seat, take a seat,’ Margaret said, patting the back of the chair.
‘But . . . what’s the occasion?’
‘Oh, that’s all to come,’ Paula cackled. ‘All to come. Now come here, I’ll heat the rollers.’
‘Let me at least make you a tea or a coffee,’ I protested, feeling strangely nervous.
‘We’ll do that, we’ll do that, you just sit down,’ Margaret said, sounding positively bossy. ‘The flat looks great, Lottie,’ she tinkled and I blushed, remembering the state of the place the last time she had dropped by.
‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling a rush of affection for the two women and a flicker of excitement to see what they had brought along.
Margaret guided me over to a chair she’d placed in the middle of the room. Paula was bending over, trousers straining at the seams as she plugged something into the socket. She had started to hum, ‘Stop! In The Name Of Love.’
Margaret was now removing various bottles, brushes and pots from one of the bags on the table, as Paula moved towards me holding a paddle hairbrush.
‘Right,’ she said, lifting a chunk of my hair and letting it fall, ‘let’s see what we can do with this.’
‘I haven’t washed it yet,’ I said, my own hand raised to the nape of my neck.
‘That will work well, actually. Better for what we have planned to style hair a day or so after washing.’
I felt the flutter of nerves at the same moment that Margaret asked, ‘What can I get you, Lottie? We’ve got champagne.’
‘Champagne?’ I said, eyes widening.
‘It’s early, but there is nothing nicer. Or I can make you a Bucks Fizz.’
Paula started brushing my hair. ‘Top us up, Mags.’
Moments later I was holding a chilled glass of champagne as Paula detangled and fussed over my hair. Margaret was spending an age selecting just the right products. She had already chopped up two slices of cucumber and placed them over my eyes. ‘It reduces bags – not that you have any,’ she added quickly, ‘but it should really help brighten your face.’
Paula was playing sixties numbers through her iPhone and I could feel my shoulders relaxing, the tension in my back easing as the two women fussed around me.
The next moment my feet were being lifted and dropped into a warm, bubbled footbath.
‘Ooh,’ I squealed, dislodging one of the cucumbers.
‘Relax,’ said Margaret as she placed a fresh one back over the eye. ‘I’ve got a lovely nail polish that will look perfect on your toenails.’
‘I dread to think what my toenails look like,’ I murmured, wiggling my toes in the water, feeling the jet streams massage and pummel my skin. This was officially awesome.
One foot towel-dried and propped up on a cushion and Margaret set to work removing old polish and layering on the new colour – the softest pale pink, like the inside of a shell. Paula was placing heated rollers in my hair and I was sipping at champagne, listening to Motown classics and their conversation, which had flitted from the flower arrangements at Dorothy’s funeral (‘arranged by someone completely colour-blind, and she would never have wanted lilies, she was allergic’), to the new Pilates instructor who had started at the club (‘he doesn’t have a trustworthy face, I miss Kelvin’), to their friend’s niece who was expecting twins (‘she’s as large as a house and she’s only 18 weeks, we’re going to buy her one of those bands for her stomach’) to some strange behaviour among some of the men.
‘I saw Arjun and Geoffrey looking very shady in the Four Bells, meeting a young girl with red hair.’ I was too busy enjoying Margaret’s foot massage, barely listening, to explain much.
Once my nails were done, the cucumbers removed and my hair curled into rollers, Paula swivelled me towards the natural light of the window.
‘Right,’ she said, eyes slanting as she roved over my face. I was suddenly conscious of my tired eyes and washed-out skin, wishing I had got more than six hours’ sleep again last night. ‘Let’s start with some concealer to correct your skin colour and then we can put a foundation on top of that.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said, clearing my throat nervously as she continued to stare at me.
Margaret was topping up my champagne glass.
Paula spent an age carefully applying layer after layer, blowing on a powder brush, sweeping bronzer along my cheekbones, curling my eyelashes, applying the finest brown eyeliner and lastly drawing on lip liner and a bright scarlet lipstick.
‘Press this,’ she said, offering me