Rose-tinted Scissors
Excerpt from her novel
The novel, set in Paris in 1961 is about a young English woman whose ambition to become a successful hairdresser is in conflict with her desire to find true love.
Monique's in the hall when I come in from work. She looks sad but her face brightens when she sees me. I say I wish I didn't have to go out. It's true in a way.
I change into the very Parisian-looking outfit I bought with the money I saved up in Nice. I was going to wear it to impress Andrew but didn't get a chance. It's a little box jacket in navy blue wool, with a matching straight, pencil-slim, sleeveless dress which comes to just below the knee. I tie my hair back with a black velvet ribbon and rummage in the drawer for the off-white ruched kid gloves.
I've plenty of time. I walk across to get the Metro at Kléber that'll take me all the way to Denfert Rochereau. I can hear a train coming in as I trip my way down the corridor so I start to run. The woman at the barrier punching the tickets doesn't want to let me through and I have to push past her. 'C'est comme ça qu'on arrive à l'hôpital,' she screams as I jump into the train. That's how you end up in hospital. I sit there imagining it. Instead of meeting Jack I'd be lying on a trolley somewhere and they'd be going through my handbag to find out who I was and who they could get in touch with. At least I'm wearing decent underwear.
I'm a bit taken aback to see how many stops before Denfert Rochereau. Stops with names I've never heard of - Bir-Hakeim … Sèvres Lecourbe Edgar Quinet. I'm going to be late. Maybe I should just go back home, I've only met this man once and for not even half an hour. Or I could keep going, past stations with more strange names -Glacière … Dugommier … Bel-Air …. I could spend the whole evening in the Metro, changing trains, finding myself at Bobigny or Villejuif or Pré-Saint-Gervais.
Opposite me there's a young couple holding hands and staring straight ahead, not talking, except that, now and again, they look at each other and smile, like they've come to the best bit of their favourite tune or they've hit the jam in the doughnut. The girl looks like she's come off the front of a knitting pattern, her hair's dyed black and it's rigid with mousse. He's spent hours on his, sleeking it down with sugar water. They look as if they know where they're going.
I recognise Jack straight away, though he's leaner and browner than when I saw him in the spring. And how come I hadn't noticed the blinding blue of his eyes? The eyes keep saying hello to me as we sit opposite each other, and I'm wondering if I'm going to manage to eat.
It's a cheap restaurant and I feel a bit out of place in my smart outfit. We've both ordered pot au feu, which is a sort of boiled beef and carrots dish with lots of potatoes. And a big jug of red wine. And it's very noisy in a jolly sort of way. You eat at a long table so you get a bit elbowed by the person on either side of you.
I don't know if it's the effect of the wine but, now I've got used to the eyes, I'm finding him very easy to talk to. I've even started telling him about how I spent the summer in Nice because of this French feller called Michel.
'But then it wasn't working out,' I say, 'so I came back to Paris.' Should I mention Andrew? He might think I'm fast, too available. Or just boasting.
'Then there's this feller I know from Manchester who came over to see me.'
He laughs and says it's not surprising I have so many men after me, because I'm very attractive. His laugh makes me feel good, it makes me feel I'm silly to be getting so depressed about not knowing what to do. I shouldn't be so serious about it all.
'He wants to marry me,' I tell him.
'Who? The one in Nice or the one in Manchester?' I could say Both but I don't want to say any more about Michel.
'The one in Manchester. He's just got a job and he's going to be living in Leeds.'
'But what would you do in Leeds? What about your hairdressing? You said you wanted to be - I dunno - someone.'
There are tears coming into my eyes that I'm completely unprepared for.
'You're right,' I say. I want to continue with But it isn't easy, but I can't because there's a lump in my throat. I wait for a moment and then I tell him about the competition and about this woman I want to use as a model and how she's an actress with the Comédie Française and she's in a play at the moment that's set in the eighteenth century. He's really interested because he says he's studying history and the period he's specialising in is eighteenth century.
'They had the most amazing hairstyles, the women, in those days,' he's starting off when the man by his side asks him in English if he can pass him over the ashtray. He offers Jack and me a cigarette and then starts asking Jack about whether he actually lives in Paris. I'm fed up because we were in the middle of a conversation, but this man and his friend opposite - they're both American - seem to assume that all we want to do is talk with them about what we're doing in Paris and how we like it. Jack's actually launching into an account of his travels round the world and the other feller keeps saying 'Gee'. His friend, who's next to me, asks me if I went round the world too. I just say No. I'm not going to tell him I'm a hairdresser, which would provoke more 'Gees'. He asks me what I think of the French, drops his voice.
'Actually, I don't dig them myself. I dunno, they're too sure of themselves, and they're darned rude here in Paris.' I have to agree with him, they are rude but I quite like it. At home people are always too nice, I've sort of got used to people here complaining all the time and being aggressive and I'd miss it, I will miss it, if I go back to England.
'Pete's wondering if we want to go to this jazz club in the Latin Quarter,' Jack says to me.
'I think I have to go home. I have to get up early in the morning,' I say, feeling prim. I'm afraid they're going to ask me why I have to get up early, but they don't. We say goodbye to them and leave. Jack, all the same, makes a note of where the night club is, saying he might join them there later.
I feel this as a sort of betrayal. I was sort of assuming he'd be going back to his room in the hall of residence, still thinking of me, not sitting in some smoky night club, drinking whisky with two Americans.
He accompanies me all the way back in the Metro. Edward Quinet … Sèvres Lecourbe …. Bir-Hakeim … and I'm feeling happier than I've felt in a long time. It's as if I'd dumped all my worries in a Left Luggage and I'm free. I'm sitting beside someone who takes me seriously and who's nice to be with and who has the most amazing blue eyes and who's not married – as far as I know – and doesn't look as if he'd ever want to live in a bungalow in the suburbs with a dingdong bell.
