Dumped, Actually(30)

My prayers are answered when Laughlin hurries over to me and plonks himself down by my side. ‘Okay, Oliver, how are you doing? Well, I hope.’

‘Oh yes, I’m absolutely fine, thank you.’

‘Enjoy all of the treatments, did you?’

‘Yes, I certainly did.’

‘And you liked the tea?’

‘Oh my, yes. It tastes lovely.’

‘Do you think you’ll be back?’

‘Yes. I probably will.’

‘That’s great. Hopefully today’s little taster of what we have on offer will make you feel a bit better about yourself. We’re in the self-esteem business here.’

‘Yes, yes. I feel better already.’

I mean, Jesus Christ. What the hell is wrong with me?

‘That’s so wonderful. It was fantastic to have you here, and to help you out.’

Oh, for the love of God, he’s going in for a hug.

Laughlin wraps his arms around me and gives me a tight, tight squeeze. I’m forced to lean forward so he can accomplish this, which squishes my red-raw bottom and my red-raw pubic area uncomfortably against my jeans.

And here I am, in a tender embrace with the psychopath who’s just done this to me.

With the embrace done, Laughlin stands up and leads me over to the main door. As we pass his staff, I give them all a smile and wave. Tina and Stacy smile back, but Imogen gives me a dark look. I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done to earn this, but I have to guess it’s my inadvertent sexism from earlier.

I would try to apologise, but I just want to get out of this salon as quickly as possible. Beyond its doors lies the outside world, wherein I shall find a nice cool bath and a cup of proper tea, without a bingo bango orange or any mint roybongos in sight.

‘I’ll look forward to reading your article about us on Actual Life,’ Laughlin tells me at the door, with a meaningful look in his eyes.

Sigh.

I know what he’ll be expecting. A glowing write-up of his beauty treatments that will send the hordes to his front door. That’s what everyone wants. Laughlin has the same expectant tone to his voice that every single person I’ve ever spoken to has, after I’ve sampled their wares for the website.

But it’s not really my job to write them an advert. It’s my job to give a truthful account of what I’ve experienced.

I fear Laughlin may be a little put out with me once he reads my next feature . . .

‘I’ll be sure to give you an accurate and honest write-up,’ I reply to him, as I always do in these situations.

Laughlin doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. They never do, really.

I thank him for his time before I leave, though. He probably isn’t aware that what he thinks are beauty treatments are in fact crimes against humanity, but I’m not going to shatter that illusion for him at his doorway. Much safer to do it from the confines of my office in about two hours.

The walk back to my car is more ginger than Geri Halliwell.

The drive back to the office is more ginger than the entire Weasley family stapled to Prince Harry.

Sitting back at my desk is as ginger as Ed Sheeran pumped full of Tizer to the point of bursting.

When Erica comes over to see how it all went, I am fantasising about inserting an ice pole into myself.

No one should ever fantasise about the insertion of an ice pole. Unless they’re married to Mr Freeze.

‘How did it go, then?’ Erica asks. ‘The haircut looks good,’ she says, with an amused look on her face.

I return this with one of plaintive misery. ‘They waxed my bottom.’

‘Did they?’

‘Yes. And rootled in my fingernails.’ I waggle one hand up under her face to show her the results.

‘Very nice.’

My brow creases. ‘What’s a pernickety?’

Erica shakes her head. ‘I have no idea.’

‘No. Me neither.’ My eyes narrow. ‘And the wee smidgies. Any idea what they might be?’

She continues to shake her head. ‘Nope. You’ve lost me.’

I nod slowly. ‘Okay. Just thought I’d ask.’

Erica laughs and pats me on the hand. ‘I’ll leave you to start writing the feature, Ollie. I’m sure it’ll be extremely good . . . even if you never find out what the wee smidgies are.’

I shudder.

I hope to never find out what the wee smidgies are, to be honest. If I do, I’m afraid my sanity may be lost in less than a pernickety.

Gratefully, as I start to get into writing about what’s just happened to me, the burning and stinging start to fade away.

By the time I actually get to writing about the experience of having my undercarriage waxed, I am feeling comfortable enough again to move around in my seat normally.

It’s only when I pop to the loo that I am reminded of the results of my waxing. I look like a plucked chicken down there. It’s a good job I’m not going to be having sex any time soon. I rather resemble a twelve-year-old boy in the sausage department, right now. This is not a sexy look for anyone who wishes to remain on the right side of the law.

But, of course, thinking about sex automatically makes me think of Samantha.

I wonder what she would make of my freshly bald bits and pieces, as I walk to my desk, and this drops me back into my pit of depression almost instantly.