Bunburry--Drop Dead, Gorgeous Page 2

  “Isn’t it just?” agreed Betty. “Once he’s trained to give the correct answer to ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ he’ll be perfect.”

  Debbie gave an uncertain laugh and seemed relieved that the waitress arrived at that very moment with the takeaway mango lassi. Rakesh was just behind with the food.

  “Enjoy your meal,” said Debbie, and fled.

  “I’m so sorry for the delay,” Rakesh said.

  Betty inhaled deeply. “It smells absolutely superb. Well worth waiting for.”

  “Too kind,” said Rakesh, already moving towards another table.

  Betty emptied a container of fragrant rice onto Alfie’s plate and began dividing up the lentil curry and spicy aubergine.

  “I could never have Botox,” she said.

  “You don’t like needles?”

  “It’s not that. If I couldn’t frown, how could I show my disapproval of women who go to beauty salons? I despair of my sisters sometimes. Why can’t they just be happy with the way they look?”

  Because they don’t all look like you, Alfie thought.

  “Botox is a poison, a toxin – the clue’s in the name. It’s crazy, the things women do because they’re scared of the ageing process. They should be celebrating it. I’m proud of my wrinkles.”

  Alfie scanned her face. There were slight frown lines between her brows – brows that seemed a perfectly acceptable colour – but it gave her an intense look that he found attractive. And she had a crinkle of laughter lines beside her eyes. Beyond that, he couldn’t see a single wrinkle.

  “It’s okay for men,” she continued. “You’re allowed to age as disgracefully as you like. You’re never going to be found anywhere near a beauty salon.”

  Alfie, who had recently been contemplating approaching Debbie, thought he had better change the subject. His guilty secret was going to have to remain secret as far as Betty was concerned.

  He passed her the dish of raita. “You were asking me something when Debbie came in?”

  Betty spooned some raita on to her plate. “I was? Oh, yes, I asked you about it once before, but never got an answer. That ghastly couple you knew from London – they were talking about Vivian. Who is she?”

  Alfie’s mouth went dry. “Nobody – nobody important.”

  He should be struck dumb for blasphemy.

  He reached for the beer and took a long draught. Betty was watching him closely and he mustered a smile. “Tell me about the merry widow,” he said.

  “Eve Mosby? Not a nice person. She owns most of Bunburry and half of Cheltenham.”

  “Really?”

  “I may be exaggerating slightly. But she’s a filthy rich property magnate, and all she’s interested in is the profit margin.”

  Betty tore off a triangle of naan. “She has a handsome young personal assistant, half her age, who assists her personally.”

  Alfie put on the slightly disapproving expression he thought was expected, although he had absolutely no interest in Eve Mosby. How could he have said that about Vivian? But how could he have said anything else? This wasn’t the time or place.

  He wasn’t sure how he got through the rest of the meal, but the conversation seemed to flow well enough. Perhaps Betty’s attention was also elsewhere since, when Rakesh came with the bill, she put her hand on the restaurateur’s arm and asked: “Everything okay?”

  With his customary smile, Rakesh said: “Everything is more than okay, all the better for seeing you.”

  Betty was thoughtful as she and Alfie set off towards her cottage. “I’m worried about Rakesh – something’s wrong, I’m sure of it.”

  He had seemed fine to Alfie, but Betty had known him for a lot longer.

  She rallied. “Anyway, before we were so rudely interrupted by the Botox queen, you were asking me something?”

  “You haven’t said where you’re going.”

  She didn’t reply, and Alfie rushed on: “With William and Carlotta and Rakesh’s family visiting relatives, I wondered if you were as well.”

  “Yeah, that’s likely.” Her tone was acid. “My mom will prepare the fatted calf since she knows I don’t eat meat, and my dad will move state to avoid me. But I guess you’ve forgotten about my family situation.”

  “I haven’t,” said Alfie, more sharply than he intended. “But you’ve still got family, and it’s never too late to mend broken bridges.”

  “Al.” She linked her arm through his. “I’m sorry.”

