Rory's Proposal (3 page)

‘Eight kilos?’ I ask. ‘What am I supposed to do with them? I don’t own a bloody horse.’

‘You ordered them,’ says a sour-faced Tony. ‘I only deliver.’

I am sure the order was per item. What am I supposed to do with eight kilos of carrots? Even eight single carrots would have been too much. This is a flat, not a soup kitchen. God, I wish I was more organised. I also wish I was slimmer and gorgeous, and richer. I’d probably be married by now. All my chances of being married and with children by the time I’m thirty come down to the fact that I lack everything that makes me appealing. I can’t even order eight carrots. I’m absolute shit. We’ll be living off carrot soup for the next year. Honestly, who orders eight carrots and ends up with eight kilos?

‘And what is that?’

Tony folds his arms as I point to a miniature tin of sweetcorn. That’s the problem, I was sure the tin was normal size from the picture on the web page and not the size of an eggcup. I don’t suppose I accidentally ordered a crate of wine rather than one bottle, or two kilos of Crunchies instead of two bars. That would be a good mistake.

‘You have two substitutions,’ he says, making it sound like the FA Cup final at Wembley. ‘They didn’t have the Quorn spicy sausages so you’ve got these.’

He hands me a pack of Bernard Matthew’s pork sausages. How are they a substitute for Quorn?

‘But we don’t eat meat,’ I say.

At least Luke doesn’t and I’m not supposed to.

‘I don’t make the rules,’ he says. ‘If you don’t want them I can take them back.’

‘I’m just saying it’s a strange substitute isn’t it? It’s like giving me soap because you don’t have cheese.’

He looks at me.

‘I just deliver, I don’t do the substitutions,’ he says earnestly and I begin to wonder if he is reciting a script that Rory’s make them learn by heart.

‘Right,’ I say, pulling the ring on a diet Coke can.

‘And the nut roast they didn’t have so they’ve replaced that with …’

He fumbles through the bags.

‘Don’t tell me, leg of
horse?’ I say at an attempt of humour. He looks sour faced at me.

‘I just deliver,’ he says. ‘They’ve given you half a duck.’

‘That makes sense,’ I say.

‘I only deliver,’ he says again. ‘You’ve got fifty loyalty points.’

No doubt they were for the carrots. I close the door and dump the bags in the kitchen. I retrieve a Crunchie bar from the Tampax box and grab two bags of carrots before leaving for the salon.

You know when you think things couldn’t get any worse. Well in my case it seems they can. I enter the salon which smells comfortingly of hairspray, shampoo and Sandy’s lavender oil. Ryan is backcombing Mrs Michael’s hair into a bouffant frenzy and stops at the sight of me.

‘You look more harassed than usual,’ he quips.

‘Thanks for the compliment. I brought you these,’ I say dropping the carrots into the small kitchenette out the back.

‘You’re so kind sweetie. What’s tomorrow’s treat, sawdust on the floor? I’m reporting you to the RSPCA for the way you treat your staff,’ says Ryan, displaying another piercing.

‘Oh God, not your lip,’ I say.

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s gross.’

‘Oh thank God you’re back,’ says Sandy, her bottom lip quivering. ‘Tell her Ryan,’ she says, urgently.

Now what? I pull my long dangling earrings from my bag and pop them in.

‘Decapitation alert, she’s got the earrings in,’ cries Ryan.

‘They’re not that big,’ I protest.

‘All your earrings are lethal darling and if you’re not almost decapitating us with those, you’re whipping us in the face with your shawls.’

‘She can’t help being weird,’ says Sandy.

Weird, what a cheek! If anyone is weird it is Sandy with her oils and odd herbal remedies.

‘Are you going to tell her Ryan?’

‘Tell me what? You haven’t both gone and got bloody engaged have you?’ I say irritably.

‘What us?’ says Ryan with a giggle. ‘I wouldn’t marry this mad bitch if you paid me. Besides I sit on the other side of the fence sweetie, remember?’

‘It’s the salon,’ says Sandy.

We turn to look at her as she composes herself as if to make an announcement. As she is about to speak the dryer over Mrs Willis bleeps, making us jump

‘You’re cooked darling and the colour looks divine,’ says Ryan.

‘Oh lovely,’ smiles Mrs Willis. ‘Do you think Sandy could do my feet if there’s time?’ she asks.

It’s a hair salon not a reflexology clinic.

‘What about the salon?’ I ask nervously. ‘Is it those cracks in the wall? Did the man come?’

‘Oh yes he came, but it isn’t substance,’ says Sandy.

‘It’s probably all these bloody oils of yours. If they give me a headache God knows what they’re doing to the poor walls and it’s
subsidence
you mad bitch,’ corrects Ryan.

‘So, do we have substance
or don’t we?’ I ask Ryan.

‘No we don’t have
substance.
I imagine you’d be buggered to find anyone who does. It’s subsidence, the word is subsidence, but it’s not subsidence,’ he retorts.

Is he going for the
Guinness Book of Records
for the number of times one can say subsidence?

‘It’s not subsidence then?’ I say.

‘It’s not subsidence.’

‘But we have a problem?’

‘Yes, but not subsidence.’

‘They’re going to pull down the salon,’ blurts out Sandy,
bursting into tears.

‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs Willis. ‘Does this mean she won’t be able to do my feet?’

What does she mean pull down the salon? Who’s going to pull down the salon?

‘What?’ I say, confused. ‘But if it isn’t substance.’

Ryan rolls his eyes in frustration.

