Pride and Premiership (17 page)

Yay! I’ve been doing some research for my salon. There’s big money in spray-tan booths. Apparently they’re going to get more and more popular because everyone wants to be brown, but the government are pushing the fact that sunbeds are lethal… Cue the spray tan!

The Feminazi pays us to spray customers, but there are automatic booths that can do it instead. The best one is called Tanarama and it delivers a spray tan in just six minutes! It’s so–oo expensive, though. £15,000! I thought no bloody way am I spending that on one piece of equipment – until I read on the Tanarama website that if you charge £25 per treatment and get fifty customers a week, you’ll make £50,000 a year.

Fifty grand! And you don’t even have to pay a beautician.

I’m going to take Dad’s advice and cut back on the other things I wanted to buy – a laser skin-rejuvenation machine, for a start.

I’ve cracked the budget problem! My salon is going to specialize in three things: nails, tans and waxes. That way I’ll only need a couple of beauticians, because the tanning booth will be like having another two pairs of hands!

Genius.

Now I’m going to look online for a sample business plan so I can learn how to forecast profits. And I’ll make sure I type in
basic business plan
this time, so I don’t get confused.

Go “quantify” that!

OMG. Went online and realized I hadn’t checked my emails today. Godfather Alan had sent this:

Hey Remy,

I hope you’re well. I’ve decided to come back sooner rather than later. Hopefully I’ll be there on Sunday.

See you then,

Alan x

Sunday?! That’s like two days away. This is definitely the best week ever!!!!!!

Last night I dreamt about what my salon will look like. I can’t believe it! I’m dating a hot Premiership footballer yet I’m dreaming about Tanarama spray-tan booths and Essie nail colours. Doh!

In my dream, everything was absolutely purrfect. My salon had white side walls and a bright-pink back wall that had a framed sign hanging on it that said:
Get your wax done. Get your tan done. Get your nails done. Ta-dah!
Hanging from the ceiling was a hu–uuge glitterball that didn’t stop shimmering. But the best bit was that the queue to get in ran out into the street. I wish.

I just called Robbie, because when he phoned last night I was talking like a zombie. (Was right in the middle of looking at business-plan samples.)

“Sorry about last night, babe, I was really stressed out,” I said.

“What’re you stressing about?”

“My business plan.”

“Your business plan for what?” he asked.

“My OWN salon,” I said, making him the second person in the world I’ve ever told.

I waited for him to be impressed, but he just went, “Oh … right.”

He probably still had the hump with me because I really was useless over the phone last night (“uh-huh, hmm, yeah” is basically all I said). So I added quickly, “Anyway, I promise to make it up to you.”

And that perked him up. “Oh yeah? How’re you gonna do that?”

I put on a German accent and said, “I have vays.”

He started to chuckle and everything was all right again. “Well, I’m looking forward to it, princess,” he told me. “Let’s meet up tomorrow, about seven-thirty. I can’t go out tonight – I’ve got a pre-season match tomorrow afternoon.”

“Dealio,” I replied.

“D’you want me to pick you up from yours this time?”

I thought about it. Wouldn’t it be great for Mum to see that I WAS pretty enough to pull a footballer? Surely that would be worth Dad giving him the threatening eyes.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll text you the address. Better go to work now, baby.”

“OK. I’ll bell you later.”

Then the rest of the conversation went like this:

“Bye, babe.”

“Bye, princess…”

“You end the call.”

“No, you end the call.”

“No–ooo, you,” I said.

Then he did.

Yay! Did two treatments today on people who had just walked in. One simple chin and upper lip wax on a girl who hated the pain so much, she gulped loudly every time I tore away a wax strip. And a pedicure for a lady who had the smelliest feet ever! She was wearing trainers with no socks on, and when she took them off we should have fumigated the whole place. Mouldy Gorgonzola. Yuck!

But apart from that, I had a right laugh. Especially when Blow-dry Sarah came back from the coffee run clutching a copy of
Now
magazine, waving it about as if it was the last golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

“Check this out!” she said, slamming the magazine down on the reception desk. Natasha was free, so she came over to see what the fuss was about. The Feminazi was off collecting clean towels and Malibu was at her nail station, mid-manicure but peering across at us.

Blow-dry Sarah rifled through the mag until she got to the “Spotted” page, then pointed to a picture of Sarah Harding coming out of the Orchid Bar.

