The People on Privilege Hill by Jane Gardam

Author:Jane Gardam
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Europa

“We always say, you know,” said the assistant in the small Knightsbridge store much classier than Harrods, “that the wedding hat should be chosen after the hairdo. I hope I’m not being intrusive.”

What a nice girl, thought Eleanor. I can’t imagine Rosie saying she didn’t want to be intrusive. This girl loves her mother. I know it. Oh, if—. This girl is not too clever and she goes home to see her mother every week. Oh—.

“Actually, I’m on my way to have my hair done now,” she said, touching her pearls and mentioning a famous name. “I’ve decided to go to the top.”

“Have you heard of this one?” The girl produced a card. “He doesn’t advertise. It’s entirely word of mouth, but royalty goes. You should ask for Gideon. He’s wonderful with straight hair. He cuts mine.”

Sun shone down on the girl’s razor-sharp cap of straight hair and Eleanor thanked her and said she would come back to choose the hat later. Then she walked and stood outside the salon where she had the appointment. It was on the curve of a Knightsbridge terrace near Sloane Street and she watched through the acreage of plate glass all the beautiful people reflected in half a hundred mirrors. The faces, chins on chests, were very young, and the hairdressers looked even younger, and were enamelled and glossed like dolls. Everyone looked the same: a box of soldiers. Weighty glass doors with golden doorknobs the size of dustbin lids swung to and fro, and each time they released a heavy scent and loud music into the street.

Eleanor turned away and walked off. She walked and walked holding the card in her hand until at length she reached a cobbled mews. One of the shabby cottages had rosy lights like the Brighton Belle and shone on the sunny day through trails of ivy and a wandering vine. There was nothing to suggest hairdressing. It was a cross between a tea shop and an orchid house, and it was silent. She walked in—a jingling bell—and it was warm after the February streets. There were mirrors and basins but bookshelves and climbing plants too, and a sweet damp smell. No one was about.

“Hello?” she called. “Gideon? I’m to ask for Gideon.”

A gaunt young man stood at a doorway. “Hi?”

“I’m told,” she said in her magistrate’s voice, “that you are good with straight hair. Are you Gideon?”

“I am and I am.”

“I’m the mother of a bride. Someone recommended—well, I thought of a perm, actually. At somewhere well known. But maybe it’s time to give up straight hair and I’m in the wrong place. I’ll be wearing a hat, of course, for the wedding.”

“No,” he said. “That’s out of the question. You will not be wearing a hat. And no bag. And no matching shoes. You are not your mother. Sit down.”

She sat before a looking-glass that showed a green cave under the sea. She saw several young men sliding about in it. They were behind her, watching her.

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