“Your hair.” She makes a face.
“Oh, right.” I touch the bleached patch with a grimace. “I meant to get it done at the weekend—”
“You’re having it done now,” she cuts across me. “My super hairdresser’s here.”
“Now?” I stare at her. “But … I’ve got vacuuming to do.”
“I’m not having you walk around like a fright anymore. You can make up the hours later. Come on. Annabel’s waiting!”
I guess I have no choice. I dump the rest of Eddie’s underpants in the dryer, switch it on, and follow her up the stairs.
“Now, I’ve been meaning to mention my cashmere cardigan,” Trish adds sternly as we reach the top. “The cream one?”
Shit. Shit. She’s found out I replaced it. Of course she has. I should have known she couldn’t be that stupid—
“I don’t know what you’ve done to it.” Trish pushes open her bedroom door. “But it looks marvelous. That little ink stain on the hem has completely disappeared! It’s like new!”
“Right.” I give a smile of relief. “Well … all part of the service!”
I follow Trish into the bedroom, where a thin woman with big blond hair, white jeans, and a gold chain belt is setting up a chair in the middle of the floor.
“Hello!” She looks up, cigarette in hand, and I realize that she’s about sixty years old. “Samantha. I’ve heard all about you.”
Her voice is gravelly, her mouth is pursed with lines, and her makeup looks like it’s been welded to her skin. She comes forward, surveys my hair, and winces.
“What’s all this? Thought you’d try the streaky look?” She gives a raucous laugh at her own joke.
“It was a … bleach accident.”
“Accident!” She runs her fingers through my hair, tsking all the while. “Well, it can’t stay this color. We’d better go a nice blond. You don’t mind going blond, do you, dear?”
Blond?
“I’ve never been blond,” I say in alarm. “I’m not really sure—”
“You’ve got the coloring for it.” She’s brushing my hair out.
“Well, as long as it’s not too blond,” I say hurriedly. “Not … you know, that fake, tarty, platinum blond …”
I trail off as I realize that the other two women in the room have fake, tarty, platinum-blond hair.
“Or … um …” I swallow. “Whatever you think. Really.”
I sit down on the chair, wrap a towel around my shoulders, and try not to flinch as Annabel briskly pastes some chemical-smelling goo on my head and layers in what feels like a thousand bits of silver foil.
Blond. Yellow hair. Barbie dolls.
Oh, God. What am I doing?
“I think this was a mistake,” I say abruptly, trying to get out of my chair. “I don’t think I’m a natural blonde—”
“Relax!” Annabel clamps down on my shoulders, forcing me back into my seat, and puts a magazine in my hand. Behind, Trish is opening a bottle of champagne. “You’ll look lovely. Pretty girl like you should do something with her hair. Now, read us our signs.”
“Signs?” I say in bewilderment.
“Horoscopes!” Annabel tsks again. “Not the brightest penny, is she?” she adds in an undertone to Trish.
“She is a little dim,” Trish murmurs back discreetly. “But marvelous at laundry.”
So this is what being a lady of leisure is like. Sitting with foil in your hair, drinking Buck’s Fizz, and reading glossy magazines. I haven’t read any magazines except The Lawyer since I was about thirteen. Normally I spend my hairdresser’s appointments typing e-mails or reading contracts.
But I simply can’t relax. By the time Annabel is blow-drying my hair, my entire body is seized up in fear.
I can’t be blond. It’s just not who I am.
“There we are!” Annabel gives a final blast and switches the hair dryer off. There’s silence. I can’t open my eyes.
“Much better!” Trish says approvingly.
I slowly open one eye. Then the other.
My hair isn’t blond. It’s caramel. It’s warm caramel with streaks of honey and the tiniest threads of gold. As I move my head it shimmers.
I think I might cry.
“You didn’t believe me, did you?” Annabel raises her eyebrows at me in the mirror, a satisfied smile at her lips. “Thought I didn’t know what I was doing?”
She can so obviously read my mind, I feel abashed.
“It’s wonderful,” I say, finding my voice. “I’m … Thank you so much.”