It was tempting. It would be really good to see Angie and clear the air so that they could pick up as things were, before she’d turned the shop down and disappointed everyone. Angie, she knew, was the least critical of her, the least judgemental. But right at that moment, Charley was busily sorting out three hundred gift bags for two hen parties at the pub, plus a fiftieth birthday celebration and a series of pamper weekends at the Avalon. Her kitchen table was strewn with little bottles of bubble bath, mini scented candles, chocolates, lip balms, bath bombs and drinks toppers, so she hesitated.
‘If you’re too busy to come here, I’ll come to you,’ offered Angie. ‘Of course, I’d have to bring… The Boys,’ she warned, making it sound like a dire threat. Charley laughed and gave in.
She popped her head round Pam’s bedroom door. ‘I’m off to Angie’s. Want to come?’
Pam was sitting on the bed, doing a crossword. She shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’
‘You’d be more than welcome,’ pressed Charley.
But Pam shook her head again.
‘Why don’t you invite some of your friends for coffee here? Or go out somewhere…’
‘Could do. Another day, maybe.’
‘Okay,’ said Charley, knowing she wouldn’t.
Finn and Eliot were in the garden playing football with Buster the dog, when Charley arrived at Angie’s. She stood leaning on the kitchen work surface watching them through the kitchen window, while Angie made them both some tea. It was chaos. The boys careered round the garden, kicking out wildly, tumbling over the dog, each other and the ball.
‘Are they even in teams?’ Charley asked.
‘I think it’s boy versus dog.’
‘My money’s on the dog.’
‘Oh, good kick, Eliot!’ shouted Angie suddenly, then she followed it up shortly with ‘Good try, Finn!’
Charley gave her a sideways look. ‘Angie, Finn just got tackled by Buster and lost.’
‘Don’t mock me, I’m doing my job. Will’s desperate for one of them to play for England.’
‘It’ll be Buster,’ said Charley.
Angie laughed, then called out, ‘Up you jump, Finn. You’ll live! Get back in the game!’
Finn scrambled to his feet and hurtled happily after the ball.
‘How’s the pub?’ asked Angie.
‘Fine,’ lied Charley.
When it became clear Charley wasn’t going to volunteer any more information, Angie changed the subject. ‘How’s Pam?’
Charley pulled a face. ‘Turns out getting divorced is a lot grimmer than she expected. It’s a lot grimmer than I expected. She’s a bit low, a bit… a bit lost, I think. She doesn’t seem to want to do anything. She hasn’t seen any of her friends for weeks.’
‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ said Angie sympathetically. Then she completely floored Charley by saying, ‘Why don’t you take her for a makeover?’
‘A makeover?!’ spluttered Charley.
She looked across at her mate: no make-up, baggy old T-shirt smudged with finger paints and God only knew what else, stretched over a huge belly, and tatty torn-off jeans worn under-the-bump. Angie didn’t even possess a pair of heels or an LBD, and Charley would have put a tenner on her make-up being in the bottom of the kids’ dressing up box, yet here she was, seriously suggesting a makeover would help Pam? It seemed oddly shallow, coming from her.
Catching the look on Charley’s face, Angie defiantly tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Listen. I could paint Pam’s portrait in six different ways. They’d all be Pam, but there’d be one which she liked the most – the one that shows her the Pam she wants to be. So, if you think she’s a bit lost, get her to her reinvent her look, help her find herself again – or rather, find the person she now wants to be.’
For a moment Charley went quiet, surprised by the psychological depth of Angie’s reply, but she could see the logic behind it, and found herself wondering how her friend had become so wise.
‘If nothing else, it’ll be a laugh,’ continued Angie, before provocatively adding, ‘You could have one, too!’
‘How very dare you!’ laughed Charley. She wouldn’t have a makeover if you paid her.
I’ll kill that Angie.
Charley sat gazing dismally at her reflection. Harsh, unforgiving lighting showed up every flaw in her features and every blemish on her skin. Pam had refused point blank to have a makeover unless Charley had one too. And so here they were, sitting side-by-side in the salon, with no make-up, and swathed in shapeless, polyester gowns, in front of enormous, candidly critical, mirrors. Charley looked over at Pam. The lights mercilessly picked out her wrinkles, the dark shadows and bags under her eyes. She looked ten years older. Catching Charley’s eye, Pam gave her a grin. A brave grin. Or maybe it was a grimace.
This was a terrible idea, thought Charley, not for the first time that day.
Their personal stylists hovered behind them, and regarded their clients’ reflections with what seemed to Charley to be thinly disguised despair, as if they faced a Herculean task to render either woman barely presentable. Both of the stylists were Instagram-beautiful, with flawless skin, impeccable make-up and perfect hair. They were excruciatingly elegant, and above all, overwhelmingly intimidating. Charley felt the little confidence she had left in herself evaporate.
Pam’s stylist offered her a style magazine to flick through. ‘Just to give you some ideas,’ she said.
Pam smiled at her, but politely refused it. ‘Do what you want. Whatever you think will look best,’ she said.
Is she insane? thought Charley.
Even the beautician seemed taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ Pam told her, adding logically, and with a disarming laugh, ‘You’re the expert.’
Charley’s stylist had lifted Charley’s thick mop of curls up to hold them level with her chin and was looking at her critically in the mirror. ‘Have you ever thought about going short. Really short? You’ve got the face for it.’
‘No. Absolutely not,’ said Charley, more forcefully than was necessary. Pam frowned lightly and glanced across at her, and the stylist looked more than a little offended. ‘Sorry. But I want to keep it long,’ she
