Contents
1 – Rainy Night In London – Tabloid Reporter Thrown In At The Deep End
2 – Tabloid Journalist Becomes Brunette Bombshell
3 – The Glitterati Enjoy Party In London Nightclub
4 – Talkabout With Sadie The Tabloid Columnist
5 – Thousands Of Women Go Brunette Crazy
6 – Tabloid Hack Is A Magnet For Trouble
7 – Reporter Hits City Streets In Rainy Photo-Shoot
8 – Tea Total Journalist Judges Cocktail Contest
9 – Celebrities Let Their Hair Down At Salon Event
10 – Salon Owner Launches New Magazine
CHAPTER ONE
Rainy Night In London — Tabloid Reporter Thrown In At The Deep End
I shielded myself with my umbrella and hurried across the busy London street in the pouring rain. The lights from the shops reflected on the wet pavement, and at five–thirty in the evening, everyone seemed to be hurrying home from work while I was starting out on a whole new adventure.
A hundred thoughts were racing through my mind. I’d hardly had a chance to think what I was going to write when I’d told my editor, Jamieson, I’d accept the assignment. But I’d come up with something. I would.
I’d always wanted to be a journalist. And for the past year I’d been working as a freelance reporter in the stressed out, deadline crushing, editorial department of a London tabloid. It was my job to write the small filler features for the paper — and to stay sane at the same time.
So when one of the regular columnists quit, (to work for a newspaper in New York), leaving our paper in the lurch with a deadline looming, I was thrown in at the deep end and sent to the one business I truly adored.
Most nights after work I peered across the street at the upmarket hairdressing salon in the heart of the city. It was always busy with the celebrities who frequented it. The prices were completely outrageous, but if you wanted star–studded glamour, this was the place to go. I planned that one day I’d blow a week’s wages or more on having my hair done there. A girl can dream, huh? Living as a single girl in London, with a flat in the city centre, was quite expensive, and although I wasn’t poor, I didn’t make enough to be able to splash out on something like this.
So you can imagine my excitement when Jamieson sent me to write the salon’s editorial feature for the tabloid’s Talkabout column. A celebrity launch party for a new range of hair colouring was in the pipeline, and I was sent to write the opening feature. The celebrity launch feature would follow next week.
I’d love to say that Jamieson offered me the job because I’m one of his top journalists, but this wouldn’t be true. He’d given me the chance because he had no one else to cover it, and I was reliable. I never missed a deadline, and this feature had to go into the paper by nine tonight, ready for the next day’s issue. Advertising revenue was involved, and although Jamieson was the editor, he often had to accommodate the advertising manager’s requirements for editorial space.
Besides, Talkabout was popular — a newsy, fashion, beauty, nightlife, gossipy column that balanced the hard news features.
All I had to do was prove to Jamieson he’d picked the right person for the job. I planned to make this work.
However, like most things in my life, it didn’t run according to plan. For a start, it was raining, so I was drenched by the time I arrived outside the salon, which was owned by the overly demanding Cosmo (a renowned hairdressing entrepreneur who could make any woman look great).
Cosmo had put a lot of effort and marketing into creating a new range of hair colours to transform the average brunette into a sultry bombshell.
I’d heard that Cosmo was gorgeous — a dramatic looking Londoner. Tall and handsome was totally my type, though currently I had an occasional and unrealistic crush on Jamieson. He was in his early thirties, tall, brown haired, and with a male swimmers build (a wedge on long legs) though the only swimming he did was with the media sharks. Jamieson had no idea that every time he handed me an assignment my heart thundered nervously. I was sure the effect of Jamieson would wear off, though in the past few months it hadn’t even waned. I needed to get out more. Out in a social sense, not chasing up stories and meeting deadline after deadline.
As arranged, a press photographer was waiting for me outside the salon, sheltering under one of the canopies in the cold, winter rain.
‘Jamieson says he’s given you the Talkabout column,’ said the photographer. ‘Congratulations, but I think this is going to be a fiery one.’
I was going to ask him why, when I heard shouting coming from inside the salon.
‘Cosmo’s not happy,’ he said.
‘What’s happened?’ I said.
‘His campaign model decided to ditch the whole idea of working with him on the launch of his new range to take up a movie offer.’
‘Where does that leave us?’
