Read Online Playing Around by Gilda O'Neill - Free Book Online
Authors: Gilda O'Neill
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look all right.’
‘I’d have looked a sight better, if you’d have got up in time and helped me get ready, like you said you would.’
‘It’s too late to worry about that now. Let’s just get in there and get on with it.’
As Jackie urged her friend forward, herding her like a sheep reluctant to enter the dip, a petite, expensively dressed blonde in her thirties pushed straight past them, pulling off her linen coat as though she was in a hurry to be dealt with.
‘See,’ hissed Angie. ‘She’s like something out of a magazine.’
‘A ten-year-old magazine,’ sneered Jackie, giving Angie a shove. ‘Now just get in there.’
As Jackie corralled her friend between her and the desk, she leaned forward – she hoped, casually – to listen to what the heavily made-up receptionist was saying to the haughty-looking blonde. It needed a bit of effort, as she was competing with the salon’s sound system that was belting out Sandie Shaw’s ‘Long Live Love’.
‘Welcome to Michaelton’s,’ she made out the receptionist growling, in a not altogether perfected version of the Mockney accent that had become quite the thing amongst nice young ladies from the Home Counties. ‘I’m Dusty. Do you have an appointment?’
Angie, Jackie and ‘Dusty’ watched – respectively alarmed, fascinated and bored – as the woman’s smile slipped from her lips as fast as raspberry sauce dripping off a 99 cornet in a summer heatwave and was replaced with a hard-faced scowl.
‘Are you a Saturday girl?’
Dusty studied her blue-painted nails. ‘Yeah.’
‘I see. That’s why you don’t know me.’
Slowly, Dusty raised her glance to meet the woman’s. ‘Can’t say as I do.’
‘I’m Mrs Fuller. Sonia Fuller. Terry sees to me personally. I don’t usually come in at the weekend, I—’
‘You mean you haven’t got an appointment.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Sonia sucked in her cheeks, stared about her as if she were about to explode, then leaned close to Dusty and spat through her even white teeth: ‘Call Terry. Tell him I’m here.’ Then she straightened up, and flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘Now.’
‘Sorry, Terry’s in the New York salon all this week. I’m surprised you didn’t know.’ With that, she looked straight past Sonia and flashed a friendly smile at Jackie. Angie might as well have been invisible. ‘Welcome to Michaelton’s. I’m Dusty. Do you have an appointment?’
Before Angie could object, Dusty and Jackie had whisked her past the now puce-faced blonde to the basins for her consultation with a stylist, who was described as a junior, but whose skills would have set her apart as positively senior in the place where Angie had her usual twice-yearly trim.
But this was Michaelton’s, hairdressers to the trendy, the famous, and the absolutely gorgeous; the place where Dusty worked on Saturdays for a pittance – after a full week’s slog in an office in the Tottenham Court Road – all in the hope that she would get spotted by a photographer collecting one of his girlfriends. And then she would start appearing in her rightful place: the front cover of every fashion magazine in Europe. It had happened to at least two girls already. Maybe three. Everyone knew that.
Dusty loved Michaelton’s, and she loved having one over on rich, snooty old cows like
Sonia Fuller
, who couldn’t cope with not being nineteen any more. And what a neat revenge this was: a little girl coming up to Kensington for the day from the suburbs being seen immediately, while she,
Sonia Fuller
, got a knock back. Dusty only wished she could have made a real show by taking the boring-looking kid straight over to Terry. That would have been perfect.
‘Terry left a note that Miss Knight here was to be made a special fuss of,’ Dusty had lied loudly over her shoulder in the direction of Marcie, the junior stylist, making sure that Sonia, who was struggling back into her linen coat, could hear
‘I’d have looked a sight better, if you’d have got up in time and helped me get ready, like you said you would.’
‘It’s too late to worry about that now. Let’s just get in there and get on with it.’
As Jackie urged her friend forward, herding her like a sheep reluctant to enter the dip, a petite, expensively dressed blonde in her thirties pushed straight past them, pulling off her linen coat as though she was in a hurry to be dealt with.
‘See,’ hissed Angie. ‘She’s like something out of a magazine.’
‘A ten-year-old magazine,’ sneered Jackie, giving Angie a shove. ‘Now just get in there.’
As Jackie corralled her friend between her and the desk, she leaned forward – she hoped, casually – to listen to what the heavily made-up receptionist was saying to the haughty-looking blonde. It needed a bit of effort, as she was competing with the salon’s sound system that was belting out Sandie Shaw’s ‘Long Live Love’.
‘Welcome to Michaelton’s,’ she made out the receptionist growling, in a not altogether perfected version of the Mockney accent that had become quite the thing amongst nice young ladies from the Home Counties. ‘I’m Dusty. Do you have an appointment?’
Angie, Jackie and ‘Dusty’ watched – respectively alarmed, fascinated and bored – as the woman’s smile slipped from her lips as fast as raspberry sauce dripping off a 99 cornet in a summer heatwave and was replaced with a hard-faced scowl.
‘Are you a Saturday girl?’
Dusty studied her blue-painted nails. ‘Yeah.’
‘I see. That’s why you don’t know me.’
Slowly, Dusty raised her glance to meet the woman’s. ‘Can’t say as I do.’
‘I’m Mrs Fuller. Sonia Fuller. Terry sees to me personally. I don’t usually come in at the weekend, I—’
‘You mean you haven’t got an appointment.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Sonia sucked in her cheeks, stared about her as if she were about to explode, then leaned close to Dusty and spat through her even white teeth: ‘Call Terry. Tell him I’m here.’ Then she straightened up, and flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘Now.’
‘Sorry, Terry’s in the New York salon all this week. I’m surprised you didn’t know.’ With that, she looked straight past Sonia and flashed a friendly smile at Jackie. Angie might as well have been invisible. ‘Welcome to Michaelton’s. I’m Dusty. Do you have an appointment?’
Before Angie could object, Dusty and Jackie had whisked her past the now puce-faced blonde to the basins for her consultation with a stylist, who was described as a junior, but whose skills would have set her apart as positively senior in the place where Angie had her usual twice-yearly trim.
But this was Michaelton’s, hairdressers to the trendy, the famous, and the absolutely gorgeous; the place where Dusty worked on Saturdays for a pittance – after a full week’s slog in an office in the Tottenham Court Road – all in the hope that she would get spotted by a photographer collecting one of his girlfriends. And then she would start appearing in her rightful place: the front cover of every fashion magazine in Europe. It had happened to at least two girls already. Maybe three. Everyone knew that.
Dusty loved Michaelton’s, and she loved having one over on rich, snooty old cows like
Sonia Fuller
, who couldn’t cope with not being nineteen any more. And what a neat revenge this was: a little girl coming up to Kensington for the day from the suburbs being seen immediately, while she,
Sonia Fuller
, got a knock back. Dusty only wished she could have made a real show by taking the boring-looking kid straight over to Terry. That would have been perfect.
‘Terry left a note that Miss Knight here was to be made a special fuss of,’ Dusty had lied loudly over her shoulder in the direction of Marcie, the junior stylist, making sure that Sonia, who was struggling back into her linen coat, could hear
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