So it turns out we were on some kind of red alert at the hotel in Cardiff, and as such they were looking out for us behaving suspiciously. Fair enough, we were acting suspiciously, but this made it even harder for us to try and sneak Kevin out of the hotel. When we were sneaking him in it was hard enough, but we couldn’t risk getting caught sneaking him out either, or they might have thrown us out of the hotel. One night sleeping in Danny’s car is more than enough for one lifetime, so we were careful to be discreet – well, as discreet as you can be when you’ve got a hyperactive pug in a Louis Vuitton holdall. It was tough, but we managed it, lurking around near the lifts, just waiting for a moment when Phillip disappeared into the office. Then we made a mad dash for the door and soon enough we were saying our goodbyes to Kevin, having the good sense to pose for selfies with him before we left, because we didn’t ever want to forget him.
Had I taken this trip with Will, I’m not certain how it would have played out. Sure, we could’ve got it on all day and all night without worrying about who might walk in on us, but would that have been it? The whole extent of our fun? Thinking about it, just because sex is the only kind of fun we ever got to enjoy together, it doesn’t mean that if we were to spend normal time together like a normal couple that we would instantly have a blast. I mean, what do we have in common? If everyone says I was being a more boring version of myself to try and be more like Will, then there’s no way we would’ve had fun. We didn’t chat on the phone much because we couldn’t, but what if we had been able to? I try to imagine doing these long journeys in the car, just Will and me, and I can’t imagine what we would talk about, or what we would listen to. How Julie the cleaner isn’t doing her job properly with a Classical FM backdrop? No thank you.
With Danny, car journeys are a blast. Hour-long treks feel like no time at all when we’re chatting about everything from TV shows we watched when we were kids, to what we’d call a pug if we had a pug of our own. When we’re not chatting, Danny will be telling me funny one-liners and lip-syncing to songs on the radio to try and make me laugh, which he always does. There’s just something about seeing this big, buff nerd grooving to Wilson Phillips’s ‘Hold On’ that could make even the most serious person smile.
It may have been a hasty decision born of an emotional reaction to a rough day, but I am so glad that I have taken this trip with Danny. For all the epic fuck-ups, scrapes with the law, mortifying situations and so on, I cannot deny that I am having the time of my life. I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun, and even though, at times, I am the most stressed out I have ever been, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so chilled out. So chilled out, in fact, that this afternoon we’re in Brighton and I’ve done a potentially silly thing… I’ve agreed to let Danny give me a makeover.
The shopping stage was fine. Terrifying, and I feel sick with nerves at wearing any of these outfits in public, but fine. I can wear one of the, frankly, slutty outfits Danny picked out for me tonight, but then I can take it off, safe in the knowledge I gave it a go, and then I’ll never have to wear it again. Same goes for the OTT make-up. But here, now, sitting in this chair at the hairdresser’s, I am terrified. It’s a really funky place and I don’t think anyone working here has a hair do that would see them succeed in a job interview for any other professions, except perhaps the circus.
I twirl my longish ash-blonde locks nervously. This is my natural colour, and I’ve never dyed it before. I’ve never really had more than a trim, so I’m dreading the ‘expert advice’ I’m waiting on. Unlike the clothes, the hair won’t be so easy to rectify. Not without another sitting in the chair, and I’m not exactly flush with money right now. I can’t even really afford this, but I figured I could use my wages from this week, seeing as though I haven’t actually done a second of work, and pretend it was a holiday. I could’ve used my poor finances as a valid excuse to get me out of my makeover but, to be honest, I kind of want Danny to do his worst. I trust him. I know he wouldn’t make me look stupid. Then again, today he’s wearing Batman Converse.
A guy with a blue reverse mohawk (at least that’s what I imagine it is) comes over and introduces himself as Zander.
‘So, your friend tells me you’re after something completely different,’ Zander says as he ruffles my hair.
‘Yes,’ I reply confidently. ‘A different colour, for sure. Maybe a different shade of blonde, like Jessica Simpson.’
‘Fuck Jessica Simpson,’ Danny interrupts. ‘I’m thinking Jessica Rabbit.’
