THE NEXT DAY, WHILST waiting for the kettle to boil, my eye was drawn to a leaflet which had been discarded on top of the office recycling bag, alongside a pile of holiday brochures and well-thumbed gossip magazines. It was for a department store in town – not one I had ever frequented – and set out an introductory offer, featuring a frankly spectacular one-third reduction in the price of a ‘Deluxe Pamper Manicure’. I tried and failed to imagine what a deluxe pamper manicure might involve. How might one introduce luxury and pampering into the process of shaping and painting a nail? It was, literally, beyond my imagining. I felt a thrill of excitement. There was only one way to find out. With my animal grooming regime in mind, I would turn my attention to my talons.
I had somewhat neglected my self-improvement plans of late, distracted by Sammy’s unfortunate accident and the events which had resulted from it. But it was time to refocus on my goal: the musician. I indulged in the sin of pride for a moment. My nails grow exceedingly fast, and they are strong and shiny. I attribute this to a diet high in the requisite vitamins, minerals and fatty acids, which are obtained from my well-planned luncheon regime. My nails are a tribute to the culinary excellence of the British high street. Not being a vain person, I merely cut them with clippers when they grow too long to allow for comfortable data input, and file down the resulting sharp corners so that they do not snag on fabric or scrape my skin unpleasantly when I am bathing. So far, so perfectly adequate. My nails are always clean – clean nails, like clean shoes, are fundamental to self-respect. Whilst I am neither stylish nor fashionable, I am always clean; that way, at least, I can hold my head up when I take my place, however unexalted, in the world.
I headed into town during my lunch break, eating my sandwich on the way in order to save time. On reflection, I wished that I had selected a less obtrusive filling; egg and cress was perhaps not the most judicious choice for a busy, warm train carriage, and both the sandwich and I were attracting disapproving looks from our fellow travellers. I abhor eating in public at the best of times, so the eight-minute journey was not a pleasant experience for anyone concerned.
I found the nail concession at the rear of the Beauty Hall, a vast chandelier-lit barn of mirrors, scents and noise. I felt like a trapped animal – a steer or a rabid dog – and imagined the chaos I’d cause if, careering wildly, I was corralled in there against my will. I clutched the leaflet tight in my fist, balled up inside my jerkin pocket.
‘Nails Etcetera’ – to what extras did the Latin term refer, I wondered? – appeared to consist of two bored children in white tunics, a breakfast bar with four stools, and a rack of polishes in every hue from clear to tar. I approached with caution.
‘WelcomeToNailsEtcetraHowCanIHelpYouToday,’ said the smaller girl child. It took me a moment to translate.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said slowly, and in an exaggeratedly modulated voice, to give her a clue as to how one ought to speak in order to communicate effectively. She and her companion were both staring, their expressions a combination of alarm and … well, alarm, mainly. I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. They were so young, after all – perhaps this was some sort of work experience and they were awaiting the return of their teacher.
‘I’d like a Deluxe Pamper Manicure, please,’ I said, as clearly as I could. There was a long, still pause where nothing happened. The shorter one was first to wake from her trance.
‘Take a seat!’ she said, indicating the nearest stool. Her companion remained transfixed. The shorter one (Casey, according to her name badge) bustled about distractedly and then perched opposite, having first set down a kidney bowl slopping with hot soapy water. She swivelled the rack of polishes towards me.
‘What colour would you like?’ she said. My eye was drawn to a bright green hue, the same shade as a poisonous Amazonian frog, the tiny, delightfully deadly ones. I handed it to her. She nodded. She wasn’t actually chewing gum, but her demeanour was very much that of a gum chewer.
She took my hands and placed the tips of all ten fingers into the warm water. I kept a watchful eye to ensure that no other flesh made contact with the unknown detergent substances, for fear of inflaming my eczema. I sat there for several minutes, feeling rather foolish, while she rummaged in a nearby drawer and returned with a variety of stainless steel tools, carefully laid out on a tray. Her catatonic companion had finally sprung to life and was chatting enthusiastically to a co-worker at a different concession; I couldn’t discern the topic, but it seemed to prompt some eye-rolling and shrugging.
Casey deemed the moment apposite to remove my hands from the water, and she then laid them on a folded flannel. She carefully patted each fingertip dry. I wondered why she hadn’t simply asked me to remove my hands, using her voice, and passed me the towel, so I could dry them using my hands, since I was enjoying, at current point of reporting, full use and motor function in all limbs and extremities. Perhaps that was what pampering meant, though – literally, not having to lift a finger.
Casey set to work with the tools, pushing back my cuticles and trimming them where required. I essayed some chitchat, aware that this was the done thing in the circumstances.
‘Have you worked here long?’ I asked.
‘Two years,’ she said, to my astonishment – she appeared to be around fourteen years of age and, to the best of my knowledge, child labour was still outlawed in this country.
‘And did you always want to be a …’ I grappled for the word ‘… manicurist?’
‘Nail technician,’ she corrected me. She was intent on her task and did not look at me while she talked, which I approved of enormously. There is categorically no need for eye contact when the person concerned is wielding sharp implements.
