The Paying Guests(39)

Frances didn’t want a cut or a wave. She was happy with her brown, uncurly, middle-length hair, which could be trimmed when necessary at the scullery sink; which could be cheaply washed and dressed. As for surprising her mother – she knew exactly what sort of surprise that would turn out to be.

But Lilian’s excitement was exciting her now. There was something seductive about the idea of putting herself into Lilian’s hands, something seductive about the very passivity of the poses she had to adopt in order to do it: the bowed head, the lifted arms. She thought suddenly, I’m like one of those men one hears whispers about, who bend themselves over the knees of women in shady rooms off Piccadilly and ask to be thrashed.

But that thought was exciting, too. With only the feeblest bleat of a protest she let herself be led back out to the landing. She peered down the staircase as they passed it, thinking of her mother, dozing in the drawing-room in that unprotected way; but she didn’t slow her step. And, as before, Lilian kept hold of her so that she shouldn’t escape, hanging on to her cuff while awkwardly shaking out a newspaper, spreading sheets of it on the floor, lifting across a chair from beside the table. Once Frances was seated she even leaned over her with her hands on her shoulders, lightly but firmly pinning her in place.

‘Now,’ she said, in a warning way, ‘I have to gather my things. Don’t you run away from me, Frances! I am putting you on your honour.’

She left the room for two minutes and came back with a towel and combs, and swinging a leather vanity case, something like an effete doctor’s bag. She closed the door with an air of conspiracy. The towel went over Frances’s shoulders and was tucked into her collar. The case was set aside for now; she planned to wash the hair first. She wanted to do it all properly, and she meant to start with an egg shampoo. Oh, she knew Frances was going to say that! No, it wasn’t a waste of an egg. Or, if it was, then that was the point: it was a bit of pampering. Was Frances a nun?

She spoke playfully still, but also with determination, fetching an egg from a basket and carefully breaking it, tilting the halves of the shell above a saucer to separate the yolk from the white, then tipping the yolk into a cup and whisking it with vinegar. When she saw Frances begin to pull the pins from her hair she stopped her. Did ladies at the beauty parlour unpin their own hair? Of course they didn’t. She stood behind the chair and drew the pins out herself, feeling for them with her fingertips and gently working them free. As the locks grew slack, then slid and tumbled, Frances’s head seemed to expand, like a bud becoming a flower.

The putting on of the egg broke the spell. The sticky wet weight of it made her shiver. And then she was led to the sink and had to hang over the lip of it while Lilian filled jug after jug with water and doused her like a prison matron; she went stumbling back to the chair, her eyes stinging and her ears blocked, to have her head tugged in every direction as the tangles were combed out. There was a brief, blissful pause while the vanity case was unlatched; then she heard the unmistakable rasp and snap of a pair of scissors being opened and closed. And suddenly she was struck by the reality of what was about to happen. She turned, to see Lilian poised with the scissors in her hand, looking as though she, too, were rather daunted. The newspaper crackled under their feet. Again Frances thought of her mother, slack-mouthed and snoring. She thought of the unswept porch. How exactly had she got to this dangerous moment?

Lilian laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You aren’t losing your nerve?’

She hesitated. ‘Just a bit.’

‘Think about that MP.’

‘I’m sorry I ever told you about that wretched MP.’

‘Think about that man in the park that time, how brave you were in seeing him off.’

‘That wasn’t bravery. It was —’ Frances turned back to face the wall. ‘I don’t know what that was. I haven’t done a real brave thing in years.’

Lilian’s hand was still on her shoulder. ‘I think you’re brave, Frances.’

‘Well, you hardly know me.’

‘You do just what you want to do, and don’t mind what other people make of it. I wish I was like that. And then —’ Her voice dipped slightly. ‘I think it’s brave of you to be so cheerful when you’ve had – well, so many losses.’

She might have had in mind any of a number of losses: Frances’s father, Frances’s brothers, the vanished family fortune. But somehow it was clear that the loss she was really referring to was that of Frances’s phantom fiancé.

After all the talk of bravery, the moment made Frances feel like a fraud. She didn’t answer, she didn’t turn. Lilian gave her shoulder a gentle, tactful pat, then drew her hand away.

And a moment after that, Frances felt the cold touch of the scissors, startlingly high up the nape of her neck; the blades closed with a scythe-like sound, and something slithered to the floor. She twisted, peered, and her heart missed a beat. There was a lock of dark hair on the newspaper, about half a yard long. Lilian took hold of her head and straightened it. ‘You’re not to look,’ she said firmly. The cold-metal touch came again. Another snip, another slither… Well, it was too late now. The hair could hardly be re-attached. She stared at the varnished wallpaper while the scissors continued their chill, ravenous journey around her neck.

And perhaps the steady snipping away of her hair had something to do with it. Perhaps she was still slightly hysterical from being led across the landing. But that comment of Lilian’s was on her mind. Wasn’t this the moment to speak – right now, while there was no possibility of meeting Lilian’s eye? Her stomach began to flutter. She waited until another lock of hair had gone slithering to the floor. Then, with a suddenly dry mouth, she said quietly, ‘Listen, Lilian. I think I might have given you the idea that I was once engaged to be married. That I once had some sort of an affair. With a man, I mean.’ She hesitated, then plunged on. ‘The truth is I did have a kind of love affair a few years ago. But it was – it was with a girl.’