Читать книгу The Great Christmas Knit Off - Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 15

Inside, I stand for a moment to take it all in. The scent from an enormous Yankee candle, called Christmas Cookie, floats over from a side table giving a glorious festive welcome to the room. There’s an elegant mink suede chaise longue running the length of one wall that’s covered in framed photos, stills from Lawrence’s stage performances by the looks of it, and a cosy log burner set in the centre with a tiled hearth surround and a pavé chandelier hanging from an exposed beamed ceiling, bathing the room in a glittery sheen. Wow, it’s a pretty impressive hair salon – the Tindledale villagers are very lucky indeed. No need to get the bus, on the hour, every hour, to Market Briar when they can trundle down the lane for a cut and blow dry with Lawrence. And reasonably priced too – there’s a laminated list on the wall and it’s only £35 for a full head of highlights!

The entire length of the opposite wall houses a clothes rack crammed full of costumes for the Tindledale Players, I presume. Agatha Christie-style Thirties silk dresses and fur stoles, Jersey Boy crooner suits and puffy prom dresses – they’re all here. There’s even a plastic watermelon hanging on the end of the rack in a big Cellophane bag.

‘Dirty Dancing! We did the musical in summer 2010.’ Lawrence informs me as I instinctively cup both hands around it.

‘I carried a watermelon!’ I say, and we both laugh.

But seriously, it’s like having a Hollywood dressing room in your back bedroom. A large, open-shelved cupboard is stacked full of shoes, hats and all kinds of fluffy, puffy-looking accessories. In the corner is a sink, a proper hair salon one, the kind you can lie back in to have your hair washed before wafting over to sit in front of the enormous gilt-edged mirror framed in a circle of miniature light bulbs. A shiny glass shelf on the wall to the side of the mirror houses a dozen polystyrene mannequin heads, each displaying a different, seriously big, bouffant-style wig. And the biggest collection of lash extensions I think I’ve ever seen: every conceivable colour, design and sparkly type lash imaginable. Crazy Horse, Paris … eat your heart out; this is serious show girl territory. Moving towards the costumes, I let my fingers trace a line along the exquisite fabrics as I walk the length of the rack.

‘This is amazing.’ My eyes widen and my pulse quickens.

‘Why thank you.’ Lawrence laughs and waves a dismissive hand in the air. ‘Now, settle yourself down and let’s sort your hair out first. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s looking a bit, hmm, well, snowswept.’

‘Is that next up on the scale after windswept?’ I laugh, lifting a limp wedge of sausage curls away from my face.

‘Yes, something like that. I can wash and style it for you if you like. I’m a trained stylist with years of experience – good job too as it was something to fall back on when the acting work dried up, and I used to own a hair salon, many moons ago. That was before I grew tired of having to do everything at breakneck speed and retired to Tindledale for some much needed R&R.’

‘In that case I’d love you to, if you’re absolutely sure?’ I can’t remember the last time I went to the hairdresser’s, certainly not since the wedding showdown because I haven’t really felt like it, but it’s different now. ‘But what about your other guests? Don’t they need you?’

‘You need me more right now.’ Lawrence pats a red leather chair by the basin, and I don’t need telling twice. I sit down and he shakes out a black nylon cape before securing it at the nape of my neck, scooping my hair back and turning the hand shower on. ‘How’s the temperature?’ He lets the warm water gently seep from my hairline and down over my scalp, protecting my face with his free hand.

‘Perfect.’ I close my eyes, savouring the relaxing sensation.

‘Hey, are you sure? You look a little anxious, clutching the armrests like that.’ He moves the water away from my head and I open my eyes.

‘Yes, sorry, I’m fine, honestly. This is such a treat, I just didn’t realise – being tense has kind of become second-nature these last few months.’ I release my grip and place my hands in my lap instead.

‘Ah, I see. Well, then try to relax. You’re going to look great, I promise.’ He brushes his hand over my shoulder reassuringly.

Lawrence finishes and wraps my hair up in an enormous sunshine-yellow fluffy towel.

