Nourishment
Fiona Mitford
‘This product,’ NailzbySerena discloses, one lilac frosted fingernail stroking the bottle, ‘is our Nourisher.’ She taps the talon against the bottle. ‘We must always use our Nourisher. Nourisher is the foundation of a healthy nail bed and if we don’t nourish there’s just no growth, know what I mean?’ Liz nods. ‘Next, we have our nail strengthener.’ NailzbySerena taps her nails on the tabletop to demonstrate strength and durability. Liz has an instant visual of Serena swathed in a lilac sequined leotard, centre stage, doing a one-armed nailstand to the gasp of a captivated crowd.
‘We must nourish and strengthen our nails bi-weekly.’ Serena’s lips are slicked in a frosted lavender gloss that vies for attention with her nails. She wears a crisp, white three-quarter doctor’s coat adorned with badges and tokens of grateful thanks from various cosmetic giants.
Serena holds her hands out to Liz as if they are about to commence a two-step. ‘Let’s have a wee look at you then love,’ she says pursing her soft lips. Liz places her unadorned, plump, speckled hand onto the cool granite of the bench between them.
‘We’re going to need full extensions, I’m afraid,’ Serena pouts, ‘and there’s quite a lot of prep I’m going to have to do first, know what I mean?’ She uses one of her tough nails to rifle through the box of possible prostheses. She lowers her voice: ‘Have you always been a bit of a biter then, Liz?’ She flicks an overhead lamp on and pours cream onto the surface of Liz’s meaty paws.
‘Whoa! You’re just drinking this up, aren’t you?’ She bends her head towards her task and kneads at the cuticles. ‘Well, you know what they say, don’t you, Liz? You can always tell a woman’s age by her hands. So how about we take a few digits off the old odometer for you today?’ The phone rings beside her as if in confirmation. She ignores it and continues her pitch. ‘Now, this moisturiser I’m using comes from the kernel of the apricot pip.’ She spits a bit onto Liz’s hands when she says ‘pip’ but efficiently massages the spit in with the hand cream. A small diamante twinkles from the nail of her little finger as she strokes and kneads the surface of Liz’s hands, with just the pads of her own fingers. Liz’s stomach gives a low growl. She is so close to NailzbySerena that there is no chance of disguising it, so she shifts in embarrassment, but NailzbySerena is buffing what is left of the surface of Liz’s nail. Liz shudders. Fingernails running down a blackboard. Red and green rope mats where she’d sit cross-legged alone for hours. Standard One. Miss Wilson.
‘Elizabeth always seeks praise.’ That’s what Miss Wilson had written in her report. Miss Wilson didn’t know there were eight kids in the family and praise was something that was handed out like Christmas presents. Yes, she sought it all right. It was hard just the same, seeing the words in black and white on the report card and watching Mum’s face reading that comment and looking away somewhere, away from Liz while she jiggled the little one on her knee. Liz almost had her whole hand in her mouth then, watching her mother read the report, gnawing away at herself like some starving rodent. Her mother had returned to her and focused somewhere to the left of Liz’s face: ‘fingers out your mouth girl, save some room for your tea.’ She was right though. Miss Wilson had it right on the button.
‘So this is like, your first time! Like I mean your first time getting nail extensions, I mean!’ NailzbySerena giggles. She has the helpless giggle of a girl who lives and breathes perfumes and cosmetics. There is no hearty laughter to be found in Serena. ‘So what’s the occasion then?’
‘It’s a school reunion ball.’ Liz blushes. ‘I’ve had a new dress made but the dressmaker said I should do something about my nails to justify the outfit and well, here I am.’ She gives a little laugh, but it’s lost on NailzbySerena. She tissues the surface of Liz’s hands, her mouth twisting a little as she wipes.
‘Have you thought about these age spots?’ she says, adjusting the lamp to get a better look. ‘Some of them are quite nasty, aren’t they? You could use a concealer though. I’ve got a good range of concealers here.’ She swivels on her stool and selects three tubes, squirting a dab of each on Liz’s hand. ‘The freckles are a bit of a problem, aren’t they?’ Her head is bent low over Liz’s hand. Liz searches NailzbySerena’s hairline for regrowth. But Serena will not be beaten. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’ll just paste a bit of Nude Lady over one hand and you can compare it to the other, okay?’ She strokes the concealer sparingly. ‘It just seems a shame to have the nails all done and then the hands are a mess, know what I mean?’ Liz watches one hand transformed into a pale smooth surgeon’s glove. NailzbySerena leans back, assesses her creative ability and really smiles. ‘I could do a lot for you,’ she says to the hand, ‘know what I mean?’
