“How was your day, Eleanor?” he said, smoking as we walked. I changed sides, trying to position myself downwind of the noxious toxins.
“Fine, thank you. I had a cheese-and-pickle sandwich for lunch, with ready-salted crisps and a mango smoothie.” He blew smoke out of the side of his mouth and laughed.
“Anything else happen? Or just the sandwich?”
I thought about this. “There was a protracted discussion about Christmas lunch venues,” I said. “Apparently it’s been narrowed down to TGI Fridays, because ‘it’s a laugh’”—here, I tried out a little finger-waggling gesture indicating quotation marks, which I’d seen Janey doing once and had stored away for future reference; I think I carried it off with aplomb—“or else the Bombay Bistro Christmas Buffet.”
“Nothing says Christmas like a lamb biryani, eh?” Raymond said.
He stubbed out his cigarette, discarding it on the pavement. We arrived at the hospital and I waited while Raymond, typically disorganized, went into the shop on the ground floor. There really is no excuse for being unprepared. I had already gone to Marks & Spencer before meeting him, and had purchased some choice items there, including a tub of pumpkin seeds. I suspected Sammy was in dire need of zinc. Raymond came out swinging a carrier bag. In the lift, he opened it and showed me what he’d bought.
“Haribo, the Evening Times, big tub of sour cream and chive Pringles. What more could a man ask for, eh?” he said, looking quite proud of himself. I did not dignify this with a response.
We paused at the ward entrance; Sammy’s bed was surrounded by visitors. He saw us and beckoned us over. I looked around, but the stern nurse with the stripy socks was nowhere to be seen. Sammy was reclining regally on a mound of pillows, addressing the assembled throng.
“Eleanor, Raymond—great to see you! Come and meet the family! This is Keith—the kiddies are at home with their mum—and this is Gary and Michelle, and this”—he indicated a blond woman who was texting with impressive focus on her mobile telephone—“is my daughter Laura.”
I was aware of everyone smiling and nodding, and then they were shaking our hands, slapping Raymond’s back. It was quite overwhelming. I’d put on my white cotton gloves, rather than use the hand gel—I reasoned that I could run them through a boil wash as soon as I got home. This occasioned a certain hesitancy in the handshakes, which was strange—surely a cotton barrier between our respective skin surfaces could only be a good thing?
“Thanks so much for taking care of my dad, guys,” the older brother, Keith, said, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers. “It means a lot, to know he wasn’t on his own when it happened, that he had people looking out for him.”
“Hey, now,” said Sammy, nudging him with his elbow, “I’m not some doddery old invalid, you know. I can look after myself.” They smiled at one another.
“Course you can, Dad. I’m just saying, it’s nice to have a friendly face around sometimes, eh?”
Sammy shrugged, not conceding the point but graciously allowing it to pass.
“I’ve got some good news for you two,” Sammy said to us, leaning back contentedly into his pillows while Raymond and I deposited our carrier bags like myrrh and frankincense at the foot of his bed. “I’m getting out on Saturday!”
Raymond high-fived him, after some initial awkwardness whereby Sammy had no idea why a podgy hand had been thrust in his face.
“He’s coming to stay at mine for a couple of weeks, just till he gets confident with the walking frame,” his daughter Laura said, finally looking up from her phone. “We’re having a wee party to celebrate! You’re both invited, of course,” she added, somewhat less than enthusiastically.
She was staring at me. I didn’t mind. In fact, I actually prefer that to surreptitious, sneaky glances—from her, I got a full and frank appraisal, filled with fascination, but with no trace of fear or disgust. I brushed my hair off my face, so that she could get a better view.
“This Saturday?” I said.
“Now, Eleanor, don’t you dare say you’re busy,” Sammy said. “No excuses. I want you both there. End of.”
“Who are we to argue?” Raymond said, smiling. I thought about it. A party. The last party I’d been to—apart from that appalling wedding reception—was on Judy Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. It had involved ice-skating and milkshakes, and hadn’t ended well. Surely no one was likely to vomit or lose a finger at an elderly invalid’s welcome home celebration?
