A Spring Affair (6 page)

Two days later, the small Accounts department surprised Lou with a big fresh cream cake bearing the number 100 in wax candle numbers accompanied by a rendition of the ‘Happy birthday to you, you were born in a zoo’ version of the song.

‘Very funny,’ laughed Lou and divided the cake between them. Nicola wasn’t there. She had taken an extended lunchbreak to go shopping for Sheffield’s best designer gear. She and Celia would have got on like a house on fire.

Karen gave her two envelopes, one of which was her card, which had
must not be read until tomorrow
written all over it, but the other she ordered Lou to open up there and then.

‘This is to say Happy Birthday from us all and to thank you for your support in our continuing fight against evil,’ said Karen.

‘Not a letter bomb, is it?’ asked Lou tentatively.

‘Do you think if we had a letter bomb we would have given it to you and not
her
?’ said Zoe.

It wasn’t a letter bomb. It was a voucher for a colour
and restyle at Anthony Fawkes, the trendiest hair salon in Barnsley.

‘We’ve fixed it for ten o’clock tomorrow. If you can’t make it, ring them now and say so, but it’s with Carlo,’ said Karen. ‘He’s an Italian. A drop-dead gorgeous Italian, as well. I couldn’t resist booking him.’

Karen knew all about Lou’s penchant for things Italian. A sexy Latino man running his fingers through her colleague’s hair would give her the best start to her day.

‘I’ll be there, I’m not doing anything else,’ said Lou. ‘And can I just say, that’s a fantastic present. Thanks, guys. I’m touched.’

‘We all wanted to get you something special,’ said Karen, without any of her customary joking.

Lou looked at the smiling crescent of people surrounding her and she suddenly felt very emotional, which led to Zoe having to give Lou one of her tissues for once, and Karen put her arm around her and gave her a big sisterly squeeze. She thought that Lou was worth a lot more than a hairdo and, if ever her numbers came up on the lottery, Lou was near the top of her list of ‘people to treat big time’. She would force her friend on a grand tour of Italy so she could visit all those wonderful things and places she dreamed of: the Sistine Chapel and the Trevi Fountain in Rome, the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, the Grand Canal of Venice, the Amalfi coastline, the streets of Sorrento, the ruins of Pompeii…Lou’s eyes would light up when they talked of things Italian, and yet the only place she ever seemed to holiday was Benidorm.

Karen had the distinct impression that something was
very wrong in Lou’s world, despite her jolly exterior. Karen was a very intuitive woman and she would have put money on the fact that at some point or other, Lou’s husband had had an affair, and Lou had never really got over it. Amazing how women could sniff another woman’s knobhead from a mile off, but alas, the gift rarely extended to their own.

‘I’m having my hair done tomorrow,’ said Lou to Phil that night over their customary Friday curry. He grinned.

‘That’s good, because I’ve got a little birthday surprise for you myself.’

‘What?’

‘Nope, not telling!’

‘Oh come on, you can’t not tell me. Tell me!’

‘Nope,’ he teased. ‘It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?’

‘Oh please, please, please, please, please.’

‘Well, all I’m saying is, be ready for half-past seven in your gladrags and don’t have anything to eat before.’

Lou gave a small gasp. ‘Are we going out?’ She wanted to make doubly sure after last year, when she had got all dolled up only for Phil to turn up with a giant pizza.

‘Might be,’ said Phil. Lou’s face lit up like November the fifth.

It takes so little to please her, thought Phil. Half of him smiled at that; half of him thought that sometimes it was like being married to a puppet. Therein lay the irony of having a surrendered wife.

The next morning, Phil gave her a big sloppy card and a
big sloppy kiss and tapped his nose on the way out of the door.

‘Remember what I told you. Seven-thirty!’ he said to his wife, who was beaming like a little child who was first in the Santa’s grotto queue.

Lou had a birthday call from her mother, who reminded her of the arranged Sunday lunch as the usual birthday treat.

‘I’ve sent your card–have you got it?’ she said. ‘I didn’t post your present; it’s here waiting for you. It wasn’t cheap so I didn’t want to risk it getting lost.’

‘Oh Mum,’ said Lou. ‘Yes, the card came yesterday and yes, it’s lovely, and you didn’t have to buy me anything.’

