Chapter 2

Graham was waiting outside the changing rooms, for his client to reappear, in one of the outfits Graham had curated and picked for him.

The man left the changing room, wearing a striped shirt and jeans, with brown leather shoes. ‘I feel right dressed up like a kipper.' He shook his head, looking at his shoes.

‘You look very smart. Anyone would be delighted for you to be marrying their daughter.'

‘Sure?'

‘Positive. It's my job to know.'

The man shrugged. ‘Haven't worn a shirt since…school.'

He hadn't known what a daily skincare maintenance routine meant either, or what manscaping was either, much to Graham's chagrin. But he was soon putting that right. ‘Try the next outfit on. I'm convinced you'll look perfect in that suit.'

‘I'll look like I'm in court, that's what I'll look like.' He shook his head, returning to the changing room.

Graham made a mental note to arrange for the client to have a haircut and wet shave at his friend, Ali's salon. The client seemed to have kept the same look from when he was in his twenties, which now, well past forty-five, made him look a bit…how would Graham describe it, being kind…laid-back, maybe?

Graham's phone rang, it was his friend Claire.

‘I'm with a client, can't really talk,' he said to her.

‘I fancied some adult conversation. George is away and I'm bored. I must get better at this day off lark, but when Anna's at school, I never know what to do with myself. Sad.'

‘How long's he away this time?'

Claire's husband was in the navy and away a lot, and Graham liked to keep her company, in return for her sage advice. Claire being a level-headed and pragmatic pub manager. After a long sigh, she said, ‘Two frigging months! I know it's important to have space, but this is ridiculous.' A pause, and then: ‘How are things with you?'

‘Splendid. Busy with work. Nice variety of clients. Living my best life.'

‘No desire to find a boyfriend? I told you; I'll give you a hand setting up profiles on the dating sites. I've been reading all these tips in magazines.'

‘Well, you can save yourself the bother, because I'm perfectly happy being celibate. Happier than I've ever been in a relationship. Especially the last one.' He'd ended up being his ex's carer not lover, so had decided: No. Never. Again. Some days, during the breakup, the only thing that made him get out of bed was blasting Katie Perry's "Roar" and singing at the top of his voice. It had become his breakup anthem. ‘Besides, I have no time.'

Claire laughed. ‘You make time for what's important. I'll let you go. Can we diarise a dinner and wine evening please? Something to look forward to.'

‘Definitely.'

‘Don't give up on love, everybody needs it and if you follow love, it's usually a good place to start.'

‘What on earth are you on about?' Graham frowned.

‘I'm a romantic, and you love it.'

That was true and he couldn't have managed without her after his last breakup. The bleep on his phone signalled he had call waiting. He told her. ‘I love you, but I must go.'

‘Love you too.' She hung up.

The call waiting was a number he didn't recognise. He always answered it since it could be a potential client. Most of his work came from recommendations. He was very under-stated, didn't advertise, so vulgar, just let his work speak for itself. ‘Hello, Graham Bartley, how can I help you?'

‘Are you the son of the late Mary Bartley?'

He feared what this might be, held his breath. Emptying his mum's flat had been bad enough, all the memories of his childhood, her clothes and everywhere he looked there were bottles she'd hidden. He knew she had been lying when she said she'd stopped drinking. ‘I am. How can I help you?'

‘Did you sign as guarantor for a catalogue card for Light Home?'

‘Possibly. She's dead, and had nothing, so you can't have anything of hers.' A council flat, an empty bank account and a house full of stuff she'd bought to cheer herself up over a lifetime of disappointing others. Not much to show for fifty-three years on the planet. Grief lodged itself heavily in his stomach.

‘We have you down as guarantor to that card. Are you Mr Graham Bartley, date of birth 20 February 1990?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then you owe the money.'

Graham had gone through the paperwork at his mum's place, hadn't found anything about this. Was pretty sure her debts would die with her. Reckoned that was the case when he'd researched it. ‘How can I, when it's not my debt?'

‘It is, because you're the guarantor. In the event of your mother not being able to repay the debt, you are to repay it.'

