My Single Friend (7 page)

Henry isn’t the sort of customer the award-winning and terrifyingly trendy salon
Cut
is used to
.
Even I feel intimidated and, unlike Henry, I haven’t got hair that could be home to several species of wild bird eggs. Everyone else looks so perfect they must get up at 4 a.m. to style themselves.

I’m in the place for two and a half seconds before I dig out my woolly hat and pull it on my head, tucking in stray strands so no one can see them. It isn’t even that cold outside, despite being mid-January, and is even warmer in here. But without it on, I have a sudden fear I may be mistaken for a mop head.

After a morning’s shopping, Erin and Dominique have left Henry in my capable hands for this part of the process, before we regroup this evening. We’re shown to two seats at the back of the salon, where we wait obediently.

‘No point trying to hide it . . . I saw those roots when you came in,’ sing-songs a voice as my hat is whipped off and a pair of hands starts rummaging around as if examining my scalp for nits.

‘What have we here? Light-blonde highlights with a touch of caramel . . . hmm, I think we need to take you a shade or two lighter. Never be afraid to add a dash of drama to your hair. And, dear God, you need those ends seeing to.
Who
cut this last?’

I look in the mirror at my assessor. He’s slightly-built with a pinched nose, pouty lips and a fringe bearing about a ton and a half of Elnet.

‘You did it, actually. Why, is it crap?’ is what I
want
to say. Only I haven’t the guts to carry off the lie, particularly as I hacked at my fringe with nail scissors when it was getting into my eyes a couple of weeks ago and I’d never pass it off as professional.

‘Actually, I’m not your customer,’ I whimper instead. ‘He is.’

The stylist looks at Henry and gasps.

Henry smiles, unfazed. ‘Hi.’

‘Dear God, help me,’ the stylist replies, picking up a copy of
Tatler
and fanning his face. ‘Hi. I’m Anton.’

The name isn’t entirely convincing, given the Norris Green accent, but I’m not going to argue.

‘Our friend Dominique recommended you,’ I tell him, deciding to namedrop to distract him from Henry’s head.

‘Dominique?’ he smiles. ‘The woman whose libido makes me look like Mother Teresa.’

I consider jumping to Dom’s defence but decide she’d probably agree anyway. ‘She sent us because we’re giving Henry a makeover and she says you’re the only man for the job. According to Dominique, you’re the best in the business.’

He rolls his eyes and smiles. ‘I don’t like to blow my own trumpet . . .’

A stylist walking past sniggers.

‘Ignore her,’ continues Anton. ‘Right,
Enrico
, let’s have a look.’ He takes a step back and studies Henry’s hair with intense concentration. ‘I think we need something slightly
avant garde
. . .’

‘Great!’ says Henry, as alarm bells go off in my head.

‘I’m not sure
avant garde
is quite what we’re after,’ I add hastily.

Anton fires me a withering look. ‘Oh.
Quite
what are you after?’

‘Something sexy. And simple. Something that will make him instantly fanciable.’

Anton’s face softens. ‘Okay. I can do instantly fanciable. Right, dear: tell me what products you’re currently using.’

I can’t help but snigger.

‘
Products
?’ asks Henry.

‘You know: gels, mousses, serums?’

‘Nothing,’ says Henry.

‘Hmmm. I should have guessed that. Well, from now on you
will
be using them. We’ll have you looking like Josh Hartnett in no time.’

‘I rather liked Orlando Broom’s hair,’ says Henry.

‘Bloom,’ I hiss, wondering if he does this deliberately.

Henry is ushered to the sinks to get his hair washed by a sixteen-year-old with an approach to shampooing like a WWE wrestler. After pummelling his head for five minutes she proceeds to give him an ‘Indian head massage’, using slow, rhythmic movements with a semi-pornographic expression on her face.

Henry’s escorted to the mirror and Anton begins his work. It takes half an hour and some of the most flamboyant scissor action I’ve ever seen, but the results are impressive.

It’s short, but not too short. Shiny, but not too shiny. The style, in Anton’s words, is a ‘sexy-messy, just-showered, natural look that shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to achieve’.

Henry is shocked. ‘
How
long?’

‘All you have to do,’ says Anton patiently, ‘is avoid combing your hair when you step out of the shower –’

‘I can do that,’ says Henry proudly.

‘– and instead, apply the gel and moderately mess up your hair. You know you’ve got it right if it looks like your lover has run their hands through it.’

Henry flashes me a look. I smile encouragingly.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say confidently. ‘It won’t be long before you’re very familiar with that.’

Next stop is the optician.

‘I feel a bit funny, looking like this,’ Henry confesses as we walk across the city centre.

‘Good funny, I hope.’

‘I don’t know. I think so. But I feel weird in these clothes. Don’t you think I look weird?’

‘No.’

‘Not even a bit?’

I look up at him. ‘Henry, can I tell you something?’

‘What?’

‘You looked weird
before
. You don’t look weird now.’

‘Really?’ He stops for a second. ‘I looked that bad?’

I feel a twinge of guilt. The last thing I want is to hurt Henry’s feelings. ‘Not bad exactly.’

‘But weird?’

‘Well . . . yes.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t think it bothered you.’

‘It didn’t bother me because I never knew.’

I bite my lip. ‘Maybe I should never have started this.’

‘No, no,’ he insists. ‘Lucy, I’m glad this is happening. I’m grateful to you and Erin and Dominique. Slightly terrified of Dominique, I’ll admit, but grateful all the same.’

‘She can be a bit full-on sometimes, can’t she?’ I grin.

‘She’s fine,’ he smiles. ‘Though I wished she’d kept her hands off my trousers in the changing room. I felt molested.’

I giggle and push open the door to the shop.

‘Remind me what’s happening tonight?’ he asks.