‘I had a word with Cosmo’s assistant. She says the launch is still going ahead. They’re looking for a model replacement. So I’ll take some pics of the salon, and Cosmo with the products, that sort of thing. We can still run with it.’
I nodded, and what seemed like a torrent of rain ran off my umbrella down the back of my black mackintosh coat, soaking the ends of my long, dark hair.
I cursed inwardly.
‘You look fine,’ he said, which was kind of him.
I looked anything but fine, with barely a touch of mascara and a slick of lip gloss. My coat was reasonably smart, but I was wearing practical rather than stylish clothes — black trousers, dark shoe boots, white open neck blouse and black jumper that showed the collar and long white cuffs of the shirt. My bag contained my laptop, voice recorder, and a small camera for my photo–journalism work.
The press photographer opened the door and we went inside.
Walking into the salon was daunting. I’d washed my hair that morning, but now it was bedraggled. I’d often been told that my silky brown hair was an asset, but it certainly wasn’t tonight.
A salon assistant took my coat and umbrella. I shrugged the strap of my laptop bag up on my shoulder, but felt even more exposed in this glamorous environment. I was trim enough, if a little bit on the slim side. Long hours working for the press often meant meals were skipped, and there was a lot of running around, but I guess you could say it kept me lean.
The salon was white, cream and silver with subtle spotlights, and the occasional exotic plant. A modern classic salon. Several members of staff were circulating around a man in his early thirties that I rightly assumed was Cosmo.
He saw us immediately, and aquamarine blue eyes viewed us sceptically. At least, viewed me sceptically. I figured it was my wet bedraggled look that caught his attention.
The staff stepped aside, became quiet, as if knowing when to leave Cosmo alone. They watched him approach me. He was tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair that looked like an advertisement — glossy, long and sexy on top, cut shorter at the sides and back, but still long enough to run your hands through. He moved as if he had lean muscle below his dark designer suit. I thought he had a taut six–pack under his shirt.
I could see myself in one of the mirrors. Weirdly, my hair had a shine to it. Probably it was the spotlights at a flattering angle. I did have naturally shiny hair, although I never bothered with it. No products, colourants, or anything like that had been near it in years. Shampoo and a lick of conditioner was all I used. I even trimmed the ends myself because it was long enough to pull around the front so that I could cut it. It was several inches below mid shoulder length.
Cosmo was gaining ground, never taking his eyes off me.
I started to feel uncomfortable and glanced at the photographer who seemed as bemused as me regarding Cosmo’s fascination.
‘Who are you?’ Cosmo said to me in a voice that was rich, sexy and manly. Which kind of summed up Cosmo.
‘She’s the new Talkabout columnist,’ said the photographer, filling in for my hesitation. ‘We’re here to cover the feature.’
Cosmo nodded, acknowledging the photographer, but kept his focus on me.
‘What’s your name?’ Cosmo said to me.
‘Sadie.’
‘Sadie? Hmm. How old are you?’
‘Twenty–six.’
Cosmo nodded, and moved closer, circling me with intense interest. As I’m only five foot five in my shoe boot heels, he looked down at me and my hair.
‘Who does your hair?’ he said, as if it puzzled him.
‘No one. I do it myself.’
A gasp erupted from the staff.
Cosmo cast them a look. Not a word was said.
‘What products do you use?’ he said, studying my hair.
‘Shampoo…and conditioner.’ I added the conditioner, but I hardly ever bothered using it, especially as I always seemed to be in a hurry to get showered and off to work in the newspaper.
‘What brands do you favour?’ he said.
I almost smiled, thinking how he’d react if I told him I bought whatever smelled nice from the supermarket, what I wasn’t allergic to, and was often enticed to buy the shampoo and get the conditioner in a two for one deal.
‘It varies,’ I said, avoiding the details. I didn’t want to risk the staff hyperventilating.
He gazed down at my face. ‘You have beautiful pale creamy skin. Who does your facials?’
‘No facials.’
Another gasp from the staff.
‘What products do you use?’
‘Soap and water —’
A major gasp and pursed lips from the staff.
‘And moisturiser.’
‘What brand?’ said Cosmo.
‘A supermarket brand.’
The gasps were descanted with disapproving muttering that under other circumstances I’d have found offensive.
‘Fascinating,’ said Cosmo.
Soap, water, bargain supermarket moisturiser. Lucky dip shampoo. What was fascinating about that?