The client left the changing room, wearing a charcoal grey suit. The trousers were too tight and the jacket too loose. The white shirt was untucked. Honestly, some people, Graham thought.

The man on the phone was talking too quickly, Graham had taken his attention off it and focussed on the client's clothes. ‘What are you saying?' he said down the phone.

‘I said,' the man added, on the phone, ‘we'd like to discuss a repayment plan. Monthly instalments. Clear it in no time.'

It wasn't going to be much; his mum hadn't had anything of value in the flat. In her life really. ‘How much?'

The client walked forwards. ‘I don't go much on this shirt. Too long. And the jacket's baggy. Do they do it in a smaller size, do you think?'

Of course, they did it in a smaller size. That was the whole point of clothes. Graham started to reply to the client, ‘If you go back into the changing room, I'll get you the correct sizes. I thought you'd told me your sizes.'

‘Thought I had, but…' He turned and walked back to the changing room.

Graham put his ear back to the phone.

‘Are you there, Mr Bartley? I said, when can you make the first payment? We can take it by credit or debit card, then we'd very much like to set up a direct debit monthly thereafter.'

Thereafter. What was this man on about? How much was it going to be? ‘Look, I'll put it on my card now, get it over and done with.' Graham pulled his card from his wallet. ‘Ready for the number?'

‘Yes.' A pause, and then, ‘Are you sure you want to pay it off now? You don't need to. As I said, we can agree a—'

‘I told you; I want this over and done with.' His mum making a mistake was bad enough, never mind that she'd recently died. He wanted this all over, done and dusted as soon as possible.

‘The full amount will be,' the man coughed down the phone, ‘Fifteen-thousand, four-hundred and fifty-five pounds. And thirty-two pence.'

Graham's heart felt as if it had jumped out of his chest. So much for living my best life. Fuck my life. ‘You what now?'

The man repeated it. ‘As I said, it's quite a lot.'

‘Quite a lot. Quite a lot. Fifteen grand.'

The client reappeared, wearing a white vest and grey, very much worn-out boxer shorts.

Two more things Graham needed to add to his list. The importance of underwear, particularly when trying to impress people romantically, could not be underestimated.

‘Have you got them?' the client asked. ‘Only, I don't fancy standing about like this. I feel a bit of an idiot as it goes. Which I said to you I didn't want. I told you I hated this crap. Explained that's why I get it all from online. Can't stand this rubbish.' He folded his arms and stared at Graham. ‘What are you going to do about it?'

Quite. This man was the client and it was Graham's job to make him look modern, attractive, and someone his future in-laws would be happy to marry their daughter. All, while, in theory, enjoying himself and showing him this sort of thing was important, for his own self-care.

The client was pointing at Graham, raising his voice, saying stuff about being dragged there, he didn't want it and…

On the phone the man was saying, ‘Can you give me the long card number across the front please?'

‘No. I bloody well can't.' Graham ended the call. He knew he could do one thing at a time. And on some days that felt a bit too much. Outwardly he was confident, diplomatic, easy-going, but inwardly he was a bit of an emotionally mess. Turning to the client, Graham said, ‘Sorry about that. Sorry. Yeah, I said that. It was—'

‘I don't want to hear it. What I'm paying you to do is make me look better. And so far, you've been on your phone, and I've been standing here like a bloody schoolboy that's forgot his PE kit. Are you going to get me the right sizes, or shall we give up for today?' He stared at Graham, frowning, suddenly looking very mean and angry.

Earlier he'd seemed quite handsome, in an unkempt way. Now, not so much. ‘One suit in the right sizes, coming right up. Do you want to try on the second pair of jeans, see if they fit as well as the others?'

‘They're the same size.' The client shrugged.

‘Different style. Might not work on your body shape. I do think it's best, if you can bear it.'

He shook his head, left for the changing room.

Graham fetched the correctly sized suit and waited for the client to reappear.

