The Women in his Life
Chapter One
"What now?!" Margaret's car sputtered as she urged it up the steep incline. The road to the small village overlooking the coast was rugged, narrow and winding, with a steep cliff face on one side and on the other, a rushing stream dodging and leaping over rocks as it made its way down the mountain. Despite her efforts, the car stalled. "Damn! Persephone! It's not that steep. You can do better than this." Margaret was in the habit of talking with her car, whom she had christened Persephone, in times of stress, and she was definitely stressed right now. The directions to her new hairdresser's salon had been confusing and now she had less than twenty minutes to find the shop and park her car. Traffic was backing up behind her with horns blaring and drivers shouting epithets. She glared into her rearview mirror and let loose several unladylike epithets. She really didn't need this setback.
She restarted the car, slammed the gear into drive and continued on her way, dodging various pick-up trucks and sports cars flying down the hill. Finally, she reached the turnoff to the village. Once she crossed the stone bridge that marked the entrance to the village, the streets levelled off and the traffic eased. She let out a sigh of relief and began to search for the salon. There were no road signs along the narrow twisting cobblestone streets, and she pulled over to the side of the road to gather her bearings. She glanced briefly down the slope she had just climbed to see the sea sparkling far beyond the red roofs of the coastal town. She could just make out the white-washed villas and manicured grounds of the exclusive resort where her villa was nestled close to the sea here in Portugal's Algarve region. She checked her watch and noted that she had less than ten minutes till her appointment, no time to enjoy the view.
"Whatever was Rosemary thinking when she recommended this woman," she muttered to herself as she fumbled with the paper where she had scribbled directions to the salon. She could feel the bile rising in her throat and she almost turned back, furious with Portugal, furious with the car, and especially furious with Rosemary; but she was desperate to find a competent hairdresser and Rosemary had assured her that this woman was one of the best.
She looked down the street heading into the village and recognized one of the landmarks described in the directions, a small sandstone church just a hundred yards or so after the bridge. She put the car in gear and crept slowly into the narrow lane. "Turn left at the church and drive another 50 yards and the salon was on the right." Yes, there it was. Now to find a place to park.
"Ah, there's a spot Persephone," she cried as she caught sight of a space just a few yards past the salon. "Let's see if you can squeeze in there." She had perfected her parking technique in the last several years and she expertly eased Persephone into the tight spot between a rusting truck and a sleek Mercedes with several minutes to spare.
Turning off the engine, she sat back for a moment and took a few deep breaths. She prided herself on her poise and composure, always appearing cool and confident, completely unflappable. The drive up to the salon had certainly disturbed her usual equanimity. Now that she had collected herself, she glanced into the mirror and pulled her compact out of her purse to touch up her make-up. First impressions were so important, especially when meeting a new beautician. She wanted this woman to appreciate having a sophisticated London socialite for a client. She opened her door and stood up, smoothing the front of her skirt, and looked around. Noting the peeling paint on most of the shops and the litter hugging the curbs, once again she almost turned back. But she was desperate. If this woman was as good as Rosemary had said, she could manage a little shabbiness.
She walked past the storefront that housed the salon Rosemary had recommended. Like the rest of the shops on the street, it seemed tired, not nearly as "au courant" as the boutiques she usually frequented. She slowed, turned her head, and sniffed, roasting meat and something else, something not quite so pleasant. Best not to contemplate just what that could be, she decided, but she scanned the pavement for possible detritus just in case there was something to be avoided nearby.
Why Rosemary felt the need to move back to England after living in Portugal for the past twenty years was beyond understanding. "And it certainly is inconvenient", Margaret thought to herself, as she heaved a sigh. She felt betrayed; hadn't she always treated Rosemary with complete respect, tipping her handsomely at each visit and extra at the holidays, always complimenting her on her work. She prided herself on her ability to find the best help and treat them fairly. Even so, they never think of the inconvenience to their customers when they move on.
It had taken her a more than a year to find a good hairdresser after they had moved to Portugal eleven years ago. First there had been Vivian who always insisted on trimming her hair entirely too short, and then there was Bernadette who wanted to add blond highlights, asserting that they would give her a more youthful look. She gave in, hoping that her husband might find the result alluring, but that didn't work out as planned. "What did you do to your hair?" he exclaimed the moment he saw her. He continued, taunting her, "You look ridiculous, trying to look half your age. Nobody's fooled. Change it back." He could be so cruel when he wanted. She had actually liked the highlights and thought about keeping them just to confound him, but in the end, she changed them back. One must choose one's battles, and this was not a battle really worth fighting. There would be others in future she would want, she would need to win, others where standing up to Christopher would be more important.
