Maurice does not talk to Mrs Fish either. She and Mrs Blump glance at each other. They have come for the same thing. Last week Maurice had told some delicious gossip. âOf course, dear Mrs Fish, I know you wonât breathe a word of this to a soul,â he had whispered, and Mrs Fish had listened, palms sweating, lips moist, excited. Every day since then had been beautiful. She had dialled her fellow retailers of scandal and they had repaid her quite splendidly.
âWould you like me to hand you the rollers?â she said.
âNo thanks, Mrs Fish,â Maurice replies absently. âItâs quicker just to grab them myself.â
She sighs.
Then inspiration strikes. âAnton,â she chimes out.
Anton looks up from the tiny knobs of hair he is scrabbling over.
âWho was that pretty girl you were dining with last Friday?â she calls.
There is silence, lapping over them, absorbing them all, drawing them on into something that has begun and cannot be stopped. Mauriceâs hands hover over Mrs Fishâs hair. Instinctively he is caressing her cheeks, marking time. She quivers, partly at his touch, partly at the mounting unspoken excitement.
âMe?â says Anton. âMrs Fish, Iâm sure youâre mistaken. It canât have been me.â
âBut do tell us what you thought you saw, Mrs Fish,â says Maurice.
Mrs Fish glows as the conversation gathers around her. She has caught them; they are listening; and the pace of the salon has perceptibly slackened, for which everyone will be grateful. Her mouth puckers over the big teeth.
âBut of course it was you at the Maytime on Friday, Anton. You and the girl, so pretty in her long green dress. I said to my husband, Isnât she pretty? Who? he said. The girl with Anton, I said. Whoâs Anton? he said. Heâs at my salon, I said. It was our wedding anniversary. Weâve been married fifteen years, though he says you wouldnât believe it, and I can still wear a bikini in spite of the stretch marks. Sheâs lovely, my husband said, though of course Iâd rather have you. Go on, you wouldnât, I said. Yes I would, he said. But what about you, do you fancy that Anton? I nearly died. Men are funny, arenât they? Iâm sure itâs him, I said. He wears onyx rings. Thatâs him then, my husband said. Donât you think his girlâs pretty Maurice?â
The dryers are roaring all around. Maybe Maurice hasnât heard. Could their heat be too much for him? He is gasping for air, his face red, then pale.
âMust be such fun,â says Mrs Fish archly, âliving together, you two. I wouldnât like to go out with one of you. Bet you swap notes.â She giggles, snuggles down into her chair. âThatâs if I was younger of course. Not that women of my age donât have something to recommend them. Thatâs what my husband says. Looks at all those saucy magazines!â She claps a hand to her mouth, glances at salmon-coloured Mrs Blump. âYou know what I mean. And I say to him, Any time you feel like a fling. Not me, he says. I know when Iâm well off.â
The silence has thickened, in a frightening and sickening way. Suddenly Mrs Fish knows something has gone wrong but she does not know what it is. âI guess Iâm lucky,â she says, her voice as bleak as she looks. And her reflection twists grotesquely â her big teeth, protuberant eyes, and wet hair shining spotlessly back at her.
âYou said you were taking your nephew to the Maytime, Anton,â says Maurice above her.
Mrs Blump, pink and porcine, touches her forehead briefly. She is old; nobody pretends to her any more that she is, could be, or might ever have been at all beautiful. She has felt Antonâs hot tears as he bent over her. Itâs been worth her money today. âDonât hurry, Anton,â she says. âWhy donât you have a rest? Nobodyâs