“I shall attend,” I said, inclining my head.
“Here’s my card,” Laura said, passing one each to Raymond and to me. It was black and glossy, embossed with gold leaf, and said Laura Marston-Smith, Esthetic Technician, Hair Stylist, Image Consultant, with her contact details set out below.
“Seven o’clock on Saturday, yeah? Don’t bring anything, just yourselves.”
I tucked the card carefully into my purse. Raymond had thrust his into his back pocket. He couldn’t take his eyes off Laura, I noticed, apparently hypnotized rather in the manner of a mongoose before a snake. She was clearly aware of this. I suspected she was used to it, looking the way she did. Blond hair and large breasts are so clichéd, so obvious. Men like Raymond, pedestrian dullards, would always be distracted by women who looked like her, having neither the wit nor the sophistication to see beyond mammaries and peroxide.
Raymond tore his eyes away from Laura’s décolletage and looked at the wall clock, then, pointedly, at me.
“We shall depart,” I said, “and meet again on Saturday.” Once again, there was an overwhelming onslaught of salutations and handshakes. Sammy, meanwhile, was rummaging in the bags we’d brought. He held up a packet of organic curly kale.
“What the hell is this?” he said, incredulous. Zinc, I whispered to myself. Raymond hustled me out of the ward rather brusquely, I felt, and before I’d even had a chance to mention that the squid salad would need to be eaten promptly. The ambient temperature in the hospital ward was very warm.
12
The next day, whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, my eye was drawn to a leaflet which had been discarded on top of the office recycling bag, alongside a pile of holiday brochures and well-thumbed gossip magazines. It was for a department store in town—not one I had ever frequented—and set out an introductory offer, featuring a frankly spectacular one-third reduction in the price of a “Deluxe Pamper Manicure.” I tried and failed to imagine what a deluxe pamper manicure might involve. How might one introduce luxury and pampering into the process of shaping and painting a nail? It was, literally, beyond my imagining. I felt a thrill of excitement. There was only one way to find out. With my animal grooming regime in mind, I would turn my attention to my talons.
I had somewhat neglected my self-improvement plans of late, distracted by Sammy’s unfortunate accident and the events which had resulted from it. But it was time to refocus on my goal: the musician. I indulged in the sin of pride for a moment. My nails grow exceedingly fast, and they are strong and shiny. I attribute this to a diet high in the requisite vitamins, minerals and fatty acids, which are obtained from my well-planned luncheon regime. My nails are a tribute to the culinary excellence of the British high street. Not being a vain person, I merely cut them with clippers when they grow too long to allow for comfortable data input, and file down the resulting sharp corners so that they do not snag on fabric or scrape my skin unpleasantly when I am bathing. So far, so perfectly adequate. My nails are always clean—clean nails, like clean shoes, are fundamental to self-respect. Whilst I am neither stylish nor fashionable, I am always clean; that way, at least, I can hold my head up when I take my place, however unexalted, in the world.
I headed into town during my lunch break, eating my sandwich on the way in order to save time. On reflection, I wished that I had selected a less obtrusive filling; egg and cress was perhaps not the most judicious choice for a busy, warm train carriage, and both the
sandwich and I were attracting disapproving looks from our fellow travelers. I abhor eating in public at the best of times, so the eight-minute journey was not a pleasant experience for anyone concerned.
I found the nail concession at the rear of the Beauty Hall, a vast chandelier-lit barn of mirrors, scents and noise. I felt like a trapped animal—a steer or a rabid dog—and imagined the chaos I’d cause if, careering wildly, I was corralled in there against my will. I clutched the leaflet tight in my fist, balled up inside my jerkin pocket.
“Nails Etcetera”—to what extras did the Latin term refer? I wondered—appeared to consist of two bored children in white tunics, a breakfast bar with four stools and a rack of polishes in every hue from clear to tar. I approached with caution.
