As I sit down, Chantal introduces herself as my personal consultant.
‘Now,’ she asks, ‘what can we do for you today?’
‘I need the works. Throw everything you’ve got at me. I want to look stunning by the time I leave here.’
I look at Carol for reassurance – she’s grinning at me proudly.
However, the look on Chantal’s face says that she thinks there’s more chance of her conjuring up a loaf and five fishes, or walking across the local swimming pool carrying a cured leper, than there is of making me stunning.
We agree a plan. First, the body. She’s going to remove everything with a follicle from my legs, bikini line and underarms, then she’ll sandblast the rest to remove all dead skin. This will be followed by a body wrap to remove radical free toxins (nope, absolutely no idea what that means) from my dilapidated system, before using a tanning treatment to make me glow like a bronzed goddess.
As for the face, Chantal takes a deep breath before recommending a deep cleanse, a non-surgical facelift, eyebrow shape, eyelash tint, and yet more fake tan.
The hair is beyond even her considerable talents, so she calls for reinforcements. Jacques, who was probably born Bert, gushes that only a complete reshape with highlights, lowlights and floodlights will do.
I consider sending Carol home for my weekend bag because I’m obviously going to be here for days. But before I can say anything, they whisk me into a private room at the back of the salon, where I lie back and close my eyes as Chantal gets to work.
I run through my preparation checklist in my head. Fish and Chips have now been dispatched to their foster home and the lava lamp has pride of place in Mrs Smith’s front room, next to her knitting box and her British Seaside Towns plate collection. It blends right in.
Arrrrrrggggghhhh! Chantal removes three layers of skin as well as the forest from my lower left leg.
Deep breath. Try not to cry. Focus on something else. Back to my list.
My flat is now bereft of personal belongings, as all my worldly goods are crammed on top of kids’ bikes, a lawnmower and a fourteen piece luggage set in Kate’s garage. All that’s left are the essentials – clothes, toiletries, electric hair appliances – that will be coming with me on my adventure.
Arrrrrrggggghhhh!! She’s moved on to the bikini line. It’s so excruciatingly painful, I decide I might cancel my trip because there’s no way another human being will ever be allowed to touch that area again. I know this girl’s type. She’s the kind of woman who dresses in PVC with a studded collar, spiked boots and a whip and reduces pathetic men to mincemeat by beating them into submission.
Anyway, back to my adventure. That’s how I’m starting to see this whole idea now – it’s just one great big adventure. Since my panic last week, I haven’t had one moment’s doubt that I’m doing the right thing. I know this makes me sound naive, but I’m just so sure that something great is going to happen. I mean, how bad can it be? So, suppose that I get rejection after rejection? I’ll still have had a year off work, visiting some amazing places and having new experiences. And yes, I’ll be in a chronic financial state at the end of it, but it’s only money. Let’s face it, if this whole thing is a huge flop, then I’ll gladly work three jobs for the rest of my life just to get me out the house.
Armpits are done. Chantal’s now digging out the sandpaper to give me a good rub-down.
Back to my ponderings. I’ve got my itinerary all worked out. If I survive today, then I’ll return my keys to the landlord tomorrow morning and head to Kate’s house, where Jess and Carol will meet us for lunch. We’ll spend the afternoon eating, drinking and preparing ourselves for my final ‘going-away’ party at Paco’s tomorrow night.
Poor Paco doesn’t realise what’s coming. We told him to expect fifty people, but somehow the numbers have escalated and we’re up to eighty-five already. I’m sure I don’t even know half of them. Let’s hope either he overestimates the buffet or we get a stampede of weight-watchers.
Chantal has now lathered me with foul smelling sticky stuff (I’m not brave enough to ask what it is) and is wrapping me in bandages. I ask if that’s to cover the waxing burns, but she assures me this is the body wrap.
Back to the plan. The morning after my party, supposing I can lift my head from the pillow, I’ll leave for Scotland. Nick Russo came from St Andrew’s, so I’ve decided to stop at my mum’s for a couple of days, then head to the coast.
The bandages come off. Thank God. I was beginning to panic that there’d be a fire in the salon, I’d be unable to escape and they’d dig my body out already mummified. There would be an irony.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, St Andrews.
I’m hoping it’ll take no more than a week to find Nick. St Andrews isn’t a big place, so even supposing I have to stop every resident or knock on every door, I’m bound to get a lead from somewhere.
Chantal’s pasting on the tanning cream now. I’ve been here for three hours and my body feels like it’s been battered, abused and shrink-wrapped.
So what happens when I find Nick Russo? Will he rush into my arms like a scene from a bad movie, gushing that he’s never loved another woman and has waited all these years for me to return? Unlikely. Will he look at me blankly and ask what I’m selling? Probably.
The tanning cream has taken effect. From the neck down, I’m a subtle shade of pepperoni. Miss Whiplash moves on to my face, massaging it with a cleansing cream. I tell her that she’d be quicker using bleach and a sink plunger, but she ignores me.
I
