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It was Mr Ambrose. He had returned and appeared beside me without my noticing. Well, I suppose strangling oneself is a rather engrossing activity.
He wasn’t wearing his red hunting costume this time, or his black tailcoat, though I saw that hanging over the visitor’s chair nearby, next to a piggy that was looking through the pockets, in the hope of finding truffles, presumably. This Mr Ambrose was simply dressed in a white shirt and black waistcoat and, of course, his icy expression, which he probably hadn’t taken off even under the shower.
His hands weren’t icy, though. They were gentle and warm as he unwrapped the towel from around my neck and pulled it over my hair, which he seemed to have no difficulty finding.
‘Hold still a moment.’
His fingers worked too quickly for me to tell what exactly he was doing, but when he was finished, the towel was wrapped up and around my head in a complicated knot, keeping the cold air out and my wet hair in place.
‘Now you can sit down,’ he ordered tersely. ‘When the towel has soaked up most of the water from your hair, get a fresh towel and dry your hair again. Don’t even think of starting to rub, just take a bit of hair at a time and pat it dry from both sides.’
He led me to the visitor’s chair, and I was so surprised I let him do it.
‘How do you know how to towel-dry long hair?’ I asked him, once I was seated beside the truffles-seeking yellow piggy. ‘Don’t tell me you used to work as a hairdresser’s assistant.’
‘No. The explanation is somewhat simpler than that. I used to have long hair, once.’
‘You?’ My voice probably contained a bit more incredulity than was proper, but then, I had an inkling I had been doing a lot of things lately that were not entirely proper, and so far I was having lots of fun. I eyed Mr Ambrose’s neatly trimmed black hair with suspicion. ‘You had long hair?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I did not have enough money for a knife or scissors to cut it with.’
He was out of the room before I could think of a reply. And really, thinking of replies was so exhausting…
*~*~**~*~*
‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton, you have to remove that damp towel.’
‘W-what?’
Blinking, I sat up straight. The world seemed very fuzzy again. There was a man standing in front of me… White shirt, black waistcoat and bow tie… stone-faced… Mr Ambrose! Mr Ambrose with a fresh towel!
‘Here. Take this.’ He handed the towel to me.
‘But you said to wait,’ I protested.
‘You have been waiting. Sleeping, to be exact. But five minutes is long enough. My office is no home for passing drunkards.’
He unwound the damp towel from my head, and I, luckily able to find my head again, began to rub vigorously.
‘I said pat your hair dry,’ he reminded me. ‘Pat. Gently. Not rub like you want to rip it out of your head.’
‘Why don't you go write a brochure on hair care?’ I grumbled. ‘I can dry my hair however I want, thank you very much.’
After a few minutes, I let the towel sink with a sigh.
‘I can’t get it really dry with this,’ I complained. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a hairbrush, would you?’
He was standing at the dark window by now, looking out over the lights of the city. He didn’t turn around at my question.
‘Why on earth would I possess such a useless item? Use your fingers. That’s perfectly good enough.’
Why was he suddenly being so antagonistic? He had been so nice just a minute ago, saving me from strangling myself, and even nicer before that, in the shower… and now? Now he was cold as stone again, and staring away
from me. I didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand him.