“WelcometoNailsEtcetraHowCanIHelpYouToday,” said the smaller girl-child. It took me a moment to translate.
“Good afternoon,” I said slowly, and in an exaggeratedly modulated voice, to give her a clue as to how one ought to speak in order to communicate effectively. She and her companion were both staring, their expressions a combination of alarm and . . . well, alarm, mainly. I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. They were so young, after all—perhaps this was some sort of work experience and they were awaiting the return of their teacher.
“I’d like a Deluxe Pamper Manicure, please,” I said, as clearly as I could. There was a long, still pause where nothing happened. The shorter one was first to wake from her trance.
“Take a seat!” she said, indicating the nearest stool. Her companion remained transfixed. The shorter one (Casey, according to her name badge) bustled about distractedly and then perched opposite, having first set down a kidney bowl slopping with hot, soapy water. She swiveled the rack of polishes toward me.
“What color would you like?” she said. My eye was drawn to a bright green hue, the same shade as a poisonous Amazonian frog, the tiny, delightfully deadly ones. I handed it to her. She nodded. She wasn’t actually chewing gum, but her demeanor was very much that of a gum chewer.
She took my hands and placed the tips of all ten fingers into the warm water. I kept a watchful eye to ensure that no other flesh made contact with the unknown detergent substances, for fear of inflaming my eczema. I sat there for several minutes, feeling rather foolish, while she rummaged in a nearby drawer and returned with a variety of stainless steel tools, carefully laid out on a tray. Her catatonic companion had finally sprung to life and was chatting enthusiastically to a coworker at a different concession; I couldn’t discern the topic, but it seemed to prompt some eye-rolling and shrugging.
Casey deemed the moment apposite to remove my hands from the water, and she then laid them on a folded flannel. She carefully patted each fingertip dry. I wondered why she hadn’t simply asked me to remove my hands, using her voice, and passed me the towel, so I could dry them using my hands, since I was enjoying, at current point of reporting, full use and motor function in all limbs and extremities. Perhaps that was what pampering meant, though—literally, not having to lift a finger.
Casey set to work with the tools, pushing back my cuticles and trimming them where required. I essayed some chitchat, aware that this was the done thing in the circumstances.
“Have you worked here long?” I asked.
“Two years,” she said, to my astonishment—she appeared to be around fourteen years of age and, to the best of my knowledge, child labor was still outlawed in this country.
“And did you always want to be a . . .” I grappled for the word “. . . manicurist?”
“Nail technician,” she corrected me. She was intent on her task and did not look at me while she talked, which I approved of enormously. There is categorically no need for eye contact when the person concerned is wielding sharp implements.
“I wanted either to work with animals or to be a nail technician,” she continued. She had moved on to a hand massage now. More deluxe pampering, presumably, although I found it rather pointless and ineffectual, and was concerned for potential allergic reactions. Her hands were tiny, almost as small as mine (which are, unfortunately, abnormally small, like a dinosaur’s). I would have preferred a man’s hands: larger, stronger, firmer. Hairier.
“So yeah,” she said, “I couldn’t decide between animals or nails, so I asked my mum, and she said I should go for nail technician.” She picked up an emery board and began to shape my nails. It was an awkward process, one that would have definitely been easier to do oneself.
“Is your mother an economist or a qualified careers adviser?” I said. Casey stared at me. “Because, if not, then I’m not sure that her advice was necessarily informed by the latest data on earnings projections and labor market demand,” I said, quite concerned for her future prospects.
“She’s a travel agent,” Casey said firmly, as if that settled the matter. I let it drop—it was no concern of mine, after all, and she seemed happy enough at her work. The thought did strike me, as she painted on various coats of various varnishes, that she could have perhaps combined the two professions by becoming a dog groomer. However, I elected to keep my counsel on the matter. Sometimes, when you tried to help with suggestions, it could lead to misunderstandings, not all of them entirely pleasant.