‘Make-up time, and then I’ll blow out your hair,’ he says, leading me over to a chair in front of the mirror. He opens a drawer as I sit down. ‘Now, shall I do the honours or would you prefer to do your own?’ I open my mouth, and then quickly close it again. In the drawer are billions of pots, tubes and tubs of all kinds of lotions, potions and scrubs. I’ve never seen so many beauty products in one place before, except the beauty hall at Selfridges, but even then I reckon Lawrence’s drawer could be a very serious contender on the hugeness scale.

‘Blimey, that’s quite a collection.’ I smile. ‘I don’t tend to wear very much make-up so I’ll just borrow some blusher and a touch of eye shadow, if that’s OK?’

‘Of course, help yourself and I’ll get some tea. Posh or normal?’ he says, his eyes dancing.

‘Er, what’s posh?’ I ask, hesitantly.

‘Well, we have peppermint, camomile, rooibos, Earl Grey and Lady Grey – now that’s really posh.’ Lawrence cocks an expectant eyebrow.

‘Camomile please.’

‘Good choice. Coming right up.’ He takes a bow, laughing as he leaves the room. I take the opportunity to look more closely at the pictures on the wall – they’re mostly of Lawrence in a variety of Shakespearean-looking costumes; velvet and brocade jackets with big billowy sleeves and a serious look on his face, with famous actors such as Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart and Helen Mirren. The last one is him hugging Dame Judi Dench and they’re laughing like they’re best pals. How lovely! Lawrence has obviously had a wonderful career.

Lawrence returns a few minutes later with a silver tray holding a teapot, covered in a lovely spotty pink and purple cosy (handknitted), and two fine bone china cups on saucers. ‘To Sybs, and her mysterious secret admirer,’ he says, pouring the tea and handing it to me before carefully chinking his own cup against the side of mine. I glance up at him. ‘Oh dear, what is it? You’re not going to cry again are you?’ he says, pulling a face to lighten the mood.

‘No, no, of course not,’ I say, sipping at the grassy smelling liquid before glancing away.

‘What is it then?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I lie. So much for my grandstanding and feeling of lightness earlier on; I’m never going to make it through to the end of my year of heartache at this rate. I’m all over the place, upbeat one minute, then miserable for the other twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes in the day. And hot, boiling hot; maybe that’s the lack of sleep sending my hormones haywire. Or perhaps it’s just because I’m exhausted. How on earth do parents with new babies function? If I were the Queen, I’d put them all on the honours list followed by a nice long rest in a super king bed somewhere very, very quiet. Or maybe it’s the menopause, come early, just to hack me off even more.

‘Well, it must be something. Tears before breakfast and now you look like you’re bracing yourself for the first day of an IKEA sale instead of Tindledale’s hottest newcomer. Apart from your good lady self, of course.’ He winks and places his cup back on the tray before pulling up a chair alongside me.

‘Ah, thank you Lawrence.’ I manage a smile. ‘You mentioned a doctor earlier?’ I need some sleeping pills because there’s no way I’m going to make it through the weekend without them. This must be how inmates in dodgy prisons feel after months of sleep deprivation torture, only much, much worse.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not ill are you?’ he says, his face clouding with concern.

‘Well, not exactly, not physically anyway.’ I’m not sure a broken heart counts as an actual illness. ‘I’m just finding it hard to sleep at the moment.’ I take another sip of tea before glancing away.

‘And why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Oh, I, um, I’m not really used to talking about it.’ And it’s true, I’m not. Cher has tried to make me open up, but I didn’t want to drag her down with my self-loathing and angst and perpetual analysing of my disastrous relationship with Luke. I must have gone over and over our time together a trillion times in my head looking for clues, something I missed, or didn’t do, or did do but did it wrong because if I did screw up, then how do I know the same thing isn’t going to happen again? I’ll go mad and be like Miss Havisham, cloistered away, wringing my hands over yet another ruined wedding breakfast! And let’s face it, nobody likes a Debbie Downer, so I figured it was best just to bury all the dark thoughts into my knitting instead of burdening my best friend with the metaphorical wah-wah-wah of a muted trombone sounding out after everything that comes from my mouth.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,’ Lawrence says gently.

