‘Nude’s really in right now, Mrs Carter.’ Cat pulled out her Perspex tray of nail polishes, suppressing a giggle as her client raised an overly pencilled-in eyebrow. ‘I mean as a colour, not a lifestyle choice.’
Joy Carter – never had anyone been more inappropriately named – was a regular at Cat’s tiny hair and beauty salon. Definitely at the back of the queue when senses of humour were handed out, she was so strait-laced it was a wonder oxygen found its way into her lungs. Only in her mid-fifties, she belonged in a different era. All twin-sets, faux pearls and stockings that could withstand nuclear attack. She was married to the long-suffering Ernest, a tiny man of indeterminate age who spent half his life sipping vodka and tonics at the Red Lion pub. Presumably to escape the reality of being married to a woman who made Mary Whitehouse look like a bra-burning liberal. Cat doubted he’d ever seen Joy naked. Heck, she wouldn’t be surprised if Joy kept her undies on at all times, even in the shower.
‘No, thank you. I’ll stick to my usual.’ Her usual being a bright pink that was a great match for Ernest’s glow-in-the-dark nose.
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