Andrew couldn’t fully escape it and Bryony had fully embraced it. I’m sure I’d have ended up somewhere in between.
The manicurist painted my nails a deep red, the same colour my sister was having applied. There’s nothing frivolous about these small rituals that women all around the world indulge in – they’re a brief escape from the labour we take on. A tiny respite from a society which forces us to carry the emotional labour and carve out a professional path, while showing that we’re not too emotional. Nail varnish is not vapid. It’s a lacquer, a protective layer.
I was being useless. I wasn’t gaining anything from this chance encounter. I was just sitting there like a lump, dumbly watching Bryony focus on her phone, occasionally sigh, and constantly smooth down her hair. But then I realised that maybe the problem was not with me, perhaps there was just nothing really to learn about this girl. Maybe it’s like when women drive themselves insane wondering why a man they’re dating hasn’t called, ascribing reason after reason until they land upon something completely labyrinthian like, ‘He likes you so much but after losing his father at an early age he’s got complex issues with emotional intimacy and not calling is a sign that he’s actually falling in love with you and probably just needs space but not too much space – you should send him a gift of your own hair,’ when actually, he’s just completely forgotten all about you.
I guess I didn’t really need to learn anything about her. With some of the family, I’ve sought to understand them better in order to get near enough to kill them. With Bryony, her entire life is lived online. I can see it all, there’s just not much to it. Normally the wealthiest people, I have learnt, don’t want to be on any annual rich lists. They don’t want to live in a spotlight where normal people know what they have and where they go. If the Artemis clan were like that my job would have been infinitely harder. That awful phrase ‘money talks, wealth whispers’ comes to mind. Happily, Bryony doesn’t just want to talk, she wants to scream. Specifically, on Instagram, all the time. Those dreary predictions everyone makes as though it’s original and not just an episode of some dystopian Netflix series about the bleak future where we’re all just existing through our phones? That’s actually Bryony’s life.
As the manicurist rubbed oil into her hands and signalled that she was all done, Bryony lifted her head as though it were a tremendous effort and inspected her nails. She took an inordinate amount of time checking each individual finger before sitting up straight in her chair and laughing. Not a cheerful laugh, but one meant to signal absolute derision. She crinkled her eyebrows and fixed a stare on the woman sitting across from her.
‘You’ve ripped my cuticles. All. Of. Them. Are you qualified to do this? No really, I mean it, how did you manage to damage every single cuticle? Did you use a crowbar?’ The manicurist frantically gestured to her manager, either stunned into silence, or lacking the right vocabulary to respond in kind. The salon had hushed in seconds, everyone deliberately not looking at Bryony, but staying stock-still in order to hear what was happening. Normally this kind of attention might make someone pull back, but Bryony clearly had very little sense of embarrassment. There’s a theory about Eton, that it doesn’t produce the cleverest boys, but it does produce the most confident. That’s why all these mediocre Pillsbury Doughboys with a nervous system feel as though they’re more than capable of giving being prime minister a shot. That’s what you pay for. Bryony had that kind of confidence. She could behave terribly and not give a flying fuck.
The manager came over, and ushered Bryony to the reception desk, clearly aware that this was a customer ready to make a scene and eager to get her away from other paying clients. But it was no use. Bryony had a voice that carried and she used it to full effect.
‘This is just embarrassing – are you telling me that you’re happy to let customers leave your salon with ragged nails? I was told that this place was good but my friend must have been drunk as per because I’ve never had such a terrible manicure. I have a video to shoot later – am I expected to show my hands on camera like this?’ The manager was making calming sounds, I imagine offers were being made, apologies given. I shouldn’t have to tell you that there was nothing wrong with her nails, now should I? They looked fine, good even. This was just a bored young woman wielding power because dissatisfaction is currency in a way that kindness is not. ‘It goes without saying that I’m not paying for this.’ Bryony wasn’t even looking at the woman, she was browsing the nail varnishes on display. ‘And I’ll take this colour home with me for when my nails inevitably chip within hours. You’re lucky I’m not going to put this all on my social channels,’ and with that she grabbed a bottle of varnish and walked out, the door slamming behind her.