There were quite a few cards to open from work colleagues and her old friend Anna and her old Auntie Peggy in Cork who had put ten euros in it. Victorianna sent an ecard, on time for once. It had some American critter she could never remember the name of, getting a picnic out of a hamper. Gentle hint or what? There was a beautiful and expensive ‘best friend’ card from Michelle with a flowing verse and a
Sorry I’ve been such a miserable cow, I really will make it up to you
, handwritten message. Lou smiled at the intricate little flower cartoons Michelle had drawn on the inside. It must have taken her ages to do! If Lou could have had one birthday wish granted it would be that Mish would sort herself out and once again be that nice, smiley, considerate person she had met in the cookery class. She was still in there somewhere, Lou was convinced of it.

There was nothing from Deb, although Lou didn’t really think there would be. Really.

Lou got dressed and walked down into town. It was a dry day, devoid of April showers and full of the promise of bright sunshine, both outside in the sky and inside in her spirit. The hard physical graft of yesterday had left her tired and she slept a deep healthy restful sleep. This morning she felt energized and raring to go.

The hair salon was very white and very chrome and Lou felt immediately stupid by pushing the pull door, then pulling the other push door, before finally and correctly pulling the pull door and entering.

The receptionist was a very tall girl, spaghetti-thin with hips that a child would never get through in a million years. She smiled in a far friendlier way than Lou would have expected in such a pricey establishment and said, ‘Do you know, everyone does that. I don’t know why they don’t get doors that swing both ways.’

She gowned Lou up and led her to a chair which was pumped up so her legs dangled, and then the Angel Gabriel appeared behind her and started weaving his hands into her hair.

‘Hi, I’m Carlo,’ said a voice rich in bolognese sauce.

He was front cover magazine-stunning with dark colouring, a pencil-line of black beard and spiky, platinum hair that shouldn’t have worked, but did to great effect. He had lips that were pink and looked very soft and kissable. To boys or girls or both, she couldn’t tell. Maybe he swung both ways like the doors should have done. He was far too young to fancy, but she could easily appreciate his gorgeousness. For a split second she imagined that she was his mother. What would that feel like? To look at a boy as beautiful as this and know he was
your son? It threw her a little because she hadn’t had thoughts like that for a long time.

‘So, what are we doing for you today?’

Sending me to sleep if you carry on doing that much longer, thought Lou, as he played with her hair and studied her in the mirror.

‘I don’t know, to be honest. What do you think? I’ve had this style–well, forever…’

Carlo stared at her reflection in the mirror, and then obviously inspired, he reached for a colour chart. After a lot of page-turning his eyes locked on a loop of dyed hair.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

Lou gulped.

‘Trust me,’ said the Italian Angel Gabriel.

Two hours later, Lou was watching as Carlo snipped at her hair in much the same wildly extravagant way that she used to when playing hairdressers with her dolls. Lou watched him wide-eyed with horror in the mirror, remembering all too well those end results. Her mother went nuts at the sight of Bald Tiny Tears.

‘Relax!’ said Carlo. ‘You will look fan-tas-tico!’

Her eyes strayed to the detached snippings by the base of the chair. Clumped up together they looked like Dougal from
The Magic Roundabout
.

Carlo spun her around so she couldn’t see the finishing touches he was making. He fluffed, he sprayed, and when he twisted her back to face the mirror, Lou’s eyes widened like a startled owl’s. Then her lips curved into a smile.

‘I can’t believe it. You’ve made my hair actually look longer!’

‘It was too heavy before–you really needed those layers and a good cut. I know you wanted to keep your length but it was pretty scraggy for the bottom four inches. And it’s much lighter up top so you can achieve some volume now. What do you think of the colour? Not so frightening now it’s dry, huh?’

Lou examined the effect of the chilli-pepper orange heavily highlighting the front of her auburn waves, with just delicate touches of it at the sides. She felt trendier and looked younger than she had done in years. Why on earth had she ever stopped having her hair done? She used to love the feeling that was skipping around inside her now, that only a hairdresser could give.

‘I absolutely love it!’ said Lou.

