me do one more spin in the
last outfit of my impromptu fashion show before patting the seat next to
him on the sofa. I really didn’t want to sit down: my new hair had made me
slightly hyper. ‘I love it.’
‘It’s not too Cheryl after the divorce?’
‘Not even,’ he reassured me. ‘You feel all right?’
‘Good actually.’ I looked around the room trying to work out what had
been hidden away. It was strange, like playing that party game when your
mum takes something away from the tray and you have to remember what’s
gone but you can’t see it, you just know something is missing. ‘Honestly,
really good.’
‘Hold that thought,’ he lied. ‘So, while you were out, Simon called.’
And just like that, I felt like shit again.
‘Did you speak to him?’ I tucked my hair behind my ears. Dress schmess.
‘He wasn’t really up for a chat.’ He immediately brushed my hair out
from behind my ears. ‘He wants you to give him a ring.’
‘Right.’
I peered down at my shoes. I needed new shoes to go with my new hair.
And a new boyfriend to go with my new shoes. And we’d fall madly in
love, get engaged and have a baby and then bump into Simon at a mutual
friend’s barbecue and he would realize what a mistake he’d made because I
was so wonderful and then he would throw himself off a bridge. Now who
could I get to have a barbecue?
‘You don’t have to call him,’ Matthew interrupted my fantasy. ‘I could
call him. Or you can just text him or something.’
‘Or I could call him and tell him what a massive bastard he is,’ Em
shouted from the kitchen. I could hear the kettle whistling already. She was
ever so good. ‘Please let me call him.’
‘No, I can do it,’ I stood up. And sat back down. And stood up again. ‘I
can call him.’
There was no question as to whether I physically had the ability to call
him, but the mental strength? Turned out to be something else altogether.
As I dialled the number, I started to feel a little bit sick. But it had to be
done. Not calling him now I knew he’d been in touch meant it would just be
hanging over my head. My pretty red head. I could do this. Redhead Rachel
could absolutely do this. Emelie delivered my cup of tea and Matthew sat
beside me on the sofa, a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder. It was only a
phone call. Just because the last words we’d exchanged were during
awkward break-up sex that I’d thought was awkward reunion sex at the
time, why would this be strange?
‘Simon speaking.’ He answered, as always, on the second ring.
‘S’me.’
Eloquent to the last.
‘Rachel?’
My voice was a little bit quieter than I would have liked but I wasn’t
crying. Because I had red hair. Redheads didn’t cry. Probably.
‘Yep, Matthew said you called?’
If only we had videophones. He couldn’t even see how amazing I looked.
Actually, this was an iPhone, we did have videophones … could I still hang
up and call back?
‘I can’t actually talk at the moment,’ he sounded tired. ‘I’m busy now. I
called you an hour ago.’
‘Well, we could maybe get a coffee later or something?’ I replied before I
lost my nerve. That’s what people who weren’t about to slash their wrists
because their boyfriend had callously abandoned their five-year relationship
did, wasn’t it? Coffee. Coffee or gin. Or whiskey. Mmm, whiskey.
‘Or a drink?’
‘Tonight?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Tonight.’ Was it me, or did he sound a bit annoyed?
‘Can’t. Busy.’ Definitely sounded a bit annoyed.
This was an interesting turn of events.
‘Right, because Matthew said you wanted me to call you back.’ I tried to
control my increasing rage. Redheads had fiery tempers; this absolutely was
not my fault. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll email you tomorrow, I’m at the cinema,’ he hissed. ‘And I’m going
away on this work thing tomorrow so it’ll be the afternoon probably.’
He was at the cinema? He was at the bloody cinema? He had run out on
me and stolen my toothpaste and now he was at the cinema? Couldn’t help
but wonder what he was seeing.
‘I don’t want an email, I want you to talk to me.’ Red Rum. Red Rum.
‘What is going on, Simon?’
‘Look, I’m hanging up,’ he upgraded from a bit annoyed to pissed off. ‘I
just wanted to stop round and get some stuff but it’s a bit bloody late now.
There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about?’ Ooh, that was a bit shrill. ‘Five years
together, you suddenly up and decide you’re done with it and there’s
nothing to talk about?’
‘Rach, we’re not getting back together,’ he replied. ‘There’s no point
trying to get me out for a drink, thinking I’ll change my mind and come
home. So just give it a rest.’
I was actually lost for words.