  He had an overwhelming urge to put his arm round her and pull her close. But that would be a mistake. She was only being apologetic.

  “You’ve had it tough,” she went on, “losing your mom and never even knowing your dad.”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” he said. “I don’t.”

  But he did. Liz and Marge had known his father, or at least knew something about him they were refusing to tell him.

  Betty gave his arm a little squeeze. “Okay then. Changing the topic completely, how are you getting on with your Open University course?”

  Alfie stopped dead. He hadn’t told a soul about the OU, not even Oscar. He had found his psychology studies fascinating, and criminology seemed a natural progression. But it wasn’t something he wanted to publicise.

  “How do you know about that?” he asked.

  She started to laugh, leaning against him, and he had an even greater impulse to put his arm round her.

  “I didn’t,” she said. “But everyone in the post office has been wondering why you’ve been getting correspondence from the university, and it turns out I’ve guessed right. What are you studying?”

  “Underwater macramé.”

  She nodded. “A useful skill. But seriously, I’m amazed you’ve got time.”

  He thought she was mocking his status as a gentleman of leisure now that he had sold his start-up, but she was looking at him with something akin to admiration, which he found quite disconcerting.

  “You really remind me of Gussie,” she said, as they began walking again. “You’re turning into a mainstay of this community, just like she was.”

  “Hardly,” he muttered.

  “But you are. We couldn’t have kept the animal shelter open without your support. Thanks to you, the library’s re-opened. You’re driving all round the countryside delivering fudge for Liz and Marge. You’re directing Agatha’s Amateurs, and I hear that for the first time ever they’re performing something that isn’t The Mousetrap. I also hear you’re volunteering at the hospice.”

  “It’s good to keep busy,” he said awkwardly.

  “At least you’ll have some free time now you don’t have to come to the Green Party meetings.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing,” he reminded her.

  He thought that this time she was the one who sounded awkward.

  “Some stuff for Greenpeace.”

  “Lectures?”

  She glanced up at him, her eyebrows raised, and he felt a tremor of disquiet.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “That’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.”

  “How long will you be away?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  He paused, then asked: “Is it legal?”

  “Can something be illegal, yet morally justified? Discuss.”

  They had reached the outskirts of the village and were nearing the rough track that led to Betty’s isolated cottage. She stopped and let go of his arm. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  She obviously didn’t want an emotional farewell.

  “My pleasure,” he said. “Goodnight.” He bent down to kiss her on the cheek. But she turned her head so that he kissed her on the mouth instead.

  After a time, very gently, she pulled away from him. “I should go. I
’ve got an early start.”

  She gave him a quick hug before turning and heading towards the cottage.

  “Stay safe,” he called after her, trying to keep his voice even.

  And then he set off back the way he had come, feeling a disturbing mix of elation and guilt.

  2. Deb’s Beauty Salon

  It was 8 am, and Debbie had done her yoga, completed her three-mile run, accompanied by her jet-black poodle, Perro, and enjoyed a nutritious breakfast of muesli, fruit and non-fat yoghurt. And now she was in the salon, Perro snoozing on an old towel in the back room where she kept all the supplies.

  It was a full hour before she would open, and three hours before Mrs Mosby, never an early riser, would arrive – she was never on time for her appointments. But Debbie wanted everything to be absolutely perfect for this first Royal Blowtox Treatment. She put on one of the classical CDs loaned to her by Liz, so much more tasteful than Muzak or whale song. She set out scented pillar candles, although she wouldn’t light them until shortly before Mrs Mosby’s arrival.

  The food and drink were all ready. Admittedly, things weren’t quite as she had originally envisioned them, because of Mrs Mosby’s – she searched for an acceptable word and settled on “eccentricities”.

  Debbie had planned to give her Royal Blowtox customers a Kir Royale on arrival, with crème de cassis and Champagne. She would also offer them a beautifully presented dish of Liz’s fudge, recognised as the best in the Cotswolds. And there would be a selection of the tea room’s celebrated petits fours, both sweet (almond tartlets, chocolate mousse cups and colourful macarons) and savoury (bite-size choux pastries with prawns and chopped egg, and palmiers with goat’s cheese and pesto).

