Woolly Hat Man
I’ve made a catastrophic mistake. I had planned to go blonde like Lace told me to, but I picked up Vogue whilst I was waiting in the salon’s reception and saw a photo of Selena Gomez.
She and Lace have the same luscious, big mane of chocolate hair.
I felt inspired, so in a moment of madness, I decided that instead of blonde, I’d go brunette.
I try not to cry as I’m faced with my reflection.
‘Maybe invest in some bronzer,’ advised the hairdresser. I whimper at the mirror – at my pale, knackered face, and my emo-coloured hair. What the hell have I done? I leave the salon, poorer and whiter than ever. I need Lace’s help. Now.
My new hair keeps jumping out at me in the reflections of every shop window.
What was I thinking, dying it four weeks before my wedding?
I wonder if it’s possible to impose a camera ban on the day so there’s no evidence of me looking like this.
And I can’t even begin to think about my sex life with Josh.
One thing is for certain: he won’t want to get under the covers with The Walking Dead.
I get to Lace’s studio and ring the buzzer five times, but there’s no answer.
I try her phone and it goes straight to voicemail.
This is not the day I had in mind. I retreat to Beanie to get a coffee, hoping she has just nipped out and will be back shortly.
I often think of her when I’m doing something mundane like feeding my fish or marking tests.
In my mind, she’s always up to something fabulous, like drinking red wine on a rooftop or eating sushi with Frankie. Beautiful people love sushi.
The same hairy-bearded barista takes my regular latte order.
I sit on a spare crate close to the window and watch the tourists and hipsters go by.
Opposite is a sustainable homeware shop selling bamboo brooms for ￡50 and jars for seeds and pulses.
I can’t wait to have my own home. I’ll put dried food in jars and have a linen tablecloth and lots of (alive) houseplants.
There will be no limescale in the shower, mouldy corners or unexplained stains on the carpet.
Our kitchen cupboard doors won’t be hanging off their hinges.
And, best of all, we won’t have flatmates filming erotic onion-eating videos in the kitchen.
Our home will be spotless – a refuge from the rest of the world.
I’ll learn how to make my own gooey flapjacks, like the ones from Clapcake.
Maybe I’ll even bake a batch for my friendly countryside neighbours. Maybe.
I see Lace. She’s walking away in a brown leather coat and knee-high boots.
I leave my coffee and run outside, shouting her name.
She walks around the corner onto Club Row.
She is with a man, not Frankie or that cat bloke.
This one I don’t recognise; he’s not that tall and has dark hair coming out from under his brown woolly beanie hat.
He’s wearing a baggy blue jumper and looks a complete mess compared to Lace.
They are walking side by side, rigidly. Neither one speaks.
I go to shout her name again but stop myself.
Maybe this would be a good opportunity to find out more about her.
I know it’s creepy to stalk someone, but considering she knows so much about me, and I know zilch about her, I feel intrigued to have some insight into her world.
Besides, London is a free land, and I just so happen to be here today – walking in the same direction as her.
I keep my distance as I follow them to Spitalfields Market.
It’s heaving, as it would be on a Sunday.
People are getting in the way as they wander from art stands to t-shirt stands.
I almost lose them, but I spot the woolly hat bouncing between heads.
From what I can tell, they still haven’t said a word to each other, so I can only assume they’re in an argument.
The Woolly Hat Man points to ‘Flags’, a bar with football on the TV, and shuffleboards and ping pong tables.
Lace would hate that kind of place, but to my surprise, she nods and follows him inside.
I hide behind a tuk-tuk van selling those flimsy coloured rope surfer bracelets.
They sit in a window, which gives me a perfect view.
I can finally get a good glimpse of what the Woolly Hat Man looks like; he seems to be around our age with a bulky nose and sad, slanted eyes.
Unlike Frankie and the other people in Lace’s world, there is something real about him – he looks like the type who could put up a shelf.
They each read a menu, and then the Woolly Hat Man goes off to the bar and leaves Lace sitting alone.
She doesn’t take out her phone like ordinary people do.
Instead, she stares at the market like a doll in a toy shop.
