London from My Windows (24 page)

CHAPTER 25

The next morning Ava was barely awake when the buzzer screamed through the flat. Given the pitch of the bloody thing, every dog in London was probably barking in her direction. When was she ever going to remember to ask someone to fix that? Could she figure it out herself? Grab a knife and cut a couple of wires? Who the hell was buzzing her anyway? For a few groggy seconds she forgot all about the party. She slid off the bed and padded to the door. The smell of stale alcohol brought back the first reminder. The evidence was stacked up. Literally. Empty bottles standing proudly on tables. Water rings. Food wrappers. Overflowing ashtrays. Every surface screamed,
We partied last night!
Huh. She would have thought Brits and drag queens would have been a bit more tidy. She glanced at the sofa expecting to see the lump that was Queenie. It was empty. Did he get lucky last night? At least he had the decency not to stay here. This flat wasn't built for privacy. The buzzer rang again. “Who is it?”

“Candygram!” a loud voice rang out. It wasn't coming from downstairs; someone was at the door to the flat.

“Candygram?” Ava was trying to stall so she could recognize his voice.

“I've always wanted to say that.” Peals of laughter rang out.

She hadn't been sure about the voices, but she sure recognized the laughter. “Franco?” Ava said.

“And Georgie.”

Ava opened the door. They stood, looking fresh, as if they had gone to bed at a decent hour after a nice cup of herbal tea. Gone were the lavish outfits, hairpieces, and makeup of the night before. Instead, each was wearing a tracksuit and runners. Georgie's was purple; Franco's was bright orange. Franco was just as beautiful as a bald man. His smile was infectious. Ava glanced down at her horse pajamas. “Did you forget something?” They were each holding bags, and plastic bins, and held them up in unison. Tinfoil sat on the top of Georgie's box.

“Let us in,” Franco said, pushing his way in. “We brought product.”

“Product?” Ava said.

“I used to do hair,” Georgie said. “And today I'm going to do yours.” They immediately commandeered the kitchen, setting down their stuff, and arranging things to their liking. Franco pulled a chair over to the sink while Georgie whipped out a black apron and put it on.

“Ta-da,” he said.

“You want to do my hair. Here?”

“Luv. We felt so sorry for you last night.” He put his hand on his heart.

“You did?” Why did he say it like it was a good thing?

“We talked about you all night long,” Franco said. “Everyone did.”

“Wonderful news,” Ava said. “Thanks for that.”

“Don't be a poor sport,” Franco said. “Everyone loved you. Your sketches were the hit of the party.” Ava. The hit of a party. Words she never imagined hearing. But she couldn't help feeling she was more of a freak-show attraction than anything else.

Georgie began to run his fingers through Ava's hair. “I can't imagine not being able to get my hair done. Running out of the salon mid panic attack with your foils still on.”

“It was the most frightening thing we've ever heard,” Franco said.

“Really?” Ava said. “Not all the stories of how death is waiting at every London corner?”

“It was your hair gave us nightmares,” Georgie said. He placed his hands on Ava's shoulders and guided her to the chair. “You just sit your ‘before' self down.”

“Who says I want an ‘after' self?” Ava said.

“Man up,” Franco said. He handed Georgie a very large, very sharp pair of scissors. “We're going to cut.”

“And highlight,” Georgie said.

“Highlights? I don't want highlights,” Ava said.

“What about streaks of dark red?” Franco said to Georgie.

“Brilliant,” Georgie said. “Like mahogany.”

“Mahogany?” Ava said. She didn't like the sound of that. “Like a piano?”

Franco towered over her, holding a makeup brush. “Georgie is going to do your hair; I'm going to do your face.”

“Please don't ever say that again,” Ava said.

Franco threw his head back and laughed.
God, what would it feel like to be him?
So confident and carefree. Surely he'd taken his share of prejudice and abuse, but he was totally comfortable in his own skin. Not just that. He flaunted it. “We're going to bring out your inner slut.”

