Chapter Seven

Every now and then I stumble across a book that does my head in. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else, and it drives my mother spare.

“Put the blasted book down and do something productive,” she scolded.

I lowered my book and took a long look around the busy shop floor. Reality wasn’t looking too special at that point. Two ladies were quibbling over the last set of daisy print sheets in stock and Mrs Wimbush was sizing up crocheting needles while her longsuffering husband waited outside.

Hanging out inside the pages of A Recipe for Romance seemed like a much better idea. I was completely taken by the story of a tall, dark and handsome restaurateur from New York. When the girl of his dreams walked in off the street and fell in love with his food, he fell in love with her. It was instant, crushing and left him feeling euphoric and incapable of lucid thoughts.

Those were his words, not mine. The only time I ever felt that was after a skinful of Green Totty cider.

“Do you think men like this really exist, Mam?” I waved the book at her.

“Men like what?” she asked, dumping a bolt of red seersucker down on the counter.

I lifted the dog-eared corner of the page and read out loud. “When he glanced at her and smiled, a magical waterfall of sensations flooded her heart with invigorating delight.”

My mother chuckled heartily. “Sounds like a medical condition,” she teased. “She should see a doctor.”

“Be serious,” I whined. “That kind of love must be real if people write about it.”

“Total fiction, my girl,” she said sternly. “And if it was real, it’s not likely to be found in downtown Denton.”

“You’re right,” I agreed with a heavy sigh.

Mam grabbed the end of the roll of fabric and spread it across the counter. “You have Andrew,” she reminded me. “He’s all you’ll ever need – a hardworking man who’s good to you.”

After measuring the fabric, she instructed me to cut it. “Just once, Mam,” I muttered, slicing the razor sharp scissors through the fabric. “I just want to know what it feels like.”

She tapped the side of her temple. “Get your head out of the clouds and be thankful for what you have.”

I had plenty to be thankful for, and later that afternoon, I was most thankful for my ace bartering skills. In exchange for babysitting Becky Cox’s ratbag kids four Saturdays in a row, she agreed to style my hair.

Finally, the day had come. Charlene agreed to come with me for moral support. No one doubted Becky’s hairdressing skills, but she was pushy and rarely followed her customer’s instructions. When Gill last visited her salon, she had grand ideas of a gorgeous Princess Di bob. Unfortunately, Becky didn’t share her vision. After chopping, teasing and dyeing her hair to death, poor Gill was left looking more like Rod Stewart after a hard night on the town.

Months later, she was still threatening to firebomb the salon so Charlene and I were going it alone.

There are heaps of salons in Denton, but none as classy as Becky’s. It had a faux marble linoleum floor, macramé plant holders hanging from the ceiling, and bright vanity lighting around the mirrors. Even Charlene was impressed.

“This is a bit flash, isn’t it?” she asked.

Becky was a bit flash too. Her pinstriped denim jumpsuit was straight out of the pages of a fashion mag. She wheeled her plastic cart of tools and brushes over to the mirrors and told us to take a seat.

“So what did you have in mind?” she asked, raking her fingers through my hair from behind.

“Something ace,” I told her. “We’re hitting the town tonight.”

“Oooh,” she crowed. “Somewhere special?”

I smiled but didn’t answer. Flamingo Harry’s could hardly be described as special, but it was the only place to be on a Friday night. We could dance until our legs gave way and make the most of happy hour, which confusingly ran from six until nine.

The problem was, we weren’t the only ones who enjoyed the music and cheap drinks. The rest of the Denton crew made the most of it too, including Mandy Brewer and her henchman, Sharon.

“The club should be bursting tonight,” said Charlene. “I heard they’re having a live band.”

I grinned at her through the mirror. “Duran Duran?”

“At Flamingo Harry’s?” she choked. “I flippin’ doubt it.”

“You need colour,” interjected Becky. “Then we’ll put it up – maybe a French roll with some curls on top.” She twisted my long hair and piled it on top of my head.

Nerves got the better of me then as flashbacks of Gill’s Rod Stewart do flooded my mind. “What colour?” I asked. “Nothing crazy.”

Becky grabbed a colour chart from her trolley and dropped it onto my lap. “Pick one,” she said. “A lovely burgundy tint would suit you.”

“Fi, you can’t,” hissed Charlene from the corner of her mouth. “Your mam will kill you.”

She was right. Despite the tight budget, I was expected to do my mother proud as an elegant and sophisticated bride, which meant a hip dye job would never fly. The only burgundy at my wedding would be the cheap box wine.

“How about this one?” I asked, pointing at a shade of brown that was very similar to my natural colour. “Chestnut Victory.”

Becky snatched the colour chart. “Not much of a flippin’ victory if you ask me,” she replied. “But it’s your head.”

Becky Cox could talk the hind leg off a donkey. The woman was a waif – so tiny that her chic denim jumpsuit might well have come from the Marks and Spencer’s children’s catalogue. Too curious for my own good, I once asked her how she stayed so thin.