The photographer jumped to my rescue. ‘Can I take the photographs of you with some of your hair colour products?’ he said to Cosmo. The tone of his voice wasn’t asking. He was hinting he wanted to get on with taking the pictures.
Cosmo blinked. ‘Eh, yes. We have them set up over there. The colours are only created in the salon. They’re not commercially distributed yet. Women come in and have their hair coloured by us.’
An area of the salon had a table displaying his new range of brunette colours on palettes and posters.
Cosmo stood with his colour range while the photographer snapped numerous pictures, ensuring he had enough for us to create the feature.
‘Do you have anyone in mind for your new model?’ the photographer said.
Cosmo looked straight at me. ‘Maybe.’
The photographer checked his watch. Another photo assignment was looming.
‘If you’d like to go, that’s fine,’ said Cosmo. ‘But I’ll keep Sadie.’
Keep me?
‘We have to chat about the editorial for the feature,’ Cosmo said to the photographer, throwing me a glance that didn’t match his words.
‘I’ll wait,’ said the photographer, and sat down on one of the sofas.
‘Great,’ said Cosmo. ‘You can take some photographs of Sadie’s hair once we’re done with it.’
Before I could think about this, Cosmo said to me, ‘You’re a tabloid reporter?’ His tone implied he found this unusual.
‘Yes.’
‘Ever done any modelling?’
‘I’m five foot three on a good day.’
Cosmo laughed.
‘Hair modelling or facial work?’ he said.
I laughed at his suggestion that I was in that type of league. ‘No.’
‘Sit down over here.’
I sat in one of the hairdressing chairs and watched Cosmo fuss with my hair in the mirror.
‘We’ll give you a quick wash and then see how it looks.’
There was no option to say no, and before I could object, my hair was being speed washed by one of the staff.
Cosmo came over. ‘Run a…let me see…yes, a dark vermillion shine rinse through Sadie’s hair. That’ll bring out the bronze lustre,’ he said.
A salon customer ID card was written with my name at the top — Sadie followed by the shine rinse used — vermillion. Sadie Vermillion it said. I felt like I had a whole new identity.
Whatever they poured on my hair smelled delicious. This was massaged right to the ends of my hair for a few minutes, and then rinsed thoroughly. A tension headache that I’d had all day was washed away with it.
My hair was towel dried. Then one of the stylists, armed with scissors, snipped the ends of my hair in a blunt cut that evened out any stray ends I hadn’t quite cut precisely. It was blow dried smooth as silk but with plenty of volume.
‘Perfect,’ said Cosmo, running his hands through my hair, holding it up to admire the shine under the spotlights. At his touch my heart softened and any refusal wafted into pleasure at having him feel my hair.
‘Can you take photographs of Sadie’s hair for the feature?’ Cosmo said to the photographer.
‘Yes,’ he said, adjusting the camera and focussing on my hair.
‘I don’t want to be pictured in the feature,’ I said.
‘We’ll hide your face,’ said Cosmo, ‘no one will recognise you.’
The photographer nodded. ‘This could work out well for you,’ he whispered to me while pretending to adjust his camera for the shots. ‘Go along with it. I’ll make sure your face isn’t seen in any of the pics.’
‘Okay, but don’t tell Jamieson or the others at the paper,’ I whispered.
The photographer winked. ‘Tell them what?’ he said, and started taking the pictures.
‘Shake your hair,’ said Cosmo.
I did.
All the shots were carefully angled to show my hair and not my face. My identity was hidden.
The photographer then uploaded a selection of the pictures on to my laptop.
‘That’s a great shot,’ said Cosmo, pointing at one that made my hair look like something out of a glossy magazine. ‘Use that one.’
And so we did. The photographer and I chose several other pictures of Cosmo and the salon.
‘I’ll e–mail them to Jamieson,’ I said.
‘Brilliant,’ said the photographer, checking his watch. ‘I’ve another couple of assignments,’ he said to me.
‘I need to do the interview for the feature,’ I said. ‘But thanks for your help.’
He winked at me again, and then left me to talk to Cosmo.
We sat together on a sofa having tea and coffee while the world of the salon circled busily around us. No one approached us. It seemed an unspoken rule that when Cosmo was entertaining he was not to be interrupted.
I took my voice recorder out of my laptop bag. ‘Can I start by asking you about the details of the hair colours?’
