Chapter 12
‘Le Salon de Mary-Elizabeth is open for business,’ I say with a bow, pushing open the kitchen door and allowing Aleesha and Morgan in.
‘You’re too cute,’ Aleesha chuckles.
‘Cute is my middle name,’ I say, pulling out a chair and gesturing for the two of them to sit.
‘Real ones know you don’t have a middle name. Two first names is more than enough,’ Morgan correctly observes.
‘Right!’ I clap my hands together. ‘What services do the ladies require?’
Recently I’ve been feeling like all I’ve been doing is gadding about, chasing Felix, being a baby art historian, superstar DJ and agony aunt extraordinaire, and I haven’t been paying enough attention to my flatmates and besties.
So today I’ve baked a cake (Nigella’s chocolate Guinness cake, because do you really need another cake when that one exists?), bought some fancy loose-leaf tea, which is now brewing in a cute teapot I found at a market and will be strained to within an inch of its life because I also bought a vintage tea strainer, and have set up various beautifying items on the kitchen table.
A candle is burning away, the soothing tones of Classic FM are on the radio, and it’s altogether rather cosy.
‘I feel crispy, man,’ Morgan says, shaking her head. ‘Like, my skin? Crispy. My hair? Crispy. Do you have anything to de-crisp?’
‘Say no more, my queen.’ I turn to Aleesha, who’s already holding bottles of nail varnish up to the light. ‘A manicure?’
‘Sometimes you have those nails with the little flowers on . . . can you do that on me?’ Aleesha asks.
‘If I can do it on myself, I can certainly do it on you, my friend. Let’s get Morgan cooking and then I will work my magic on your nails. Cake?’
They both nod enthusiastically and I slice into my creation, which has turned out perfectly.
I pour the tea into little china cups, hovering the strainer over the top and watching the glossy little leaves pile up.
I spritz Morgan’s hair with a spray bottle and comb through the conditioning treatment with my wide-tooth comb before clipping it up, and then applying a thick face mask to her skin.
‘I feel like I’m in a spa,’ she murmurs as I stroke it across her forehead. She’s got her eyes closed and seems truly relaxed.
‘A spa with delicious cake,’ Aleesha says once she’s swallowed down her mouthful.
‘Nicer than a spirulina juice or whatever the hell you consume in a real spa,’ Morgan murmurs.
‘Can you imagine me serving you spirulina? I wouldn’t even know it if I fell over it.
Anyway, you just chill and enjoy the soothing tones of Debussy on the radio and let your skin and hair de-crispify themselves.
That hair mask works magic – you know the absolute abuse I’ve put my hair through to stay pink for this long, and it still feels all silky and nice, right? ’ I hold it out for her to touch.
‘Like butter,’ she says, shaking her head in disbelief.
‘And now, it’s madam’s turn,’ I say, sitting down at the table across from Aleesha. ‘I’m going to politely request you don’t eat or drink while the nail varnish is wet so if you want refreshment, do it now.’
‘Yes, boss,’ she says, scarfing down the last of the cake and inhaling the tea.
I don’t just paint, I give her the full works, pushing her cuticles back, filing, massaging the cream into her skin, and then painting meticulous, thin layers of sheer pink varnish before taking my little metal dotting tool and, with the steadiest hand, creating sweet little daisies at the tip of each finger.
‘You have beautiful nails – such long, elegant nail beds.’
‘That’s such a Mary-Elizabeth compliment, isn’t it, Morgan?’ Aleesha says with a smile.
‘Ain’t no one looking at people’s nail beds except you,’ Morgan agrees, her eyes still closed in relaxation.
‘Well, may I be the first to compliment you on your nail beds; they are almost as beautiful as your singing voice and your calming vibe. And, Morgan, you have my favourite teeth on the planet, and your art will probably change the world. All of which is to say . . .’ I add, painting a final layer of topcoat to seal in my handiwork, ‘I appreciate you both so much and I know I can get a bit lost in the sauce and have all my little projects run away from me . . . whether that’s, you know, DJ-ing or . . .’
‘Boys,’ they say flatly, in unison, before bursting into laughter.
‘Well, exactly. But I just wanted to say I love you both and I’m sorry if sometimes I’m a bit absent or whatever. And that I am not unaware of it!’
‘What would be the point of living with a social butterfly and then being shocked when she’s always out?’ Morgan shrugs.
‘Exactly. But I have to say, this is nice . . . so if you feel inclined to have pangs of guilt more often, I wouldn’t say no,’ Aleesha says, reaching for the cake knife.
‘Excuse you! Your nail varnish is still wet!’ I chastise her, before carving off another piece and feeding it to her off a fork as she dutifully keeps her hands on the table.
Morgan peers across the table at Aleesha’s nails. ‘Shit, man, they’re so good! They almost make me jealous.’
‘I can do yours if you want.’
‘Nah, I’ll only wreck them with paint in the studio.’
‘That doesn’t matter to me though. I would still enjoy doing it for you,’ I offer.
She smiles. ‘Go on then. Are black flowers a thing?’
‘For you they can be,’ I say, settling down opposite her and getting to work, even though, as she says, they’re going to get wrecked in no time at all. Because the process is the point. The act of doing something for someone else, who you love. That’s the point of everything, I suppose, isn’t it?