Eve Mosby wafted into the salon half an hour late, leaving a trail of Chanel Number 5 in her wake. Perro, who had been slumbering beside the front door, scurried off to hide in the cupboard at the back. Debbie wasn’t sure whether he was running away from the perfume or from Mrs Mosby.
Her client was wearing a short-skirted tweed suit. It was beige and hugged her figure. Lines of glitter ran through it.
“What a gorgeous outfit,” breathed Debbie.
“Chanel, of course,” said Mrs Mosby. “As Mademoiselle Coco said, dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman. Be very careful with it. I want it hung up properly, not crumpled up in a corner for that animal to slobber over.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Mosby –” Debbie began, but was interrupted.
“I’m not worrying, I’m giving you instructions.”
Debbie meekly accepted the rebuke. “Of course. And thank you for being the first client to have my new Royal Blowtox Treatment.”
“The first client? I think that deserves something.”
Debbie beamed.
“Shall we say a fifteen per cent discount?” Mrs Mosby continued. “I’m not sure I like the idea of being a guinea-pig.”
A fifteen per cent discount would completely wipe out the profit margin. But Debbie couldn’t afford to antagonise a regular client, especially one on whom she was depending for recommendations.
Trying to remain chirpy, she said: “We’ll be happy to give you a discount. Now, everything’s ready for you, if you’d care to get changed. I’ll fetch your Kir Royale.”
Eve Mosby stopped dead. “A Kir Royale? I can’t have that. I’ve told you, I can’t abide bubbles.”
“No, of course not, I know that,” gabbled Debbie. “I said the wrong name. I’ve got a lovely chilled Chablis instead of Champagne.”
“I don’t want it just now, I want to start with the massage,” said Eve as she swished through the curtains to the treatment room. “I hope you’ve remembered all my other intolerances.”
How could she forget? Mrs Mosby was nothing but a walking intolerance, Debbie thought, and then scolded herself. She was launching her fabulous new flagship treatment, and everything was going to go perfectly. The scented pillar candles had been lit, and Liz’s CD was emitting a beautiful classical melody.
Debbie changed the salon’s sign from Open to Closed and pulled down the blinds on the window and glass door.
“The next four hours are for you alone, Mrs Mosby,” she called. “All you have to do is relax. Poppy’s on holiday, so there are no other clients. I’ve closed the door and I’m switching off my phone so there’s nothing to disturb you. Would you like to switch off your phone as well?”
Mrs Mosby had a habit of fielding business calls at particularly crucial points during her treatments, and somehow it always ended up being Debbie’s fault.
“I deliberately left it at home,” came Mrs Mosby’s voice. “I’m exhausted – I absolutely have to have some me time without being pestered every two minutes.”
Debbie’s heart sank. Mrs Mosby was sure to miss some important call, and that would somehow turn out to be Debbie’s fault as well.
“Is it all right if I come in now?” she called.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” The voice dripped sarcasm.
Even though she knew Mrs Mosby wouldn’t be able to see her, Debbie knew it was only professional to switch on her best smile as she entered the treatment area. Mrs Mosby was lying face-down on the massage table, the pink bath sheet clutched decorously around her. She had placed her leather Chanel handbag, its shoulder strap embellished with a gold chain, on the chair, but she had simply left her clothes scattered on the ground. Debbie, her smile slightly dimmed, felt a pang of sympathy for Mrs Mosby’s housekeeper. She picked up the expensive suit and smoothed it down before putting it on one of her pink satin hangers, then arranged the rest of the clothes on the chair.
Mrs Mosby had placed her glasses, also with the distinctive Chanel logo, right next to the massage oil. Did she do these things deliberately?
“I’m going to move your lovely glasses to the shelf over here,” said Debbie. “I don’t want to get any oil on them.”
“I don’t want you to get any oil on them either,” said Mrs Mosby. “They cost over five hundred pounds. Are you planning on starting this massage any time soon?”
“Right away.”
Debbie dipped her fingers in the massage oil and rubbed her hands briskly to ensure they were warm.
“Now, I want you to take three deep breaths with me. Breathe in –”
Most clients flopped into relaxation after this, but not Mrs Mosby.
“What’s the latest Bunburry scuttlebutt?” she demanded as Debbie began to massage the top of her shoulders.
Debbie enjoyed chatting to her clients and, if she was honest, loved hearing all the gossip. But she was always careful not to pass it on unless she could trust the recipient not to say where they had heard it.
“Marge Redwood and Liz Hopkins are campaigning for a better local bus service,” she said.
“That’s what passes for excitement here? Thank God I live in Cheltenham. They must have sad lives if that’s all they can find to occupy them.”
Debbie liked Liz and Marge. “They have a very successful fudge-making business,” she said.
“Goodness. I don’t know why you look to me for business tips when you could be drawing on their entrepreneurial expertise.”
“They’re very clever ladies,” said Debbie, sweeping her hands down Mrs Mosby’s spine. “They’ve helped the police solve a lot of crimes. Along with Alfie McAlister.”
“Alfie McAlister,” mused Mrs Mosby. “I know that name. How do I know it?”
“He’s Gussie Lytton’s nephew – he inherited Windermere Cottage from her.”