After Bernadette, there followed a succession of beauticians, none of whom were able to style her hair in a fashion which she thought was most complimentary. Finally, her friend Pamela had recommended Rosemary, and Rosemary was an artist. Margaret was always pleased with her work, and when Rosemary suggested the occasional update to her look, it always generated compliments from others in her set, and even, upon occasion, from her husband.
Now, Rosemary had returned to England to live near her children and grandchildren. "The little ones grow up too fast," she told Margaret. "Already Charlie is nine years old. He'll be away and running his own business before you know it. Trixie is almost seven. I want to be a part of their lives before I'm too old to enjoy them, and now that Roger has married, and he and Georgia are expecting, ... well, I just want to be there for the new little 'un." Rosemary assured her that Miriam was excellent and that Margaret would be pleased with her work.
So here she was. The shop was definitely not impressive, located on this seedy side street in a little village several kilometres into the foothills above the gated golf resort where she and Christopher had settled after he had retired from surgery. She had to wonder whatever had possessed any self-respecting English woman to move to such a place. Of course, she may have been projecting her own values on this Miriam. Stylists were frequently free spirits who didn't give a fig what respectable society thought. And she was Cornish; weren't they a breed apart, always quick to identify as Cornish, not English, as if being Cornish were an exclusive club of some sort. Margaret raised her head and closed her eyes, thinking of her husband's sister Joan who had fled down to Cornwall with that farmer and had become just as eccentric as all the other "nutters" who lived down there.
Her appointment was for 2pm, another minute or two. She could arrive early, but instead she turned around to stroll past one more time and casually glance in the window. There appeared to be three stations, although it was difficult to be certain because each station was separated by a privacy screen. Neither the client not the stylist could be seen from the outside. Margaret liked that. It was comforting to know that the beautician could work her magic whilst her privacy was maintained during the less than glamorous process. She turned on her heel and sauntered back to the shop and opened the door.
She could hear chattering coming from the back of the shop, all of the voices women except for one very masculine voice trilling on in rapid Portuguese with a high-pitched woman's voice talking over his in equally rapid Portuguese tones. She could swear there was a conversation in Spanish as well and then she picked up the English conversation with a voice she recognized as Miriam's with the modulated Cornish accent and another in refined London tones, thanking her for the perfect cut.
She took a seat in the small reception area just inside the door and picked up a magazine with beauty tips, pretending to flip through the pages whilst listening to the conversations, trying to gauge the sense of the place. Would it be a salon where she would feel comfortable? She could hear the London client describing the latest production at Teatro das Figuras; Margaret had been to that production just last weekend and wasn't impressed. That was the biggest drawback to living here in the south of Portugal; the cultural opportunities were extremely limited. One had to travel to Lisbon for a truly outstanding experience. Christopher was content to play golf every day and spend the evenings in the club with his "mates". Golf … it was his passion, which was why he had insisted they retire here in the Algarve. Fortunately, there were others in their group who were as culturally starved as she, and they were able to travel up to Lisbon or over to Barcelona, every month or two for the latest shows and exhibits.
She set the magazine aside just as Virginia Battles, another resident of their private community walked out of Miriam's station and reached for the door. Virginia startled when she noticed Margaret. "Margaret, I didn't know you were a client of this salon. I don't believe I've seen you here before."
Margaret rose and straightened up to her full height, her posture perfect, chin tilted at just the proper angle, as she had been taught all those years ago. Thus armed, she faced Virginia, looking her up and down, evaluating her appearance. The woman looked stunning, her blond locks in a perfect cropped pixie cut which was just the right style for her petit figure. Margaret found herself complementing her acquaintance in an uncharacteristic manner, "Virginia, hello. No, this is my first visit. Miriam was highly recommended, and I can see why. You look marvellous my dear."
Virginia responded, somewhat taken aback by Margaret Ellingham's sudden warmth, "Thank you Margaret. I think you will be pleased. So good to see you." Turning to Miriam, "I'll see you next week, same time."
