The Great Christmas Knit Off. Alexandra Brown
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mustered up the courage to jump out of the closet, and confess all. Years ago this was, but she’s happily partnered now to a used-car salesman and they have three gloriously tanned grown up children together – she still sends me birthday cards every year, which is very lovely of her. We’re the best of friends and she was such a comfort to me when Jason went to the big Studio 54 in the sky.’ Lawrence smiles contemplatively.
‘Well … that’s refreshing,’ I say, thinking how incredible Jason’s wife must be and wondering how I might have felt if Luke had turned around and said that he much preferred men to me, after all. Although I actually think that may have hurt less than him jilting me at the altar for my twin sister. I’m convinced the feeling of hurt would have been lessened if he’d left me for a stranger, man or woman, and it still cuts me up inside that my own sister could do that to me. ‘And I’m sorry to hear about Jason. Do you miss him very much?’
‘I do. Every day, but it was inevitable, I guess; he was quite a bit older than me and not in the best of health towards the end. It was very peaceful though and just as he wished, at home with me,’ Lawrence explains. ‘My sadness is for him really, that he didn’t come out sooner and get to live as he truly wanted to for more of his life.’
‘But he had you and your life together. I’m sure that made him very happy,’ I say softly, and Lawrence leans forward to pat the top of my hand. A short silence follows as we both sit with our respective thoughts.
I finish my tea and start dabbing a smoky eye shadow into the crease of my eyelid.
‘Now that’s a perfect colour on you. A touch of mascara, maybe, or how about some Cheryl lash extensions?’ Lawrence asks.
‘Cheryl?’ They sound fascinating.
‘Yes, here. That’s the name of them.’ And he reaches into the box and pulls out a dainty pair of feathery lashes. ‘The nation’s sweetheart – you know, Cheryl Cole, or Fernandez-Versini or whatever her name is now. Exquisite, isn’t she? And a phenomenal performer too – the young girls in the Tindledale Players are always trying to emulate her moves up on the stage of the village hall. But I’m not sure the villagers are quite ready for a panto with added grind just yet. And you’re going to look just like her.’ He smiles.
‘Ha! Hardly.’
‘You’re not a million miles away. Such a cracking figure and pretty face you have.’
‘Yeah, right. Only she’d fit twice over into my body, possibly three times, and I’d need a whole factory full of hair serum to smooth out my bushy barnet,’ I say, wondering again how Sasha, my so-called identical twin, always seems to manage to get her curls transformed into a poker straight and glossy sheet falling down her back with never a hair out of place.
‘Nonsense, don’t put yourself down. Now, do you want to try the lashes? We can always trim them if you think they’re too much.’
‘Er, I’m not sure, I don’t want to look too …’ I pause to choose my words carefully, not wanting to upset him, especially as he’s batting his diamantés at me pleadingly, ‘spectacular,’ I settle on.
‘Wonderful. I’ll just pick out a few for the corners and then you’ll look totally natural. Trust me, you’re going to love it; they’ll be tossing rose petals wherever you walk when I’m finished with you,’ he says in a very grand actorly style voice. Then, chuckling and shaking his head, he busies himself with gathering the equipment together.
‘OK then,’ I nod, with only a hint of apprehension after such a glowing guarantee. But I needn’t have worried; because when I open my eyes and look into the mirror it’s like a mini miracle. My whole face looks open and bright – even my eye bags have practically disappeared. And it feels so good. ‘They’re incredible. And subtle too,’ I tell him. I’m impressed. Grinning at myself in the mirror, I flutter my new lashes admiringly as I turn my head from side to side to get a better look from all angles. Then I reach up and give Lawrence a quick squeeze.
‘Thank you, I love them.’
‘Told you. Now, hair time.’ And he darts around behind the chair, whips the towel from my head and starts combing through. ‘Big?’ he asks, widening his eyes hopefully and holding a length of my hair out sideways, letting the comb hover in mid-air.
‘OK. But not too big, I don’t want to look like Beyoncé about to go on stage as I walk down Tindledale High Street.’
‘Point taken.’
Using a big cylindrical brush, Lawrence funnels the hot air from the hairdryer down and around sections of my hair before teasing the brush free and scooping up another section and repeating the process all over again, each time gathering speed.
‘Voila! How’s that for madam,’ he eventually declares, grabbing a round mirror and holding it behind my back. I twist my head to get a better look, loving how he’s managed to get my bedraggled, snowswept curls cascading in a way I’ve never managed to before.
‘Oh, Lawrence I love it.’ I stand up and give him a hug.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says modestly, ‘as our Chezza says, it’s because you’re worth it.’ He hugs me back and then takes both my hands in his and squeezes them gently. ‘And don’t you ever forget it.’ He pulls a stern face, pretending to chastise me. I look into his eyes, thinking what a lovely, kind man he is. I’m so glad I came to Tindledale – I would never have met him otherwise. Maybe Cher not being here happened for a reason too – not that Lawrence is better than Cher, just different, and exactly what I needed today.
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