‘It’s OK.’ I turn to look at him and take a deep breath. ‘It’s just been this way for quite a long time now …’ I hesitate.

‘Go on.’

‘Um, ever since my boyfriend failed to turn up to his own wedding.’ I smile wryly. ‘To me, I hasten to add.’ I pull a face and take another sip of tea, willing my bottom lip to stop trembling – what am I? Five years old? Sweet lord of heartache, I really need to get a grip, I can’t keep crying all over the place.

‘Ouch. Hmm, I guess that would do it.’ Lawrence tuts. ‘Well, it’s his loss!’ He stands up defiantly. ‘You know, I believe in fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, and him not turning up happened for a reason. And do you know what that reason is?’ He has both hands on his hips now and a resolute look on his face.

‘Er, because he wants to be with my twin sister instead of me?’

Lawrence does a double take, then opens and closes his mouth before swallowing hard and carrying on.

‘Because there’s someone far better out there for you! Now, let’s get your slap on so you can go and find him. Trust me, after you’ve clapped eyes on Adam you won’t need a doctor. Oh no. Unless it’s to resuscitate you after you’ve fainted from sheer lust.’ We both laugh. ‘You know, I met my late partner, Jason, on a blind date. Well, kind of, it was a balmy Sunday evening, standing in line for the Saturday Night Fever wrap party at Studio 54. It was 1978.’ He pauses to take a sip of his tea. ‘Yes, back in the day, this was. Anyway, I couldn’t take my eyes off the vision standing right there in front of me, looking resplendent in peach cord flares and a chest-hugging top. He had that whole Shaft thing going on.’ I frown. ‘Oh, never mind, before your time, I guess. Well, I made a beeline for him on the dance floor. You should have seen it, Sybs. It was sublime – a strawberry-hued mural of the man in the moon, with his very own coke spoon twinkling and glistening under the disco lights. Dancing away making history we were.’ He closes his eyes for a second, looking like he’s savouring the nostalgia. ‘I was very young and naive,’ he offers, by way of explanation as I try and picture the scene in my head. It’s hard; I can’t imagine Lawrence ever being naive, not when he seems so assured and worldly wise. ‘So, after a few too many glasses of Midori, we had a snog and a bit of a fumble on one of the balconies, and then he ended up back at mine testing out my new magenta silk sheets. And the rest really is history. Marvellous.’ He drains the last of his tea before placing the cup back down on the tray. ‘Oh, don’t look so scared – you’ll not end up in Adam’s bed, no, this is the sleepy, quaint little village of Tindledale, not NYC in the hedonistic Seventies. Besides, you’re a far nicer girl than I ever was.’ Lawrence winks, and I take another mouthful of tea.

‘Ha!’ I grin, feeling relaxed; it’s great chatting to him and so nice to just hang out and drink tea – it’s been a while. All of my free time recently has been full of dark thoughts, with Basil and my knitting to keep me company. ‘It seems strange to be talking about dating, when not so long ago I assumed I’d be married by now and, well … that would be that. Sorted. I guess.’ I shrug.

‘I bet it does. But lots of marriages don’t turn out the way they were intended to. You know, Jason had a wife for a while. She lives in Australia now!’ Lawrence says casually.

‘Really? Wow!’

‘Yes, Queensland, which is just so ironic when you think about it.’ He pauses to muse. ‘She went there when he eventually mustered up the courage to jump out of the closet, and confess all. Years ago this was, but she’s happily partnered now to a used-car salesman and they have three gloriously tanned grown up children together – she still sends me birthday cards every year, which is very lovely of her. We’re the best of friends and she was such a comfort to me when Jason went to the big Studio 54 in the sky.’ Lawrence smiles contemplatively.

‘Well … that’s refreshing,’ I say, thinking how incredible Jason’s wife must be and wondering how I might have felt if Luke had turned around and said that he much preferred men to me, after all. Although I actually think that may have hurt less than him jilting me at the altar for my twin sister. I’m convinced the feeling of hurt would have been lessened if he’d left me for a stranger, man or woman, and it still cuts me up inside that my own sister could do that to me. ‘And I’m sorry to hear about Jason. Do you miss him very much?’

