every occasion. She needed their reassurance. A compliment from a woman didn’t count.
“Everything okay with Joe?” Kate asks suddenly.
Actually, he is booking hotel rooms without telling me and I have good reason to suspect he’s having an affair. But I can’t say anything. I’m not entirely convinced that, with misguided well meaning, Kate wouldn’t try to interfere. “Fine.”
Kate’s face drops, a flash of disappointment. In a blink, I get it. She wants other people to be having difficulties, too. There’s nothing worse than being the only one who’s sinking.
“Things could be better,” I clarify. “We’re both very tired.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she says, looking slightly relieved. “Things could be better with me and Pete, too.”
“Nip in and take your trousers off,” shouts the beautician.
“See you in a sec, Kate. And thanks.”
The door of BEAUTY ROOM NO. 1—I can’t see any others—is painted a pale peppermint green, the color of a maternity-ward toilet. There are no windows. The walls are grubby, sprayed in parts with wax and other unidentifiable substances. There are scummy bits of equipment on trolleys, a beige electrolysis machine that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the seventies, scary steel instruments languishing in cups of purple liquid, lotions in big industrial bottles, labeled by beauty companies I’ve never heard of. The stretcherlike bed is covered in white kitchen roll; beneath it is a dog bowl. I kick off my trousers, clamber onto the bed, and lie there shivering under the strip lighting. I seem to have to wait for an eternity. I’ve forgotten the etiquette. Do I say, “ready”?
The door swings open. The old woman under the hairdryer looks straight into the room, straight between my legs. I close them and give her an embarrassed smile. “Hi, I’m Trish,” growls the beautician. “Right. Let’s have a look, then. Been here before?” She leaves the door slightly ajar.
“Ages ago.”
“Hmmm, can see that.” She runs nicotine-tipped fingers down my hairy shins, glops the wax onto her plastic spatula, and spreads it on my legs as if they were toast. Argh, searing pain!
“It’ll cool,” she says, violently ripping the wax off my legs with bandage strips.
“Ugh!” She pulls at my rogue thigh pubes with tweezers. “Done! That’s a bit better, no?” She squints at her work, then shamelessly stares at my crotch. “That’s not going to get his pulse racing.” Yes, there are pubes curling over the knicker elastic. “Bikini line?”
For a moment I am tempted, but can’t face the thought of Trish’s yellow fingers rooting around down there. Besides, it’s not really necessary. No one will see it. “Not today.”
“Suit yourself.” Trish walks away. A fluff of dog hair wakes behind her slipper. I jump off the bed. My legs are covered in livid red pimples and a sticky residue of wax. But they are hairless. First bit of Project Amy done! I get dressed.
“
Sans
hair!” I throw open the door. But Kate and Evie are not there. The dogs growl at me as I walk over to the window.
“Oi, missy, that’s fourteen pounds, please.”
“Sorry, just trying to locate my baby.”
Trish drums the counter impatiently. I pour change out of my purse and give her a pound tip because I don’t dare not. Where the fuck is Kate? The dogs frenziedly start barking: Kate backs into the salon with the pram, pushing the door open with her bottom.
“Where have you been?” I say, relieved and cross.
“Evie started crying so we went for a little walk.”
“Oh, right.” But I know Evie didn’t cry. The beauty room door was ajar and I can distinguish her cry in a room full of babies. But I let it go. Because that’s just Kate. And sometimes she likes to pretend that Evie is hers.
Ten
JOE GETS BACK FROM WORK EARLY. A CLIENT CANCELED .
“You’ve just missed Kate,” I say. “She’s been trying to get a hold of you.”
“Kate? She’s
“Everything okay with Joe?” Kate asks suddenly.
Actually, he is booking hotel rooms without telling me and I have good reason to suspect he’s having an affair. But I can’t say anything. I’m not entirely convinced that, with misguided well meaning, Kate wouldn’t try to interfere. “Fine.”
Kate’s face drops, a flash of disappointment. In a blink, I get it. She wants other people to be having difficulties, too. There’s nothing worse than being the only one who’s sinking.
“Things could be better,” I clarify. “We’re both very tired.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she says, looking slightly relieved. “Things could be better with me and Pete, too.”
“Nip in and take your trousers off,” shouts the beautician.
“See you in a sec, Kate. And thanks.”
The door of BEAUTY ROOM NO. 1—I can’t see any others—is painted a pale peppermint green, the color of a maternity-ward toilet. There are no windows. The walls are grubby, sprayed in parts with wax and other unidentifiable substances. There are scummy bits of equipment on trolleys, a beige electrolysis machine that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the seventies, scary steel instruments languishing in cups of purple liquid, lotions in big industrial bottles, labeled by beauty companies I’ve never heard of. The stretcherlike bed is covered in white kitchen roll; beneath it is a dog bowl. I kick off my trousers, clamber onto the bed, and lie there shivering under the strip lighting. I seem to have to wait for an eternity. I’ve forgotten the etiquette. Do I say, “ready”?
The door swings open. The old woman under the hairdryer looks straight into the room, straight between my legs. I close them and give her an embarrassed smile. “Hi, I’m Trish,” growls the beautician. “Right. Let’s have a look, then. Been here before?” She leaves the door slightly ajar.
“Ages ago.”
“Hmmm, can see that.” She runs nicotine-tipped fingers down my hairy shins, glops the wax onto her plastic spatula, and spreads it on my legs as if they were toast. Argh, searing pain!
“It’ll cool,” she says, violently ripping the wax off my legs with bandage strips.
“Ugh!” She pulls at my rogue thigh pubes with tweezers. “Done! That’s a bit better, no?” She squints at her work, then shamelessly stares at my crotch. “That’s not going to get his pulse racing.” Yes, there are pubes curling over the knicker elastic. “Bikini line?”
For a moment I am tempted, but can’t face the thought of Trish’s yellow fingers rooting around down there. Besides, it’s not really necessary. No one will see it. “Not today.”
“Suit yourself.” Trish walks away. A fluff of dog hair wakes behind her slipper. I jump off the bed. My legs are covered in livid red pimples and a sticky residue of wax. But they are hairless. First bit of Project Amy done! I get dressed.
“
Sans
hair!” I throw open the door. But Kate and Evie are not there. The dogs growl at me as I walk over to the window.
“Oi, missy, that’s fourteen pounds, please.”
“Sorry, just trying to locate my baby.”
Trish drums the counter impatiently. I pour change out of my purse and give her a pound tip because I don’t dare not. Where the fuck is Kate? The dogs frenziedly start barking: Kate backs into the salon with the pram, pushing the door open with her bottom.
“Where have you been?” I say, relieved and cross.
“Evie started crying so we went for a little walk.”
“Oh, right.” But I know Evie didn’t cry. The beauty room door was ajar and I can distinguish her cry in a room full of babies. But I let it go. Because that’s just Kate. And sometimes she likes to pretend that Evie is hers.
Ten
JOE GETS BACK FROM WORK EARLY. A CLIENT CANCELED .
“You’ve just missed Kate,” I say. “She’s been trying to get a hold of you.”
“Kate? She’s
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