“And then we'll try to coax out your outer slut,” Georgie added.

Ava shot out of the chair. She hadn't prepared for this. She liked to prepare for things. “I love this idea,” she said. She held her hands up and slowly started to back up. “But I'm just not ready to confront either of my sluts.”

“We're your sluts now, luv,” Franco said. His long arms shot out. He pulled her in and pushed her down in the chair again, whipped out an apron, and threw it over her.

Ava tried to pull it off, but he was already tying it tightly in the back. “What about next week?” she said. “I'll check my calendar.”

“You don't have a calendar,” Franco said.

“Next week is too late,” Georgie said.

“Too late?” Ava said. “Am I dying?”

Franco laughed and punched her in the shoulder. “After all those cocktails last night, I certainly am.” He pinched his cheeks as if they weren't already glowing.

Ava gripped the arms of the chair and squeezed her eyes shut as if she were about to rocket into space. “I need time to think about this. Look at pictures in a magazine maybe.”

Georgie was setting up little plastic bottles. A chemical stench soon overpowered the tiny kitchen. Georgie shook one of the bottles, and beamed. He definitely had cruise director teeth. “We have just landed an ongoing Friday gig at the hottest club, just two little old blocks away, and you are going to be our guest of honor.” He said it so matter-of-factly.
Just two little old blocks away. Is that all?
All Ava had to do was reach up and grab the scissors. Then plunge them into his heart.

“I see what's going on here. You think you can cure me with a new hairdo.” Ava stood. “I'm your new pet, am I?”

“You need a drink,” Franco said.

“Get the agoraphobic girl outside. Maybe all she's been missing all these years is a few piano streaks in her hair.” Ava stood her ground, and made direct eye contact without smiling, but Georgie and Franco didn't look away.

“What if it
was
all you were missing, luv?” Franco said.

“All Cinderella needed was a few rags, and a pumpkin,” Georgie said.

“You're grossly underestimating my condition,” Ava said.

“We saw you in Beverly's dress last night,” Georgie said.

“You know all her outfits?” Ava said. Heat rose to her cheeks. What did they think of her? Wearing a dead diva's dress.

“Do you know why Beverly was such a great actress?” Franco asked.

“Scotch?” Ava guessed.

“She's got you there,” Georgie said.

“She was never herself,” Franco said. “Beverly Wilder was always playing a role.”

“Don't you think that's kind of sad?” Ava said.

“Sad? She was the most alive person I've ever met,” Franco said.

“And talented,” Georgie said, running his finger lovingly up and down the blade of the scissors.

Ava inched back toward the chair. “Did she ever talk about me?” “All the time,” Franco said. “She loved you to pieces. That's why we're here.”

“Exactly,” Georgie said. “So shut your gob and let us work our magic.”

Franco pushed her down in the chair for a third time. He leaned down and spoke directly in her ear. “If you get up one more time, I'm using chloroform.”

“Very funny.”

“Try me,” he said.

Ava folded her arms. Georgie began pinning little chunks of her hair to the top of her head. Franco was beautiful and Georgie was meticulous. If they couldn't help her, who could? “Bring it,” Ava said. The pair cheered. Georgie began to apply color to various strands, wrapping them in tinfoil. The smell was hideous and he had a bit of a rough touch. Still, she dared not cry out or complain. She couldn't believe that they had actually come over here to do her hair. She wasn't going to complain.

Franco put on music, and pulled an enormous bottle of wine out of his bag. “Juice time,” he sang. He poured everyone a generous glass. Georgie was deep in concentration, but Ava happily took hers.

“It must make it hard to date,” Georgie said about fourteen foils into it. “Never going out on the prowl.”

“He wants to know if you're a virgin,” Franco said.

“I do not,” Georgie said. “It just occurred to me that your beaus would have to make house calls.”

