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She went to bed early that evening. Next morning Carmen arrived alone and took her off to a beauty parlour in Mayfair. Quincy felt very conspicuous as she walked through the scented, busy atmosphere. Women in expensive clothes stared after her, raising eyebrows. She was not the sort of client a place like that usually had—her clothes immediately stamped her as someone without money, and her pink cheeks made her embarrassment and uneasiness obvious.
Carmen sat her in a chair and then she and a young man in an immaculate blue nylon tunic which gave him the air of being a society doctor paying a house call walked around Quincy and studied her clinically from all angles. Quincy's nervous eyes followed them. What were they planning to do to her? she wondered, wishing she was back at home.
'Beautiful hair,' the young man said. 'But it looks as if it's never seen a professional hairdresser—no style at all.' He took a comb out of his tunic pocket and flipped it through the thick chestnut curls, letting them fall back a second later. 'Most of it must go,' he said, and Quincy gave a stifled squawk of protest.
'Darling, it's far too thick, you must spend half your life combing out tangles,' he told her kindly. 'Your face has a lovely bone structure—let's see it. I'll give you a cut which will alter the whole shape of your face and let the real you shine through.'
Who is the real me? Quincy wondered, staring at her own reflection in the mirror opposite. And how would he know, anyway?
She spent most of the day in the beauty parlour, becoming increasingly cross. Carmen returned her to the flat around four o'clock and when Lilli opened the door to her she stared in total disbelief at the new Quincy.
'You look marvellous,' she said as Quincy stamped past.
'I feel like taking up residence in a cupboard,' Quincy muttered. She sank into an armchair and Lilli inspected her light, cropped curls, her expertly made-up face, her carefully manicured nails.
'What's wrong?' Lilli asked, looking puzzled. 'Darling, you do really look terrific.'
'I don't know,' muttered Quincy, not meeting her eyes.
'You're tired,' Lilli said.
'I suppose so—I think I'll go to bed early again, London is exhausting.'
Lilli stared shrewdly at her. 'What you need is some time to yourself,' she said, and Quincy groaned.
'Do I not! I'm so sick of being dragooned around London by Carmen Lister. I don't even like her, she's a very bossy lady, she never asks me what I think, she tells me.'
Lilli laughed. 'I should think that's why she's at the top of her profession. Vibes has a very big circulation. When is she coming to take you to buy those clothes?'
'Tomorrow afternoon. She said she would arrive around two-thirty and I was to be waiting.' Quincy's green eyes flashed. 'She orders me around as if I was a six-year-old!'
The doorbell went and Lilli made a face. 'Now who can that be?' Quincy relaxed in the chair as her sister left the room. If only she could be alone for a few days, walking through the spring fields at home, listening to the larks singing high above the dewy pastures, breathing the fresh crisp morning air and feeling free, without all the pressures which this trip to London had brought to bear. London itself seemed part of the pressure—the great, sprawling city held so many people, millions of strangers busily occupied with their own lives, indifferent to everyone else and always rushing past without being aware of anything but their own affairs. Back home she knew everyone who lived in the little village, walking down the one street she got smiles from all who passed, she knew their homes, their children, even their pets. She was a deeply embedded part of that world—here she found it hard to believe she existed at all, except as a doll which Carmen Lister was manipulating for her own purposes.
Lilli came back into the room with a large, powerfully built man in an expensive dark overcoat who glanced at Quincy briefly before looking at her sister again in query.
Lilli introduced them, smiling. 'Quincy, this is Mark Latimer, who produces our show—Mark, my sister Quincy. I told you about her and Joe Aldonez, didn't I?'
Mark Latimer offered his hand, nodding. 'I'd read about it,' he said. 'How does it feel to be suddenly famous?' He had a wry, deep voice with a resonant timbre which matched his build. Quincy got the feeling he was not a man to argue with—although his smile was pleasant it was clear from the strength of his features that he liked his own way, was accustomed to being obeyed. That air of authority sat comfortably on him, he had presence; even Lilli visibly kept her distance, treating him with respect.
'She isn't sure she likes it,' said Lilli, answering for her.
Quincy felt Mark Latimer's grey eyes assessing her. 'You must bring her over to the studio while she's in town,' was all he said. 'Perhaps she would like to watch rehearsals for an hour.' Quincy was left with the strong impression that he was conferring a great honour on her by the suggestion, but, having unbent so far, he turned to Lilli and went on without a pause: 'I'm calling a rehearsal tomorrow at nine-thirty—that new routine just isn't smooth enough. It needs a lot of work. Sue must take you through it until you've got it together.'
'Okay,' Lilli said meekly.
'And I've asked Wardrobe to come up with something better than those feathered costumes—you look like a flock of pink ducks in them.' His tone was scathing, his brows heavy with impatience. From the streaks of silver running through his dark hair, Quincy imagined he was a man in his forties and the air of command made it clear that he was a very important man, exp
ecting exactly the sort of instant obedience he was getting from Lilli. He was far from good-looking— his face too heavy for that, the leonine head breathing force rather than charm, power rather than kindness. He talked and Lilli nodded.
He turned to Quincy a few moments later, gave her another distant smile. 'Perhaps we'll meet again while you're in town,' he said, and walked to the door with Lilli at his heels, escorting him, her slender figure entirely dwarfed by him.
When she came back, she looked eagerly at Quincy: 'What do you think of Mark?'
'A bit alarming, isn't he?' Quincy commented, and her sister looked faintly indignant.
'He's a real powerhouse, just being with him makes me feel twice as alive, he gets the last ounce out of everyone who works with him.'
'Yes, I can imagine that,' said Quincy, not sure she would enjoy close contact with a man like that. Mark Latimer had an electric charge which Quincy suspected would keep you on your toes all day but which would drain you of energy very rapidly.
