Shopaholic Takes Manhattan
Page 76
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“I’m not doing it,” I hear myself saying, and slither off the couch. “I’m not having it.”
“The tattoo?”
“Any of it.”
“Any of it?”
The beautician comes toward me, the wax pot in hand — and in panic I dodge behind the couch, clasping my robe defensively around me.
“But Mrs. Sherman has already prepaid for the entire treatment—”
“I don’t care what she’s paid for,” I say, backing away. “You can wax my legs. But not my arms. And definitely not… that other one. The crystal love heart one.”
The beautician looks worried.
“Mrs. Sherman is one of our most regular customers. She specifically requested the ‘top-to-toe wax’ for you.”
“She’ll never know!” I say desperately. “She’ll never know! I mean, she’s not exactly going to look, is she? She’s not going to ask her son if his initials are tattooed on his girlfriend’s…” I can’t bring myself to say area. “I mean, come on. Is she?”
I break off, and there’s a tense silence, broken only by the sound of tootling panpipes.
Then suddenly the beautician gives a snort of laughter. I catch her eye — and find myself starting to laugh, too, albeit slightly hysterically.
“You’re right,” says the beautician, sitting down and wiping her eyes. “You’re right. She’ll never know.”
“How about a compromise?” I say. “You do my legs and eyebrows and we keep quiet about the rest.”
“I could give you a massage instead,” says the beautician. “Use up the time.”
“There we are, then!” I say in relief. “Perfect!”
Feeling slightly drained, I lie down on the couch, and the beautician covers me up expertly with a towel.
“So, does Mrs. Sherman have a son, then?” she says, smoothing back my hair.
“Yes.” I look up, taken aback. “Has she never even mentioned him?”
“Not that I recall. And she’s been coming here for years…” The beautician shrugs. “I guess I always assumed she didn’t have any children.”
“Oh right,” I say, and lie back down, trying not to give away my surprise.
When I emerge an hour and a half later, I feel fantastic. I’ve got brand-new eyebrows, smooth legs, and a glow all over from the most wonderful aromatherapy massage.
Elinor is waiting for me in reception, and as I come toward her, she runs her eyes appraisingly up and down my body. For a horrible moment I think she’s going to ask me to roll up my sleeves to check the smoothness of my arms — but all she says is, “Your eyebrows look a lot better.” Then she turns and walks out, and I hurry after her.
As we get back into the car, I ask, “Where are we having lunch?”
“Nina Heywood is holding a small informal charity lunch for Ugandan famine relief,” she replies, examining one of her immaculate nails. “She holds events like this nearly every month. Do you know the Heywoods? Or the van Gelders?”
Of course I don’t bloody know them.
“No,” I hear myself saying. “But I know the Websters.”
“The Websters?” She raises her arched eyebrows. “The Newport Websters?”
“The Oxshott Websters. Janice and Martin.” I give her an innocent look. “Do you know them?”
“No,” says Elinor, giving me a frosty look. “I don’t believe I do.”
For the rest of the journey we travel in silence. Then suddenly the car is stopping and we’re getting out, and walking into the grandest, most enormous lobby I’ve ever seen, with a doorman in uniform and mirrors everywhere. We go up what seems like a zillion floors in a gilded lift with a man in a peaked cap, and into an apartment. And I have never seen anything like it.
The place is absolutely enormous, with a marble floor and a double staircase and a grand piano on a platform. The pale silk walls are decorated with enormous gold-framed paintings, and on pedestals around the room there are cascading flower arrangements like I’ve never seen before. Pin-thin women in expensive clothes are talking animatedly to one another, a smaller number of well-dressed men are listening politely, there are waitresses handing out champagne, and a girl in a flowing dress is playing the harp.
And this is a small charity lunch?
Our hostess Mrs. Heywood is a tiny woman in pink, who is about to shake hands with me when she’s distracted by the arrival of a woman in a bejeweled turban. Elinor introduces me to a Mrs. Parker, a Mr. Wunsch, and a Miss Kutomi, then drifts away, and I make conversation as best I can, even though everyone seems to assume I must be a close friend of Prince William.