Cosmo handed me a press release. ‘All the background details are on here. Word it however you like.’
I liked that he trusted me. This was rare. Most people were wary of what a journalist would write about them and wanted to know what was going to be printed in the paper.
Several top celebrities had been named as customers in the press release, and this would help make it newsworthy for the paper.
‘Thank you for allowing your hair to be featured,’ said Cosmo.
‘I still can’t believe you talked me into it,’ I said, taking a sip of tea. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a proper model in time for the launch next week. But we’ll run with this opening feature.’
‘Be my model.’
‘What?’
Cosmo put his coffee cup down. ‘I see something in you that I believe has potential. You’ve got an exciting, contemporary, everywoman quality. You’d be the perfect brunette bombshell.’
I laughed. ‘I really don’t think so.’
‘I’m never wrong when it comes to things like this,’ he said.
‘But I’m a newspaper journalist. I’m not model material.’
‘Look at you tonight. You were soaked to the skin and tired. Your career is often a hard and thankless one. I’m offering you more money than you could ever make from journalism. And it’s fun, it’s glamorous, you’d step into a whole world of celebrity.’
‘I’ve always wanted to be a journalist.’
‘Do both. A journalist by day, and the brunette bombshell by night.’
A feeling of excitement charged through me as he said this. I was tempted. I was.
‘I’ll pay you to model in the advertisements for the magazines and posters. We won’t show your face, only a glimpse of your eyes. No one, not even your editor, will ever know it’s you.’ He paused. ‘We can do this, Sadie. Come on, be daring. Take the money. Take the chance to do something completely crazy.’
And so I said, ‘Yes.’
I thought for a moment he was going to lift me up and swing me around when I agreed.
He stood up and motioned to his staff to come over.
‘Sadie is going to be our brunette bombshell, but no one must know that she’s secretly a tabloid reporter.’
The staff seemed delighted to be in on the secret, as if getting one over on the press.
‘Of course,’ said Cosmo. ‘I’ll add my special colours to your hair. They won’t harm your hair’s condition.’
I nodded, but wondered how I’d disguise my new look at the newspaper office.
Already ahead of me, Cosmo said, ‘Wear your hair up at work. Give yourself a severe swept back chignon. Anyone who knows you will think you’ve got a new style without arousing suspicion.’
This seemed like a plan.
Cosmo leaned close. ‘I’m guessing you don’t have a man in your life at the moment.’
‘You can tell that from my hair?’
‘I can sense how a woman feels,’ he said.
He was right. I’d been so busy with work my social life had fizzled out. Maybe that’s why I had a crush on Jamieson.
‘Let’s colour your hair,’ said Cosmo, leading me over to the hairdressing chair.
‘Right now?’
‘Yes. You’re going to love it.’
‘My editor needs a photograph of me for the newspaper column,’ I said. ‘Could you take one before I have my hair coloured?’
‘I’ll put your hair up in a chignon for your new reporter look,’ said Cosmo. ‘It’ll fit in with you changing your hair at work.’
Cosmo pinned my hair back sleek and smooth. He used my camera to take a picture. I downloaded it to my laptop. It was the closest to flattering we could manage with my severe up do and minimum make up. But it was fine. I actually looked like a city girl reporter, a columnist. Very tidy and sharp.
Whatever the previous columnist had written was to be scrapped and replaced with a few fillers I always had on hand. So all that was needed to run the column was the salon feature.
While Cosmo and his colourists worked their magic on my hair, I wrote the feature on my laptop and e–mailed it to Jamieson, along with the photographs, and a copy of my signature — Sadie, for the column’s heading.
A few minutes later, Jamieson phoned me.
‘I’m going to run with the pics you chose for the hair colour feature. But there’s no name for the model.’
‘They’re keeping that a secret,’ I said. ‘It’s part of Cosmo’s marketing plan.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Jamieson. ‘The mystery lady it is.’
I was sure that later tonight, when common sense hit me, I’d wonder what the hell I’d got myself into. But for now, I was running with the plan. This could work. It could.
I’d always wanted to be daring, but I was never the outlandish sort. I was reliable. Now I was twice as reliable. The paper could depend on me meeting those deadlines and keeping the Talkabout column as popular as ever, hopefully. And Cosmo could rely on me being his brunette bombshell.
