The Publicist, page 23
Her nails are dry, and Soozie’s in no rush to go. But I’ve had my fill for the day. Even though I’m not on the guest list, I’ve got a dinner party to look forward to.
The Nail Salon: Chapter 2
The reflection in the bathroom mirror needed attention. Her face was fine. He was always careful about that. But as Detective Chief Inspector Sue Fisher let her silk robe fall gently below her shoulders, the livid bruising on the tops of her arms glared back, daring her to expose it to the world. She ran her fingertips over the marks where his fat, thick fingers had been, holding her, shaking her, and for a moment she was back in the living room, his voice distant and hollow as he ranted and seethed. Sue couldn’t even remember what the latest tirade had been about. Spending too much time on jobs with her colleague Mike was usually behind it.
There was a little arnica cream left in the tube and she smoothed it over her shoulders, trying not to wince. Sunlight streamed in through the bathroom window, and her phone said it would be thirty degrees today. Even the water in the cold tap was warm. This summer had been the hottest on record so far, and to Sue’s horror it showed no signs of abating. It was easy to cover up at work; people expected a shirt and jacket, but on her days off it was harder to explain a long-sleeved T-shirt when everyone else was sun-worshipping in strappy tops.
He was still asleep in bed. He’d be sorry, of course, there would be texts, tears, flowers and the broken-record promise to stop drinking. Keen not to wake him, she tiptoed around the bedroom, dressing as silently as possible, hoping that their son Tom hadn’t heard the row. Being fourteen, he spent most of his time zoned out with headphones, oblivious to everything going on in the world.
On the way to work, Sue cranked up the car stereo, shouting out the words to ‘Mr Brightside’ as she screamed into a void.
The office was unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. Mike, her deputy, was late as usual, but Sue didn’t care. Tipping some of the murky brown liquid from the communal coffee machine into a cracked green mug, she was still logging on to her computer when the boss, Chief Constable Steve Biller, strode in.
‘Missing person,’ he said, throwing the file onto her desk. ‘Reported early hours of this morning. Another underage runaway. Check it out, Sue. Rich kid. Probably putting on her parts when daddy wouldn’t pay for a limo. Went AWOL once before and turned up like the proverbial bad penny having stayed the night in a Travelodge. Last seen 7am Monday. It’s been twenty-four hours, so…’
‘I’ll get straight on it, sir.’
Sue picked up the thin file. A girl’s face stared back at her, the full Instagram experience. Big hair, pout, green eyes, flawless – and obviously photoshopped – skin, looking far older than fifteen.
‘I miss the days when kids looked like kids.’ She sighed as Mike quietly slid into the seat opposite, his hungover eyes shaded by dark glasses. ‘Good night? Twelve pints and a curry?’
Mike shook his head. ‘Wine,’ he said weakly. ‘It’s the Devil’s work.’
‘Oh, the date! I forgot. How was she? Anything like the photo?’
‘No. And nothing like her description, either. I tell you, Sue, you’re so lucky to have Rob. This online dating lark is a nightmare. I had to drink two bottles just to get through the evening.’
‘How did you end it?’
‘At Wimbledon tube. Thanked her for a lovely evening and said I’d be in touch. She wants me to go horse riding. In Richmond Park.’
Sue looked up from the file and grinned. ‘Why not? Beats staying in watching EastEnders. You should give it a go.’
‘And she’s got kids. Three of them. All under ten. Two different fathers. Didn’t mention that in her bio. Too much baggage. Anyway, who’s this then?’
‘Anna Littlejohn-Eaves. Fifteen. Lives in Kingston. The very posh bit. Tillingham Estate. Last seen yesterday morning. They’ve tried the local hospitals.’
‘History?’
‘Done it before, a year ago. Went out partying, stayed in a Travelodge with a mate, then rang Mummy at 7am to go and pick them up, completely unaware of the fracas she had caused.’
Sue took a slurp of coffee. ‘Come on. We’d better go and see the parents.’
The Nail Salon: Chapter 3
Melinda
He’s never been to the salon. Doesn’t even know it exists. But the twins have put me on to Daniel. Soozie’s twins. Sky and Star. The fifteen-year-old brats – with the ridiculous names and more spending money in their Prada bags than I’ll ever have in a lifetime – waft in just as Soozie’s leaving. She’s popped in for me to touch up one of her nails. And a chat. They’ve been in the coffee shop opposite. Sky still has the remnants of a soya caffè latte on her top lip.
‘Do you girls want me to wait?’ ventures Soozie hopefully. ‘I could give you a lift?’
‘I told you, Mum, we’re going shopping,’ snaps Sky, rolling her eyes. ‘We’ll get an Uber.’
Soozie looks deflated. ‘OK, well don’t be out late. I’ll see you at home.’
I watch as she closes the door behind her. She hesitates for a moment, her fingers resting on the handle as if she’s coming back in, then walks down the street towards the car park. Sky stifles a giggle. Poor Soozie. The girls are just cruel to her. And she knows it.
