Spray Painted Bananas

Chapter 6

Unless you shave it off entirely, short hair is a pain in the arse. It requires more blow-drying, spraying, gelling, pinning than hair down to your knees. That's why I've been trying to grow mine back ever since I got it lopped off at university. Finally it's tickling my shoulders again and slimming out my face, which looked as round as a baby's with short hair.

Only people who are stunningly beautiful can get away with a shaved head. People who have defined jaws and big beaming eyes and big luscious lips. Anne Hathaway pulled it off; so did Natalie Portman. I'm not ugly by any means, but I do need my hair to make my face work. I've got what you'd call a soft face. My cheeks are round; my lips are full. I wore braces for ten years, which sorted out my crooked teeth, but after all that time my lips instinctively twist to one side rather than open when I smile. As for my eyes, when people ask what colour they are, if they're blue or grey, I say it depends on the weather.

I've never had issues with the way I look. In school when we discussed what plastic surgery we'd have, I only said ears so I wouldn't come across as being too vain. Great ears; that's another thing you'd need if you shaved your hair off.

At five to six I pull out my compact mirror to top up my mascara and put on some bright cherry lipstick. I exchange my black pumps for my thrice-worn ridiculously high red heels. They are suede and beautiful and should be inside a glass cabinet and not on my feet. I've already spent more on blister plasters and jelly pads than the total cost of the shoes.

In theory I'm against heels because they're anti-feminist. Once you've got them on, you can’t do very much except stand in one place and look pretty. But in practice, I'm a hypocrite because when I put them on I feel like a goddess.

‘Oh wow,’ Vicky murmurs. 'They really are gorgeous.'

She'd look a little alarmed by my description in our coffee break and in retrospect I can see how they might have sounded a bit like drag-queen shoes. But now her admiring look is enough to put my mind at ease. Any minute now and Elliot Frinton-Smith will be riding in on an Appaloosa with a Black Forest at his side, all saddled up and ready to... I don’t know, hunt foxes?

‘I’m going to see if he’s outside,’ she says.

‘No, don’t!’

But she doesn’t listen to me.

My stomach lurches when she returns a second later.

‘He’s here! He’s just pulled into the car park! And guess what he’s driving?’

I can’t possibly anticipate what she says next because I’ve no idea what it is.

‘A BMW 507 Roadster! You lucky bitch!’

My eyes widen with excitement. ‘Is that good?’

I’m imagining chrome alloys, tinted windows and a bumper that could annihilate an elephant at 10 km per hour. Poor elephant.

‘Oh my God, it’s going to be so wasted on you!’ she moans. ‘It’s a 1959... A beauty...’

I’ve never been into cars. But it's more than that. I don’t actually like flashy cars. To me they look like a massive ego on wheels. If you've got so much money then go on holiday or adopt a tiger.

I push open the door and step outside just as Elliot Frinton-Smith is getting out of a pale- blue classic sports car, looking like an old-fashioned film star. I mean it’s a CLASSIC convertible, which has totally different connotations from the sort of vehicle I had in mind. This isn’t the car of a man trying to compensate for a shortage elsewhere.

Oh it’s a beauty, but completely impractical. It's basically two tiny seats attached to a long bonnet that rolls up on each side like the front of a black cab, ending in vintage round headlights and a chrome-plated bumper. There’s only room for two people and a very small dog.