The Widow(6)

“Jean,” Lesley would call across to me, “can you shampoo my lady and then sweep up around the chairs?” No please or thank you.

The customers were all right. They liked telling me all their news and problems because I listened and didn’t try to give them advice, like Lesley. I nodded and smiled and daydreamed while they rabbited on about their grandson and his glue sniffing or the neighbor who was throwing her dog mess over the fence. Whole days would go past without me giving an opinion beyond “That’s nice” or making up holiday plans to keep the conversation going. But I stuck at it. I did the courses, learning how to cut and color, and started getting my own clients. It wasn’t very well paid, but I wasn’t really fit for anything else. Didn’t work at school. Mum told people I was dyslexic, but the truth is, I couldn’t be bothered.

Then Glen showed up and I was suddenly “special.”

Nothing much changed at work. But I didn’t socialize with the three other girls because Glen never liked me going out on my own. He said the other girls were single and out for sex and booze. He was probably right, if their Monday morning stories were anything to go by, but I just made excuses and, in the end, they stopped asking me.

I used to enjoy my work because I could drift off into my head and there was no stress. It made me feel safe—the smells of chemicals and straightened hair, the sounds of chatter and running water, hair dryers roaring and the predictability of it all. The appointment book, marked up in blunt pencil, ruled my day.

Everything was decided, even the uniform of black trousers and white tops—apart from Saturday when we all had to wear jeans. “Demeaning on a woman of your experience. You’re a stylist, not a junior, Jeanie,” Glen had said later. Anyway, it meant I didn’t have to decide what to wear—or do—most days. No grief.

They all loved Glen. He’d come and pick me up on a Saturday and lean on the desk to talk to Lesley. He knew so much, my Glen, all about the business side of things, and he could make people laugh even when he was talking about serious stuff.

“He’s so clever, your husband,” Lesley would say. “And so good-looking. You’re a lucky girl, Jean.”

I always understood that she couldn’t believe Glen had chosen me. Sometimes I couldn’t either. He would laugh if I said it and pull me in to him. “You are everything I want,” he’d say. He helped me see things for what they were. He helped me grow up, I suppose.

I didn’t know the first thing about money and running a home when we got married, so Glen gave me housekeeping money each week and a notebook to write down everything I spent. Then we’d sit and he’d balance the figures. I learned so much from him.

? ? ?

Kate is talking again, but I’ve missed the start. It’s something about an “arrangement” and she’s talking about money.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was miles away for a minute.”

She smiles patiently and leans forward again. “I know how difficult this is, Jean. Having the press on your doorstep, night and day. But honestly, the only way to get rid of them is to do an interview. Then they’ll all lose interest and will leave you alone.”

I nod to show I’m listening, but she gets all excited, thinks I’m agreeing to it. “Hang on,” I say in a bit of a panic. “I’m not saying yes or no. I need to think it through.”

“We’d be happy to make a payment—to compensate you for your time and to help you at this difficult time,” she says quickly. Funny, isn’t it, how they try to dress things up? Compensate! She means they’ll pay me to spill the beans, but she doesn’t want to risk offending me.

I’ve had lots of offers over time, the sort of money you win on the lottery. You should see the letters that’ve been pushed through my letter box by reporters. They’d make you blush, they’re so false. Still, I suppose it’s better than the hate mail that gets sent.

Sometimes people tear out an article from the papers about Glen and write MONSTER in block capitals with lots of underlining. Sometimes they underline it so hard, their pen goes through the page.

Anyway, the reporters do the opposite. But they are just as sickening really.

“Dear Mrs. Taylor”—or just “Jean” sometimes—“I hope you will not mind me writing to you at this difficult time, blah, blah, blah. So much has been written about you, but we would like to give you the chance to tell your side of the story. Blah, blah, blah.”

Glen used to read them out in one of his funny voices, and we’d laugh, and then I’d stick them in a drawer. But that was when he was still alive. There was no one to share this one with.

I look back down at my tea. It’s cold now, and there’s a bit of a skin on the top. It’s that full-fat milk that Glen insists on. Insisted. I can get low-fat milk now. I smile.

Kate, who’s doing her big sell on how sensitive and responsible her newspaper is and God knows what else, sees the smile as another positive signal. She’s offering to take me to a hotel for a couple of nights. “To get away from the rest of the reporters and all that pressure,” she says. “To give you a break, Jean.”

I need a break, I think.

As if on cue, there’s a ring on the front doorbell. Kate peeps through the sheer curtains and hisses: “Bloody hell, Jean, there’s a bloke from the local TV station outside. Keep quiet and he’ll go away.”