Читать книгу Death and the Dancing Footman - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 16

Through the office window of the Salon Cyclamen Hersey Amblington watched two of her clients walk off down the street with small steps and certain pert movements of their sterns. They paused outside the hated windows of the Studio Lisse, hesitated for a moment, and then disappeared through the entrance.

‘Going to buy Lisse Foundation Cream,’ thought Hersey. ‘So that’s why they wouldn’t have a facial.’ She turned back into her office and was met by the familiar drone of driers, by the familiar smells of hot hair, setting lotion, and the sachets used in permanent waving, and by the familiar high-pitched indiscretions of clients in conversation with assistants.

‘– long after the milk. I look like death warmed up and what I feel is nobody’s business.’

‘– much better after a facial, Moddam. Aye always think a facial is marvellous, what it does for you.’

‘– can’t remember his name so of course I shall never see them again.’

‘Common woman,’ thought Hersey. ‘All my clients are common women. Damn that Lisse. Blasted pirate.’

She looked at her watch. Four o’clock. She’d make a tour of the cubicles and then leave the place to her second-in-command. ‘If it wasn’t for my snob-value,’ she thought grimly, ‘I’d be living on the Pirate’s overflow.’ She peered into the looking-glass over her desk and automatically touched her circlet of curls. ‘Greyer and greyer,’ said Hersey, ‘but I’ll be shot if I dye them,’ and she scowled dispassionately at her face. ‘Too wholesome by half, my girl, and a fat lot of good “Hersey’s Skin Food” is to your middle-aged charms. Oh, well.’

She made her tour through the cubicles. With her assistants she had little professional cross-talk dialogues, calculated to persuade her clients that the improvement in their appearance was phenomenal. With the clients themselves she sympathized, soothed and encouraged. She refused an invitation to dinner from the facial, and listened to a complaint from a permanent wave. When she returned to the office she found her second-in-command at the telephone.

‘Would Madam care to make another appointment? No? Very good.’

‘Who’s that?’ asked Hersey wearily.

‘Mrs Ainsley’s maid to say she wouldn’t be coming for her weekly facial tomorrow. The girls say they’ve seen her coming out of the Studio Lisse.’

‘May she grow a beard,’ muttered Hersey, and grinned at her second-in-command. ‘To hell with her, anyway. How’s the appointment book?’

‘Oh, we’re full enough. Booked up for three days. But they’re not as smart as they used to be.’

‘Who cares! I’m going now, Jane. If you should want me tomorrow, I’ll be at my cousin Jonathan Royal’s, Highfold, you know.’

‘Yes. Lady Hersey. It looked as if the Lisse was going away for the weekend. I saw her come out of the shop about half an hour ago and get into Dr Hart’s car. I wonder if there’s anything in those stories. She had quite a big suitcase.’

‘I wish she’d had a pantechnicon,’ said Hersey. ‘I’m sick of the sound of the wretched woman’s name. She may live in sin all over Dorset as long as she doesn’t include Highfold in the tour.’

The second-in-command laughed. ‘That’s not very likely, Lady Hersey, is it?’

‘No, thank the Lord. Goodbye, Jane.’