Fielding, Helen The Edge of Reason [Br

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beauty. Paolo seemed marvellously in control, throwing the hair this way and that, then blowing it
about into huge bouff, giving me knowing looks as if to say "I'm gonna make you into one hot
chick."
Then suddenly he stopped. Hair looked totally insane like schoolteacher who has had perm followed
by puddingbasin cut. He looked at me with an expectant, confident smirk and his assistant came up
and started gushing "Oh it's heaven." Panicked, staring at self in horror but had established such
a bond of mutual admiration with Paolo that to say I hated hair would make whole thing collapse
like impossibly embarrassing house of cards. Ended up joining in mad gushing about monster hair
and giving Paolo E5 tip. When got back to work, Richard Finch said I looked like Ruth Madoc from
Hi-de-Hi.
7 p.m. Back home. Hair is complete fright wig with hideous short fringe. Just spent forty-five
minutes staring in mirror with brows raised trying to make fringe look longer but cannot spend
whole of tomorrow night looking like Roger Moore when the baddy with the cat has threatened to
blow up him, the world, and the tiny box full of M15 vital computers.
7.15 p.m. Attempt to mimic early Linda Evangelista by arranging fringe into diagonal line using
gel has turned self into Paul Daniels.
Incensed with rage at stupid Paolo. Why would someone do that to another person" Why? Hate
sadistic megalomaniac hairdressers. Am going to sue Paolo. Am going to report Paolo to Amnesty
International, Esther Rantzen, Penny Junor or similar and expose him on national television.
Far too depressed to go to gym.
7.30 p.m. Called Tom to tell him of trauma who said I should not be so superficial but to think of
Irish Secretary Mo Mowlam and cancer-treated bald head. V. ashamed. Not going to obsess any more.
Also Tom said had I thought up anyone to interview yet.
"Well, I've been a bit busy," I said guiltily.
"You know what? You gotta get your ass in gear" - oh God, don't know what has come over him in
California - "Who are you really interested in?" he went on. "Isn't there a celebrity you'd
really like to interview?"
Thought about this then suddenly realized. "Mr Darcy!" I said.
"What? Colin Firth?"
"Yes! Yes! Mr Darcy! Mr Darcy'
So now have got project. Hurrah! Am going to get to work and set up interview using his agent.
Will he marvellous, can get out all cuttings and really bring out unique perspective on ... Oh,
though. Had better wait till fringe has grown. Gaaah! Doorbell. Had better not be Mark. But he
definitely said tomorrow! Calm, calm.
"It's Gary," went the entryphone.
"Oh hi, hi. Gareeeee!" I overcompensated without a blind idea who he was. "How are you?" I said,
thinking.. and come to mention it, who?
"Cold. Are you gonna let me in?"
Suddenly recognized the voice - "Oh Gary," I gushed even more crazily overcompensatorly. "Come on
up!!!" Hit self hard on head. What was he doing here?
He came in wearing paint-smeared, builder-type jeans, an orange tee-shirt and strange checked
jacket with pretend sheepskin collar.
"Hi," he said, sitting down at the kitchen table as if he were my husband. Was unsure how to deal
with two -people -in -room -with -totally - different- concept- ofreality- scenario.
"Now, Gary," I said. "I'm in a bit of a rush!"
He said nothing and started rolling a cigarette. Suddenly started to feel scared. Maybe he was a
mad rapist. But he never tried to rape Magda, at least as far as I know.
"Was there something you'd forgotten?" I said nervously.
"Nope," he said, still rolling the cigarette. I glanced at the door wondering if I should make a
run for it. "Where's your soil pipe?"
"Gareeeeeeeee!" I wanted to yell. "Go away. Just go away. I'm seeing Mark tomorrow night, and I've
got to do something with my fringe and work out on the floor."
He put the cigarette in his mouth and stood up. "Let's have a look in the bathroom."
"Noooo!" I yelled, remembering there was an open tub of Jolene bleach and a copy of What Men Want
on the side of the washbasin. "Look, can you come back another ... T
But he was already poking about, opening the door and peering down the stairs and heading towards
the bedroom.
"Have you got a back window in here?"
"Yes."
"Let's have a look."
I stood nervously in the bedroom doorway, while he opened the window and looked out. He did seem
more interested in pipes than actually attacking me.
"Thought so" he said triumphantly, bringing his head back in and closing the window. "You've got
room for an infill extension out there."
"I'm afraid you're going to have to go away," I said, drawing myself up to my full height and
moving back into the living room. "I've got to go somewhere."
But he was already heading past me to the stairs again. "Yup, you've got room for an infill. Mind
you, you'll have to move the soil pipe."
"Gary . . ."
"You could have a second bedroom - little roof terrace on top. Sweet."
Roof terrace? Second bedroom? I could make it into an office and start my new career.
"How much would it cost?"
"Oooh." He started shaking his head sorrowfully. "Tell you what, let's go down to the pub and have
a think."
"I can't," I said firmly. "I'm going out."
"All right. Well, I'll have a think and give you a ring." "Jolly good. WelP Best get going!"
He picked up his coat, tobacco and Rizlas, opened his bag and laid a magazine down reverentially
on the kitchen table.
As he reached the door, he turned and gave me a knowing look. "Page seventy-one," he said. "Ciao."
Picked up the magazine, thinking it was going to be Architectural Digest and found myself looking
at Coarse Fisherman, with a man holding a gigantic slimy grey fish on the front. Leafed through an
enormous number of pages all containing many pictures of men holding up gigantic slimy grey fish. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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