off when you’re sixty but this is the crunch period. Forty is when most women start to give up. What they really should be doing is upping their game. No more lying back and thinking of England. From now on, oral sex is always on the menu; if you can’t give a good blow job, you’d better learn. To tell the truth,’ she leant in, ‘it saves so much time. Fifteen minutes and you can get back to watching telly. Oh, and make an appointment at Bordello. I have a dozen pieces from her – worth every penny. Arnaud should never see you wearing anything that isn’t sexy or gorgeous. Lord knows, as soon as you take it off, he’ll have to start using his imagination, so help him out a bit!’
The cab dipped into the narrow labyrinth of one-way Soho streets. Outside the window, the bold pink neon signs of sex shops blinked, cheek by jowl with bijou patisseries, oyster bars and coffee houses. A rainbow display of wildly coloured fishnet tights on naked mannequins graced the window of a wholesale fashion outlet across from the West End production of Mary Poppins. Film production companies, ad agencies, sushi bars, Chinese herbalists; bicycle couriers veered dangerously onto the pavement, terrorizing slow-moving clots of disorientated tourists; a homeless man and his dog camped in front of the Ivy playing show tunes on a harmonica … all life spilt out, raw, unchecked, vibrant. Olivia soaked up the unfamiliar, louche atmosphere.
Mimsy had her heart in the right place, she reminded herself, staring at a young woman with a shaved head, washing down the windows of a venue called the Pussy Cat Club. For her, marriage was a full-time profession, a never-ending game of chess with houses, holidays, even children as rather useful pawns. Men were to be outwitted, manipulated, cajoled. And Olivia had taken a lot of Mimsy’s advice; she wanted to make her marriage work and hated how dramatically it had changed recently. But the military approach to relationships was still daunting. Buried deep in her heart, Olivia had a vague dream of reaching a place with Arnaud where the pretence would fall away and the constant forward planning become obsolete.
The bald girl tossed a bucket of soapy water across the front doorstep.
But she would never dare share that with Mimsy.
Just as she predicted, Mimsy was pacing the floor of the waiting area when she arrived. The whole place was done out like an industrial manufacturing plant with cold stone floors, sheet-metal counters, large black dentist-style chairs and huge communal wash basins like giant stone troughs. A soundtrack of Patty Smith blared ‘Because the Night’ and nubile young men in tight black overalls balancing trays of cold drinks were everywhere.
‘My God!’ Mimsy threw her hands up. ‘What are you wearing? And what took you so long?’
Olivia looked down at her jeans, cashmere cardigan and ballet pumps. ‘What I always wear to the hairdressers. I’m sorry I’m late …’
‘How is he going to be able to create a new look for you if you don’t give him some inspiration!’ she interrupted, peeling off an unstructured Chanel jacket and thrusting it at her. ‘You look like you’re about to do the school run, for Christ’s sake!’ Then she stopped. ‘Oh, sorry, Olivia! Really, I am!’
‘It’s OK,’ Olivia lied, taking the jacket. It reeked of Venom; a hangover from Mimsy’s heyday in the eighties. And the couture piece wasn’t anything she’d ever buy. Still, Mimsy had gone to a lot of trouble. Dutifully she slipped it on. ‘Am I too late?’
‘Well,’ Mimsy readjusted the collar of her blouse in the mirror, ‘he’s running an hour behind. But that’s not the point!’
‘What is the point?’ Olivia laughed, relieved.
Mimsy shook her head. ‘The point is, you’re not taking this seriously. And I’m telling you, God is in the details, darling. Everything flows from the head down. Besides, this man’s a genius. He works miracles. He’s the most exclusive hairdresser in the world!’
‘Rolo is ready for you,’ the receptionist informed them coolly, sashaying down a long grey corridor.
They followed her through the brigades of stylists, blow-drying, cutting, gluing on extensions, to a small raised platform in the centre of the salon. There, in a mirrored alcove, stood Rolo Greeze; all four foot nine of him. Like a dark dwarf he oiled up to them, smoothing down his goatee. Two terrified assistants stood at the ready on either side.
‘Ah!’ Arms spread wide, he embraced Olivia, as if they’d known each other for years. ‘Sit down, sit down! NOW! Let me see!’ And he began flipping her hair about. ‘See this?’ he positioned his hands at her jawline. ‘Your hair must never be longer than this, right?’
‘Then I won’t be able to put it up.’
‘Putting up your hair is over! Ageing!’ He shook his head, emphatic. ‘This is it! Anything longer and it’s completely wrong for your face! And I want layers; lots and lots of layers! Let me see your hands!’ He grabbed one. ‘Perfect! Lovely! What I’ll do is cut a long fringe, something that hangs right here.’ He indicated the middle of her nose. ‘And then you’ll have to push it out of your eyes using these wonderful hands of yours! It will be so young! So sexy!’ he enthused. ‘Everyone will see that gorgeous ring of yours!’
‘Oh, yes!’ Mimsy was entranced. ‘That’s a brilliant idea! Very rough and tumble!’
‘I won’t be able to see.’
‘You don’t have to!’ He laughed. The assistants laughed. Mimsy laughed. ‘Everyone will be looking at you! And when you want to see someone, it’s like you come out from behind this veil of hair …’
‘Yes, yes!’ Mimsy nodded.
Olivia shifted. The dentist’s chair was uncomfortable. ‘But I don’t want hair in my eyes. I can’t stand it.’
Rolo went quiet. His lip curled.
The assistants looked nervously at one another.
‘Really, darling.’ His tone was flat, bored. ‘You have to trust me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Yes, Olivia!’ Mimsy berated her, aghast. ‘I mean, that’s why we came, isn’t it? To get expert advice?’
But surely I’m the expert, Olivia thought.
Then the inevitable undertow of guilt kicked in. She was wasting their time; it was what Mimsy wanted; what did she know about hairstyling, anyway?
They were staring at her; waiting.
Rolo checked his watch.
The passion of the morning ebbed away; a thick, numbing layer of hopelessness replaced it.
‘Well, I suppose …’
Then her phone rang.
It was Simon, calling to confirm that exact position of the Knowle sofa.
Olivia excused herself and under the withering gaze of both Mimsy and Rolo, took the call. Midway through, an idea came to her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she gushed, when she’d hung up. ‘A crisis at the gallery!’ Pulling off the Chanel jacket, she passed it back to Mimsy. ‘I’ve got to go immediately, I’m afraid. It can’t be helped.’
Rolo regarded her sourly. ‘There’s a cancellation fee for my time.’
‘Of