But Simon clearly wasn’t. ‘I’m twenty-nine. I don’t want to “talk about
it”,’ he ranted. For someone who didn’t want to talk to me, he seemed to
have a lot to say right now. ‘I don’t want to go to Sainsbury’s because it’s
Saturday; I don’t want to have tea with your mum because it’s Monday, and
maybe, I don’t want to get married, knock out two kids and die from
complete and utter boredom. Now I’ve got to go, I’ll email you tomorrow
or we’ll talk when I get back.’
I hung up before he could and handed my phone to Matthew.
‘What a knob.’ Matthew tightened his grip on my shoulder. ‘What a
complete and utter knob.’
‘Calm down, Matthew, he can’t talk, he’s at the cinema,’ I replied with
bitter sarcasm.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I could call back but he’d probably
just turned his phone off. I could go to every cinema in London and check
every single screen until I found the bastard, but then what? Obviously
there was always physical violence but I’d heard that was never the answer.
Even if it did feel like it would give me some degree of satisfaction.
‘I know what to do.’ Em passed me a cup of tea and a bottle of Jack
Daniel’s. I held both for a moment. Whiskey was the last thing I needed but
I’d seen Mad Men. Or at least some of Mad Men. Redheads didn’t drink tea
when they were angry, they drank whiskey. ‘Get your laptop.’
I pulled out my ancient MacBook, inherited from Paul two upgrades ago,
and passed it to Em before alternating sips of tea and bourbon. Hmm,
interesting. Tennessee Tea. Probably wouldn’t catch on.
‘Matthew here has done a fabulous job of getting all knob-head’s stuff
out of the flat but now it’s exorcism time.’
‘Are we going to burn his stuff?’ I asked hopefully.
‘We’re not going pyro just yet.’ She opened up the computer and brought
up Facebook. ‘We’re going to erase him.’
‘You’re going to kill him?’
‘Not quite,’ she replied. ‘You’re going to wipe him out of your digital
existence. You don’t want to be logging in and seeing his face every two
seconds. Oh. Ah.’
‘What’s up?’ Tetley’s and Jack Daniel’s actually went together better than
I’d expected.
‘He’s sort of beaten me to it.’ She turned the screen to face me.
Simon Mitchell is no longer listed as being in a relationship.
Simon Mitchell is now listed as single.
I couldn’t stop staring.
‘He’s changed his relationship status on Facebook?’ I said. ‘What is he,
fourteen?’
‘You’ve got quite a lot of messages.’ Matthew pointed to the little red
icon at the top of the screen. ‘Maybe we need to go on a bit of a PR
offensive.’
‘No.’ Another swig. ‘I’m not lowering myself. I just want him gone.’
‘Done and done.’ Em started tapping away at the keyboard.
It was one thing for him to want to break up with me; it was another
thing for him to tell the entire internet. It was just so final, so public. Surely
I should be allowed to tell people in my own time? Now 417 people had all
been told that I’d been dumped without my knowledge. I hadn’t even told
my mum. Bloody Facebook – and to think I’d enjoyed The Social Network.
Clearly Mark Zuckerberg was the devil. Why was there no official rule
about this? Or at least an episode of Sex and the City? There was an episode
about what to do when your boyfriend has skid-marks; there should
definitely be one about this. It’s not as if they achieved anything else in the
second movie – surely ten minutes could have been spent clarifying what
happens when your boyfriend tells the entire internet that he’s finished with
you. Carrie Bradshaw, you selfish cow.
‘What can we do?’ Matthew asked softly.
It took me a moment to realize that the strange raspy sound I could hear
was my own breathing.
‘Not a lot anyone can do, is there?’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m just going to have to
get on with things.’ One more swig. ‘And get drunk.’
Forty-eight hours ago I’d been a blonde with a boyfriend. Now I was a
redhead with a drinking problem. By Saturday, I was set to be a bald
smackhead.
Amazing.
By the time I’d calmed down, Emelie had removed any and all traces of
Simon from my computer. Matthew had blocked his number from my
mobile and I was drunk. Em had said I needed to build up my alcohol
tolerance.
‘I need to go to bed,’ I announced, halfway into the third episode of
Come Dine with Me. ‘I have work in the morning.’
‘Me too.’ Em rubbed her forehead, looking a little the worse for wear.
She’d really gone above and beyond and joined me in the Jack Daniel’s
fest. ‘I have a meeting. Somewhere. About Kitty Kitty lunchboxes. I really
should go home and get some clothes.’
Matthew was reading text messages on his phone and pulling a
concerned face. I knew better than to ask who they were from and what
they were about. I rarely ever felt better for the graphic detail he was happy
to share.
