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‘What is this place we’re going to?’ asked Bev.
‘Hair by Clare,’ said Leila. ‘They do your hair in the proper fifties style, with curlers and a set.’
It was Saturday morning. Leila had booked for Bev, Minnie and Fleur to all have a hair trial ahead of the wedding in December. She had decided if they were going to be her bridesmaids, they would all have to embrace her favourite decade.
Fleur planned to meet them at the salon, and Minnie, Bev and Leila were walking together from the Tube station. Getting off at Chalk Farm made Minnie feel she was stepping back in time, as though she was seeing the world through a sepia lens. She looked up at the window of the flat she’d grown up in; it looked just the same. Now, as they passed the railway bridge, which led to Primrose Hill, her eyes found themselves drifting in a new direction. Quinn’s flat must only be a five-minute walk from here.
It had been six days since the kiss and there had been just one text exchange between them. She’d hung around all morning on Monday, waiting for him to come back and collect his car. Eventually, some guy in a peaked hat had turned up, who turned out to be Quinn’s private driver. His driver? He’d sent his driver.
Minnie had felt something was off as soon as he left that day. Maybe it was her parents arriving, maybe he’d sobered up, maybe it was the zoo all over again. When she still hadn’t heard from him by Tuesday evening she’d sent him a text.
‘You have a driver?’
She’d deliberated for hours over what to send. In the end she’d just gone for those four words, something simple to remind him she existed. His reply had been cold and underwhelming.
‘Yes. Sorry, crazy week at work. Maybe see you at the ponds.’
No kiss. No jokes. No sense of him at all. Reading it late that night made Minnie’s insides tense up into a familiar grinding knot and she couldn’t sleep for thinking about it.
The next day she’d tried to be positive. Maybe he really did have a crazy work week? What did she expect – that after kissing her he’d suddenly want to spend every minute of his time with her? She noticed he’d said ‘maybe’ see you at the ponds. Would he even be there tomorrow if she went? However much she went around in circles thinking about it, something about the silence from him this week just didn’t feel right.
‘Walking down the street with Leila is like going out with a celebrity, isn’t it?’ said Bev, interrupting Minnie’s spiralling thoughts.
Leila was wearing a bright green 1950s dress with yellow roses all over it. She had freshly coloured rainbow-striped hair, and wore bright red lipstick. Bev was right; Leila was drawing the heads of everyone they passed.
‘It’s nice to be noticed,’ said Leila, doing a little skip along the road.
Bev was wearing black jeans and a T-shirt that said: ‘Straws Really Suck’. Minnie didn’t even know what she was wearing; with all the talk of clothes she had to look down to check she had actually got dressed this morning. Jeans and a blue T-shirt, phew.
‘Can I just say, you are looking so well, Minnie. All this swimming you’re doing clearly suits you,’ said Bev.
‘That’s nice of you to say, Bev. You’re looking lovely too.’
‘Don’t you love August? The warmth in the air, the flowers in the park. London looks so beautiful at this time of year,’ Bev said, taking a loud inhale.
‘Bev, you’re sounding very upbeat,’ said Leila, reaching out to squeeze Minnie’s hand as she said it. ‘Is this Minnie’s influence, sending you out campaigning with all the do-gooders?’
‘Oh, I’ve met so many wonderful people, so inspiring. I’ve also joined this brilliant group called “Pick Litter, Have a Witter”. They coordinate groups of people to go litter picking and you can chat to like-minded people on any given topic while you collect rubbish. There was a bit of a mix-up when I first joined, they put me in a group of people suffering from PBA – Post-Brexit Anxiety. I was talking at cross-purposes with this lad for hours about the trauma of separation – I thought his wife must have left him!’ Bev laughed.
‘Well, I’m so pleased you’re feeling better about everything,’ said Minnie.
‘My GP also started me on a course of anti-depressants, but I don’t think that’s what’s making the difference to my mood. I think it’s more likely to be the litter picking.’
‘Well, you’re feeling better, that’s the main thing,’ said Leila.
They arrived at the hair salon, which was tucked away down an unassuming side street. ‘Hair by Clare’ was run by two ladies who were both in their eighties and both, unsurprisingly, called Clare. Leila had known them for years and was a regular client. Walking into the salon felt like stepping back in time. The walls were covered in old prints of vintage cosmetic adverts; there was a gramophone in the corner playing jazz music, and two of those old-fashioned-style hairdryers, with large pink plastic helmets. Even the magazines laid out on the coffee table were from a different era, and the two Clares wore vintage pink and grey smock shirts over their clothes. Fleur was already there. She was scrolling through her phone with one hand and holding a flowery teacup in the other.
‘At last,’ she said, looking up as they came in.
Leila hugged both of the Clares, and then turned to introduce everyone.
‘So Fleur you’ve met. Bev, Minnie, this is Claire and Clare. One with an “i” and one without.’
The Claire with an ‘i’ wore glasses and had neat brown hair set into a wave. The Clare without had grey hair styled in a short bouffant bob.
‘So, how did you decide whether Hair by Clare should have an “i” in it or not?’ Minnie asked.
‘Don’t mention the name,’ said Leila dramatically, shaking her head.