“True,” Ava said. “That's why I only shag delivery boys and old-school veterinarians.” Georgie and Franco gasped in unison. God, drag queens were fun to be around. “Kidding,” Ava said. “I've never shagged a veterinarian. But the Domino's boy? Now he comes in thirty minutes or less or it's free.” Ava laughed. Franco and Georgie just stared at her. “Lost in translation.”

“Pity,” Franco said.

“But I did have a boyfriend. He was a police officer.” Good old Cliff. Was he still married? Had he found a new mistress? One he would be forced to take to movies and motel rooms?

“We heard,” they said in unison.
Shit. Hillary and her big mouth.

“I love a man in uniform,” Franco said. “And out of it,” he added with a wink.

“Were you in love?” Georgie asked.

“No,” Ava said. “Just lust.” Jasper flitted across her mind. She felt heat rise into her cheeks.
Maybe I'm falling in—

“We're going to let this sit,” Georgie said. He took off his gloves and picked up his wine.

“So. What about the London men?” Franco said. “Anyone catch your fancy?” His voice was suddenly an octave higher. Ava's alarm bells went off.

“I've barely left the apartment,” Ava said.

“Notice how she avoided the question,” Georgie said.

“Oh, I noticed,” Franco said.

“You seemed pretty chummy with Jasper last night,” Georgie said. He topped off Ava's wine. Ava glanced at their wineglasses. They looked as if they hadn't been touched. In fact, Franco was sipping out of a bottle of vitamin water. What were they doing to her? Why wasn't she drinking vitamins?

“He's a friend,” Ava said.

“Handsome fellow, wouldn't you say?” Franco said.

“I'd say,” Georgie said. “What do you say, Ava?”

“It's hard to believe Jasper and Hillary were ever a couple,” Ava said. She tried to sound casual.

“You say that as if they're over,” Franco said.

“They are over,” Ava said. Franco and Georgie exchanged a look. “Aren't they?” Of course they were. Jasper was falling; she was falling. A net. Were they falling without a net?

“Is anything ever really over?” Franco said.

“Yes,” Ava said. “When things are over, they're over.” What was going on here? She'd better be careful or she was going to give her feelings away. What was it about getting her hair done that made a woman want to divulge every secret underneath the sun?

“Somebody has a little crush,” Franco said, clapping his hands together.

“On Hillary?” Georgie said. “You're gay?”

Franco swatted Georgie. “Not Hillary.” They turned to her at the same time.

“Jasper,” they said in stereo.

“Shit,” Ava said.

Franco jumped up and down. “We got it! We got it!”

“Oh, he's going to love you when we finish with you,” Franco said.

“Let's not get her hopes up too high,” Georgie said. Franco and Georgie exchanged a look.

“What?” Ava said. “What was that?”

“Nothing. It's just . . . You don't really want a British man, do you?” Franco said.

“Why not? What's wrong with British men?”

“Where do we start?” Georgie said.

“Wait. Are you talking about straight British men or gay British men?”

“Honey, we're talking about Brits of both sexes. You don't want us. We're not
Downton Abbey
.”

“We don't always have straight teeth.”

“Or big dicks.”

“We're pompous.”

“Boring.”

“Workaholics.”

“Snobby.”

“Very dry sense of humor.”

“Show her.”

“How many barristers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

“Why would we screw in a lightbulb when we have a perfectly good bed?”

Ava's head was starting to hurt, and truth be told, her scalp was starting to burn. “Should we rinse this off now?”

“Not yet,” Georgie said. “I've got you on a timer, darling; don't worry about a thing.”

“What about a Latin man?” Franco said. He began to sway his hips, à la tango-for-one.

Ava drank more wine. It almost seemed as if they were on a mission to turn her against Jasper. It was as if . . .

Hillary sent them.
Oh, God.
The hair. Had he done something hideous to her hair? Georgie wouldn't do that, would he?

Hell hath no fury like Hillary Swanson.
Was she going to be bald? Ava knew she didn't have the kind of head that could pull off bald; she just knew it. Was this what she deserved? Who cared what she looked like when nobody was going to see her anyway?