‘Dominique, Erin and I will be helping you take your first tentative steps towards being a master of seduction.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘I like the sound of that.’

‘Good. Because we need you to be one hundred per cent on board.’

‘I am.’

‘Good.’

‘One hundred and ten per cent,’ he adds.

‘I hope you’re not teasing,’ I say.

‘Not at all,’ he replies innocently.

‘How about these?’ I hold up some designer glasses similar to the pair sported by a male model on the arty, black and white promotional picture in front of us. In it, he is wearing the specs, a sultry look and the impossibly-toned thighs of a lithe, fresh-faced female model. And not a lot else.

‘If that’s the effect they have, I’ll take three,’ says Henry, trying them on. I scrutinize his face and wait to be bowled over by the transformation. Except it doesn’t happen. The new glasses are undeniably a better model (well, it wouldn’t be difficult) but somehow he doesn’t look right.

‘You don’t look overly impressed, Lucy,’ he notices. ‘In fact, I’ve seen you look more impressed at dogs that have pissed in our front garden.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him brightly. ‘They’re only the first pair we’ve tried.’

Henry and I spend the next hour going through all the frames before deciding that not a single pair of glasses here suits him. We decamp to another optician’s on the other side of the city centre. Only this one has exactly the same makes and models of glasses, none of which make Henry look anything like the glorious embodiments of male prowess in the adverts – and not just because he isn’t naked with Kate Moss’s sultrier sister dribbling on his pecs.

‘How can this be so hard?’ I ask despairingly. ‘There must be five hundred pairs of glasses in this shop – why do absolutely none suit you?’

‘Maybe I’ve got a funny face,’ Henry offers.

‘You have
not
got a funny face,’ I say. ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with your face. In fact, I wonder . . .’

I stop and look at Henry.

‘Hang on.’ I reach over and remove his glasses. Putting my hand on his chin, I move it to the side to get a better look. Then I move it to the other side to examine that too.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s obvious.’

‘Is it?’

‘Henry, you’ve got a lovely face,’ I decide. ‘It shouldn’t be hiding behind glasses at all.’

I cannot believe this hasn’t occurred to me until now. Haven’t I seen what happens when Miss Moneypenny removes her goggles in the Bond films? Not just that, but it’s absolutely true about Henry’s face. He has the potential to be very good-looking: dark blue eyes, a lovely full mouth and a jaw that’s as chiselled as any belonging to the models on the posters.

As I look into his eyes again, I find him looking back at me.

‘Oh God, I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I?’

‘No, Lucy, you haven’t,’ he reassures me, squeezing my hand. Henry has lovely hands – big, comforting and smooth-skinned, the direct opposite of some men’s hands, which can be such a disappointment. I dated a bloke a few months ago called Simon and, for once, things weren’t going too badly until he decided to hold hands as we walked home. It was like clutching a leaky hot-water bottle – wet and warm and distinctly not nice. Admittedly, I’ve lowered my standards since then.

‘Well, I think we should ditch the glasses altogether and go for contact lenses.’

‘Really?’ He puts his hands in his pockets defensively. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve always worn glasses. I feel more comfortable in them.’

‘What has comfort got to do with anything?’ I ask sternly.

‘Oh yes, I forgot: your high heels cause so many blisters you almost qualify for a disabled badge.’

‘Exactly,’ I reply.

‘Okay. I’ll give them a try.’

This turns out to be one of the best decisions I’ve made all week. Not only does Henry immediately look better without glasses, but the optician who has given him his eye-test and taken his details is
extremely
attractive. Not as conventionally good-looking as Sean or Jake, but between his sparkly brown eyes and winning smile there is definitely something about him. He emerges back into the reception with Henry and heads to the main desk, flashing me a smile.

‘So,’ muses Sexy Optician as he scribbles a final note on Henry’s file, and hands my friend a receipt, ‘did I hear you say you’re in PR?’

‘No, medical research,’ replies Henry.

‘Excuse me, Mr Fox,’ Sexy Optician says smoothly. ‘I was talking to your friend.’

Henry doesn’t respond.

‘Um, yes,’ I smile, gazing at Sexy Optician. There’s something very appealing about a man in a white coat, I decide. ‘I work for Peaman-Brown in Castle Street.’

‘I’ve heard of them,’ he says, flashing me a flirty smile. ‘So if you had to transform the media image of this company, what would you do?’

‘What, this place?’

‘Yeah,’ he grins. ‘That too hard? Are we too boring?’

‘Oh, God, no,’ I say hastily. ‘Not at all. Well, I’d begin by getting to know the business and its key personnel . . .’

‘Hmmm.’ He raises his eyebrows.

‘And . . . probing you for potential stories.’

‘
Probing
?’ he repeats. ‘I think I’d enjoy that.’ He taps something into the computer on the reception desk.

‘Is this going to take long?’ interrupts Henry.

Sexy Optician smiles. ‘Not too long, no.’ He turns to me again. ‘What do you do when you’re not probing for potential stories?’

‘Oh, you know,’ I smile. ‘This and that.’

He holds my gaze and I can’t resist smiling back, despite my neck starting to feel very hot. ‘This and that sounds enjoyable too.’

‘Right,’ says Henry, clearing his throat. ‘How long before these contacts are ready?’

Sexy Optician drags his eyes away from me. ‘Two to three days, then you’ll need to come back. We’ll give you a ring.’

‘Good. Well, if that’s everything, we need to be going.’ He takes my arm. ‘Come on, Lucy.’

‘So soon?’ smiles Sexy Optician, looking into my eyes again.

‘Yes,’ says Henry decisively.

‘Before you go,’ SO adds, ‘do you think you’d be able to leave your business card? I’d be interested in talking to Peaman-Brown about some opportunities that might be mutually appealing. My name’s Paul.’