They don’t glimpse the disappointment in my eyes. To them, I’m just ‘staff’, in the same invisible category as their housekeeper, the chef, their personal trainer – but they can’t resist showing off when a captive audience of one is present.
‘I met Daniel online,’ brags Sky, as I begin removing the immaculate gold nail polish I applied three days ago. ‘He’s taking me out in London this afternoon. Told me to meet him in Leicester Square. Three o’clock. By the Tube.’
Soozie clearly doesn’t know. It’s a Monday in August, the school holidays, and she rarely had any idea what they were up to until she checked their pouting Instagram feeds.
‘What’s he like, this Daniel?’ I ask.
‘Probably a paedo,’ Star says sulkily.
‘He’s not,’ snaps Sky. ‘You’re just jealous. I’ve seen pictures of him. He’s nineteen. A YouTuber.’
There is time. I have two clients booked for the afternoon whose stories have long gone cold. I can easily cancel. And to hell with any walk-ins. Daniel is worth a follow. Soozie won’t be winning Mother of the Year any time soon, but at least I can keep an eye on Sky for her. Strip away the nails, the makeup, and she’s just an insecure little girl. Fragile. I remember how that felt at fifteen.
The girls flounce out, Star with purple nails, Sky with bright red. I flip the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and pull down the blind.
My salon is on a Surrey high street, Cobshott to be precise, where bankers’ and footballers’ wives, plus a handful of top ‘creatives’ – whatever the hell they are – dominate the handful of council tenants yet to be squeezed out. Vast, sterile mansion new-builds rise up from the ashes of old cottages. This is a land of triple garages and bifold doors, of interior designers and Range Rovers, of a quest for perfection and inner pain the like of which I never saw back home in Great Yarmouth.
There aren’t many of us who make it out of the seaside town. The singer who did the jungle and the M&S ads, whatshername – Myleene Klass, I just googled it – maybe a few others. I never fitted in there. But here, in Cobshott, they love me.
My clapped-out mini is parked around the corner. I can’t afford to live here, of course. Renting the tiny salon costs a small fortune, though I did a good cash deal with the owner. But image is everything. Reality is a bedsit twenty minutes’ drive away, in Surbiton, the heart of suburbia. They’d never believe it, my clients. One room, with an overflowing wardrobe and a tiny TV. A sink in the corner. A dingy grey bathroom with damp, threadbare towels piled up, shared with five others. Mice in the kitchen and a solidified KFC bargain bucket, left on the table by two of the Kingston University students a couple of days ago. It’s the closest place I can afford to Cobshott, near enough for me to have an easy, cheap commute, and right by the fast train to London. To my sanctuary. Where I can be me.
I find a space in the street nearby, lock the Mini carefully and walk up the weed-strewn front path. It’s an old Victorian terrace, and I’m in the basement. The only blessing is there’s no damp. Down the stairs, key in the lock, and I’m in. Now, what to wear?
My wigs live on a long shelf above the dressing table. I have everything – curly blonde, red bob, hipster, even clip-on man bun. Today I’m going for the shoulder-length brunette. First, some foundation. The cream darkens my skin tone and I set it with powder. Draw on my eyebrows and lighten my lids with MAC shadow in Nylon. Pale lips. Jeans, a baggy blue top, padding to make me more portly, and a thin baggy jacket. Trainers. Nothing too noticeable. I need to disappear into the Leicester Square crowd.
The train is half-empty. I take a window seat and gaze out as summer flashes by. Semi-detached houses quickly give way to terraces, then tower blocks. Run-down, brick council flats jostle with the steel and glass outline of new London. The Shard appears, reflecting sunlight against a crisp blue sky. Down the Tube, where tourists puzzle over the coloured train arteries connecting London, and parents are inflicting the horrors of a commute on half-terming kids. It’s hot, too hot, and I spill out into Charing Cross road, with its familiar smell of urine-dried pavements and diesel fumes.
Outside the Hippodrome Casino seems a good place to wait. I lounge against the wall and scroll through my phone, furtively glancing round at potential Daniels. There’s a nervous young lad in a baseball cap, clutching a cheap bouquet of wilting roses in plastic wrap. A handsome but slightly shifty-looking guy in his mid-forties, wearing a suit and a coat with the collar up, despite the stifling heat of the day. The lad meets his equally-terrified-looking date, and they disappear into Burger King. Classy. Two-thirty. Three o’clock. Then four. The shifty-looking guy has gone, replaced by irritating, fat American tourists loudly asking where they can find Lie-cester Square.
I’m starting to worry a little now. London is no place for a fifteen-year-old, especially one who thinks she’s streetwise. I check Sky’s Instagram, wishing I’d thought of it earlier. There’s a shot of her and Star in their Cobshott pool, posted half an hour ago, all smiles, drinking cocktails on a giant inflatable unicorn and hashtagged ‘summerdaze’. The shadows show it’s late afternoon. And there, right there, are the freshly painted, bright-red nails with the two diamantés. She’s home, and she’s safe.