Graham reckoned he'd managed to salvage the afternoon. The client left pleased with a new well-fitting wardrobe, all flattering and modern, and they were now in the hairdresser, Graham, having managed to bag a last-minute appointment by pulling in a favour.

The client was sitting in the hairdresser's chair in front of the mirror.

Ali, his friend, stood to one side, holding scissors and a comb. ‘What were you thinking?'

‘Nothing I've got to tittivate about with at home. I don't have time for that.' He stroked his long greying beard.

‘Very short sides, side parting, bit of a quiff.'

‘Are we dyeing it?' Ali asked. ‘I ask, because silver is very in. We have clients coming in and asking to be silver. You, sir, are very fortunate in that you are blessed with being silver au naturelle. Very on trend.'

‘At least part of me is,' the client said. ‘And I'm keeping the beard. I'm not shaving every day again. Can't be doing with it. Haven't got the—'

‘Time, yes,' Ali said, ‘We understand. You're lucky there too, because facial hair is very much on trend. Some waxing of the moustache perhaps? Beard oil maybe?'

The client looked bemused.

Graham said, ‘Trim it short.'

While the client was being seen to by Ali, Graham slipped outside to call his brother, Sam. When Sam answered, Graham said, ‘Are you sitting down?'

‘All right to you too. I'm very well. How are you? Yes, I'm okay to talk to you. I'm just on my way home from work. It's going well, thanks. Grad scheme is hard work, but I expected that. How's your job? Oh good.'

Graham bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Are you done?'

‘Just about.'

‘Because I'm done. Absolutely fucking done, up to my eyes in being done.' He took a breath. ‘Guess who called today?'

‘Our long-lost dad?'

‘Ha bloody ha. Although it's about family.'

‘Auntie Sylvie wanting some of Mum's money.'

‘She can have it. She's welcome to it,' Graham said.

‘I thought there wasn't any.'

‘Worse than.'

‘How can it be worse than having no money?'

Christ, his brother could be clueless sometimes. Graham was used to having to look after him, since their mum couldn't as she was a barely functioning alcoholic, meaning from twelve years old, Graham had raised Sam himself.

There was a silence, then Sam said, ‘Sorry.'

‘What for? It's not your fault, this mess.'

‘For not helping you with Mum's flat. I couldn't get the time off. I…'

Couldn't face it. Didn't want to be faced with the reality of how much of a useless mum she'd been to them both. Because thanks to Graham, Sam hadn't gone without much, unlike Graham. He didn't begrudge his brother that though. Loved him. Always had. ‘Doesn't matter. I did it fine. This is worse than that. She owes money and I'm responsible for it.'

‘How? Doesn't the debt die with the person?'

Graham explained.

‘How much is it?' Sam asked.

‘Fifteen grand.'

‘Fuck off!'

‘Can we discuss properly later this week?'

‘Of course.'

Graham ended the call, returned to see his client, who looked like a modern well-groomed man, rather than someone who'd been living in a tent in the woods since 1995.

‘Happy?' Graham asked.

‘Suppose so. Do I have to do this all the time?' he asked.

That was the general idea with grooming and skincare routines, unless he soon wanted to resemble a wild man trekking through the forest. ‘It's better if you do. Shall I send a picture to your fiancé, or do you want to surprise her in person?'

‘In person I reckon.'

And so did Graham, but he took a picture for his website, having taken the before shot when they first met.

‘So, this is it?' The man shook Graham's hand. ‘Cheers. Good job. I never would have believed it.'

That was why Graham was one of the best in the business, in the top five personal shoppers within London, as well as styling and shopping for the stars. ‘You're very welcome.'

The man looked at the floor. ‘What I said, when I lost my temper, I didn't mean it. Shouldn't have…'

Graham waved it away, he'd had far worse, celebrity meltdowns, brides and grooms in tears and throwing tantrums, businessmen shouting at him, but he took it all in his stride. It was part of the job description, and seeing people as he was now, transformed, a new improved version of themselves, made it all worthwhile.

The client left.

Graham wondered how on earth he was going to sort out his mum's debt, then felt comforted that his brother was happy to help.