‘It brings out the colour of your eyes,’ drawled Carlo sexily. ‘My, they’re so green.
Mamma mia!’

Sod being his mother, now she wanted to snog him. That voice! He could have been reciting a shopping list and she would have started dribbling. She wanted to dip some focaccia in him and eat him all up.

Her hair was heavily sliced at the front and flicked round onto her face, with choppy layers at the back. He’d even managed to sex up her blunt fringe. It made her want to go out and buy a new outfit. Sod it, it was her birthday–she
would
go out and buy a new outfit.

She handed over her gift voucher to the reception desk and gave Carlo a heavy tip. The fact that they didn’t try to coerce her into buying a cabinet full of essential hair products that she would have caved in and bought, knowing she would probably never use them, made her doubly keen to book a follow-up appointment. Obviously with Carlo.

Lou had a pleasant mosey around town then and bought a very brave orange top and some bronzy copper jewellery, and a thrilling glossy lipstick that was guaranteed to stay on through dinner, drinks and a world war. It was a bright day but nippy, and so the treat of a hot coffee and a scone in the Edwardian Tea Rooms seemed very much in order. The scone was the size of a basketball and she slathered butter thickly on slices of it. That would keep her going until her romantic meal for two. Actually, it would probably keep her going until next January. She felt a buzz of excitement vibrate down her veins at the thought of the evening to come. It had been so long since she had gone out with Phil; she was looking forward to the ritual of dressing up in her new clothes and the delicious anticipation of the eating venue.
Please make him take me to an Italian
, she dared to ask the cosmos.

The skip was still there when she got home, but by the time the kettle had boiled there was the beep-beep-beep of something very large reversing into the drive.

‘Hi there,’ called Lou, emerging from the front door as Tom Broom jumped down from the cab and started unrolling a huge net. She looked around the truck. ‘No dog?’

‘He’s in the cabin. He can be a bit of a pest. Not everyone likes seeing a hulking great beast bounding towards them. Or the dog either,’ he joked.

‘Oh.’ She couldn’t hide her disappointment.

‘What? You want him out?’

‘Well, if it’s no trouble,’ said Lou.

‘No trouble to me,’ said Tom and seconds later,
Clooney was bounding towards Lou with his tail wagging a force-twelve draught.

‘Shall we see if we can get you a biscuit?’ said Lou.

Clooney woofed and turned excited circles.

‘He can understand “biscuit”, just to warn you,’ said Tom with a lazy grin, and as he hooked up the skip, Lou went into the kitchen, closely followed by Clooney, where she gave him some of the dog biscuits she had just bought for him that morning in the pet shop.

She so missed having a dog. They’d had a German Shepherd cross called Murphy at home. Her dad had been dead only weeks when Murphy’s back legs collapsed. She carried him to the vet’s down the road where they kindly told her she had to let him go and she cuddled her dog whilst they gently put him to sleep, then she howled like a banshee when they took him away in a blanket. She scattered his ashes in the same place where they’d scattered her dad’s and prayed that they would find each other in heaven. She dreamed of them together a lot: walking in the park, her dad throwing a tennis ball and Murphy chasing after it over the early-morning grass.

Phil was dreadfully allergic to all animals with fur, so a ‘proper’ pet was out of the question.

‘Still want another skip tomorrow?’ Tom Broom enquired, helping Clooney back up into the truck.

‘Yes, please,’ said Lou.

‘About ten o’clock? Or will you still be in bed then?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be up.’

‘How’s the forgery business? Still making the fake fivers?’

‘It’s going very well, thank you,’ she said, feeling her cheeks warm up.

Tom did that big deep laugh again. It was a lovely sound, borderline-boom, like a big friendly giant in a panto. She noticed the wrinkles that gathered around his eyes, then quickly reprimanded herself; she had no business looking at wrinkles gathering around other men’s eyes. She was a married woman, and her husband was taking her out tonight. Was this new hair-do of hers turning her into a sex maniac, eyeing up two different men in the space of a couple of hours? Both sharing that sexy Mediterranean look.

‘Nice colour, by the way.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Hair. You’ve have it done since last time. Looks nice. It suits you.’

Then Tom Broom climbed up into the driver’s seat and was gone before Lou could register that, before today, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had complimented her appearance.