I know hardly anything about him though unfortunately, other than that he bought the bookshop just a few months ago when old Alf Preedy retired and moved into the purpose-built annexe in the garden of his daughter’s house in Stoneley. Adam is very mysterious, keeps himself to himself, and is hardly ever there. One of the Tindledale Players said that he travels a lot searching for rare books – some of the tomes in his collection are worth a mint, apparently.’ He stands upright and folds his arms.
‘Interesting,’ I say, liking the sound of Adam because, after all, there is just something about a man who loves books.
‘So are you going to see him then?’ Lawrence probes, even slipping his glasses off and letting them dangle on the chain around his neck as if to scrutinise me further.
‘Well, I thought I might pop in after I’ve been to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery,’ I say, trying to sound casual and like I do this kind of thing every day – sashay up to secret admirers. Eek! ‘If it’s not too far.’
‘Wonderful. You can walk to Hettie’s from here – the snow has stopped, so perfect timing – and then right opposite Hettie’s is a bus stop; time it right, on the hour every hour, remember, and you can hop on a bus that’ll take you all the way up the hill. Jump off in the village square and you’re right there. How exciting!’ He puts his glasses back on and gives me a quick up-and-down look. There’s a short silence before he adds, ‘Will Basil be OK on his own for a bit? Or you could always fetch him down if you like.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine; he was asleep when I left my room, snoring away – it’s his favourite pastime, apart from eating – why do you ask?’ I say, casually.
‘You’ll see. Give me five minutes – I just need to make a quick phone call to Ruby who has a clothes shop in the village and I’m sure she’ll have something you can borrow to visit Adam in.’ And he disappears behind the curtain. I busy myself by thumbing through a copy of the Tindledale Parish News, a lovely A6 pamphlet; it has a pencil line drawing of St Mary’s church on the front, and costs just fifty pence to buy with profits going towards ‘community projects’. Ah, that’s nice. It has a selection of adverts in the back – chiropodist, handyman, undertaker, Indian takeaway in Stoneley, wedding-dress shop … hmm, on second thoughts … I place the pamphlet back in the rack.
Lawrence returns.
‘Right. Now follow me.’ He grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before gliding me up a small flight of stairs towards a door marked Private Staff Only.
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
