books and leave them littered around our apartment, then yes, I guess you do,’ Gina said.
‘So, you live together?’ I asked, trying to diffuse the daggers Jenny was glaring at Gina. Must be a fun old time in that house.
‘We do until Gina leaves me on Wednesday,’ Jenny pretended to sob. ‘I can’t believe you’re ditching me just to be manager of a salon.’
Gina started to comb my hair straight down and flip the parting, centre, left, right, back to centre. ‘Yeah, sure, just some salon. Not manager of the first international outpost of Rapture in Paris. You’ll live, Jenny,’ she said, looking at me in the mirror. When she relaxed she actually looked as if she could be fun and not just some impeccably groomed beauty terrorist. ‘So, Angie, what else do you like? Music, theatre, self-help books?’
‘Whatever,’ Jenny interrupted. ‘I think it’s interesting that you answered the question “tell us about yourself” with information about your job. You think you spend too much time working and not enough working on other areas of your life?’
‘You think, Dr Phil?’ said Gina, saving me from having to come up with a response. ‘You are so full of shit sometimes. But seriously, apart from your writing, what else are you into? Music? Fashion? Dog shows?’
‘I do love music,’ I offered, glad to be back in safe territory. ‘I love live music, gigs and festivals and stuff. And I’ve always had a soft spot for an indie boy. You know, skinny tie, leather jacket, Converse, the whole bit.’
Jenny and Gina were smiling and nodding. ‘Oh yeah, we’ve both been there,’ Jenny said, her eyes misting over slightly. ‘You just need to go down town and shout out some obscure band name. Cute British girl like you? They’ll come running.’
Gina laughed. ‘Yeah, you can totally work that accent. But I’m so too old for that now,’ she said. ‘I’m more into hanging around Wall Street on a Friday evening. I need to meet someone who can take me back to a Park Avenue apartment via Tiffany’s, not a loft in Brooklyn via the free clinic. Oh, I miss my twenties.’
‘Well, I’m twenty-seven in October,’ I said while Gina started to chop away at my hair with her tiny scissors. ‘Doesn’t that make me too old for skinny indie kids?’
‘Nah, you got a good coupla years in you,’ Gina said. ‘But wouldn’t you like someone to take care of you? Some big, strong guy? Worked-out six-pack, black Amex, well dressed. Someone to totally spoil you?’
‘I don’t know, I suppose that wouldn’t be a bad thing. My–ex–was a city boy but he wasn’t exactly what you’d call worked out. And he was totally tight,’ I said slowly. ‘I’ve never even really looked at boys like that. I didn’t think I was a proper grown-up I suppose. Isn’t that tragic?’
‘Well, you’ve got to stop calling them “boys” for a start, Angie,’ Jenny chipped in. ‘You want a man. Maybe even a couple of men.’
‘Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Someone who actually weighs more than me … Oh God, no, I’m too old for all that dating nonsense. I can’t imagine actually doing it. God, I’m going to have to start dating at twenty-six.’ I couldn’t quite believe it.
Jenny shook her head. ‘I wish my next birthday was twenty-seven. I’m thirty next July.’ She dropped her head onto the arm of my chair. ‘Can you believe it? I can’t turn thirty without achieving any of my life’s ambitions.’
‘But your life’s ambitions are to meet Oprah, get a job with Oprah, make friends with all of Oprah’s friends then slowly usurp Oprah in the hearts of the nation,’ Gina said. There was a lot of hair on my shoulders and a whole lot more on the floor. ‘So far, you’ve read Oprah’s books, bought Oprah’s magazines, watched Oprah’s show and pissed off all your friends by talking constantly about Oprah.’
‘Yes, but they are all important steps on becoming the next heart of the nation. And obviously, a billionaire.’ Jenny looked resolute. ‘What are your life’s ambitions, honey?’
I thought hard for a moment.
‘I don’t think I have any,’ I said. ‘Maybe I would like to have an original book published or have a column in a magazine or something. I don’t know, that stuff isn’t easy.’
‘But you can absolutely do it,’ Jenny said, pulling a pad and pen out of her handbag. ‘You just have to get organized. Let’s make a list. God, I love this!’
Gina pulled strands of my hair down to my chin to check the lengths. ‘Jesus, you’ve created a monster. Never give that girl a project.’ She tapped Jenny’s pad with her scissors. ‘Now no talking, I’m about to blow this baby out.’
Twenty minutes later I had a beautiful, chin-length swishy bob with a sweeping fringe, cutting across my right cheekbone. It looked grown-up but cute, stylish but not try hard. I doubted it would look this great ever again.
‘Now,’ Gina said scooping out a thumbnail of waxy looking product. ‘We have options, depending on what you decide to do with your life. What you’re looking at now is Park Avenue Princess. You could walk into any of the publishers right now and demand a book deal–super sophisticated.’ Jenny was nodding enthusiastically.
‘But now …’ Gina rubbed the wax into the palms of her hands and then attacked my hair, pushing it over the front of my head and raking her fingers through every section. When she flicked it all back, the smooth bob had given way to a choppy, layered, messed up look. Something I had tried to achieve in the past and just ended up looking as though I’d slept with wet hair. ‘Now you are ready to go and rock the Lower East Side with the rest of the hipsters. You like?’
‘Thank you,’ I muttered, so so happy. ‘I didn’t even know my hair could look this good.’ I couldn’t stop touching it, just tiny pinches at the ends in case too much contact made it poof … disappear.
‘I don’t want to see you with a hair out of place from now on.’ Gina stared me down and for a moment I thanked the managers of Rapture Paris.
‘OK, Angie honey, grab your bag. I’m taking that cute do of yours out on the town.’ Jenny forced down a final half brownie and pulled me out of the chair.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, letting Gina comb out some of the volume, returning to somewhere in between the sleek bob and the crazy chop. ‘Because I’m not really dressed for–’
Jenny took my hand and gave me a look you might give an elderly relative who thinks it’s still 1947. ‘Sweetness, that’s exactly why we’re going where we’re going.’
Bloomingdale’s.
I’d heard of it, I’d seen the little brown bags but I hadn’t ever really thought about going there. In the cab, Jenny had briefed me on what we were looking for. She’d started my new life plan during my blow dry and the first thing we needed was to get properly kitted out for a stay in New York City. It just so happened to tie-in to Jenny’s number two rule on how to handle a major break-up. Buy yourself a new everything.
Now, I had shopped. Tackled Top Shop Oxford Circus on a Friday evening, been elbow deep in the Selfridges’ sale, found diamond buys on