“She looks great,” I said, wondering what the drama was about.

“Do you think so?” said Natasha. “I’m not sure. She—”

“Not THAT,” Blow-dry Sarah cut in. “THIS!”

She put her finger right on the edge of the picture, and there, way behind Sarah Harding, was an out-of-focus blonde figure in a neon-orange dress. You couldn’t make out the face because it was literally a dot, but it had to be Malibu!

“Look, Mal, you’ve made it!” said Blow-dry, running to Malibu’s nail station to show her the photo.

“So I have,” said Malibu icily.

She was silent for the rest of the day. Until we got out of the salon, that is.

“Do you know how bloody embarrassing that was?” she screeched as soon as our feet hit the pavement. “What’s the point of being in a magazine if no one can even tell it’s YOU?”

I decided the safest response was to just shrug.

“And why was Blow-dry showing it to everyone who came through the door?” she exploded. “It’s like she didn’t realize that nobody could bloody make me out except for HER. I could have been Osama Bin Laden for all anyone else knew!”

“Maybe the other pictures they took will turn up,” I said to make her feel better.

“What other pictures?”

“Dunno. I thought you said had some taken with Golden— I mean, Gary.”

“I didn’t have any taken with Gary.”

I frowned, confused. “Huh? I thought you said you had your picture taken.”

“
I
did. But Gary hates paparazzi, so he went out the back way. I stepped out the front, saw the flashbulbs going off and… God, they could have at least got me in focus!”

It dawned on me that that picture really was the only record of Malibu’s big moment.

“Was that IT?” I exclaimed.

She just glared at me. So I shut up.

Well, Posh and Becks can sleep soundly tonight.

As planned, Malibu’s gone to Gary’s house. The big surprise of the night is that Mum has asked me to teach her to blow-dry her hair salon-style. She is so–ooo coming out of complacency mode.

Popped out for a few drinks with Kel. Not sure Mum and Dad heard me come back in, because they’re not even hissing – they’re arguing at the tops of their voices.

“You’re a liar!” Dad’s just shouted. “A bloody liar. Just like I thought!”

So glad Godfather Alan’s coming tomorrow. Planning to hand the mediator role straight back over to him. And now I don’t have that responsibility, I’m putting on my headphones and turning Rihanna up to ten.

I love Sundays when Mum’s in a good mood, because when she’s happy she makes us a full-on breakfast. I woke up to the smell of eggs and bacon, so I thought she and Dad must have kissed and made up. But then I walked past the living room and noticed that Dad was there, folding up a blanket on the sofa.

“Cheers, Mum,” I said, going into the kitchen and rubbing crust out of my eyes.

“Pleasure,” she said, all chirpy.

“Where’s Malibu?”

“She stayed out last night. I’m quite glad about it after all those tears we’ve had.” She frowned at me. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said, thinking:
Malibu and GOLDENBALLS! OMG – it’s only been three weeks!!

Then Dad walked in and made his way to the kettle, and they both did that thing again where they twist their shoulders to avoid touching each other.

“Good morning, Dad,” I said.

“Is it?” he grumbled. He looked absolutely miserable.

I couldn’t believe it. It was like Freaky Friday, only it was Sunday – and instead of me swapping personalities with Mum, DAD and Mum had done it instead. I nearly told the pair of them to sort themselves out, but then I remembered that’s Alan’s job now, so I left it.

Dad’s been AWOL since eleven o’clock this morning. He made a proper show of leaving, too, by slamming the front door with an almighty thud. I decided that worrying about it wouldn’t achieve anything, so I spent my day dreaming about having my own salon instead. It’s become an obsession. And it’s definitely the thing I want more than anything else in the world right now. Along with Robbie, of course.

Kellie popped in at lunchtime and we had a right laugh about the double date and Paris’s “don’t dress in a tent” advice.

“When you told me a maxi dress hides a multitude of sins, I didn’t think you meant it bloody smothered them,” I joked.

“Paris sounds like a hot mess.” Kellie laughed.

Then I must have drifted off into my salon daydream for a moment, because she frowned and said, “What’re you thinking about?”

So I told her how badly I want to have my own salon and about the business plan and the loan. And she said she was really proud of me and would support me however she could. She even gave me her cousin Rachel’s email address because she’s just started her own business too. I was going to email her after Kellie left but I’ve been trying to find the right (non-tent) sexy outfit to wear.