It hadn’t even occurred to me that Emelie hadn’t actually left my side
since Saturday morning. Matthew as well. If I hadn’t been feeling so shit,
I’d be feeling pretty lucky.
‘You don’t have to stay, either of you.’ I barrelled into her, face first, with
a massive hug. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t have work – if she’s leaving, I’m staying.’ Matthew looked at
me, looked at his phone and then back at me. ‘You’re stuck with me
tonight.’
‘I do love you.’ I clambered across Em to give him a hug all of his own.
‘You’re both amazing.’
‘True,’ he said, ruffling my hair. ‘It’s definitely bedtime for you though,
red.’
‘I have red hair,’ I said, rolling off his lap into a graceful pile on the floor.
‘It’s pretty.’
‘And tomorrow you’re going to have a hangover.’ He picked me up and
carried me off into the bedroom. If only he were my lovely boyfriend and
not a giant homosexual. Sob. ‘What time do you need to get up?’
‘Dan’s collecting me at ten,’ I said with a hiccup. ‘S’fine.’
‘I’ll get you up at nine then.’ He deposited me on the bed and kissed me
on the forehead. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Night,’ I whispered to the empty room. All I wanted to do was sleep.
Sleep and have the room stop spinning. I rolled onto my front and shoved
my face into the pillow. My fingers found the soft edges of Simon’s
abandoned T-shirt and curled around it, holding on tight. This would be the
first night I was actually sleeping alone. I mean, Simon hadn’t been in my
bed before Friday for weeks, but he hadn’t moved out. His things were
there even if he wasn’t. I’d never felt alone. The bed had never felt so big
and cold and empty. These were the things I was going to have to get used
to. Going to bed alone. Getting up alone. Remembering to buy loo roll
because no one else would. All my single friends complained about these
things endlessly but I’d never given them a second thought. Food shopping
stopped being a trolley full of ingredients just waiting to become a
wonderful shared meal, and instead became an embarrassing Ben & Jerry’s,
Lean Cuisine for one basket full of shame. There was no one to drive you to
the doctor’s. You missed endless movies because you had no one to go
with. Not that singledom had slowed Simon’s movie-going habits down.
Accepting that sleep wasn’t coming any time soon, I turned on the
bedside light and grabbed my handbag from its home on the back of the
bedroom door. The bag had been my mum’s in the Eighties. It was electric
blue, slouchy leather with an endless number of pockets and ridiculously
long shoulder strap that meant it bounced around my knees when I walked.
Emelie hated it. Matthew once referred to it as a transsexual horse’s
nosebag. I loved it. I had ever since my dad had given it to my mum for
Christmas when I was four. It had gone in the loft after the divorce, along
with everything else that meant bad memories, but she’d finally handed it
over two years ago during an epic clear-out and I hadn’t let it out of my
sight since. It might have helped if my sight had been a bit clearer at that
exact moment. I swung the bag off its peg with more momentum than
necessary, succeeding in not only getting the bag free but also knocking
myself in the nose and flat on my back across the bed into the bargain. I
should probably stop carrying around three different books in there when I
blatantly wasn’t reading any of them.
‘Bugger,’ I muttered, pressing my palm against my eye.
The pain slipped away quickly, either because it wasn’t as bad a knock as
I thought or because I’d drunk half a bottle of bourbon – either way, I
opened my eye and peered inside my bag. Inside, safely tucked away in one
of the many zippered pockets, was my list. As far as I could tell, I had two
options. I could lie here in the dark, drunk and depressed, and ultimately cry
myself to sleep, or I could remind myself that I wasn’t a hopeless, boring
loser. Or, at least, that I didn’t have to be.
There was something a little sordid about changing your life based on
notes scribbled on a wine-stained napkin but, right at this second, it was
either Simon’s T-shirt or Rachel’s list. And, to be fair, I’d had my life
changed for me already. This was just a case of taking control. Today the
hair, tomorrow the world.
I took my phone from the nightstand and quickly snapped a photo of
myself in all my red-haired glory. God bless the iPhone 4 and its frontal
camera. Why was I even so upset? Hadn’t I cut off my hair today? Hadn’t I
coloured it red? Hadn’t I called Simon without breaking down and begging
him to come back to me? I wasn’t boring. I wasn’t whatever he thought I
was. With one last hiccup, I pulled Simon’s T-shirt out from under the
pillow and tossed it to the end of the bed. Tomorrow, it was going in the bin
with all the rest of the rubbish. Clutching the list to my chest, I lay back and
closed my eyes. I’d fall asleep eventually, I just had to lie here and …
No comments:
Post a Comment