Read Online Fire After Dark by Sadie Matthews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sadie Matthews
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latest glossies in front of me. A slender young man in a black T-shirt and with an improbable swoop of blond hair over his forehead talks me through what we might do with my hair. I’ve experimented with colours and cuts in the past but for the last few months, I haven’t bothered. The result is that I have a gradation of colour, from dry straw at the ends to dark mouse at the roots, and any attempt at a style has long since grown out into shaggy ends.
Cedric takes me in hand. With practised ease, he paints my hair with the contents of some little plastic dishes, and folds it into tin foil, then leaves me with a magazine to amuse me while I cook under a revolving neon disc. After half an hour, he passes me on to a girl with delightfully soft hands who rubs and rinses and massages all the chemicals from my scalp and replaces them with something that leaves my hair slippery smooth and smelling of coconut.
Cedric reappears, brandishing scissors. Now it’s time to comb and snip, and he chats away as he lifts long dark ribbons of hair and slashes into the ends with the slender blades. I watch myself in the mirror, wondering what is going to greet me at the end of all of this. When the cutting is done, Cedric sprays my hair with something, picks up his hairdryer and says, ‘How glam do we want to go?’
I look at myself in the mirror and say, ‘Glam.’
In my mind, I’m meeting Mr R for dinner. Tonight, he doesn’t want that woman I’ve seen him with. Tonight, he’s going to see me and gasp. ‘Are you the girl from Celia’s apartment?’ he’ll say, amazed, unable to believe his eyes. ‘That little girl from the fifth floor opposite my flat? But you’re . . . you’re . . .’
I’m lost in a happy dream as the dryer roars around me, burning the tips of my ears bright red and singeing my scalp. Cedric is busy now with a spiky brush, rolling my hair hard, pulling it tight, blasting it with hot air and then releasing it with a twisting movement that leaves behind a loose ringlet. When he’s worked his way all around my head, I have a halo of golden, glimmering waves. He sprays hairspray into his palm, rubs his hands together and then scrunches my hair, smoothes it, pulls it back and releases it. I have a long bob, a fringe that sweeps down over my face and falls seductively over one eye. It’s a rich, shimmering gold.
‘Do you like it?’ asks Cedric, stepping back, putting his head to one side and examining his work critically.
‘It’s . . . beautiful,’ I say, a little choked. I’m remembering what I looked like only very recently, when I stared in my bedroom mirror after a fit of crying over Adam, and saw a lank-haired, puffy-eyed, dull-skinned girl with nothing left of her sparkle. She seems very far away now and I’m relieved to see the back of her.
Cedric smiles. ‘I’m thrilled, babe. I knew I could make something of you. Now . . . apparently you’re due on the ground floor. You’ve got some make-up and nails coming your way.’
I don’t care, I don’t care what it costs, I think recklessly as I hand my debit card over at the till. They’re all being so lovely to me. They don’t have to, but they are. And it’s bloody fantastic.
When my lift arrives on the ground floor, I feel like royalty. Someone is there to meet me and take me over to the make-up counter that’s been selected for me. Then a whole other session begins. A young make-up girl, looking old beyond her years in the store uniform and the obligatory pancake-thick cosmetics, gets to work. She moisturises my skin, applies serum and sprays my face with ionised liquid, then begins with tinted moisturisers, foundations and secret concealers. All the while, she murmurs compliments about my skin, my eyes, my lashes, my lips. It’s all I can do not to believe that I’ve somehow become one of the most beautiful women on earth, but even while I retain a healthy scepticism, it’s a seductive feeling.
Colours are applied to my brows,
Cedric takes me in hand. With practised ease, he paints my hair with the contents of some little plastic dishes, and folds it into tin foil, then leaves me with a magazine to amuse me while I cook under a revolving neon disc. After half an hour, he passes me on to a girl with delightfully soft hands who rubs and rinses and massages all the chemicals from my scalp and replaces them with something that leaves my hair slippery smooth and smelling of coconut.
Cedric reappears, brandishing scissors. Now it’s time to comb and snip, and he chats away as he lifts long dark ribbons of hair and slashes into the ends with the slender blades. I watch myself in the mirror, wondering what is going to greet me at the end of all of this. When the cutting is done, Cedric sprays my hair with something, picks up his hairdryer and says, ‘How glam do we want to go?’
I look at myself in the mirror and say, ‘Glam.’
In my mind, I’m meeting Mr R for dinner. Tonight, he doesn’t want that woman I’ve seen him with. Tonight, he’s going to see me and gasp. ‘Are you the girl from Celia’s apartment?’ he’ll say, amazed, unable to believe his eyes. ‘That little girl from the fifth floor opposite my flat? But you’re . . . you’re . . .’
I’m lost in a happy dream as the dryer roars around me, burning the tips of my ears bright red and singeing my scalp. Cedric is busy now with a spiky brush, rolling my hair hard, pulling it tight, blasting it with hot air and then releasing it with a twisting movement that leaves behind a loose ringlet. When he’s worked his way all around my head, I have a halo of golden, glimmering waves. He sprays hairspray into his palm, rubs his hands together and then scrunches my hair, smoothes it, pulls it back and releases it. I have a long bob, a fringe that sweeps down over my face and falls seductively over one eye. It’s a rich, shimmering gold.
‘Do you like it?’ asks Cedric, stepping back, putting his head to one side and examining his work critically.
‘It’s . . . beautiful,’ I say, a little choked. I’m remembering what I looked like only very recently, when I stared in my bedroom mirror after a fit of crying over Adam, and saw a lank-haired, puffy-eyed, dull-skinned girl with nothing left of her sparkle. She seems very far away now and I’m relieved to see the back of her.
Cedric smiles. ‘I’m thrilled, babe. I knew I could make something of you. Now . . . apparently you’re due on the ground floor. You’ve got some make-up and nails coming your way.’
I don’t care, I don’t care what it costs, I think recklessly as I hand my debit card over at the till. They’re all being so lovely to me. They don’t have to, but they are. And it’s bloody fantastic.
When my lift arrives on the ground floor, I feel like royalty. Someone is there to meet me and take me over to the make-up counter that’s been selected for me. Then a whole other session begins. A young make-up girl, looking old beyond her years in the store uniform and the obligatory pancake-thick cosmetics, gets to work. She moisturises my skin, applies serum and sprays my face with ionised liquid, then begins with tinted moisturisers, foundations and secret concealers. All the while, she murmurs compliments about my skin, my eyes, my lashes, my lips. It’s all I can do not to believe that I’ve somehow become one of the most beautiful women on earth, but even while I retain a healthy scepticism, it’s a seductive feeling.
Colours are applied to my brows,
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