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I think that is the single most depressing thing I’ve ever heard. ‘What about the sisterhood?’
‘What?’ Steph says.
‘Never mind.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Janie. It’s just a date. A glass of wine, dinner, a bit of convivial chit-chat. Nothing more. I’m not asking you to donate a kidney to him.’
‘What if he tries to snog me?’
‘I don’t think anyone has used the word “snog” since the eighties.’
‘I’d give him a go.’ That’s from Steph.
‘I’m sure you would,’ Nina says archly, ‘but I’m not asking you. This is a date for Janie.
Steph tuts.
‘Say yes, Janie, and Gerry can fix it up for you in five minutes. What harm can it do? You can’t spend your life hanging out with Miserable Mike,’ my friend advises.
‘He’s not miserable . . .’
‘He’s sad,’ we say together, as we have done many times before. That makes me laugh.
‘He’s not miserable,’ I reiterate. ‘He’s very kind.’
‘That has to be one of the worst things you can say about a bloke surely? “He’s very kind”,’ she mimics.
Cristal comes in. ‘Your next client is here, Janie.’
Thank heavens for that. I leave Nina to her fruit frenzy and her impromptu dating agency and her rubbishing my neighbour, and rush out of the staffroom seeking a bit of peace with Mrs Vine and her cut and blow-dry.
I take a deep breath before I say, ‘Hello, Mrs Vine. How are you today?’
‘Rushed off my feet, love. Glad to come in here for a sit down.’
‘Just need a tidy up?’
My client nods. ‘Do your worst.’
So I get Mrs Vine shampooed by Cristal and then set to with my scissors.
‘How’s things with you, Janie,’ she asks. ‘No man on the scene yet?’
‘Not yet,’ I say.
The worst thing about being a hairdresser is that your clients tell you everything, things that you wouldn’t believe, and what’s more, you feel obliged to open up to them in return. Every single one of my clients knows about my break-up with Paul and now it’s open house on my heart.
I think about Nina’s attempt to set me up. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go on a date, just to see if I can still do it. Plus it would keep my clients happy. They wouldn’t all worry about me so much if they thought I was making some effort to find a bloke.
Last night Miserable Mike and I watched a film together after I’d cut his hair. We polished off the bottle of wine while engrossed in The Bourne Supremacy – not for the first time. Matt Damon seems to be the only person who sets my pulse racing these days. This film watching thing is a habit we’ve sort of slipped into, Mike and I. Two or three times a week, we’ll watch something together. We’re company for each other. It’s not exciting. It’s not taxing. Is there anything wrong with that? We’re just being supportive of each other. Mates. That’s all.
‘You want to think about that internet dating,’ my client says. ‘It’s all the rage, these days.’
I can’t think of anything worse. Shopping online for a stranger, some stranger than others from all that I’ve heard.
‘You could have yourself a little bit of fun like that.’
Why does everyone think that I need ‘fun’? Do I really look so unhappy? It won’t only be Mike they’re calling miserable soon. I start to comb Mrs Vine’s hair and then stop. ‘Could you just hold on for me one second?’ I ask. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Marching back to the staffroom, I stand in front of Nina. ‘Do it,’ I say. ‘Fix me up with him.’
My friend looks at me open-mouthed. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘I am. Perhaps it will stop everyone from hounding me. Tomorrow night,’ I instruct. ‘Before I change my mind.’
Nina is so stunned that she puts down her bunch of grapes and scrabbles in her handbag. ‘I’ll phone Gerry now.’
‘Good,’ I say and then stomp back to Mrs Vine.
‘Everything all right, love?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I tell her as I comb through her hair. ‘I’ve got a date tomorrow night.’
In the mirror, I don’t know who looks more shocked, her or me.
Chapter Six
I have four dresses laid out on the bed and I’m wearing one. A demure black number, just above the knee, scooped neck but not too low.
‘What do you think?’
Archibald opens one eye and appraises me lazily.
‘Sad, single cat woman goes on hot date?’ I check myself in the mirror. How can I lose a few pounds by eight o’clock? ‘Is this the right look?’
