night. I tell you, John, if it weren’t for you bucking me up, I’d kill myself.”
“There, now. You’ll feel better when I’ve finished with you.”
As Agatha waited for the tint to take effect and more customers were dealt with, some by a couple of assistants, Agatha was amazed at the personal revelations that were poured into the hairdressers’ ears.
She covertly watched Mr. John as he moved about, admiring his athletic body and his blond hair, and oh, those blue, blue eyes.
Agatha began to feel alive for the first time in weeks.
The timer rang and she was escorted through to a hand-basin and the tint was washed out. Then back to Mr. John, who began to put her hair up in rollers.
“I thought it would be a blow-dry.”
“I’m going to put your hair up… Agatha. It is Agatha, isn’t it?”
A less glorious-looking hairdresser would have been told sharply that it was Mrs. Raisin. Agatha nodded.
“You’ll love it.”
“I’ve never had my hair up before. I’ve always had it short.”
He clicked his tongue. “Ladies who don’t think as much of themselves as they should, always get their hair cut short. Show me a woman with her hair cut to the bone and I’ll show you an example of really low self-worth. Tell you what, if you don’t like it, I’ll take it down again and cut it.”
Agatha reluctantly gave her approval although she could feel sweat trickling down her body. How did Mr. John keep so cool?
She was just beginning to feel she had been under the hot drier for hours when she was rescued and taken back to Mr. John.
As he worked busily away, Agatha looked in delight as her new appearance emerged. Her hair was glossy and brown once more, but swept up in a French pleat and then arranged around her square face in a way that made it looked thinner. She forgot about the heat. She smiled up at Mr. John in sheer gratitude.
It was only when she was walking back down the High Street, squinting in shop windows to admire her reflection, that she realized she had not made another appointment. But Agatha had mostly done her own hair, getting it cut in London on her occasional visits.
Once home, she opened all the doors and windows to try to let in some fresh air. Her two cats darted out into the garden and then promptly lay down on the grass, lethargic in the sun.
She looked at her silent phone. To add to her depression, it never seemed to ring. Her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong was on holiday; Sir Charles Fraith, with whom she had been involved on a couple of cases, was abroad somewhere; James Lacey was God only knew where; and even Roy Silver, her former employee, had not troubled to ring.
Then she remembered there was to be a meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society that evening. A good opportunity to show off her new hair-style.
Mrs. Bloxby was hosting the society at the vicarage and because of the heat had set out chairs and tables in the vicarage garden.
Agatha’s hair-style was much admired. “ Where did you go?” asked Mrs. Friendly, a plump, cheerful woman who usually lived up to her name. She was a relative newcomer to the village and hailed as an antidote to that other relative newcomer, Mrs. Dairy, who was nibbling a piece of cake with rabbitlike concentration.
“Mr. John in Evesham,” said Agatha.
To her surprise, Mrs. Friendly’s face creased up like that of a hurt baby. “I wouldn’t go there,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“Why?” Agatha stared rudely at Mrs. Friendly’s hair, which was a mousy brown and hanging in damp wisps round her hot face.
“Nothing,” muttered Mr. Friendly. “One hears stories.”
“About Mr. John?”
“Yes.”
“What stories?”
“Must talk to Mrs. Bloxby.” Mrs. Friendly moved away.
Agatha stared after her and then shrugged. She was joined by Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother and secretary of the society. “You look drop-dead gorgeous, Mrs. Raisin.” Agatha had long ago given up asking other members to call her by her first name. They all seemed to enjoy the old-fashioned formality of second names. Miss Simms was wearing a brief pair of shorts with a halter-top and her usual spiked heels. “Where did you go?”
“Mr. John in Evesham.”
“Oh, I went there once to get my hair done. I was bridesmaid at my sister Glad’s wedding. He did it ever so pretty, but I didn’t like him.”
“Why?”
“Awful patronizing, he was. Gushed around the richer customers.”
Agatha shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter what a hairdresser’s like, does it?”
“To me it does. I mean to say, I don’t like anyone I don’t like touching me.”
The meeting was called to order. They were to give one of their concerts over at Ancombe. Agatha’s heart sank. Ladies’ Society concerts were truly awful, long evenings of shrill singing and bad sketches.
Mrs. Dairy piped up, her eyes gleaming in her ferrety face. She was wearing a tweed skirt, blouse and tweed jacket but seemed unaffected by the heat. “Why doesn’t Mrs. Raisin ever volunteer to do anything?”
“Why don’t you?” snapped Agatha.
“Because I am doing the teas.”
“I have no talent,” said Agatha.
Mrs. Dairy gave a shrill laugh. “Neither do any of the others, but that doesn’t stop them.”
“Really,” protested Mrs. Bloxby, “that was unkind.”
Miss Simms, who had volunteered to do her impersonation of Cher, glared. “Jealous cow,” she said.
“I’ve a good mind to let you do the teas yourselves,” said Mrs. Dairy.
There was a silence. Then Agatha said, “I’ll do it.”
“Good idea,” said Miss Simms.
Mrs. Dairy got to her feet. “Then if you don’t need my services, I’m going home.”
She stalked out of the garden.
Agatha bit her lip. She didn’t want to be bothered catering for a bunch of women in all this heat.
The depression which had lifted because of her visit to the hairdresser came down around her again like a black cloud. This is your life, Agatha Raisin. Trapped in a Cotswold village, cut off from excitement, cut off from adventure, doing teas for a bunch of boring women.
She trudged home afterwards. There did not seem to be a breath of air.
She opened all the windows. She looked at the silent phone. Could anyone have rung when she was out? She dialled 1571 for the Call Minder. “You have one message,” said the carefully elocuted voice of the computer. “Would you like to hear it?”
“Of course I would, you silly bitch,” growled Agatha.
There was a silence and then the voice said primly, “I did not hear that. Would you like to hear your message?”
“YES.”
There was a click and then the well-modulated tones of Sir Charles Fraith sounded down the line, “Hullo, Aggie. Fancy dinner tomorrow?”
Agatha brightened. Although she had been wary of Charles because of a one-night stand when they had both been in Cyprus, a night of sex which had seemed to mean very little to him, the thought of going out to dinner and showing off her new hair-style appealed greatly.
She dialled his number and got his Call Minder and left a message asking him to call for her at eight o’clock the following evening.
Her depression once more lifted, she went upstairs and had a bath and went to bed. She had left her hair pinned up, but as she lay on her hot pillow the pins bored into her head. At last she rose and took all the pins out and went back to bed, tossing and turning all night in the suffocating heat. Thunder rolled and the rain came down about two in the morning but did nothing to freshen the air.