“I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea who Gussie Lytton is, and even less interest.”
Debbie couldn’t let that pass. “Gussie was a wonderful lady. She did so much for this village, and Alfie’s just like her. Our library got closed ages ago, and he’s set up a community library, and bought all the books for it, really good ones, the sort you want to read. And he’s organised a volunteer rota, and if anyone can’t make it, he does their shift, even though he’s already got his own shifts to do. And he’s very good looking.”
“It sounds as though you’re quite smitten by this Alfie. I hope you have better luck with him than you did with the last one.”
“Sorry, Mrs Mosby?” Debbie faltered. She was sure she had never told Mrs Mosby about the dark-eyed Felipe, the love of her life until she discovered he was married.
“I hear the last man you got close to was a corpse!” Mrs Mosby laughed.
Debbie felt herself redden with anger at Mrs Mosby’s mean, tasteless remark, which wasn’t the least bit funny. Mario Bellini, the most beautiful man she had ever seen, who had come to Bunburry to set up an ice-cream parlour and ended up dead. And it was Debbie, or rather Perro, who had found the body. She still remembered her shock at realising that such a gorgeous man had gone for ever.
She couldn’t think of any polite reply, but Mrs Mosby suddenly said: “Alfie McAlister … not the one who had that amazing start-up?”
“Maybe,” said Debbie vaguely, covering Mrs Mosby’s back with the towel, and moving on to massage her legs. “I think he’s some sort of businessman.”
“Some sort of businessman? He’s had the devil’s own luck – he must have made millions. You should definitely have a go at him. Unless he’s married, in which case still have a go, but be a bit more discreet.”
Debbie was shocked by the suggestion. The minute she had discovered Felipe’s marital status, she had fled from Marbella back to Bunburry. She wouldn’t even consider making a move on someone who had a girlfriend.
“He’s going out with Betty Thorndike,” she said, busying herself with easing the tightness in Mrs Mosby’s calf muscle.
“That dreadful American who keeps banging on about global warming? If global warming was real, we wouldn’t have had a summer like the one just past, would we? She must think we’re stupid. Mr McAlister’s gone down in my estimation.”
Debbie wasn’t sure that anybody ranked particularly highly in Mrs Mosby’s estimation.
Her client dreamily stretched out her feet and wiggled her toes. “Of course, I have my darling Edward. He keeps me young.”
Debbie knew what was expected of her. “Heavens, Mrs Mosby, you are young,” she said dutifully. “Edward’s a very lucky man.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Mrs Mosby agreed. “Luckier than he knows – although I may have dropped one or two little hints. But he’s worth it. He’s been such a comfort to me since poor Robert died.”
Debbie knew for a fact that Mrs Mosby’s darling Edward had been comforting her long before poor Robert died, but accepted that history had been rewritten after Mrs Mosby was widowed. You heard all sorts of things in a beauty salon where people were relaxed and half asleep.
Mrs Mosby continued to talk about Edward in a way that Debbie didn’t want to hear, particularly given the lack of a boyfriend of her own. She zoned out, concentrating on delivering the new Royal Blowtox Treatment experience, getting Mrs Mosby to turn over onto her back, discreetly screened by the towel, occasionally murmuring something to give the impression that she was listening.
And then she must have subconsciously registered that the subject had changed.
“… impossible to keep your rent as it is,” Mrs Mosby was saying. “Robert was a complete softie, always making allowances, but there’s no room for sentiment in business. You’re always so keen to learn how to be a good businesswoman, and that’s definitely lesson one.”
“My rent?” Debbie faltered. “But you said three months.” Three months during which she hoped the lucrative new treatment would have taken off.
Mrs Mosby didn’t even open her eyes. “You’ll have the letter by the beginning of next week. I’m sorry, but there it is. I’m not a charity. And neither should you be. Toughen up, and charge properly for your services. Value yourself.”
Debbie considered toughening up enough to refuse to give Mrs Mosby a fifteen per cent discount on this initial Royal Blowtox Treatment. But Mrs Mosby would only shout at her, or worse, laugh at her. No, that wasn’t the way to deal with her.
Cleansing, steaming and exfoliating Mrs Mosby’s face led to a blessed silence. Then Debbie began to apply the facial mask, massaging as she went.
“We have to leave this on for forty-five minutes, Mrs Mosby,” she said. “I’m going to bring your Kir Roy – Kir and some little nibbles. No bubbles, no nuts, no gluten, no dairy.”
She went into the tiny kitchen area behind reception and poured the unroyal Kir into the crystal wine glass she had brought in specially. Nicholas’s petits fours were already arranged on her prettiest bone china plate.
She set them down on a little folding table beside Mrs Mosby.
“I’ll put an extra pillow at your back to prop you up a bit more, and there’s a straw for you to drink through. Just relax. I’ll be close by.”
She wasn’t lying, exactly. She would be close by, just not in the salon as such. Poor Perro had waited long enough hiding in the cupboard; he needed his walk. Treading softly, she went to pick him up so that Mrs Mosby wouldn’t be alerted by the sound of his claws on the floor. She moved soundlessly through the curtains to the reception area and carefully unlocked the door.
She had never thought this way about one of her ladies before, but she decided that she really disliked Mrs Mosby.