CAROL MARINELLI - Putting Alice Back Together

It wasn’t just that she didn’t make an effort—it was as if she tried to look like she hadn’t made an effort, if you know what I mean. I knew she was hurting, I knew her ex-husband Andrew had displayed her as some sort of trophy wife and had got really narky if she put on a bit of weight or didn’t get her nails and hair done religiously, but to go so far the other way was only hurting Roz.

We chatted about Nicole. Then there was a half hour or so listening to her bang on about Andrew’s new girlfriend Trudy. Then I sat through the saga of Lizzie, her daughter, and their latest row and then, when she’d worn herself out talking about the bitch that is her daughter, she waffled on about Hugh.

‘He might be nice.’ Roz raised her eyebrows.

‘He’s living with someone called Gemma. (Nicole had told me after I’d agreed he could stay.) Nicole reckons they’re serious.’

‘Well, they can’t be that serious if he’s coming out here. He’s a consultant.’ Roz nudged. ‘You never know.’

Oh, I knew.

‘He’s Nicole’s cousin,’ I said, because it covered so many things—anally retentive, frigid, uptight, driven. ‘I only agreed because if Nicole told me one more time about Aunty Cheryl and her mother’s row, and how this would really help, I’d have strangled her.’ But we weren’t here to discuss Lizzie or the impending arrival of Dr Hugh Watson, so, rather skilfully I thought, I moved the conversation around to this fabulous new body moisturiser and a hot oil hair treatment I’d bought from my hairdresser Karan as Roz pretended to listen.

Yes, pretended.

I could sense her distraction and it infuriated me. I wasn’t doing this for my benefit—I didn’t have a halo of pubic hair on my head, I wasn’t slobbing on the couch in khaki oversized cargo pants and a T-shirt you could house a Third World family in.

‘Roz!’ She jumped to attention as I held up the pack. ‘Let’s have a girls’ night in—maybe we could do each other’s hair or something…’

‘I don’t know, Alice.’ She shrugged, then flicked her cigarette somewhere near the ashtray and for an appalling moment I reminded myself of Nicole as I sucked in my breath. ‘I’m just past all that.’

‘Past all that.’ I shook my head firmly. ‘You’re only thirty-four, Roz. You’re nowhere near past it, though with that attitude…’ My voice trailed off as again Roz shook her head.

‘It’s nothing to do with my age.’ She gave a wheezy laugh, which turned into a cough. Then just when she managed to finally get her breath back, when the blue tinge left her lips and the broken veins bulging on her cheeks faded somewhat, she stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. ‘When I say past it, I mean I’m over it.’

‘Over what?’

‘Trying to please people—I had enough of it with Andrew. No matter how thin I was, no matter how good I looked, it was never enough. Look, I see how long you spend on your hair…’

‘It makes me feel nice,’ I smarted. ‘Believe me, Roz, I don’t want to spend all those hours, but better that than walking around like I’ve got my finger in a plug socket. It’s important to take care of yourself.’

‘I’m not going there again.’

‘Looking good isn’t just about pleasing people, Roz,’ I answered tartly. ‘This is about pleasing yourself, about self-respect.’

‘Perhaps,’ Roz mumbled. ‘It just seems like such a lot of work and for what?’

Okay, so softly, softly wasn’t going to work here. I’m not very good at being firm, but really I know I sound like a bitch, I know I sound superficial and I know I probably am all those things, but I truly wasn’t being bitchy or superficial at that moment. I was actually in a real predicament—one I hadn’t even told Dan about.

Roz smelt!

I would never say it to Dan because, well, with Dan it would be bitching, but it wasn’t just me who thought it. Since Roz started on my team I’d had four complaints about her personal hygiene. Yes, she smokes, but it wasn’t just that—I smoke, half the team smokes.

The fact was Roz smelt.

I really did think Roz was depressed, I mean properly depressed. I truly didn’t know what to do about it and I had no bloody idea how to approach her questionable hygiene, but I had to, because if I didn’t deal with it, I’d be complained about. One of the managers, like Claire, would then no doubt have a less than sensitive word with Roz—which would kill her.

I’d bought her smellies as presents, but that was as far as I’d got. How do you tell a good friend, and one who is very sensitive, that, on occasion, she reeks?

‘Why don’t I rub in this hair mask for you and then we can both put on face-packs and then you can have a shower…’

‘I really can’t be bothered.’

‘Come on, Roz—you have to get back out there!’ I paused for effect, gave her a wide-eyed, very direct stare. ‘I mean, I understand you might need a break after your divorce but sooner or later you’re going to want to start dating again, and when you do, well…’

‘I’ve got a date.’ Her broken capillaries darkened, and she gave a shy smile.

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow night?’

‘Who?’ My mind raced. When had this happened? The only person Roz went out with was me, and there wasn’t one person at work I could think of…

Unless.

‘Trevor.’

‘What?’

‘The computer whiz, the one who comes around…’

‘Oh, please!’ Roz was coughing again, clearly appalled at the suggestion, and in fairness I’d be appalled at the suggestion too. Trevor had Roz’s split-ends problem only his covered the whole of his face, and deodorant clearly wasn’t at the top of his shopping trolley.

‘Then who?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Alice; I don’t want to jinx myself.’

I saw an opening.

‘But you want to look nice?’ I nudged the pack across the table.

‘I guess,’ she said slowly, and I felt her waver, took it as a positive sign and moved quickly to build on it. ‘I know it’s what’s inside that matters, Roz, but you’ve only got a small window of time to make that first impression. I read that it takes less that a second for a person to form an opinion, less than a second,’ I reiterated as Roz started to frown. ‘You can be the nicest person in the world but if you don’t look the part, no one’s going to come over and find out.’ She was frowning deeply now, so I put it in simpler terms: ‘It’s fabulous you’ve got a date, Roz.’ A bloody miracle really, I almost added, but held back. ‘It’s fabulous that you’re getting back into the swing of things. And whoever he is, he clearly likes you for who you are…’ She opened her mouth to speak but I overrode her. ‘Surely you want to show that you’ve made a bit of an effort for him.’

She didn’t answer, just stared into her empty glass, and for an appalling moment I thought she was going to cry. Actually, it wasn’t even a moment. About ten seconds later she started to howl, not delicately (this is Roz we’re talking about) but great throaty sobs that caught in her throat and made her cough at the same time.

‘God, Roz, I’m sorry.’ So much for softly, softly. So much for helping. Here was poor Roz blubbering on my sofa, crying her eyes out and feeling fat and ugly and worthless, and it was all my fault. ‘Don’t listen to me,’ I said, appalled at what I’d done, wrapping my arms as far around her shoulders as I could and squeezing tight. ‘What would I bloody know? You look fabulous,’ I said firmly, so firmly even I thought I sounded as if I meant it. ‘You’re going to knock his socks off…’

‘No, Alice.’

‘Yes, you are!’ I insisted as Roz took a deep breath and calmed herself, finally looking up as I cracked open a bottle of Baileys. ‘Feel better?’