Putting Alice Back Together. Carol Marinelli

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      ‘Look at it!’ She was staring at my hair in horror. It was like the day the nit nurse at school found nits in my hair and I could feel everyone staring at me in disgust. I sat there humiliated as Bonny screeched out what a shit bridesmaid I’d make, what a mess I looked, how I’d ruin the photos.

      For months I’d put up with her histrionics. For months I’d shut up and put up and been good…

      ‘I don’t want to be your bridesmaid.’ I didn’t.

      ‘I don’t want to wear that disgusting pink dress.’ That was certainly true.

      ‘And you don’t have to worry about people talking about your ugly bridesmaid.’ I ripped off the towel from my shoulders. I was so angry, so ashamed, so embarrassed that I couldn’t even cry. ‘They’ll be too busy looking at the back end of the bride and sniggering at her massive arse. I thought brides were supposed to lose weight before the wedding.’

      Mum slapped me.

      We’re not talking a little slap either, she slammed her hand across my cheek, and Bonny’s screams quadrupled—not, may I add, because her sister was being beaten (well, maybe not beaten, but it bloody hurt) but because someone had dared to mention Bonny’s increasingly ample figure. Her dress had been let out four times.

      It was Eleanor who stepped in.

      She took Bonny through to the lounge and Mum to the dining room. I was left with the bloody hairdresser. With much running from room to room by Eleanor, urgent peace talks were under way.

      I, through Eleanor, reluctantly, extremely reluctantly, mumbled that I was sorry for calling her fat—which I believe was translated to ‘She doesn’t think you’re fat at all, she’s just jealous and you know how crazy she goes if anyone talks about her hair. She thinks you look fantastic.’

      I don’t think Bonny apologised. All I got from Eleanor was ‘She’s just worried about tomorrow…’

      And as for Mum, well, there was no formal apology—in fact, it was I who apparently apologised, through Eleanor, for upsetting Bonny on the eve of her Fucking Special Day… And then we were all back in the kitchen.

      They speared it down with pins. I was ordered not to cry any more or my face would look like a pizza. I think Mum did feel a bit bad for hitting me, because she even gave me a glass of wine to calm me down. It was not the usual thimbleful we got on a Sunday—so she can say she is sensibly introducing her girls to alcohol and it won’t be a mystery—no, I got a full glass of red. And when Bonny started getting upset again Mum pulled her aside and told her to calm down, that she was making things worse. I filled up my glass and felt calmer. It would look better in the morning.

      I fell into bed, and bloody hoped that it would anyway.

      I also hoped I’d have a bruise.

      Enough that make-up would cover.

      But enough, too, that Mum would notice.

      It didn’t look better in the morning.

      And, sadly, there was no sign of a bruise.

      The pins came out and my hair was still orange, a mass of orange ringlets with a stupid crinkle fringe. I had a thumping headache, and just wanted to crawl back to bed and hide till it grew out (say around eight months or so), but the hairdresser was back earlier than planned and all bubbly and bright (and reeking of brandy), and had a much better idea.

      ‘We’ll straighten it.’ She pulled out a bottle and started squirting me with water. I protested but Mum gave me a warning look as Bonny came into the kitchen. She was even allowed to smoke inside because it was her Special Day. I sat there, as my head was dragged and jerked backwards and sideways, and my scalp burnt with the heat of the hairdryer. It took about forty minutes—I have loads of hair, just loads and loads of hair, but the strange thing was, as the hairdresser worked on, Bonny’s mood lifted. She had sworn to kill the hairdresser last night, and her entire family too, yet she was chatting away to her now, and Mum was beaming as they all stood and watched.

      ‘There!’ The hairdresser beamed, and so too did everyone. Even Eleanor, beautiful, stunning, gorgeous Eleanor, gaped as she walked into the kitchen.

      ‘Oh, my God!’ she screeched when she saw me. ‘Straight suits you.’

      I ran up to the bathroom and stood there.

      Yes, it was still bright orange, but it was straight, smooth and sleek and the newly created fringe fell over one eye and…

      It was me.

      For the first time in my life I felt as if I was staring at my reflection and recognised the person that was staring back.

       Seven

      I soon cheered up.

      It was nice having Roz back at the flat but it wasn’t just her company I wanted. There was conversation that needed to be had.

      Dan had a point.

      In all honesty, I sometimes got a bit embarrassed when I went out with Roz.

      It wasn’t just that she didn’t make an effort—it was as if she tried to look like she hadn’t made an effort, if you know what I mean. I knew she was hurting, I knew her ex-husband Andrew had displayed her as some sort of trophy wife and had got really narky if she put on a bit of weight or didn’t get her nails and hair done religiously, but to go so far the other way was only hurting Roz.

      We chatted about Nicole. Then there was a half hour or so listening to her bang on about Andrew’s new girlfriend Trudy. Then I sat through the saga of Lizzie, her daughter, and their latest row and then, when she’d worn herself out talking about the bitch that is her daughter, she waffled on about Hugh.

      ‘He might be nice.’ Roz raised her eyebrows.

      ‘He’s living with someone called Gemma. (Nicole had told me after I’d agreed he could stay.) Nicole reckons they’re serious.’

      ‘Well, they can’t be that serious if he’s coming out here. He’s a consultant.’ Roz nudged. ‘You never know.’

      Oh, I knew.

      ‘He’s Nicole’s cousin,’ I said, because it covered so many things—anally retentive, frigid, uptight, driven. ‘I only agreed because if Nicole told me one more time about Aunty Cheryl and her mother’s row, and how this would really help, I’d have strangled her.’ But we weren’t here to discuss Lizzie or the impending arrival of Dr Hugh Watson, so, rather skilfully I thought, I moved the conversation around to this fabulous new body moisturiser and a hot oil hair treatment I’d bought from my hairdresser Karan as Roz pretended to listen.

      Yes, pretended.

      I could sense her distraction and it infuriated me. I wasn’t doing this for my benefit—I didn’t have a halo of pubic hair on my head, I wasn’t slobbing on the couch in khaki oversized cargo pants and a T-shirt you could house a Third World family in.

      ‘Roz!’ She jumped to attention as I held up the pack. ‘Let’s have a girls’ night in—maybe we could do СКАЧАТЬ