Material Girl by Louise Kean Read Free Book Online

that kind of girl, really? A girl who likes sex? That’s fine, isn’t it, today? In this century? Like when men describe a woman as “dirty” but in a good way, I always thought that meant taking it up the … you know … but then I found out it just means that she’ll smile during sex … or not kick you off. But also, I am allowed to be in here. At least I think I am. Like I’d just be standing here crying if not? Of course I could be just watching the rain and crying over my rubbish relationship … except of course it’s not rubbish … that’s unfair … and I’m not that pathetic. At least I’m trying not to be … or maybe I am … but I’m Scarlet White, I’m Dolly Russell’s new make-up artist.’
    I offer Gavin my hand to shake, thrusting my Evening Standard back under my other arm.
    ‘Scarlet White? In the dining room with the lead piping?’ Gavin shakes but doesn’t seem in any way stirred.
    ‘Hmmm, just the half a mile short of funny,’ I say, eyeing him with suspicion at the cheap and quick jibe.
    ‘Okay, well Dolly won’t be in for a couple of hours yet – she’s a late starter, the first wave of pills and gin don’t break on her beach until noon – but that’s good if you want to have a look around, and I can introduce you to some people, the rest of the crew – the director’s downstairs freaking out about the karma of the curtain … it’s too heavy apparently – he says it could bring us all down …’
    Gavin’s delivery is so dry it’s as if he’s reading his lines from a sheet of paper. I wonder if I’ll ever know when he’s joking. I don’t know whether to laugh or not now. He must be my age. He is twice my weight and height. He has that slightly ginger but just brown hair that suggests Scottish ancestry to me, although that’s unfounded as I don’t know anybody Scottish and never have. Still, Gavin looks like he could wear a kilt and toss cabers on BBC1 on Sunday afternoons.
    He ducks expertly as we weave our way along a maze of thin grey corridors, and somehow he manages not to bang his over-large head on a thousand dirty pipes hanging from the ceiling above us. The pipes are so close together that if he wasn’t ducking so swiftly he’d actually be banging out a tune. Part of me wishes he’d stop ducking because I want to know how it sounds, although Gavin would end up with concussion. I skip to keep up in my heels, my purple skirt swishing silk at my knees, my legs in fishnets flashing beneath. We are moving at speed, Gavin’s stride is long, and I start to feel a little sticky in my black cashmere cardigan that crosses directly over my heart. Neither Gavin nor I speak forwhat must be a whole minute; it’s a long, strange silence like the ones observed on the radio on VE Day or September 11th. I feel us trapped in a moving, uncomfortable bubble, thinking desperately of something to say while trying to catch my breath. A very short man appears around the corner in front of us. I mean, he is clinically short. Gavin acknowledges him with a nod of his head, and as I hug the wall to let him pass I glance down and see that he is completely bald on top.
    ‘Goodness, I didn’t even realise! I should have read the play beforehand, I know, but it was such a last-minute booking … normally I work on film sets, TV commercials … I haven’t done that much theatre, or any, really …’
    ‘Didn’t realise what?’ Gavin asks as we turn the corner.
    ‘That there were dwarves in the play. Is it a fantasy? Or science fiction? I didn’t realise Tennessee Williams wrote that sort of thing as well.’
    Gavin stops abruptly and looks at me, and I screech to a halt a couple of steps later and turn to face him.
    ‘What?’ I ask.
    ‘He’s an electrician …’
    ‘Oh …’
    I see Gavin shaking his head as he starts walking again and I run a little to keep up, my heels clicking on the cold concrete of the floor, my back sweaty under my cashmere, my top lip prickling