Chapter Thirty-Two
A run-in with a Mint Magnum
For someone who (kind of) shares a name with a wizard, Merlyn is being surprisingly difficult to summon. It’s as if she lives in a parallel universe that looks like a cross betweenAb FabandThe Man From U.N.C.L.E., and whose residents sip Crémant all day in limousines and use the word ‘extraordinary’ a lot. I would quite like to live in this parallel universe. But I don’t. And my universe, by contrast, is a bit of a shit show.
After having a monumental meltdown on the steps of Yuvana Labs in Kensington, and trying unsuccessfully to summon said wizard, I realised that I don’t have many people left to call in my hour of need. I mean, the usual suspects, Nandy and Josie, are out, obvs. As is Keith. I toyed with Channing for about ten seconds but knew he would just tell me I was ‘serving him realness, queen’ and this isn’t an episode ofQueer Eye(although it’s worth noting that Karamo Brown would be a huge help in the current crisis). There’s also Alannah, but she’s still in Australia. And Simon, I suppose, who has been considerably less annoying of late, but I can’t work out if that’s because of the mushrooms or because he’s genuinely less annoying.
I began walking back to the tube station, snivelling gently, but almost immediately slip on a Mint Magnum wrapper that was cleverly camouflaged by some leaves. I fell, as Father Pells used to say, ‘A over T’, and slammed down onto both my knees, and my hands, which I stuck out to save myself. I remember when Simon and I were kids and found out that ‘A over T’ meant ‘Arse over Tit’. We were suitably shocked by this revelation, but it was back when we thought ‘The F Word’ was ‘Fart’, so no wonder.
Help was at hand, however. A large grey car pulled over as I sprawled in a hands and knees position, and a very pretty woman in her seventies got out to help, sitting me in her front seat and picking gravel off my knees and palms using a packet of Wet Ones that she got out of the glove compartment. The woman then insisted on giving me a lift to the tube station. I felt really silly next to her, young and tearful and wounded, and she seemed so mature and confident and stylish. I said nothing though, other than ‘thank you’.
And now here I am, half an hour later, in the foyer of theLusciousoffices in Soho. Liz, the receptionist, recognises me this time, one of the few perks of being in practically every UK newspaper. And thankfully, Merlyn is in the building, which I decide is unusual, based on absolutely no evidence at all.
Liz gives me directions to Merlyn’s office, talking very slowly. I’m sure it’s because she wants an excuse to stare at me for as long as she can – my face, and probably also my bucket hat, which admittedly looks odd teamed with a Boden cardigan from my former, middle-aged wardrobe but could possibly pass for ‘Normcore’. I resist the temptation to shout ‘it’s not all it’s cracked up to be’ at her and head up in the lift to the third floor. If I wasn’t freaking out about Yuvana Labs, and if I didn’t have very sore hands and knees, I would feel more excited at the prospect of seeing Merlyn’s office.
On the third floor, I walk through the open plan area, following Liz’s instructions. The last time I was here, for the Halloween party last year, the desks were all pushed to the sides and the place was littered with rattan pumpkins and lit by those horrible Alfred Hitchcock bird ceiling lights, which I still have unsettling dreams about. Today, it is unrecognisable, with rows of twenty-five-year-olds typing away at their computers. These are the ones I used to fear, and envy. I blend in now, but I’m not sure I want to… possibly a massive generalisation but I betthey all consider the ‘Macarena’ a good song, collect Furbies and don’t care about their parents.
Merlyn’s office door is open, so I walk in to find her sitting at a large desk, cluttered with piles of magazines and product samples. There’s a rolodex and an ‘in tray’ – I didn’t think either of these things still existed, but I suppose I’ve worked on either my sofa or my living room floor for so long I wouldn’t know much about desk accessories. Behind her, half obscuring the view of the Windmill Theatre – and making me jump until I realise it’s not an actual person – is a life-size cardboard cut-out of Timothy Dalton, signed with the words: ‘Reporting for duty – Tim’ and a kiss.
