Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

He was fine about it though. ‘Don’t ever think I don’t want you to enjoy yourself, Suzanne, because I do, in every possible way,’ he said. ‘Just remember that you don’t know Mariette that well, won’t you.’

I knew what he was saying. In a funny kind of way it felt as if I knew Mariette very well indeed, but I didn’t of course, nor could I. Carl was just reminding me to be cautious and I knew that he was quite right to do so. That was how it was with us.

Of course, then I had to ask him for some money. Apart from my nightmares, which were lessening, money was our sole problem. We managed, but only just, and as I spent more time with Mariette I was increasingly embarrassed by having to rely on Carl for every penny. That had been one of the reasons why I had liked the idea of getting a job.

Carl, though, was as generous as ever. He swiftly produced fifty pounds from somewhere. I had few halfway decent clothes and I badly needed some new ones. Fifty pounds would not go very far, but for us it was a lot of money. I thanked him with enthusiasm.

‘Don’t spend it all at once,’ he responded with a twinkle.

I set off cheerily to meet Mariette at the station the next morning.

She eyed the calf-length skirt, cotton print blouse and cardigan I was wearing – more or less the best clothes I possessed – with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘What you need is a complete make-over, my girl,’ she said.

I didn’t even know what a make-over was.

She led me through the crowds at Penzance to a shop called, rather appropriately I suppose, New Look. The prices, the lowest on the High Street, Mariette said, were, it seemed, the greatest attraction – that and a manic adherence to all the latest fashion fads. But every garment looked to me about three sizes too small and skimpy for any normal person.

‘Rubbish,’ said Mariette. ‘You’re slim enough and at least we might find something here which looks as if it should be worn by someone in their twenties, rather than a ninety-year-old woman.’

I retreated, wounded and beaten, and very soon, I’m not quite sure exactly how, found myself buying a bright-orange suit with a daringly short skirt. At least I thought it was pretty daring. In fact, even as I handed over a considerable chunk of my fifty pounds, I wasn’t sure I should be buying it at all. ‘Don’t you think it looks, well, you know, a bit tarty?’ I enquired hesitantly.

‘Yes,’ said Mariette. ‘Great, isn’t it.’

I was then persuaded to buy a pair of ridiculously high platform shoes, but I balked at Mariette’s next suggestion.

‘No, I am not dyeing my hair,’ I told her firmly. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘I didn’t say dye it, I said have a few blond highlights,’ she responded in a wheedling tone of voice.

I stood my ground.

‘Well, what about a nice trendy haircut then? I’ve got a friend who’s a hairdresser who’ll give you a great cheap cut.’

I couldn’t even remember if I’d ever been to a hairdresser in my life. Gran had always cut my hair when I was a child. In adulthood I had let it grow long and straight, just occasionally trimming the ends myself in front of a mirror. But I was a woman, albeit one who had missed out on so much, and I was sorely tempted. Eventually, against my better judgement, I allowed myself to be persuaded.

An hour later I was sitting in a leather chair at the extraordinarily named Fair-dos salon, while Mariette’s friend, a striking redhead called Chrissy, snipped away alarmingly, and Mariette set to work on my make-up. I was beyond protesting by then. Two hours later I gazed in the mirror at a different human being.

My hair was several inches shorter, layered and gelled so that it kind of stuck out round my face. Hard to describe, but I had to agree with Mariette that it did seem to suit me. My lips were more or less the same colour as my new suit, I appeared to have had a cheekbone transplant and my eyes looked about two sizes larger than they had before.

‘Go on,’ said Mariette. ‘Put on the new suit and shoes, and let’s have a look at you.’

Obediently – I was thoroughly enjoying myself by then, by the way – I took my carrier bags into the loo and changed into my new outfit. When I emerged, teetering a little unsteadily on my platforms, Chrissy and Mariette both applauded, and Mariette emitted a loud and vulgar wolf whistle.

‘Why don’t you keep it on,’ she suggested.

I lurched back into the real word. I had a feeling it was not a good idea to confront Carl so unexpectedly with my total transformation. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘Go on,’ encouraged Mariette, apparently reading my mind. ‘There’s not a man in the world who wouldn’t be bowled over. Carl’ll love it, you’ll see.’

The three of us trailed off to a nearby pub and shared a bottle of white wine. I felt sure everybody would stare at me in my new orange suit, but of course nobody did. Given some courage by this and the wine, probably, I finally agreed to keep the outfit on. I should have known better.

Carl called down to me from our upstairs room when I arrived home.

‘Don’t come down, I’ll come up,’ I called back. ‘I’ve something to show you.’

But as I started to clump up the stairs I tripped over my strange new shoes and almost fell backwards. I recovered myself without injury, but not without making a terrific noise. By the time I reached the top of the stairs Carl was standing there looking at me.

I was still on a bit of a high. I smiled and threw my arms open wide. ‘What do you think?’ I asked, doing a kind of twirl for him.

He didn’t show any anger. He didn’t shout. He didn’t say I looked like a tart. He didn’t say anything like that. He just looked disappointed and a bit sad. ‘I think you look like somebody else,’ he said eventually.

‘You d-don’t like it?’ I stuttered.

‘What’s to like?’ he asked mildly. ‘I can barely recognise you.’

I felt terrible. I went straight downstairs to the bathroom, kicked off the silly shoes and scrubbed every vestige of make-up off my face. I combed down my hair and flattened it against my head, making it look as long and as much the way it had before as possible. Then I took off the tarty orange suit and let it fall carelessly on to the floor. There were a pair of jeans and a sweater in the airing cupboard. I put them on and went back upstairs to Carl.

He smiled at me and touched my cheek. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I know who you are again now. It’s you I love, Suzanne. Not some creature created by your friend Mariette.’

And that was that. He hadn’t liked Mariette’s make-over, that was for sure, but he didn’t create a fuss. Indeed, by the time we went to bed that night it was almost as if it hadn’t happened.

I was just sorry I had wasted so much money on the orange suit. And, of course, I never wore it again.

One way or another, I really had more or less forgotten our vandalised van when two days after my unfortunate shopping expedition, a letter arrived.

The words and letters were cut out of a newspaper. The message was stark and chilling. ‘I SAW YOU TOGETHER LAST NIGHT. I WATCHED YOU IN BED. HOW LONG DO YOU THINK THIS CAN GO ON? HOW LONG CAN YOU LIVE A LIE? FACE THE TRUTH, SUZANNE.’

The post had arrived while Carl was in the bathroom. There were three pieces of mail, one obviously junk, the electricity bill and the offending letter. The address was carefully printed using letters from one of those stencil kits you can buy in Smith’s, and although with the benefit of hindsight it did look a bit odd, I did not initially study it very closely and no particular warning bells rang as I put the mail on the rickety old dining-room table and sat myself down to open it.