  But as she had been trained to do, Debbie held an initial consultation with Mrs Mosby to check that she was a suitable candidate for Botox. She ascertained that Mrs Mosby was in perfect health. But then came the – no, not ridiculousness –

  eccentricities.

  Mrs Mosby couldn’t drink anything containing bubbles. So, it would have to be crème de cassis mixed with Chablis. As well as that, Debbie had bought still Malvern Water, which was what the Queen drank, so should be acceptable. Mrs Mosby was also lactose intolerant, gluten intolerant, had a nut allergy, and couldn’t touch eggs or shellfish.

  That ruled out the best fudge in the Cotswolds and every one of the tea room’s petits fours. Debbie poured out her woes to Nicholas, the tea room’s owner, and he immediately rose to the challenge.

  “I’ll make them from superfoods – guarana, spirulina, that sort of thing. There won’t be a drop of milk, a speck of nut or a grain of wheat anywhere near them. She’ll have nothing to complain about.”

  Debbie wasn’t convinced, but the superfood petits fours, now sitting in the fridge alongside the water and wine, looked delicious.

  At least there was one thing she knew Mrs Mosby wouldn’t complain about, and that was her allergy to animal hair. The very first time Mrs Mosby entered Deb’s Beauty Salon, she spotted Perro lying inoffensively in the corner.

  “Get that dreadful creature away from me!” she demanded. “I’m severely allergic to animal hair – I can feel my nose beginning to run already.”

  For the first and only time, Debbie ignored the dictum that the customer is always right.

  “Excuse me,” she said with quiet dignity, “but that is quite impossible. Perro is a poodle, and poodles do not shed hair. That is why labradoodles were bred, crossing poodles and Labradors to create a hypoallergenic guide dog.”

  Mrs Mosby must have sensed that the presence of Perro was non-negotiable. She sniffed a bit, and dabbed ostentatiously at her nose, but she didn’t repeat her demand that he be removed.

  When Debbie got to know her better, she realised how extraordinary it was for Mrs Mosby not to insist on getting her own way. But on this occasion, Mrs Mosby was desperate for Debbie’s help. She took off the Rodier headscarf to reveal hair that was a virulent orange.

  “A dreadful, dreadful salon in Cheltenham,” Mrs Mosby complained. “Unbelievable incompetence - I refused to pay, of course, and I’m contemplating suing.”

  Debbie knew this was complete lie. She recognised a home dyeing disaster when she saw it. But her role was not to judge, it was to help. She had to strip back the colour twice before she could transform it into the platinum blonde that was her own trademark. Mrs Mosby had presumably sought her out for this very expertise. It took from 10.30am until 4pm to accomplish the task, but Mrs Mosby, turning her head from side to side as she admired herself in the mirror, was satisfied.

  “Robert always says I look like Marilyn Monroe,” she said, and Debbie fervently agreed, again able to accept that the customer – and even the customer’s husband – was always right.

  Mrs Mosby became a regular customer after that, although she cancelled appointments if Debbie was off on a training course, refusing to submit herself to the care of Debbie’s assistant, Poppy. There were quite a few cancelled appointments, since Debbie took every opportunity to enhance her skills.

  Mrs Mosby was always keen to experience whatever new therapy Debbie had mastered: hot stone massage, paraffin wax with essential oils, the anti-pollution facial. And she sometimes recommended the salon to her well-heeled friends. Debbie hoped the Royal Blowtox Treatment would prove popular, especially if the friends didn’t have so many – eccentricities.

  But while Mrs Mosby might not be the most congenial of clients, she was a successful businesswoman, and Debbie admired that very much. If she had Mrs Mosby’s money, what could she not do? She would move into bigger premises, perhaps even open another branch, hire more assistants, and continue her own training – reflexology, perhaps, and chakra crystals.

