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who’s a hairdresser who’ll give you a great cheap cut.’
    I couldn’t even remember if I’d ever been to a hairdresser in my life. Gran had always cut my hair when I was a child. In adulthood I had let it grow long and straight, just occasionally trimming the ends myself in front of a mirror. But I was a woman, albeit one who had missed out on so much, and I was sorely tempted. Eventually, against my better judgement, I allowed myself to be persuaded.
    An hour later I was sitting in a leather chair at the extraordinarily named Fair-dos salon, while Mariette’s friend, a striking redhead called Chrissy, snipped away alarmingly, and Mariette set to work on my make-up. I was beyond protesting by then. Two hours later I gazed in the mirror at a different human being.
    My hair was several inches shorter, layered and gelled so that it kind of stuck out round my face. Hard to describe, but I had to agree with Mariette that it did seem to suit me. My lips were more or less the same colour as my new suit, I appeared to have had a cheekbone transplant and my eyes looked about two sizes larger than they had before.
    â€˜Go on,’ said Mariette. ‘Put on the new suit and shoes, and let’s have a look at you.’
    Obediently – I was thoroughly enjoying myself by then, by the way – I took my carrier bags into the loo and changed into my new outfit. When I emerged, teetering a little unsteadily on my platforms, Chrissy and Mariette both applauded, and Mariette emitted a loud and vulgar wolf whistle.
    â€˜Why don’t you keep it on,’ she suggested.
    I lurched back into the real word. I had a feeling it was not a good idea to confront Carl so unexpectedly with my total transformation. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
    â€˜Go on,’ encouraged Mariette, apparently reading my mind. ‘There’s not a man in the world who wouldn’t be bowled over. Carl’ll love it, you’ll see.’
    The three of us trailed off to a nearby pub and shared a bottle of white wine. I felt sure everybody would stare at me in my new orange suit, but of course nobody did. Given some courage by this and the wine, probably, I finally agreed to keep the outfit on. I should have known better.
    Carl called down to me from our upstairs room when I arrived home.
    â€˜Don’t come down, I’ll come up,’ I called back. ‘I’ve something to show you.’
    But as I started to clump up the stairs I tripped over my strange new shoes and almost fell backwards. I recovered myself without injury, but not without making a terrific noise. By the time I reached the top of the stairs Carl was standing there looking at me.
    I was still on a bit of a high. I smiled and threw my arms open wide. ‘What do you think?’ I asked, doing a kind of twirl for him.
    He didn’t show any anger. He didn’t shout. He didn’t say I looked like a tart. He didn’t say anything like that. He just looked disappointed and a bit sad. ‘I think you look like somebody else,’ he said eventually.
    â€˜You d-don’t like it?’ I stuttered.
    â€˜What’s to like?’ he asked mildly. ‘I can barely recognise you.’
    I felt terrible. I went straight downstairs to the bathroom, kicked off the silly shoes and scrubbed every vestige of make-up off my face. I combed down my hair and flattened it against my head, making it look as long and as much the way it had before as possible. Then I took off the tarty orange suit and let it fall carelessly on to the floor. There were a pair of jeans and a sweater in the airing cupboard. I put them on and went back upstairs to Carl.
    He smiled at me and touched my cheek. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I know who you are again now. It’s you I love, Suzanne. Not some creature created by your friend Mariette.’
    And that was that. He hadn’t liked Mariette’s make-over, that was for