Merlyn is wearing a voluminous green kaftan with gold embroidery and a matching silk scarf tied round her hair. She’s engrossed in a conversation on her mobile but looks up at me, then points to the chair opposite her. I sit down and listen in but the only word I can make out is ‘flotilla’. Waiting for her to finish, I examine my injuries and feel like Timothy Dalton is watching, and possibly judging, me.
‘Erica, my dear.’ Merlyn puts her phone down on the desk and pulls in her chair as though she’s now giving me her full attention. ‘What a to-do!’
That’s one way of putting it.
‘Honestly, Merlyn, I don’t even know where to start with this. First of all, I’m guessing it was Cassia who sold the story? But that’s the least of my worries right now.’ I get a tissue out of my bag and press it on some fresh bleeding on my knee.
‘Mamma mia, what happened to you?’ I’m not sure if she’s changing the subject or if she has only just noticed that I look like I crawled here from Wiltshire. And even though I know she’s speaking Italian, I now have the ABBA song firmly planted in my head.
‘I had a run-in with a Mint Magnum – I won’t bore you with the details. But more importantly, what the hell is going on with Yuvana Labs? They haven’t paid me and I went to their office or lab or whatever you call it this morning…’
Merlyn looks surprised. ‘Why did you go there? Because of the payments?’
‘No… well partly, but more because I want to reverse the treatment.’
I expect Merlyn to look shocked and/or disappointed and start trying to talk me out of it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls this weird face which looks almost like a smile, and doesn’t say anything.
I carry on, trying to get more of a reaction. ‘I want to do it as soon as possible, so I don’t have to ever show my mum this again.’ I wave my hand up to indicate my face, but as I’m holding the bloodstained tissue it appears slightly threatening. ‘And of course in the hope of getting my friends back.’
There’s that weird smile again.
‘Anyway, Merlyn – I didn’t get very far.’
‘Why, my dear?’
‘Because it’s closed. Gone. Nobody’s there.’
Now she doesn’t look quite as smiley, and picks up her phone, tapping away.
While she’s doing this, I try to find a patch of tissue not soaked by blood. Merlyn leans over the desk and hands me a floral silk handkerchief she has pulled from nowhere, like a magician. Or indeed, a wizard.
There was one other person I could have called from the square in Kensington. He has been sitting in my heart – actually, notmy heart, that’s too soppy. He’s been sitting in my mind – or standing, it’s up to him. Or lying down even. Really, as long as he’s comfortable. I’ve been trying to work it out in my head, but I just don’t know how. That goes for most things at the moment, but this one is a real doozy, as I believe the Americans say.
Here goes… when Gabe was underwhelmed by my transformation, I think my pride was hurt. The way he acted made me feel like I’d made a bad decision. Which, in retrospect, I probably had, but that’s not the point here. When he told me he liked the ‘wear and tear’, I was frustrated – or at least, that’s how I felt in the moment. But seriously – what a thing to say. What a bloodyamazingthing to say. It stirred up something inside me, but I brushed it off as annoyance because the idea that someone could like the ageing version of me, warts – or nematode neck – and all, was baffling. It made me feel vulnerable, I suppose. Like I’d have to start accepting myself, and believe that I was worth being appreciated, or even loved. And I’m not sure that’s something I could – can – do.
Gabe thinks I’m funny. He must have done to put me in touch with that Maxine woman, the comedy producer or whatever she is. I can’t do anything about that now I suppose, if I’m not in touch with Gabe. I do miss writing though. Not the actual beauty journalism – that’s a real skill, and one I don’t think I’ve ever had, which is why I never rose through the ranks. No, I mean the funny bits, which were few and far between, and mainly unappreciated by my editors, but I loved coming up with them.
I digress. Gabe wanted to spend time with me. But I struggle to believe that someone could genuinely want to be around me because they enjoy my company. It’s as though WULT® is armour, protecting me from having to rely on other things about myself… like my personality. Because I might be funny now and again, but I can also be a bit crap. Just ask my family. Or my friends. Or my work colleagues. So, I appear to have thrown thebaby out with the bathwater – the baby being Gabe, and the bathwater being well, everything else I suppose. And Zoe, you can have that weird expression for free.