‘I wanted either to work with animals or to be a nail technician,’ she continued. She had moved onto a hand massage now. More deluxe pampering, presumably, although I found it rather pointless and ineffectual, and was concerned for potential allergic reactions. Her hands were tiny, almost as small as mine (which are, unfortunately, abnormally small, like a dinosaur’s). I would have preferred a man’s hands to massage mine; larger, stronger, firmer. Hairier.
‘So yeah,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t decide between animals or nails, so I asked my mum, and she said I should go for nail technician.’ She picked up an emery board and began to shape my nails. It was an awkward process, one that would have definitely been easier to do oneself.
‘Is your mother an economist or a qualified careers advisor?’ I said. Casey stared at me. ‘Because, if not, then I’m not sure that her advice was necessarily informed by the latest data on earnings projections and labour market demand,’ I said, quite concerned for her future prospects.
‘She’s a travel agent,’ Casey said firmly, as if that settled the matter. I let it drop – it was no concern of mine, after all, and she seemed happy enough at her work. The thought did strike me, as she painted on various coats of various varnishes, that she could have perhaps combined the two professions by becoming a dog groomer. However, I elected to keep my counsel on the matter. Sometimes, when you tried to help with suggestions, it could lead to misunderstandings, not all of them entirely pleasant.
She placed my hands into a small machine which was, I assumed, a hairdryer for nails, and a few minutes later the deluxe pampering was done. All in all, the experience had been rather underwhelming.
She advised me of the price – it was, frankly, extortionate. ‘I have a leaflet!’ I said. She nodded, not even asking to check it, and deducted the requisite one-third, stating the revised amount, which still left me reeling. I reached for my shopper. She said ‘Stop!’ in a very alarming fashion. I did.
‘You’ll smudge them,’ she said. She leaned forward. ‘I’ll get your purse out for you, if you like?’
I was concerned that this might be some elaborate ruse to part me from even more of my hard-earned cash, so I watched her like the proverbial hawk as she reached inside my bag. Too late, I remembered the unfinished remains of the egg sandwich which lay within – she gagged ostentatiously as she removed my purse. A slight overreaction, I felt – yes, the odour which escaped was somewhat sulphurous, but still, no need for pantomime. I kept my eyes fixed on her fingers (unpainted, I noticed) as she extracted the required notes and replaced the purse in the shopper very carefully.
I stood up, ready to take my leave. Her erstwhile companion had returned, and cast a glance at my hands, their tips gleaming green. ‘Nice,’ she said, her tone and body language implying strongly that she
had little interest in the topic. Casey became slightly more animated. ‘Would you like a loyalty card?’ she said. ‘Have five manicures and the sixth one’s free!’
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I shan’t be having a manicure again. I can do the same thing myself at home, better, for nothing.’ Their mouths fell open slightly, but with that I was off, making my way back out into the world, dodging the squirters and the sample-pushers on my way past the perfume counters. I longed to be outside in natural light and fresh air again. The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature.
I got home after work and opened my wardrobe. What to wear to a party? I had two pairs of black trousers and five white blouses – well, they were white originally – which I wore to work. I had a comfortable pair of slacks, two T-shirts and two jumpers, which I wore at weekends. That left my special occasion outfit. I’d bought it for Loretta’s wedding reception years ago, and had worn it on a handful of occasions since, including a special visit to the National Museum of Scotland. The exhibition of newly discovered Roman trove had been tremendous; the journey to Edinburgh, far less so.
The train interior had been more like a bus than the Orient Express, replete with hard-wearing fabrics in stain-concealing colours and grey plastic fittings. The worst thing, apart from the other travellers – my goodness, the hoi polloi do get about these days, and they eat and drink in public with very few inhibitions – was the incessant noise from the loudspeakers. It seemed there was an announcement every five minutes from the mythical conductor, imparting sagacious gems such as large items should be placed in the overhead luggage racks, or that passengers should report any unattended items to the train crew as soon as possible. I wondered at whom these pearls of wisdom were aimed; some passing extraterrestrial, perhaps, or a yak herder from Ulan Bator who had trekked across the steppes, sailed the North Sea, and found himself on the Glasgow–Edinburgh service with literally no prior experience of mechanized transport to call upon?
The special occasion outfit was, I realized, somewhat outmoded now. Lemon was not a colour that suited me particularly well – fine for nightgowns, worn in the privacy of my bedroom, but hardly suitable for
a sophisticated gathering. I’d go to the shops tomorrow and purchase something new; I’d be able to wear it again when I was out at a restaurant or at the theatre with my true love, so the money would not be wasted. Feeling happy with this decision, I made my usual pasta con pesto and listened to The Archers. There was a convoluted storyline involving a very unconvincing Glaswegian milkman, and I did not particularly enjoy the episode. I’d washed up and settled down with a book about pineapples. It was surprisingly interesting. I like to read as widely as possible for many reasons, not least in order to broaden my vocabulary to assist with crossword solving. Then the silence was very rudely interrupted.
‘Hello?’ I said, somewhat tentatively.