“Simple,” she replied with a casual shrug. “I haven’t had a meal since 1978.”

As small as she was, her mouth was huge. She talked as she worked, barely pausing for breath as she brought us up to speed on the local gossip. I didn’t know most of the people she was talking about, but it didn’t make it any less fascinating.

“I heard that Bruce was shagging the bird from the off-license weeks ago,” she said, roughly dabbing at my scalp with the dye-laden brush. “But Elaine refused to believe it.” She smirked at me through the mirror. “She does now, though.”

“What changed her mind?” asked Charlene.

“A nasty case of the clap,” Becky revealed with a giggle. “The fire in her heart is out, but her lady parts are still burning.”

I cracked up laughing, but poor Charlene looked mortified. “Oh dear,” she mumbled.

The stories only got more sordid from that point on. By the time the dye was rinsed from my hair, we had dirt on half the town. As Becky led me back to my chair from the sink, she swore us both to secrecy. “You mustn’t repeat a word,” she warned. “I don’t want people thinking I’m a gossip.”

Becky Cox wasn’t merely a gossip. She was an educator. The circle that I moved in was insular and tame – a world away from the likes of Elaine and her itchy crotch. It highlighted just how naïve and sheltered we were, and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Another thing that wasn’t particularly good was Becky’s listening skills. As soon as I caught a glimpse of my wet hair in the mirror, I knew she’d ignored my Chestnut Victory request.

“Flippin’ hellfire,” gasped Charlene.

For her, it was a crass outburst, but nothing compared with the slew of curse words that tumbled out of my mouth.

My mother was going to murder me.

Long, wet, claret coloured strands flew in every direction as Becky towelled my hair. “Grape Delight,” she announced. “Much more lively than boring old brown.”

“I’m getting married in a few weeks, Becky!” I shrieked. “You have to change it back before my mam sees it.”

Completely ignoring my desperate demand, she reached for the hairdryer. “It’s edgy,” she insisted. “Like a popstar.”

Nothing could be heard over the sound of the roaring hairdryer so the next ten minutes were spent staring helplessly at my reflection, trying to imagine how I’d look as a popstar bride.

Hideous, I concluded.

Based on the fact that she could barely look at me, Charlene obviously agreed. Words weren’t forthcoming either. We’d long escaped the salon and almost made it to the bus stop before she finally spoke.

“At least you don’t look like Rod Stewart.”

I grinded to a halt and turned to face her. “What do I look like, Charlene?”

“Awful.” Her shoulders lifted – and stayed there. “But we’ll sort it. Gill will know what to do.”

“And if she doesn’t?” I asked.

“Run away to London,” Charlene suggested. “Pierce your ears with safety pins and join the punk scene.” Ever the optimist, she followed up with a dreamy sigh. “London would be so exciting,” she breathed.

I almost laughed at the absurdity. “My hair is as red as a radish and my wedding is going to be ruined because of it,” I reminded her. “I don’t need any more excitement.”

Somehow, we made it all the way to Charlene’s house without running into anyone we knew. The shock of seeing my garish new do was reserved entirely for Gill, who showed up at a little after six.

“Bloody hell, Fi,” she gasped. “That’s a bit out there, isn’t it?”

“Shush,” warned Charlene, pushing her bedroom door closed. “Keep your voice down.”

I didn’t think there was any need to speak quietly. The four million stuffed animals taking up space in her bedroom had to provide soundproofing.

“How do we fix it?” I asked.

Gill shrugged. “Shave it off?”

“That’s the best you’ve got?”

“I actually quite like it,” she replied, raising her arm to deflect the Smurf I’d just hurled at her. “It’s dead contemporary.”

I wasn’t a fan of contemporary. I was a royalist who favoured tradition and elegance. I had a Mel Lazar clutch bag to prove it for crying out loud.

I slumped down on the edge of the bed and put my hands to my face. “It’s hopeless.”

“It’ll be okay, Fi,” soothed Charlene.

Gill’s attempt at placating me was a little less orthodox, but far more effective. She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of Green Totty Cider.

“Get this into yer.” The bottle hissed as she twisted the lid. “You’ll feel better in no time.”

We passed the Totty around until the bottle was empty, and like magic, I did begin to feel better.

“Sod my hair,” I grumbled. “Let’s go to Flamingo Harry’s and dance.”

Maybe the dull lighting in the club worked in my favour.

One bloke at the bar said my new do reminded him of the pretty girl from Bucks Fizz. I was quite chuffed until Charlene reminded me that they’re both blonde.

It was all downhill from there.

Trevor spent the whole night showing off his break dancing moves. The DJ came over the mic and called him talented. Gill called him a wanker, which was closer to the mark.

He looked like a skinny giraffe in tight pants having a seizure.

Andrew never showed up at all. Worse than that, Mandy Brewer was a no-show too.

Book of The Week: A Recipe for Romance

Honeymoon fund: £69.00