  She also admired Mrs Mosby’s style. Debbie had a great fondness for pink, which she felt went particularly well with her blonde hair. But was she stuck in a rut? Mrs Mosby had comprehensively reinvented herself over the years. She had started out as Marilyn Monroe, with tight sweaters and capri pants, but now that she was in her mid-fifties (Debbie had ascertained this during the Botox consultation, but had been sworn to secrecy), she had turned to the timeless elegance of Coco Chanel. And that included transforming her halo of platinum blonde hair to a sleek dark bob, a task that Debbie had executed perfectly.

  Mrs Mosby now generally wore classic two-piece suits, the skirts just skimming her knee, although on occasion she turned up in the equally classic Little Black Dress, accessorised with expensive jewellery and vintage handbags.

  She also dispensed wisdom she had gleaned from her new idol. On one occasion, when Debbie complimented her on her new outfit, she revealed that Chanel had said: “Dress like you are going to meet your worst enemy today.”

  Debbie always tried to learn from Mrs Mosby, but she couldn’t think how to apply this to herself. She didn’t have any enemies, let alone a worst one. There had been that awkward time at school when she and her best friend Lorraine fell out because they both fancied the same boy. But he ignored them both and went off with Corrinne Hughes.

  And how exactly would you dress to meet your worst enemy? Surely the most sensible thing would be the trainers, leggings and crop top she wore for her early morning run, so that you could get away from them as quickly as possible.

  But Mrs Mosby was smirking the way she did when she had said something particularly significant. She seemed to relish the idea of meeting her worst enemy. Which was probably just as well, Debbie reflected, since where enemies were concerned, Mrs Mosby certainly had a lot of them. Debbie’s favourite quote, not that she knew who said it, was “It’s nice to be nice,” but that wasn’t part of Mrs Mosby’s philosophy. She didn’t seem to mind who she upset.

  She didn’t even mind upsetting Debbie, whose landlady she was. The rent for the salon had never been cheap, but after Mr Mosby’s sad passing, Debbie was suddenly notified that it would increase in three months’
time.

  She had brought up the issue with Mrs Mosby during her next appointment, a full-body massage, convinced there had been some administrative error.

  Mrs Mosby’s voice was muffled through the massage table face hole, but there was no mistaking what she said.

  “I beg your pardon? You should be thanking me. I deliberately kept your increase less than the others because I like you. But if you’re just going to moan at me, I don’t see why I should do you any favours. You keep going on about wanting to be a better businesswoman, so here’s a tip for you – put your prices up, and then you’ll be able to pay your rent. And now stop talking. I’m trying to relax.”

  For a second, Debbie considered pressing down sharply on Mrs Mosby’s sciatic nerve. And then, shocked that she could even think such a thing, she began massaging Mrs Mosby’s upper back with expert rhythmic strokes.

  She couldn’t possibly put up her prices – Mrs Mosby and her friends might be able to pay London rates, but the salon’s other clients would reluctantly decide they could no longer afford appointments.

  But perhaps the Royal Blowtox Treatment was the start of a new and profitable era. Debbie invested every spare penny into her own professional development, and if there was any justice in the world, it was time it paid off.

  3. The Vicarage

  She stretched out languorously beside him, easing herself into the crook of his arm, letting her hand trail across his abdomen.

  “I love you,” she murmured.

  “And I love you.”

  He smiled lazily at her, waiting for what she would do next, and then they were walking hand in hand along Camden High Street, past a shop full of crazy Hallowe’en outfits. A witch in a black pointy hat was trying to pull Vivian away from him. He pulled her back, and she was no longer Vivian, she was Betty, falling against him so hard that she knocked him over, and they were falling, falling through the skies, clinging to one another, their one parachute billowing above them.

  They plunged into a snowy mountain-top, and he fought to free her from the parachute silk that was suffocating her, pulling it away from her face, and it wasn’t Betty, it was Vivian. Her face was wet and he couldn’t tell whether it was melted snow or if she was crying …