‘Oh, so it’s “Hello”, is it? “Hello” – that’s all you’ve got to say to me? And where the hell were you last night, lady? Hmm?’ She was playing to the gallery again.
‘Mummy,’ I said. ‘How are you?’ I tried my best to steady myself. ‘Never mind how I am. Where were you?’
‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ I said, trying to keep my voice even. ‘I was … I was with a friend, visiting another friend in hospital, actually.’
‘Oh, Eleanor,’ she said, her voice oozingly oleaginous, ‘you don’t have friends, darling. Now come on, tell me where you really were, and I want the truth this time. Were you doing something naughty? Tell Mummy, there’s a good girl.’
‘Honestly, Mummy, I was out with Raymond’ – there was a snort – ‘visiting this nice old man in hospital. He fell in the street and we helped him and—’
‘SHUT YOUR LYING LITTLE CAKEHOLE!’ I flinched, dropped the book, picked it up again.
‘You know what happens to liars, don’t you, Eleanor? You remember?’ Her voice was back to sickly sweet. ‘I don’t mind how bad the truth is, but I won’t tolerate lies, Eleanor. You of all people should know that, even after all this time.’
‘Mummy, I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Raymond and I went to hospital to visit a man we’d helped when he had an accident. It’s true, I swear it!’
‘Really?’ she drawled. ‘Well, that’s just delightful, isn’t it? You can’t be bothered to talk to your own mother, and yet you spend your
Wednesday evenings visiting some geriatric, accident-prone stranger? Charming.’
‘Please, Mummy, let’s not fight. How are you? Have you had a good day?’
‘I don’t want to talk about me, Eleanor. I already know all about me. I want to talk about you. How is your project coming along? Any news for Mummy?’
I might have known she’d remember. How much should I tell her?
Everything, I supposed.
‘I went to his house, Mummy,’ I said. I heard the click of a lighter and then a long exhaled breath. I could almost smell the smoke from her Sobranie.
‘Oooh,’ she said. ‘Interesting.’ She took in another lungful and expelled it with a sigh. ‘Who’s this “he”?’
‘He’s a musician, Mummy.’ I didn’t want to tell her his name quite yet – there is a power in naming things, and I wasn’t quite ready to cede it to her yet, to hear those precious syllables rolled in her mouth, for her to spit them out again. ‘And he’s handsome and clever and, well, I think he’s the perfect man for me, really. I knew it as soon as I saw him.’
‘That all sounds rather marvellous, darling. And you went to his house, did you? Tell me, what did you find there?’
I sniffed. ‘The thing is, Mummy … I didn’t actually … go inside.’ This wasn’t going to be easy. She liked doing bad things, and I didn’t. It was as simple as that. I spoke quickly, hoping to head off the inevitable criticism. ‘I just wanted to have a quick look, make sure he lived somewhere app … appropriate,’ I said, stumbling over the words in my haste to get them out.
She sighed. ‘And how are you supposed to know whether it’s nice if you didn’t go inside? You always were overcautious and lily-livered, darling,’ she said, sounding bored.
I looked at my hands. The chipped green nails looked so garish in this light.
‘What you have to do, Eleanor,’ she said, ‘is grasp the nettle. Do you know what I mean by that?’
‘I think so,’ I whispered.
‘I’m simply telling you that you mustn’t keep pussyfooting around, Eleanor.’ She sighed. ‘Life is all about taking decisive action, darling. Whatever you want to do, do it – whatever you want to take, grab it.
Whatever you want to bring to an end, END IT. And live with the consequences.’
She started to talk quietly, speaking so softly that I could hardly hear her. This, I knew from experience, did not bode well.
‘This man …’ she murmured. ‘This man sounds as if he has some potential, but, like most people, he’ll be weak. That means that you have to be strong, Eleanor. Strength conquers weakness – that’s a simple fact of life, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said sullenly, pulling a face. Childish, I know, but Mummy does tend to bring out the worst in me. The musician was very handsome and very talented. I knew, as soon as I set eyes on him, that we were destined to be together. Fate would see to that. I didn’t need to take any more … decisive action, apart from ensuring that our paths crossed again – once we met properly, the rest was, surely, already written in the stars. I suspected that Mummy wasn’t going to be pleased with this approach, but I was more than accustomed to that. I heard her breathe in, then out, and felt the soft menace through the ether.
‘Don’t you go getting sidetracked, now, Eleanor – don’t go ignoring Mummy, will you? Oh, you think you’re so smart now, don’t you, with your job and your new friends. But you’re not smart, Eleanor. You’re someone who lets people down. Someone who can’t be trusted. Someone who failed. Oh yes, I know exactly what you are. And I know how you’ll end up. Listen, the past isn’t over. The past is a living thing. Those lovely scars of yours – they’re from the past, aren’t they? And yet they still live on your plain little face. Do they still hurt?’
I shook my head, but said nothing.
‘Oh, they do – I know they do. Remember how you got them, Eleanor. Was it worth it? For her? Oh, there’s room on your other cheek for a bit more hurt, isn’t there? Turn the other cheek for Mummy, Eleanor, there’s a good girl.’
And then there was only silence.
