in?’
‘None,’ Doug intervened. ‘Not today, but my friend desperately needs to see something on one of the other channels and we’d be incredibly grateful if you could just—’
‘Please please please.’ Lola’s voice rose as she hopped from one foot to the other. ‘I’m begging you! I’ll just die if I miss it!’
‘OK, keep your hair on: No longer quite so polite now he knew there was no sale in the offing, the salesman disappeared behind the counter where a bank of switches was situated. Glancing over at Lola before addressing Doug under his breath, he said, ‘I saw a film with this kind of thing in it once. Rain Man.’
The channels began to change. Lola held her breath. Then she saw him, on every screen, multiplied a hundred times over. ‘Stop,’ she croaked before the salesman could flick past. ‘This is the one.’
Much as the family of strangers in Rain Man had regarded Dustin Hoffman when he’d pitched up on their doorstep, the salesman regarded Lola warily and said, ‘I’ll leave you to it then. Just don’t ... touch anything, OK?’
Lola didn’t hear him. She was gazing transfixed at the screen where the makeover segment of a popular daytime show was in progress. The female presenter, gesturing cheerfully to a life-sized photograph, said, ‘... so this is how he looked when he arrived at the studio first thing this morning ..
Lola realised she was trembling. Next to her Doug said doubtfully, ‘Is that your father?’
She shook her head.
‘No? So who is it?’
‘Shh.’
.. and this is how Blythe looked ...’
Lola let out a bat squeak as a. photograph flashed up on screen of her mother, looking typically frazzled and flyaway and wearing ... yikes ... her favourite pink sparkly waistcoat over a turquoise paisley blouse and well-worn tartan trousers.
‘My God, that’s your mum.’ Doug shook his head in wonder.
‘Well, that was the two of them a couple of hours ago,’ the jolly, voluptuous presenter exclaimed. ‘So let’s see how they’re looking now!’
‘I remember those tartan trousers.’ Incredulously Doug pointed at the screen.
The shimmering curtains parted and Blythe and Malcolm made their entrance.
Chapter 44
’Oh my GOD!’ shouted Lola, startling several browsing shoppers.
‘Shh.’ Doug gave her a nudge. ‘Stay calm or we’ll get chucked out.’
Stay calm?
Lola whispered, ‘Oh my God,’ and clapped her hands over her mouth. On the TV screen her mother, self- consciously attempting to pose for the camera, looked like a Stepfordised version of herself and the effect was positively eerie. Her delinquent hair had been cut, blow-dried and ruthlessly straightened, her lipstick was deep red and glossy and her complexion had an airbrushed, plastic quality to it. She was also wearing eyeliner for the first time in her life. To complete the transformation, the batty-mother clothes had been replaced by a chic, leaf-green shift dress with matching fitted jacket and darker green high-heeled shoes.
‘Oh my word,’ gushed the presenter, ‘don’t you look fabulous!’
And in one way she did; Lola could see that other people might look at the made-over version of Blythe and feel that itwas a huge improvement. It was. just that the made-over version no longer looked anything like her mother. In a daze she watched the makeover experts step forward and explain how they had achieved the miracle of Stepfordisation. Blythe continued to look embarrassed. Then it was Malcolm’s turn.
With a jolt Lola noticed him properly for the first time. OK, now this really was a transformation. Gone was the hideous bushy beard for a start. Malcolm was now clean-shaven, his hair had been cut and slicked back from his face and, in place of the awful bobbly sweater and baggy corduroys, he was wearing – good grief? – a really well-cut dark suit.
In fact, wow. Malcolm was looking years younger, like a completely different person. Now that you could actually see his face it was revealed as not so bad after all. Why on earth had he ever grown such a horrible beard in the first place?
Next to her Doug said, ‘I can’t believe your mum’s doing this. Whose idea was it?’
Lola frowned, because in the shock of the moment it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder the same thing. And now that she was wondering, it did seem a bit odd. Blythe wasn’t the type to write into programmes like this and she’d never had a hankering to appear on TV.
.. so Malcolm, coming here today was all your idea,’ the presenter said cosily, ‘because you felt you needed to smarten up your image.’
A crackle of alarm snaked its way up the back of Lola’s neck; was the presenter reading her mind?
‘Well, yes.’ Malcolm looked bashful. ‘I suppose I wanted to make a better impression on people ... or rather I was keen for them to have a better opinion of me ...’
‘He’s too polite to say so,’ Blythe chimed in, ‘but he’s actually referring to my daughter.’
‘Oh!’ gasped Lola.
‘Who, I gather, has strong opinions when it comes to clothes.’ The presenter gave Blythe a sympathetic look.
‘That’s one way of putting it. Trinny and Susannah rolled together, that’s what she is,’ said Blythe. ‘With a touch of Simon Cowell. Always telling me I look like a dog’s dinner.’
‘I am not,’ cried Lola. ‘Not always!’