“The tattoo?”
“Any of it.”
“Any of it?”
The beautician comes toward me, the wax pot in hand — and in panic I dodge behind the couch, clasping my robe defensively around me.
“But Mrs. Sherman has already prepaid for the entire treatment—”
“I don’t care what she’s paid for,” I say, backing away. “You can wax my legs. But not my arms. And definitely not… that other one. The crystal love heart one.”
The beautician looks worried.
“Mrs. Sherman is one of our most regular customers. She specifically requested the ‘top-to-toe wax’ for you.”
“She’ll never know!” I say desperately. “She’ll never know! I mean, she’s not exactly going to look, is she? She’s not going to ask her son if his initials are tattooed on his girlfriend’s…” I can’t bring myself to say area. “I mean, come on. Is she?”
I break off, and there’s a tense silence, broken only by the sound of tootling panpipes.
Then suddenly the beautician gives a snort of laughter. I catch her eye — and find myself starting to laugh, too, albeit slightly hysterically.
“You’re right,” says the beautician, sitting down and wiping her eyes. “You’re right. She’ll never know.”
“How about a compromise?” I say. “You do my legs and eyebrows and we keep quiet about the rest.”
“I could give you a massage instead,” says the beautician. “Use up the time.”
“There we are, then!” I say in relief. “Perfect!”
Feeling slightly drained, I lie down on the couch, and the beautician covers me up expertly with a towel.
“So, does Mrs. Sherman have a son, then?” she says, smoothing back my hair.
“Yes.” I look up, taken aback. “Has she never even mentioned him?”
“Not that I recall. And she’s been coming here for years…” The beautician shrugs. “I guess I always assumed she didn’t have any children.”
“Oh right,” I say, and lie back down, trying not to give away my surprise.
When I emerge an hour and a half later, I feel fantastic. I’ve got brand-new eyebrows, smooth legs, and a glow all over from the most wonderful aromatherapy massage.
Elinor is waiting for me in reception, and as I come toward her, she runs her eyes appraisingly up and down my body. For a horrible moment I think she’s going to ask me to roll up my sleeves to check the smoothness of my arms — but all she says is, “Your eyebrows look a lot better.” Then she turns and walks out, and I hurry after her.
As we get back into the car, I ask, “Where are we having lunch?”
“Nina Heywood is holding a small informal charity lunch for Ugandan famine relief,” she replies, examining one of her immaculate nails. “She holds events like this nearly every month. Do you know the Heywoods? Or the van Gelders?”
Of course I don’t bloody know them.
“No,” I hear myself saying. “But I know the Websters.”
“The Websters?” She raises her arched eyebrows. “The Newport Websters?”
“The Oxshott Websters. Janice and Martin.” I give her an innocent look. “Do you know them?”
“No,” says Elinor, giving me a frosty look. “I don’t believe I do.”
For the rest of the journey we travel in silence. Then suddenly the car is stopping and we’re getting out, and walking into the grandest, most enormous lobby I’ve ever seen, with a doorman in uniform and mirrors everywhere. We go up what seems like a zillion floors in a gilded lift with a man in a peaked cap, and into an apartment. And I have never seen anything like it.
The place is absolutely enormous, with a marble floor and a double staircase and a grand piano on a platform. The pale silk walls are decorated with enormous gold-framed paintings, and on pedestals around the room there are cascading flower arrangements like I’ve never seen before. Pin-thin women in expensive clothes are talking animatedly to one another, a smaller number of well-dressed men are listening politely, there are waitresses handing out champagne, and a girl in a flowing dress is playing the harp.
And this is a small charity lunch?
Our hostess Mrs. Heywood is a tiny woman in pink, who is about to shake hands with me when she’s distracted by the arrival of a woman in a bejeweled turban. Elinor introduces me to a Mrs. Parker, a Mr. Wunsch, and a Miss Kutomi, then drifts away, and I make conversation as best I can, even though everyone seems to assume I must be a close friend of Prince William.
