result in the mirror. The tiny curls all over her head were more platinum than champagne.
“You like it?” the girl asked.
“Oh, eh, I have to get used to it.” Margo couldn’t stop looking at the woman in the mirror.
“Oh, but you are soooo beautiful, like this,” the girl said. “So young and fresh. Marcel,” she called across the salon, “come here and see what I did.”
A young man almost sprinted across the room and came to a stop behind Margo. He touched the back of her head. “ Fantastique ,” he declared. “ Magnifique !”
“Exactly,” the girl nodded.
“It makes her look like...like that singer,” the young man said. “You know, the one who sang about angels. The English one.”
“Annie Lennox!’ the girl exclaimed. “You are right.”
“Who?” Margo asked.
“Don’t you know her?” the girl exclaimed. “But she is English like you and very beautiful. Older but still lovely. And like this, you look a little like her. With this new coiffure.”
“Really?” Margo turned her head and smiled at herself. It was certainly different, she thought. It makes my neck look longer and my eyes bigger. And I never realised I had cheekbones. With a sudden dart of fear, she tried to imagine what Alan would say if he saw her transformation. He liked her dark blonde hair dead straight and worn in a simple bob or tied back in a knot. “That’s what I call class,” he always said.
Still in a state of shock, Margo went to a nearby café, sat down at a pavement table and ordered a glass of pastis to help steady her nerves.The waiter smiled broadly at her as he handed her the glass with great flourish. “ Ecco, signorina,” he said.
“Oh, uh...” Margo felt suddenly self-conscious. “ Merci ,” she managed.
The waiter smiled again, put the bill on the table and left.
Margo sipped her drink and looked idly at the people walking past, enjoying the sunshine. When the waiter came back, she picked up the bill, and reached for her wallet. There were no coins left, and she realised she would have to break into one of the euro bills. But when she opened the wallet, it was empty. What? Where is that fifty I had? I could have sworn I had that and another two twenties... Oh, God, no. The hotel...and the breakfast... She suddenly felt the blood drain from her face and cold sweat breaking out on her forehead and in her armpits as she realised she had spent every cent of her money without thinking. Her throat tightened and tears of panic welled up in her eyes. She looked up at the smiling face of the waiter. “I—” she started, “I can’t—”
“What, signorina?” he asked, his voice full of concern. “You not feeling very well?”
“I can’t pay for this,” she exclaimed in English. “I have no money left. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Her mouth was so dry she could hardly get the words out.
“It’s OK, cara, ” the waiter soothed in very broken English. “The drink is... how you say? On the house? But you have lost your money? Someone steal it?”
“Yes. No. I... “ Margo didn’t know what to say or do. “I thought I had at least fifty euros left you see, and—”
“You make mistake?” The waiter’s eyes were sympathetic. “I do all the time. But I have to work now. You sit here and do not worry. I will be back later, no?”
The Italians are so nice, Margo thought as she watched him weaving his way between the tables. Then she tried to think of what to do next. Tears stung her eyes again as the full impact of her situation hit her. Oh God, what am I going to do? Will I call Fiona and...? No, I can’t. I can’t crawl back to Alan, not like this. I can’t, I can’t, she kept repeating to herself, feeling as if she had entered some kind of labyrinth she couldn’t get out of. Tears kept welling up in her eyes and feeling in her bag for a tissue, her fingers met a piece of paper. She pulled it out and glanced at it, the numbers not registering in her brain. She was going
“You like it?” the girl asked.
“Oh, eh, I have to get used to it.” Margo couldn’t stop looking at the woman in the mirror.
“Oh, but you are soooo beautiful, like this,” the girl said. “So young and fresh. Marcel,” she called across the salon, “come here and see what I did.”
A young man almost sprinted across the room and came to a stop behind Margo. He touched the back of her head. “ Fantastique ,” he declared. “ Magnifique !”
“Exactly,” the girl nodded.
“It makes her look like...like that singer,” the young man said. “You know, the one who sang about angels. The English one.”
“Annie Lennox!’ the girl exclaimed. “You are right.”
“Who?” Margo asked.
“Don’t you know her?” the girl exclaimed. “But she is English like you and very beautiful. Older but still lovely. And like this, you look a little like her. With this new coiffure.”
“Really?” Margo turned her head and smiled at herself. It was certainly different, she thought. It makes my neck look longer and my eyes bigger. And I never realised I had cheekbones. With a sudden dart of fear, she tried to imagine what Alan would say if he saw her transformation. He liked her dark blonde hair dead straight and worn in a simple bob or tied back in a knot. “That’s what I call class,” he always said.
Still in a state of shock, Margo went to a nearby café, sat down at a pavement table and ordered a glass of pastis to help steady her nerves.The waiter smiled broadly at her as he handed her the glass with great flourish. “ Ecco, signorina,” he said.
“Oh, uh...” Margo felt suddenly self-conscious. “ Merci ,” she managed.
The waiter smiled again, put the bill on the table and left.
Margo sipped her drink and looked idly at the people walking past, enjoying the sunshine. When the waiter came back, she picked up the bill, and reached for her wallet. There were no coins left, and she realised she would have to break into one of the euro bills. But when she opened the wallet, it was empty. What? Where is that fifty I had? I could have sworn I had that and another two twenties... Oh, God, no. The hotel...and the breakfast... She suddenly felt the blood drain from her face and cold sweat breaking out on her forehead and in her armpits as she realised she had spent every cent of her money without thinking. Her throat tightened and tears of panic welled up in her eyes. She looked up at the smiling face of the waiter. “I—” she started, “I can’t—”
“What, signorina?” he asked, his voice full of concern. “You not feeling very well?”
“I can’t pay for this,” she exclaimed in English. “I have no money left. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Her mouth was so dry she could hardly get the words out.
“It’s OK, cara, ” the waiter soothed in very broken English. “The drink is... how you say? On the house? But you have lost your money? Someone steal it?”
“Yes. No. I... “ Margo didn’t know what to say or do. “I thought I had at least fifty euros left you see, and—”
“You make mistake?” The waiter’s eyes were sympathetic. “I do all the time. But I have to work now. You sit here and do not worry. I will be back later, no?”
The Italians are so nice, Margo thought as she watched him weaving his way between the tables. Then she tried to think of what to do next. Tears stung her eyes again as the full impact of her situation hit her. Oh God, what am I going to do? Will I call Fiona and...? No, I can’t. I can’t crawl back to Alan, not like this. I can’t, I can’t, she kept repeating to herself, feeling as if she had entered some kind of labyrinth she couldn’t get out of. Tears kept welling up in her eyes and feeling in her bag for a tissue, her fingers met a piece of paper. She pulled it out and glanced at it, the numbers not registering in her brain. She was going
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