‘I do. Every day, but it was inevitable, I guess; he was quite a bit older than me and not in the best of health towards the end. It was very peaceful though and just as he wished, at home with me,’ Lawrence explains. ‘My sadness is for him really, that he didn’t come out sooner and get to live as he truly wanted to for more of his life.’

‘But he had you and your life together. I’m sure that made him very happy,’ I say softly, and Lawrence leans forward to pat the top of my hand. A short silence follows as we both sit with our respective thoughts.

I finish my tea and start dabbing a smoky eye shadow into the crease of my eyelid.

‘Now that’s a perfect colour on you. A touch of mascara, maybe, or how about some Cheryl lash extensions?’ Lawrence asks.

‘Cheryl?’ They sound fascinating.

‘Yes, here. That’s the name of them.’ And he reaches into the box and pulls out a dainty pair of feathery lashes. ‘The nation’s sweetheart – you know, Cheryl Cole, or Fernandez-Versini or whatever her name is now. Exquisite, isn’t she? And a phenomenal performer too – the young girls in the Tindledale Players are always trying to emulate her moves up on the stage of the village hall. But I’m not sure the villagers are quite ready for a panto with added grind just yet. And you’re going to look just like her.’ He smiles.

‘Ha! Hardly.’

‘You’re not a million miles away. Such a cracking figure and pretty face you have.’

‘Yeah, right. Only she’d fit twice over into my body, possibly three times, and I’d need a whole factory full of hair serum to smooth out my bushy barnet,’ I say, wondering again how Sasha, my so-called identical twin, always seems to manage to get her curls transformed into a poker straight and glossy sheet falling down her back with never a hair out of place.

‘Nonsense, don’t put yourself down. Now, do you want to try the lashes? We can always trim them if you think they’re too much.’

‘Er, I’m not sure, I don’t want to look too …’ I pause to choose my words carefully, not wanting to upset him, especially as he’s batting his diamantés at me pleadingly, ‘spectacular,’ I settle on.

‘Wonderful. I’ll just pick out a few for the corners and then you’ll look totally natural. Trust me, you’re going to love it; they’ll be tossing rose petals wherever you walk when I’m finished with you,’ he says in a very grand actorly style voice. Then, chuckling and shaking his head, he busies himself with gathering the equipment together.

‘OK then,’ I nod, with only a hint of apprehension after such a glowing guarantee. But I needn’t have worried; because when I open my eyes and look into the mirror it’s like a mini miracle. My whole face looks open and bright – even my eye bags have practically disappeared. And it feels so good. ‘They’re incredible. And subtle too,’ I tell him. I’m impressed. Grinning at myself in the mirror, I flutter my new lashes admiringly as I turn my head from side to side to get a better look from all angles. Then I reach up and give Lawrence a quick squeeze.

‘Thank you, I love them.’

‘Told you. Now, hair time.’ And he darts around behind the chair, whips the towel from my head and starts combing through. ‘Big?’ he asks, widening his eyes hopefully and holding a length of my hair out sideways, letting the comb hover in mid-air.

‘OK. But not too big, I don’t want to look like Beyoncé about to go on stage as I walk down Tindledale High Street.’

‘Point taken.’

Using a big cylindrical brush, Lawrence funnels the hot air from the hairdryer down and around sections of my hair before teasing the brush free and scooping up another section and repeating the process all over again, each time gathering speed.

‘Voila! How’s that for madam,’ he eventually declares, grabbing a round mirror and holding it behind my back. I twist my head to get a better look, loving how he’s managed to get my bedraggled, snowswept curls cascading in a way I’ve never managed to before.

‘Oh, Lawrence I love it.’ I stand up and give him a hug.

‘It’s nothing,’ he says modestly, ‘as our Chezza says, it’s because you’re worth it.’ He hugs me back and then takes both my hands in his and squeezes them gently. ‘And don’t you ever forget it.’ He pulls a stern face, pretending to chastise me. I look into his eyes, thinking what a lovely, kind man he is. I’m so glad I came to Tindledale – I would never have met him otherwise. Maybe Cher not being here happened for a reason too – not that Lawrence is better than Cher, just different, and exactly what I needed today.