The Eiffel Tower is all lit up and there's moonlight on the river and I'm wanting to reach forward to touch his hand which is on his knee. I reach out, pretending I want to look at the map of Paris he's holding, but he straight away gives it to me, so I have to unfold it and show him the street where I live.
Outside my door he gives me a kiss on the cheek.
'We could meet for lunch tomorrow, if you like,' I say, trying to sound casual. He's going back to England tomorrow evening. 'There's a restaurant just round from where I work that you'd really like.'
He's already standing outside Chez Gilbert when I arrive at one o'clock with Jean François and Marie Claire. I feel proud of him, propped up against the wall in his battered jacket, with his old rucksack over his shoulder. As we sit down Marie Claire whispers to me that he reminds her of James Dean.
I haven't been inside the restaurant since before I left for Nice but it's all exactly the same, as if time hadn't moved on at all. There's still the same menu written up - carrottes rapées…, entrecôte…, pommes de terre vapeur…, haricots verts…, tarte maison… .
'Ah, la belle anglaise,' Etienne exclaims as we sit down at the usual table. I introduce Jack to him, and to Francis, who's also come over to greet us.
'And you are an 'airdresser, too?' Francis asks Jack, and we all laugh.
'Jack knows all about hair in the eighteenth century,' I tell Jean François and Marie Claire as we start on an hors d'oeuvre of different sorts of sliced sausage with gherkins and olives. He was talking about this yes when those two Americans butted in. Did he go to that night club? Anyway, he's here now. I realise I don't even know his second name but he's across the table from me, and we're exchanging smiles.
'Did you know that Marie Antoinette …' he starts off, but Marie Claire interrupts him to ask him how long he's staying in Paris. She's trying out her English and my heart sinks.
'You arrre 'eere for 'ow long time?'
My French isn't very good but I hope it's better than that. And Jack seems to speak it very well. So I go back into French to tell them this joke that a client was telling me yesterday about an English man staying in a hotel. In the morning he complains to the receptionist that his maîtresse is too hard. He thinks that maîtresse is the French for mattress but it's the French for mistress. They've all heard the joke before.
'Zee Frensh for mattress eez matelas,' Marie Claire tells me, quite unnecessarily.
Jean François has started asking Jack if all the men in London wear bowler hats like Major Thomson and carry a copy of The Times along with their rolled umbrella and brief case. Major Thomson's this character in the Figaro that they're always laughing about when they come into the salon - 'e eez so Eengleesh! Michel says the Figaro is a very bourgeois paper.
Jack is being very polite with Jean François but he keeps grinning at me across the table and I'm wishing Marie Claire and Jean François would leave and go back to the salon. I'll stay on, and we can sit here telling each other the story of our lives. We seem to have finished the jug of wine. Etienne has noticed and he's come over to ask us if we want more.
'Will you 'ave a leetle more wine?'
To my joy, Marie Claire and Jean François both say No with a little flourish of the hand. They have to work this afternoon. The French are quite disciplined in that way.
'I don't have anyone till three o'clock,' I say to them, and to Jack 'I wouldn't mind sharing another jug with you.' Marie Claire draws in a breath and looks at me, like when Jean François told her the girl from the Number 63 bus wanted him to cut her hairs. But then I notice how Jack's looking up at Etienne and laughing and how Etienne is looking down at him.
'Why not?' says Jack picking up the jug. I'm staring at their hands - their fingers are almost touching. I think Etienne's never going to take the jug, it's as if they're waiting for someone to take a photo of them. And now Etienne's striding off and I'm expecting Jack to turn and look across at me, but his eyes are still on Etienne, following him until he disappears through the door into the kitchen.
I can see that Jean François has noticed too. I try to give him a knowing smile, to make him think that I knew already, it's not a shock to me. He and Marie Claire are getting up to go, and now I want to go with them.
It's like being with a different person. I'm feeling self-conscious about the way I'm looking at him - it's changed, but I don't want him to notice. I go back to telling him about Michel. I tell him about how he's married and he has a little girl but he and his wife are thinking of separating. But it would be the death of my parents if I were to marry a divorced man, so I don't know what to do, I say.
Jack doesn't see why I'm so bothered about upsetting my parents.
'You're not a Catholic so you don't understand,' I say.
'But what about his child?' he asks. He seems much more bothered about her. So I say how I think his wife's a bit fed up of being married to a hairdresser. But he still goes on looking serious.
'He's very ambitious is Michel,' I tell him. I feel really funny mentioning his name like that.
'So you'll be competing with him in the competition, will you?'
'That won't be a problem,' I say. 'We love each other' I add, keeping my voice low. It's the first time I've ever said that out loud. And I'm wondering if it's true,even. Why doesn't he phone me?
'More wine? Or a little dessert? Crème caramel? Tarte maison?' Etienne is coming forward, smiling at Jack.
'I have to get back to work,' I say.
'I think we'll have the bill,' says Jack, returning his smile.
'EEt eez a pity you are leaving for England where it eez always raining cats and dogs.'
'But I'll be back,' says Jack, tilting his head and laughing up at him.
I offer to pay my share, now that he's a sort of mate, and then we walk slowly back to the salon.
He asks me to write and let him know how I get on in the competition. I tell him I've already thought of a style -close to the head and curving round thecheeks and over one eye - inspired by a picture I saw.
'It's a really colourful painting's that's got a sort of rhythm to it.'
'I've got rhythm, I've got music,' Jack starts singing and we very nearly break into a dance on the pavement.
We say goodbye. I watch him till he's out of sight, striding along jauntily under the leaves of the plane trees that are a burnt gold in the sunlight.
Page(s) 36-40
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