She placed my hands into a small machine which was, I assumed, a hair dryer for nails, and a few minutes later the deluxe pampering was done. All in all, the experience had been rather underwhelming.
She advised me of the price—it was, frankly, extortionate. “I have a leaflet!” I said. She nodded, not even asking to check it, and deducted the requisite one-third, stating the revised amount, which still left me reeling. I reached for my shopper. She said “Stop!” in a very alarming fashion. I did.
“You’ll smudge them,” she said. She leaned forward. “I’ll get your purse out for you, if you like?”
I was concerned that this might be some elaborate ruse to part me from even more of my hard-earned cash, so I watched her like the proverbial hawk as she reached inside my bag. Too late, I remembered the unfinished remains of the egg sandwich which lay within—she gagged ostentatiously as she removed my purse. A slight overreaction, I felt—yes, the odor which escaped was somewhat sulfurous, but still, no need for pantomime. I kept my eyes fixed on her fingers (unpainted, I noticed) as she extracted the required notes and replaced the purse in the shopper very carefully.
I stood up, ready to take my leave. Her erstwhile companion had returned, and cast a glance at my hands, their tips gleaming green. “Nice,” she said, her tone and body language implying strongly that she had little interest in the topic. Casey became slightly more animated. “Would you like a loyalty card?” she said. “Have five manicures and the sixth one’s free!”
“No thank you,” I said. “I shan’t be having a manicure again. I can do the same thing myself at home, better, for nothing.” Their mouths fell open slightly, but with that I was off, making my way back out into the world, dodging the squirters and the sample-pushers on my way past the perfume counters. I longed to be outside in natural light and fresh air again. The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature.
I got home after work and opened my wardrobe. What to wear to a party? I had two pairs of black trousers and five white blouses—well, they were white originally—which I wore to work. I had a comfortable pair of slacks, two T-shirts and two jumpers, which I wore at weekends. That left my special occasion outfit. I’d bought it for Loretta’s wedding reception years ago, and had worn it on a handful of occasions since, including a special visit to the National Museum of Scotland. The exhibition of newly discovered Roman trove had been tremendous; the journey to Edinburgh, far less so.
The train interior had been more like a bus than the Orient Express, replete with hard-wearing fabrics in stain-concealing colors and gray plastic fittings. The worst thi
ng, apart from the other travelers—my goodness, the hoi polloi do get about these days, and they eat and drink in public with very few inhibitions—was the incessant noise from the loudspeakers. It seemed there was an announcement every five minutes from the mythical conductor, imparting sagacious gems such as large items should be placed in the overhead luggage racks, or that passengers should report any unattended items to the train crew as soon as possible. I wondered at whom these pearls of wisdom were aimed; some passing extraterrestrial, perhaps, or a yak herder from Ulan Bator who had trekked across the steppes, sailed the North Sea and found himself on the Glasgow–Edinburgh service with literally no prior experience of mechanized transport to call upon?
The special occasion outfit was, I realized, somewhat outmoded now. Lemon was not a color that suited me particularly well—fine for nightgowns, worn in the privacy of my bedroom, but hardly suitable for a sophisticated gathering. I’d go to the shops tomorrow and purchase something new; I’d be able to wear it again when I was out at a restaurant or at the theater with my true love, so the money would not be wasted. Feeling happy with this decision, I made my usual pasta con pesto and listened to the Archers. There was a convoluted story line involving a very unconvincing Glaswegian milkman, and I did not particularly enjoy the episode. I’d washed up and settled down with a book about pineapples. It was surprisingly interesting. I like to read as widely as possible for many reasons, not least in order to broaden my vocabulary to assist with crossword solving. Then the silence was very rudely interrupted.
“Hello?” I said, somewhat tentatively.
“Oh, so it’s ‘Hello,’ is it? ‘Hello’—that’s all you’ve got to say to me? And where the hell were you last night, lady? Hmm?” She was playing to the gallery again.