It was strange that Miss Wilson identified that neediness in an eight-year-old, Liz had often thought. Yes, she’d been a biter. NailzbySerena was spot on there too. She’d bitten at herself all her life, chewing away each and every time she’d wanted too much of something from people who had nothing spare to give.
She’d watch Bob shovelling down his dinner at 6.30 each evening. His plate balanced on his knees, oblivious to what he scooped up, like a front-end loader, his eyes never leaving the television. Spuds, peas, cauli, mince and gravy were unscrupulously emptied into the great cavern of his mouth with not a glance at the plate. She knew it made no difference to him what she served, so long as it wasn’t any of those fancy foreign meals, yet she could never help herself. It was a kind of compulsion really. She’d wait for an ad break, and then the words would tumble out of her like the peas that slid off Bob’s plate to roll down the joins in the couch. ‘Is it all right then?’ she’d say, watching his eyes watching the television. ‘Your tea I mean … everything … how you like it?’
‘I’m having seconds, ain’t I?’ Bob would grunt between shovel-loads, the eyes now watching for the weathergirl who would only want to ask him how his day has gone.
‘Had you given any thought to the length of the nail?’
Liz stares at the long claw that Serena, head on one side, lays against Liz’s ring finger.
‘Isn’t that a bit long? I kind of had in mind something a little more …natural?’
NailzbySerena sighs, the badges on her ample bosom catch the sun through the slanted Venetian blinds. ‘I always say to my clients, if you’re going to get the job done why not make it really worthwhile? You know, go the whole hog?’ She strokes Liz’s finger. ‘Just look how it slims down your fingers with that full extension. I can’t help thinking anything less is just going to give us a problem, given the density of your hands.’
Liz stretches the hand out in front of her. ‘I just can’t see myself with nails like that. Sorry. But it’s just not me.’
‘Come on now, Liz. Isn’t that the point? New dress, new nails, new make-up … Hello!’
‘Look, I know what you’re saying, but that’s just too much of a new me.’
‘Okay, we’ll cut them back a bit. Then we’re both satisfied, know what I mean?’
Was that what drove her to push him for those few kind words? Wanting to hear that she was the one who satisfied him. Maybe if something was said she’d feel different. So that in those unexpected moments when his hands reached for her across the expanse of the king size, sliding towards her to lie in the cold strip where the electric blankets didn’t meet, she could offer something more than surprise. It was her voice, her words that cut into the velveteen darkness, like ripples across a lake: ‘Was that good, Bob?’ she said, her lips touching his back. And that had been their last time.
Liz closes the car door with the flat of her hand, the way NailzbySerena has shown her. ‘Treasure those tips!’ NailzbySerena had shrieked across the carpark. ‘Think pads and palms, make that your mantra, love!’ Liz takes the steps of the house from the basement garage to the landing three at a time. Two hours twenty-seven minutes. The house is quiet but for the sound of the corned beef bubbling gently on the stove.
‘Here she is, Bob,’ Mrs Collings says, buttoning her coat. She leans close to Bob’s face, enunciating each word with care. ‘I told you she’d be back in a minute.’
Mrs Collings has shaved Bob today. His skin is still damp when Liz leans to kiss his cheek. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you, Mrs Collings. It just took a bit longer than I thought, getting myself done up.’
‘You needn’t have rushed, love. He’s been perfect. Seems really peaceful today. ‘She looks at Liz, lowers her voice a tone. ‘He was trying to get some words out before …’
Liz perches on the side of their bed and takes Bob’s hand in hers. ‘Got my nails done, love,’ she says. ‘New hairdo too. See?’
She places her palms on either side of Bob’s head and turns his head gently on the pillow to face her. She takes his hand, uncurls one finger and runs it across the hard edge of one glossy nail.
‘He’s making progress you know.’ Mrs Collings’ hand squeezes Liz’s shoulder. ‘It’s slow dear, I know it is, but it was a huge stroke.’ Her hand now rubs the small of Liz’s back in a circular motion. ‘He’s really coming along - all things considered.’
Bob’s eyebrows raise and lower rapidly; his face is a tapestry of emotions. His eyes scan Liz’s face.
‘Oh, we know what you’re trying to say, Bob,’ Mrs Collings soothes, plumping up the pillows. ‘You just want to tell your wife how lovely she looks, don’t you?’
‘Doesn’t he though.’ Liz runs her nails over the candlewick bedspread, the afternoon sun catches the diamante on her little fingernail. She lifts her hand and slowly runs the back of one nail across Bob’s forehead, savouring its smoothness. Bob’s eyes roll heavenward, following the movement of the nail. ‘That’s my Bob through and through.’ Liz smiles. ‘Always been ready with a compliment, haven’t you, love?’
Other work by Fiona Mitford - Distance