‘Oh, oh, yes!’ Zander claps excitedly. ‘With your little waist and your big cans, we can get you looking like Jessica Rabbit. I’m thinking we dye you red, put in a few extensions to give you a bit more length and a bit more volume – boom!’
I glance back and forth between them in the mirror for a few seconds, taking one last look at my blonde hair. Say goodbye to the old Candice.
‘Fuck it,’ I blurt out. ‘Do it.’
As soon as the words leave my lips it occurs to me to immediately change my mind. I know it’s only hair, and that technically it could be fixed if I didn’t like it, but there’s no way I could afford all the work it would take to have the red completely removed.
You know what? I need to take a few risks. Do a few things that can’t be easily undone. Well, now that Zander is slopping the dark-coloured dye on my hair, there really is no turning back.
I smile to myself as I watch all traces of the old me being covered up. The boring, stuffy, Candice I had morphed myself into to please Will is being plastered over, ready for me to start my life again.
Since we arrived they’ve been playing booming, clubbing music here in the salon, but the mood changes suddenly when Jack Duff’s new track comes on. He’s a singer/songwriter, not unlike Ed Sheeran or James Bay, with his poetic lyrics and beautiful acoustic sound making him sure to be the next big thing, picking up the Mercury Prize, going multiplatinum and then recording a cover for the John Lewis Christmas advert over the course of the year.
‘I love this song,’ I say with a sigh, to no one in particular.
Danny is sitting next to me, twirling in an unoccupied chair as he thumbs through a copy of Tatler.
‘This romantic junk?’ He laughs.
‘Yep,’ I admit. ‘I don’t usually like this kind of music, and it’s not because I’m heartless, although that is up for debate,’ I joke. ‘It’s just… I don’t know. I usually opt for the strong chicks, like Beyoncé or Kelly Clarkson. But I like this. I like Jack. He makes me feel a rush of something in my chest, like maybe my cold heart might be thawing, just a little, and he writes the kind of lyrics that make you feel like it might be quite nice to have someone who gives a fuck about you.’
Danny smiles. ‘You know, despite being self-depreciating and littered with expletives, that might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard you say,’ he tells me. ‘Perhaps you’re not the cold robot you make yourself out to be.’
‘Perhaps I’m not.’ I smile.
‘Rinse time,’ Zander chirps, interrupting our conversation.
After my hair is rinsed, Zander escorts me back to my seat.
‘Wait, don’t let her look in the mirror,’ Danny insists. ‘Face her away from the mirror while you dry her. It’ll be a surprise.’
‘I’ll plaster some slap on her if you like,’ one of the girls sweeping the floor offers. ‘Then the change will seem more drastic, extreme makeover style.’
‘Fab idea,’ Zander replies as he pushes me into the chair and forcibly spins me around before I get a chance to look in the mirror.
So, as it stands, I have the makings of a new wardrobe, I’ve had my hair dyed a drastically different colour, I’ve had some hair cut off, some added in, and a young girl has spent the better part of the past hour covering me in make-up. Finally, I am twirled around to look in the mirror, and I hardly recognise myself.
‘That is not me,’ I squeak, waving my hands to see if the movements of the girl looking back at me correspond with my own. They do. That’s definitely me.
With entirely different hair and make-up, I look like an entirely different person. It’s not just that though, I feel different. I feel confident. I feel like I look good, and I think that is making more of a difference to the way I look than any external makeover ever could. I want to stand tall, throw my shoulders back and let people see me, rather than skulking around in my Stepford gear, keeping my head down.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ are about the only words I can eloquently force out.
‘Say you like it,’ Zander insists.
‘I love it!’ I exclaim. ‘I really love it.’
‘You look incredible, Candy,’ Danny says as he rubs my shoulders. ‘Oh, God, she going to start blubbing.’
I laugh as I check my eyes. It is actually taking a lot of willpower to prevent a few happy tears escaping, but tearing up with all this slap on would take me from zero to Alice Cooper in a matter of seconds.
‘So, are you taking her out to show her off?’ Zander asks Danny.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got it all planned out.’
‘Oh really?’ I ask.
‘Really,’ he replies. ‘Brace yourself.’