Читать книгу Treacherous - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 10

Hayley’s phone lay on the polished counter covered with bits of blue hair. She had never felt so uncomfortable in her life and was silently castigating herself for making this appointment. God only knew what it was going to cost.

She finally found the courage to look in the mirror, and then sneak a peek over her shoulder where the master was plying his trade. Frederick, hair stylist to the rich and famous, was a blur of flying hands and scissors. Hair fluttered everywhere in a cloud of multicoloured curls, and was immediately swept up by an assistant dressed all in black.

Frederick was flanked by two more black-clad assistants, hands behind their backs, leaning this way and that with his every move. They could have been watching a tennis match, she thought.

He was finally behind her. Ready to do her hair. ‘If you must have blue hair in future, please promise me you will have a professional colour it for you. You are lucky not to be bald.’

All Hayley could manage was a nod. She was grappling with the image in the mirror. She hardly knew herself. The blue tint which she had so carefully applied to her hair was gone, replaced by her own colour, auburn. She hadn’t seen it in years.

The long tangle of messy hair that she thought of as her trademark was gone. In its place was a pixie cut, which one of the assistants was now coaxing into place with a round brush and a blow dryer. Anne Hathaway on a bad day, she decided, thinking of the actress. She was also fighting the urge to burst into tears and run away from this place.

‘Very chic! Very you,’ the famous hairdresser said, although Hayley had never met him before, and he had no idea who she was.

Frederick’s fingers were flying through her hair now that the assistant had finished his work. He smoothed it, then spiked it, then messed it up completely, and called it perfection.

‘You have something special to do today, yes?’ the hairdresser asked.

In spite of herself, Hayley blushed. ‘Maybe. Yes. I’m going to see a friend, a man. I haven’t seen him in a long time.’

‘You love this man.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Oh, no!’ Hayley was adamant. ‘Nothing like that. He’s a friend, as I said.’

He laughed. ‘I am French. I know such things! And when he sees you today, he will love you back.’ Frederick made a little bow, and, trailed by his entourage, floated off to the next client.

Hayley had frequently Googled Luke and knew he was still single, knew he had no significant relationships. She stared at herself in the mirror and dared to hope.