For a moment, I’m relieved, but then anger begins to boil in the pit of my stomach. She’s lied to me. She’s made me feel like a fool. I’m here, sweating, tense, wasting my time trying to look out for her when she hasn’t even left the house. She’s invented Daniel to wind up Star, and I’ve fallen for it.
I’m heading back to the Tube, furious and fed up, when I spot her in an alleyway. A newbie. Couldn’t be more than sixteen. Long, carefully curled chestnut hair, ironed clothes, clutching a small rucksack but with a harrowed, fearful look in her eyes that spice, heroin or any other street drug has yet to numb. Sky might not need my help, but this young girl does. And she needs it now. Maybe this afternoon won’t be a waste of time after all.
‘You OK?’ I say gently, crouching down beside her.
She shakes her head, but her green, desperate eyes meet mine. There’s an asthma inhaler in her hand and she’s wheezing.
‘It’s all right, honey,’ I add. ‘I’m Sally. I help out with London’s homeless. Haven’t seen you around before.’
‘Just arrived,’ she says, in a soft voice, politely taking my hand and shaking it. Well-mannered. I like that. ‘First time. I’m… Karen.’
I gesture to a homeless man on the pavement, frozen, zombie-like, in the foetal position, his filthy, shoeless feet and stinking clothes resting on a urine-soaked newspaper. ‘You’ve got to be careful on the streets, Karen. He’s on spice. That’s what it does to you. And there’re a lot of dealers ready to push you into it. For free. At first.’
She agrees to a coffee in a nearby Soho cafe, one I know has no CCTV, where sweet, kindly Sally listens to her life story. From Margate in Kent. Absent father. An alcoholic mother who starts the day with a vodka. Severely asthmatic. Scars she hates from surgery to her belly when she was a baby. A second coffee, this time with a veggie ‘bacon’ sandwich. And cake. Soft Victoria sponge, with jam and cream, just the sort a loving parent would bake. She’s fifteen, she’s started talking and now she can’t stop. Tears, pain, sexual abuse, it all tumbles out. I hug her, feeling her pain, more alive than I’ve been for months. I’ve been wanting another lost soul to help, to join my family. And Karen is perfect.
My long wig is itching, my makeup sweaty, the padding is making me overheat, and the anticipation makes me feel like I’m about to burst. But outwardly, I’m just sweet, calm Sally, the one person in London that Karen can trust. At last her words begin to dry up, her throat thick, and she gazes out at the warm drizzle now conveniently coating the shiny London streets.
‘Weather’s taking a turn,’ I say softly. ‘We really do need to sort you out a bed for tonight. It’s too dangerous on the streets. Drugs, rape, even murder. And the hostels aren’t any better. That’s why people choose to sleep out here. They think it’s safer.’ My voice drops to a whisper. ‘But it isn’t.’
She clutches her rucksack to her chest like a teddy bear and puffs at her inhaler.
I sigh deeply. ‘Look, I don’t normally do this, but why don’t you come and stay at my place? There’s plenty of space and you can have your own room. We’ve chatted for so long, I trust you, and it’s getting late. Tomorrow morning we can phone round to find you somewhere permanent. And a job, with training. A new start.’
Karen hesitates, but only briefly. On the pavement outside, a frozen spice addict suddenly stirs, and soils himself.
Her gaze flicks back to mine. ‘Are you sure?’ she says. ‘I won’t be any trouble.’
‘Of course.’ I smile. ‘It’s a bit of a walk, as it’s on the other side of town, but we can chat on the way to Waterloo. Then just a little train ride. Much nicer than the Tube.’
We leave the coffee shop, squeezing through the hordes of people spilling out of pubs onto Soho’s warm streets, down to Trafalgar Square, and I point out where she’ll be able to see the giant Christmas tree in a few months’ time. Over the busy Hungerford footbridge, where the City skyline glitters in the failing light, towards home. The drizzle has stopped, and the summer sunset bathes London in gold, the colour Karen had always dreamed it would be.
Ready to find out what happens next…
* * *
The Nail Salon is available to order in eBook and paperback now
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Happy reading!
Natalie Tambini has more than thirty years' experience as a national newspaper and magazine journalist. She created and wrote Cosmopolitan's ‘Confessions’ columns, supplements and books and interviewed countless celebrities during nine years at TV Choice and Total TV Guide – infamously missing a slot with Julia Roberts. Her work has been syndicated worldwide, and she has acted as ghostwriter for several celebrity columnists on women's magazines.
Her fascination with murderers and the need to understand them stems from a childhood passion for Agatha Christie novels while growing up in Norfolk and Hampshire. She has also interviewed many victims of crimes as a real-life journalist, and those who endured miscarriages of justice, including an innocent man who spent 20 years on death row.
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The Nail Salon
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