Miriam had stood by quietly watching the interaction of her long-time client with this new customer, taking the compliments in stride, "Yes Virginia, next Thursday, half twelve. See you then." Turning her attention to her new customer, she extended her hand, "Miriam Glasson. Welcome to my salon Margaret. Come through."
Miriam led her to the back of the shop, where there was a changing room with smocks in an assortment of colours and patterns. "Feel free to change into one of the smocks, and then we can discuss what I can do for you today." There were several lockers for clients to store their personal effects. Margaret changed out of her blouse and donned a pale green smock and secured her things in one of the cubicles.
She moved to the chair where Miriam was waiting for her, and as she described her preferences and desire for the day's style, she examined Miriam's station. It was equipped with all the most modern equipment, well organized and well-lit with a large mirror. She noticed that there were pictures of several children grouped on the edge of the station top and wondered who they were. Miriam was youthful but based on the crow's feet around her eyes and the look of her neck, Margaret estimated she had to be in her forties at least, more likely mid-fifties. She was dressed in loose-fitting slacks with an equally loose low cut short sleeved embroidered smock. She had gold loops dangling from her ears and a colourful stone necklace – very much an earth mother look. Her thick hair was pulled loosely into a knot at the base of her neck; the dark chestnut colour looked natural but could be the result of a bottle in the hands of a skilled colourist. Most likely the pictures were of her grandchildren; she sincerely hoped this Miriam wouldn't abandon her like Rosemary did. Perhaps it would be prudent to suss out just who these children were and the likelihood that she planned to stay in country. "Beautiful children. Are they in school while you are working?" Always best to indicate that one thinks one's beautician is younger than she is, puts you in her good graces.
Miriam laughed, actually it was more like a cackle, "Oh my no! Them's my grandchildren. Amelia and Abigail are my son Alan's girls. Amelia is twelve going on twenty and Abigail is nine, sweet and innocent, still my little girl. James is the youngest, my daughter's son. He just turned three this summer and smart as a whip he is, already starting to read. Of course, my daughter is a teacher and she encourages him. And his daddy is brilliant so you'd expect that, not that my Louisa isn't sharp as well. But little James comes up with the most interesting observations. Why I was just in Cornwall with him and the girls for two weeks this summer and he led me to some rock pools and informed me how the tide coming in and out brought fresh food for the crabs and other animals that lived there."
"Do you visit with them often?" Margaret asked conversationally, trying not to sound too inquisitive.
"Not as often as I should ... a week with Alan and the girls in summer and another week or two with Louisa in Cornwall in August. It's usually pleasant in England in August, and it's nice to get a break from the summer heat here. The rest of the year? Brrrr. Too cold in England for me … you know what I mean? Louisa got married in December in Cornwall five years ago ... thought I would freeze to death. I still don't know what she was thinking!"
"Yes, I agree. I find England far too cold these days. So, you don't plan on moving back to live near the children like Rosemary has?"
"Not this hot weather momma. 'Course, I expect each of them to visit me at least once a year. That's often enough. They usually come in the winter for a nice short break from the weather. The children are sweet, but what can you do with them after you've taken them to the beach and read a book or two?"
"Mmmmm ... yes." Margaret understood completely. She never knew what to do with Martin when he was a child. She just wasn't the motherly type and he was so needy, always clinging to her skirts, wanting her to pick him up and carry him when he was small. The nannies were just so much more capable. She had tried her best to love him, she really had, but she had felt completely unprepared for the demands of motherhood; and, even though her friends claimed he was an adorable baby, she found him to be an unattractive, awkward child. How she and Christopher, who was an incredibly attractive man even now, had produced such an ugly child was still a mystery to her. And then there were the responsibilities that came with being a successful surgeon's wife and maintaining their position in society; there was just no time for tending to a needy whinging child. That was one of the reasons she sent him off to boarding school. At least there he had other boys to play with.
She let Miriam natter on about her family. For someone who feigned disinterest in spending time with her children and grandchildren, she certainly enjoyed regaling her clients with stories about them. As she was leaving the salon, Margaret took one last look in the mirror and marvelled at Miriam's skill in styling her hair; Miriam was as skilled as Rosemary, perhaps even better. She felt quite beautiful, and she decided that if listening to Miriam natter on about her grandchildren was the price she would be required to pay for such talent, then she was more than willing to let her talk. She paid her tab and added a large tip before making an appointment for the same time next week.