‘I mean subsidence, why do they want to pull it down? It’s not like we have tree roots underneath. It’s Notting Hill after all.’

‘Rory’s are building a supermarket and I hate them,’ Sandy says before running out to the loo in tears.

‘Can someone explain what’s going on?’ I ask, looking at Ryan. ‘What has Rory’s building a supermarket got to do with the salon?’

‘Rory’s have made an offer to Patel’s next door, and they’re selling. They want the salon too.’

I flop into one of the chairs and look at my reflection in the mirror. Is that what I look like? My hair is hanging in tendrils around my neck and my face is flushed from coming into the heat straight from the cold and I look so, so, oh God, so plain. What must Tom have thought of me? No wonder Luke doesn’t want to marry me, I wouldn’t want to marry me either.

‘But what about Mr Patel’s sister in Bangladesh?’ I ask.

‘Bangladesh, are you sure?’ says Sandy returning with camomile tea, valerian tablets and half a pack of chocolate digestives.

‘I thought you might need these,’ she says, tearfully.

I look longingly at the digestives. Sod the colonic clean out. This is a crisis and in a crisis food is essential.

‘I wouldn’t have thought they would have had the money to come here from Bangladesh,’ she says thoughtfully before swallowing two valerian tablets and washing them down with my camomile tea.

‘Bangladesh, no way,’ says Ryan. ‘They’re from Dubai aren’t they?’

‘Surely with a name like Patel they are from Pakistan,’ says Mrs Michaels.

Oh for God’s sake. I reach for the valerian and throw three down with the tea.

‘I’m not sure you should take three,’ says Sandy uncertainly, moving the bottle out of reach. ‘You don’t want to overdose.’

On valerian and camomile tea, is that even possible?

‘Does it matter if they’re from Clapham,’ I say. ‘The thing is he can’t sell, otherwise how can he send money to his sister who lives wherever and is obviously starving and dependent on Mr Patel?’

This can’t be happening. How can my lovely hair salon be under threat?

‘He’s been offered a job managing the post office in the new store in Holland Park, so he’ll still be able to send her money,’ says Sandy, biting into a biscuit.

‘Are you sure about
this?’ I ask.

‘We have good intel,’ says Ryan nudging Mrs Willis. ‘Don’t we dear?’

I wish he’d stop watching those crime programmes.

‘Yes love,’ says Mrs Willis. ‘Mr Patel told me yesterday and I’ve heard on the grapevine,’ she lowers her voice although I’m not sure why as no one else is in
the salon. ‘Terence is selling the video shop too.’

‘Well I for one will be glad to see that pervert go,’ says Ryan, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

‘Yes, it’s
a bit seedy in there, stuffy and gloomy if you know what I mean,’ Mrs Willis finishes, like that is good enough reason to sell if anything was.

‘But if Mr Patel sells and Terence sells, then I’m stuck in the middle which means …’

‘Sandwiched dear, you’re sandwiched and most likely to be toast,’ says Ryan, combing through Mrs Willis’s hair. ‘This colour is super divine. Mr Willis won’t be able to keep it in his pants when he sees you, love.’

‘Well, won’t that be something new,’ laughs Mrs Willis.

‘Ryan,’ I say firmly.

‘I’ll make tea,’ says Sandy.

‘Ooh lovely,’ says Mrs Willis. ‘Don’t worry Flora we can all go to that new place in the market that’s opening.’

I exhale and pop another digestive into my mouth. No loyalty here then.

‘They haven’t
contacted me. I don’t think it’s going to happen,’ I say resolutely.

‘You had a letter,’ says Ryan.

‘Yes,’ says Sandy miserably. ‘Here it is. It has Rory’s in big letters on the envelope.’

‘Probably waiting until you were the sandwich, the little creeps,’ snarls Ryan.

I take the letter gingerly.

‘It’s not got anthrax on it,’ says Ryan. ‘That one comes when you refuse.’

‘I do wish you’d stop watching those
programmes.’

I stare at the letter, terrified to open it. There is a tinkle as the door opens.

‘Your perm has arrived, lovely. Don’t you think you should perhaps change,’ whispers Ryan.

Oh God, I’m still sitting in my tracksuit. I dash out the back and into the loo where my leggings and shirt are hanging on the back of the door. I sit on the loo and study the envelope. I seriously don’t believe this, the salon is the only thing that I can call mine. I don’t even own our flat; Luke bought it four years ago before we met. I buy the food, if you call the healthy crap we eat food, and he is happy with that. If only he would ask me to marry him. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. I rip open the envelope and scan the words.

Dear Miss Robson

Rory’s Supermarkets Ltd would like to make a generous offer for the purchase of your hairdressing salon. Your shop and the adjoining premises have been selected for the site of a new Rory’s supermarket as part of our community development and expansion plan. Our purchase offer will include a substantial relocation package, should you require this, and we have already found a number of suitable locations for your salon in a popular area in the East End of London. We will send our representative to see you on Wednesday at 1pm to discuss your options. If this time is not convenient for you please let us know so we can re-arrange.

Regards

Grant Richards

East End of London, are they insane? Why would I want a salon in the East End of bloody London? It’s sodding gangland there isn’t it? Isn’t that where the Krays started? I can just picture Ryan telling some mobster’s moll that Frankie won’t be able to keep it in his pants when he sees her new hair. Christ, he’ll be beaten to a pulp. I can’t possibly have a salon in the East End; I’m far too snobbish for a start. I love telling people my salon is off Portobello Road.

‘Hello. Mrs Carter is waiting,’ calls Ryan.