‘Et voilà!’ said Josh, dramatically pulling his hands away
For a moment, Sophie just blinked, not sure what she was looking at. She cast her gaze up and down the street which was filled with high-end fashion boutiques and expensive knickknack shops. Then she saw the name painted on the door right in front of them.
‘Cameron?’ she said, turning to look at him.
‘If we’re going out to a swanky party tonight, we’ve got to look the part,’ he grinned.
‘But this place costs a fortune!’
Sophie had read about Cameron in Vogue; he was one of the world’s most in-demand
hairdressers. His main salon was in Paris, with outposts in New York and Moscow – and now Cannes, apparently. She had seen the Cameron hair products for sale in Harvey Nichols – thirty pounds for a bottle of shampoo alone.
‘Listen, we are here to investigate Nick’s life, right?’ said Josh. ‘So we need to fit into his world; we can’t just turn up to that party in jeans and trainers.’
‘But how did you get an appointment?’
‘Ah, that’ll be my concierge friend at the Bristol. He knows one of the stylists at the Paris branch personally.’
Now it all made sense: that was why Josh had insisted they stay at a hotel with a world-class concierge. Even Josh’s charm wouldn’t have got them into Cameron; the salon was exclusive in the purest sense: unless you knew how to get inside, you were excluded.
‘Come on, princess, you shall go to the ball,’ said Josh, ringing the bell and waiting as a security guard opened the door. A security guard for a hairdresser’s? Maybe this was the Russian influence too.
‘I’ll see you back at the hotel,’ said Josh as he announced Sophie to the receptionist.
‘You can’t leave me,’ Sophie hissed, glancing around.
‘Don’t worry,’ he mouthed. ‘It’s all paid for.’
Sophie wanted to grab his arm, but a flamboyant stylist with an octopus tattoo peeping out from his skimpy vest appeared and led her to her chair. He introduced himself as George and flipped his hands through her hair, announcing in creaky English that he must lift the colour.
In the end, Sophie thoroughly enjoyed herself. In fact, she couldn’t remember when she’d had more fun. George was camp as Christmas and hilariously indiscreet, telling scandalous stories about his wealthy clients and their husbands, men he swore were queuing round the block to get into his pants. She was brought cute little baby cappuccinos, a bowl of fruit salad and a pile of edgy magazines to flick through while the colourist got to work. She even had a visit from a manicurist, who transformed her chipped fingernails and gave her a soft hand massage. When her hair was finally washed and set, George spun her chair around so she could see the transformation.
‘You like?’
She gasped. It was like magic: buttery blonde highlights had been woven through a darker honey base; she looked sunkissed and radiant, her hair falling in elegant waves.
‘Is that really me?’ she whispered.
‘Non,’ said George. ‘It is the new you. And about time too, no?’
Josh’s key wasn’t behind the desk when Sophie got back to the hotel, and the gap-toothed Chinese man seemed pleased to confirm ‘man no here’, making her good mood instantly disappear. These last two days – the meeting with Sandrine, her afternoon of pampering – it had been all too easy for Sophie to fool herself that she was on a slightly offbeat minibreak. But always at the back of her mind was that nagging unease that she was in danger. She had no idea how the police investigation into Nick’s death was going, and while she was desperate to call her mother for an update, the last time she had done that they had almost been snatched at Nice station. It could have been a coincidence, of course, but Sophie didn’t want to take the risk. No, the visit to Cameron’s salon had been a much-needed distraction, but it had only been that: a distraction from the chaos which she neither understood, nor had any idea when – or if – it would end.
By the time she let herself into her room, Sophie was anxious and agitated again.
‘Josh?’ she called nervously, but it was empty. It was then that she noticed the two large cardboard bags sitting on the bed.
There was a note pinned to one: ‘Been shopping, had to guess size. Hope it’s okay, call for you at six, J.’
Sophie reached inside and pulled out a tissue-paper parcel. She unwrapped it carefully and gasped as layers of ivory fabric slid out. She held it up: it was a floor-length gown with a deep-scooped neck, made from beautiful silk crêpe trimmed with seed pearls. It was exquisite.
‘Where on earth did he get this?’ she whispered to herself. She picked up the bag to read the address and as she did, she noticed there was something written on the back of Josh’s note. ‘Oh, and try not to pull the tags off, because it has to go back tomorrow. Sorry.’
She laughed out loud. Typical, she thought. But still, it was a nice gesture. Josh McCormack could do lovely things when he tried. She looked in the other bag: a long white cashmere wrap and a pair of five-inch heels, which would cripple her but look fantastic.
Sophie laughed to herself as she ran a shower, filling the room up with steam. She was just wrapping her hair in a towel – she didn’t want it to get wet after George’s loving attention – when she noticed that Josh had also left a small bag of toiletries on the sink. His choice was tasteful and accurate. Almond Provençal soap, razors, avocado body cream, some clear lip gloss and peach-coloured blush. As she stepped into the shower – mercifully hot – and began soaping herself, she was struck by how intimate it felt using the products he had bought for her. Perhaps they were a reflection of how he might like her to smell and feel, and she was surprised at how much that thought excited her.
It took her no time to dress. The gown slithered over her curves, a perfect fit. Either Josh was psychic or he had been paying close attention to her body – she didn’t know which thought unsettled her the most. The cut was very low around her breasts, but she was tanned and toned enough to carry it off. Her hair fell soft and loose on to her shoulders.