I see heads turn to check her out as they walk by, but she stays looking out vacantly as if she can’t see a thing.
The Woolly Hat Man comes back with two glasses of what seems to be orange juice. I wasn’t expecting that.
My phone begins to ring, it’s Josh.
‘Where are you?’ he asks.
‘Er . . . shopping. Wedding stuff.’
‘Still? What have you got?’
‘Um . . . like stuff I need. Make-up.’
‘Could you get me a bottle of Radox?’
‘Sure.’
‘When will you be home?’
I exhale. ‘In an hour or so. I have to go. See you then.’
‘Great. I’ll make you your first salad dinner. Bye.’
The thought of eating salad tonight is very depressing but after seeing how my hip fat engulfed my red thong, I realised I needed to do something.
Before leaving the house today, I stupidly told Josh I’d do his Wedding Body Blitz Diet.
He was overly excited about this and has already made me download a calorie-counting app.
It will be hell, but hey, like Lace said – a shy woman is a dry woman.
When I turn back to Lace, things have become more animated.
The Woolly Hat Man is waving his hand around and not in a happy way.
Lace is staring at her orange juice; now and again, I see her lips move as she says a word or two.
Whatever she is saying, it’s aggravating the man even more.
He pulls off his hat and throws it on the table, rubbing his hands through his messy, floppy hair.
Lace reaches out gently, but he shoves her off.
He gets up and leaves the table, and a moment later, he’s storming out of the bar.
He passes me with his teeth clenched and his eyes tearing up.
My first instinct is to get up and run to Lace, but I stop myself.
She remains in the seat, staring coldly into nothing.
Suddenly, she ruffles her hair and straightens up as if resetting herself.
She takes another sip of her juice. She inspects her fingernails, appearing not to be bothered by the conflict.
Suddenly, she looks out of the window, right in my direction, and for a second, we lock eyes. I duck out of view.
‘Er . . . excuse me.’ The man selling the bracelets is standing over me. ‘If you’re not going to buy anything, could you please step out of the way? Otherwise, I’ll have to start charging you rent.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say. ‘Two minutes.’
‘No, you’ve been here long enough.’
I take the closest bracelet, a pitiful pink rope with a plastic smiley face on it.
‘I’ll take this. How much?’
‘Five pounds.’
‘Five pounds?’ I yell. ‘This city is a joke.’
He brings the card reader down to my level, and I reluctantly tap my card.
‘Receipt?’ he asks smugly.
‘No, I don’t want to be reminded of this.’
I stuff the bracelet into my pocket and look up again, but Lace has disappeared.
My heart starts thumping. Where could she have gone?
It’s like having a spider let loose in a room.
I stand and do a 360, but there is so much going on and so many people that she could be anywhere.
I do another turn. The surfer bracelet man is watching me like I’m crazy.
I sarcastically thank him for his hospitality, and then I make a run for it out of Spitalfields, through Shoreditch and into the Underground.
A Tube arrives as soon as I get onto the platform.
I grab a seat in the middle of the carriage and catch my distorted reflection; my forehead is stretched, my eyes are holes and my dyed brunette hair is lost in the black tunnels.
For the rest of the journey home, I can’t stop thinking about Lace and the Woolly Hat Man.
I wish I could ask her what it was all about, but I know that wouldn’t go down well.
‘Oh! Hi, Lace, I was following you earlier. Please could you tell me who that man was and why you were arguing with him?’ Gosh, I am a creep. A brunette creep.
When I get home, all I can smell is the familiar scent of boiled chicken. Gag. Josh is vigilantly cutting up a skinless chicken breast and placing it on a bowl of leaves. He glances up and jerks his head.
‘Amy? Your hair,’ he says, not smiling.
‘Yeah,’ I say. I do that thing that Lace does and twirl a strand of it. His mouth remains open, and I’m unsure if this is a good or bad thing. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s cool,’ he says with a high-pitched voice. ‘It’s dark.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I was going for. You sure you like it?’
‘Yeah.’ Still high-pitched. ‘It’s cool,’ he repeats. Then picks up the bowl of dry salad, stares at it for a long time, and says, ‘Dinner is ready.’