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She had seen that Josh was impressed but that he didn’t want to say so, so she went on lightly, ‘You’re going to have to come up with a name soon. I really like the way Vidal has called his salon simply Vidal Sassoon.’
‘Well, I suppose I could call mine Josh Simons,’ Josh had suggested.
From the sound of male voices now coming from the upstairs salon, it appeared that Josh and his photographer friend had already arrived. The salon, its walls also newly plastered, was still a bare empty space, apart from a folding card table and a pair of bentwood chairs so battered that Rose was inclined to believe Josh
when he’d claimed to have rescued them from a skip.
She was so much happier working here than she was in the expensive Bond Street premises of her employer, Rose acknowledged. She loved the challenges that working within such a tight budget, and more importantly, creating something useful rather than merely decorative, were giving her. The contrast between working here and in the Bond Street showroom was making her increasingly aware of where her real ambitions lay and how unhappy she was. Given free choice, Rose suspected that she would have willingly switched now from studying interior design for the home to studying interior design for commercial premises, but there were at least two good reasons why she could not do that. The first and most important was that she knew that her aunt was looking to her to take over her business, and the second was that as far as Rose knew, there was no recognised ‘apprenticeship’ for someone wanting to specialise in commercial premises. It was true that some interior designers took on such projects–Oliver Messel, for instance–but they did not work exclusively in that area.
Working on Josh’s salon had opened her eyes to so much that she now wanted to learn more about. Commercial interior design wasn’t just about wallpaper, fabrics and the placement of furniture and art; there were important practicalities to be taken into consideration, such as the supplies of electricity and water, and the fact that often premises were leased and the landlord’s permission for any changes needed to be obtained, change of use approved, and so much more.
It was necessary for someone to be in charge of the various tradesmen Josh had found to work on the salon, and Rose had seen what an opportunity there was for someone to offer a service that oversaw everything from the initial design right through to its eventual completion. The thought of such a challenge made her feel dizzy with excitement, but she had a duty to her aunt, who had done so much for her and who she loved so much.
Earlier in the week Josh and Vidal had been engaged in an earnest discussion about the benefits of installing wash basins that enabled the clients to tilt their heads backwards into the basin instead of leaning forward.
‘Much easier for the juniors when they shampoo, and better for the clients, who won’t get their makeup smudged as well,’ Vidal had insisted, and Rose had been inclined to agree. ‘And don’t forget to make sure that you get a decent sound system installed and some cool music playing,’ Vidal had added.
Josh had already found ‘a friend’ who was looking around for four of these basins–at the right price, of course.
‘Here she is, Ollie,’ she heard Josh announcing as she walked into the salon. ‘Come and meet my interior designer. Rose, this is Ollie.’
The photographer was protectively nursing a Rolleiflex camera in one large hand, a bag slung over his shoulder, no doubt containing his tripod and other equipment. He was good-looking, if you liked the unkempt bad-boy type, Rose acknowledged as he reached out to shake her hand. He was also oddly familiar.
‘Haven’t we met somewhere before?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but I can’t remember where.’
‘I’ve got it.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I hitched a ride in your taxi a few weeks back. You were with two other girls.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Rose smiled. ‘Ella and Janey. We were on our way to the party where I met you, Josh.’
‘London’s a small world,’ Josh agreed. ‘Come and have a look at these photographs Ollie’s brought.’
Half an hour later, kneeling back on her heels as she crouched on the floor surrounded by the excellent photographs Oliver had produced for their inspection, Rose watched as Josh threw up his hands in despair.
‘No. They won’t do. No offence, Ollie, the photos are great, but the hair…’
They all looked at the assortment of stiff regulated hairstyles–beehives and backcombed, flicked ends all heavily lacquered.
‘What I want to do here in my salon is to follow Vidal’s example and work with hair in a new way, one that allows the hair to move and breathe and to look natural.’
When they both looked dubiously at him he told them, ‘Look, I’ll show you what I mean.’ He took hold of Rose’s hand, hauling her to her feet. ‘It’s time for me to cut that hair of yours, Rose. It’s been driving me mad with temptation to get to work on it.’
‘No, I don’t want it cut,’ Rose protested, her free hand going protectively to her neat French pleat.
‘Why not? What’s the point in keeping it long when it’s always screwed up in that pleat? I’m going to cut it, and that’s that. Come and sit here.’
He meant it, Rose realised weakly. He had been threatening to cut her hair ever since they’d met.
As Josh sat her down and swiftly removed the pins from her hair, letting it fall in a silky black sheet down her back, Rose was vaguely conscious of Ollie setting up his camera, but she was more concerned about her hair. She had never worn it loose, not since Amber’s great-grandmother had compared it to Emerald’s luxurious head of dark curls and had said how ugly it was, and now automatically she tensed as though half expecting a verbal blow, wanting to cover her hair from sight and yet unable to do so because Josh was brushing it and giving both her and Ollie a running commentary on what he was planning to do.
‘Just look at it, it’s like finding gold,’ he crooned.
‘Then why cut it off?’ Ollie asked as the shutter clicked and he moved round on the periphery of Rose’s vision.
‘Because gold is nothing in its raw state. It needs the eye and the hand of an expert to make it into something of beauty, which is exactly what I intend to do with Rose’s hair. The length of it makes it so heavy that it takes away all its natural movement and rhythm. It’s like trying to play jazz with a traditional orchestra: too much weight and tradition weighing down the magic of the music.’
Rose saw the light from the window flashing on the scissors Josh always carried with him.
