“No, I’m quite happy not to – ”
But Connie was already away, fiddling with a CD player. “I think Abba, don’t you?”
“Erm, no, I – ”
“Nothing like Abba for clearing away the cobwebs in the morning, is there?” As she spoke, the sounds of ‘Dancing Queen’ filled the room. “Now would you like…?” Connie stopped, apparently thinking better of the suggestion.
“Would I like what?”
“Nothing.”
“What I would like, if you don’t mind, is for you to do my hair…since I already am a bit behind schedule.” Carole hoped that made it sound as if she had a more impressive destination later in the morning than the pasta aisle in Sainsbury’s.
“Very well.” Connie turned on a tap above the sink.
“Just give the water a moment to heat up. It’s cold first thing in the morning. And let’s get this robe on.”
While the water warmed, Carole took a look around the salon. The pine boarding on the walls and the large cheese plants in the windows gave it a slightly dated feel, which was not dispelled by the Greek holiday posters and photos of models with exotic hairstyles. The basic decor probably hadn’t changed for a good ten years, and endorsed Jude’s suggestion that Connie’s Clip Joint was not doing great business.
The stylist flicked her hand under the pouring water. “Nearly warm enough.” Then she caught an unwelcome glimpse of herself in the mirror. “Haven’t had time to put a face on yet. Oh dear, if Kyra had been here when she was supposed to…”
But she decided that going on about the shortcomings of her staff was probably not the best way of recommending her salon to a new client. Instead, she stood behind the chair, rather closer than Carole might have wished, so that their two faces stood one on top of the other in the mirror. Connie ran her hands gently over her client’s hair.
“So…how would you like it, Carole?”
She got the same reply all hairdressers had got for the past fifteen years – a gruff ‘Same shape, but shorter’.
“You haven’t thought of giving it a bit of colour?” suggested Connie.
“I have thought of it, but decided against the idea.”
“Not even highlights?”
“No, thank you.”
Connie Rutherford was far too practised in her profession to argue with a new client. “I think you’re right, Carole. This style really suits a strong face like yours.” Another test of the water, and a towel was fixed neatly in place around the neck. “Now may I take your glasses off?”
“I’ll do it,” replied Carole, aware of how graceless she sounded. She removed the rectangular rimless spectacles and placed them next to the sink. Her pale blue eyes looked naked, even threatened.
Expertly Connie swivelled the chair round and lowered the back, so that her client’s neck slotted neatly into the groove at the front of the basin. Every time she underwent this manoeuvre, Carole could not quite erase the mental image of a guillotine. Even through the protective towel, she could feel the coldness of her ceramic yoke.
By now the temperature of the water was just right and Connie, though long since graduated beyond such menial tasks, had not forgotten the skills of hair-washing. Her strong fingers probed down into the scalp, working in a way that was both sensual and invigorating. Carole began to relax.
And the flow of Connie’s talk matched the flow of the water, soothing, rippling away the tensions of her client. She had quickly caught on to Carole’s private nature and knew better than to ask for personal information. Instead she kept up a light prattle about the concerns of Fethering: the fact that there had been more visitors than expected that summer; the possibility that English seaside holidays were coming back into fashion; the difficulty of parking in the High Street.
Only at one point was a detail of Carole’s personal history mentioned. Connie, who wore no ring on her wedding finger, mentioned in passing that she was divorced, and added, “Just like you.”
Immediately realizing that she had to cover this lapse, she explained, “Jude mentioned that when she was in here once.”
Oh yes? And how much else, Carole wondered, has my neighbour been telling all and sundry about me? But she couldn’t really make herself cross about it. Jude was by nature discreet, and in a hotbed of gossip like Fethering everyone’s marital status was fair game.
“So is Seddon your married name?”
“Yes.” Though Carole wasn’t sure what business of the hairdresser that was.
“Yes, I got stuck with mine too. By the time I thought about reverting to my maiden name, the other one was on so many legal documents and what-have-you…Of course, the divorce was particularly difficult for me, because Martin was involved in the business too. Yes, we started Connie’s Clip Joint together. We’d met when we were both working in a salon in Worthing and…” she shrugged ruefully as she looked around, “I suppose this was our dream. Like most dreams, it fell apart when it came up against reality.”
Recognizing that this was too downbeat a note for her performance as your friendly local hairdresser, she picked herself out of the potential trough. “Anyway, let me tell you, any divorce is a nightmare, but one where you’re also trying to divide up business assets…well, I hope yours didn’t involve that…”
The cue was there to volunteer information about the end of her marriage, had Carole wished to pick it up. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t. Connie moved quickly on. “Still, mustn’t grumble. Got a very nice little business here. Having a High Street position…well, of course that helps. As they always say, ‘Location, location, location’. All going very well.”
Remembering Jude’s words about the precarious state of Connie’s Clip Joint, Carole took this assertion with a pinch of salt, and ventured a question of her own. “And your ex-husband…is he still involved in the hairdressing business?”
Connie Rutherford’s lips tightened. “You could say that. Yes, he runs one of the biggest chains of salons along the South Coast.”
There was clearly a lot more information available and Carole felt she had only to issue the smallest prompt to release an avalanche of resentment. She refrained from doing so and fortunately, before Connie could self-start into her diatribe, the salon door opened to admit a slender man in black leather jacket and trousers. A gold chain showed against tanned flesh in the open neck of his shirt. His neat tobacco-coloured hair was highlighted in blonde and his teeth were veneered to a perfect smile. Over brown eyes as dark as coffee beans, he wore tinted glasses with small gold stars at the corners. From a distance he might have passed for twenty-five; close to, he was well into his forties.
“Morning, Theo.”
“Morning, Connie love.” His voice was light, selfconsciously camp.
“This is my nine o’clock. Carole Seddon. First time she’s been here.”
“Really? I’m Theo.” He gave a little wave; she couldn’t have shaken his hand from under the robe, anyway. “But you do look awfully familiar, Carole.”
“I live right here in Fethering. Just along the High Street.”
“Oh, then I must have seen you around.” A hand flew up to his mouth in mock-amazement. “With a dog! Yes, I’ve seen you with a dog. Lovely big Labby.”
“He’s called Gulliver.”
“Ooh, I’m such a dog person. I’ve got a little Westie called Priscilla.”
“Ah.”
“Connie’s into cats, aren’t you, love. I can never see the point of cats. Nasty, self-obsessed, spiteful little beasts.”
“Takes one to know one,” riposted Connie.
“Ooh, you bitch!”
Their badinage was a well-practised routine, insults batted back and forth without a vestige of malice. Carole Seddon got the feeling that for regulars it was as much a part of the Connie’s Clip Joint ambience as the Abba soundtrack.