She Dyed for Love

By Ian G Dalziel

She Dyed for Love: a romance.
Linda had it all. She was a movie star, world-famous and loved by her fans.
She had a penthouse overlooking Central Park, and an Academy Award on the shelf. Her boyfriend was a handsome and ambitious man, a rising producer.
So why did Linda suddenly walk into her usual beauty salon and ask them to turn her into a blonde?
I’m not sure, she said. I just wanted to change my life, shake things up.
Soon afterwards, Linda met a man. A man who didn’t recognize her and, when he found out who she was, still treated her badly. He was annoying, and unsettling. She pushed him out of her mind.
But then, by chance, they met again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian G Dalziel
• Release date: Nov 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370317035

Book preview

1. Gone Blonde

Let’s see what I look like blonde, then, Linda said.

The salon owner, Becky, was really nervous as she hovered over her customer. After all, the woman under the hood was Linda Morrison the movie star.

An hour earlier, the whole salon had heard the applause outside on the Manhattan sidewalk when the celebrity had stepped out of her limo and walked into the salon.

Linda had been escorted across the main floor to a private area near the back of the building. Most of the other customers only managed to catch a glimpse of her, but there was no mistaking the smile, the petite figure and her immaculate appearance, dressed in an elegant Chanel suit.

Becky put down her coffee cup, switched off the drier, raised the hood, then rolled the equipment away from the chair.

Oh God, Becky, Linda said, as she looked at her reflection, what have I done?

She looked intently at her image, stared at her newly-tinted hair, inspected the pale eyebrows, and was generally stunned at the change in her appearance.

You’ve been blonde before, right? Becky asked, as she too leaned towards the mirror to inspect her handiwork. "In The Countess and the Sea?"

Yes, Linda replied, but in that movie I wore huge wigs—you know, like Marie Antoinette. That’s the only time I’ve played a blonde before. This is new for me.

Quite a change then, said Becky, now fussing at Linda’s hair with a brush. And you’ll have to be ready for folks to treat you differently. Especially men.

What do you mean? Linda asked.

Well, you’re a blonde now, said Becky, smiling, so people will speak to you much . . . more . . . slowly, just so you’ll understand.

Oh that’s silly, said Linda, laughing.

So, Becky said, putting the final touches to Linda’s hair, what is your next movie about?

I’m going to play an American journalist—and yes, she’s blonde—who follows her fiancé from Paris to the North African desert, then gets mixed up with sheiks and arms dealers.

Ooh, Becky said, her eyes all dreamy, the desert. Oases and camels. How romantic.

Think flies and portable potties, Linda said, with a wry smile. And I’ll be lucky if there are potties. I hear handfuls of sand are useful at times.

Eew, squealed Becky. She looked at Linda in the mirror. But, no, you can’t fool me. All those lovely dinners in Paris too, with famous leading men.

More like room service and minibars, Linda said. Those actors are mostly morons who just look good in a tux.

Is that why you haven’t married? Becky asked.

What?

Just that you couldn’t ever marry some regular guy, could you? Like a plumber or a carpenter? With you being a celebrity, you’d have to marry someone famous like yourself—an actor, or someone in the movie biz. So if the famous men are all morons, you’re out of luck.

"Hey, Becky, I could so marry a regular guy, as you put it, said Linda. It’s just that I don’t feel the need to get married quite yet, because I’m happy with my life the way it is. I have my career, my apartment at Central Park, I go to concerts and shows when I want, and I have good friends. I don’t want to change any of that. She paused, then added, I am dating someone, you know."

Oh, right, Becky said, that Steven something or other, the director guy?

Steven Lambert, Linda said. He wants to be a producer. He hasn’t done much yet, but I think he’ll break through sooner or later. In fact, he has an assisting role in this next movie of mine.

Proves my point, Becky said, waving her hairbrush at the mirror, your boyfriend’s in the business. See?

Becky fussed around some more then asked, I don’t get it, though. If you wore blonde wigs in that other movie, why not in this next one?

Linda looked into the mirror, and met Becky’s gaze. I’m not really sure. When they called to check out some costume details with me, I suddenly said I’d dye my hair for the movie. It was just an impulse, I suppose, and I guess I just wanted to feel different somehow. You know, change my life a bit.

Becky let out a little snort. Most girls would look at your life and say it’s pretty near perfect.

Yeah, Linda said. I just . . . I don’t know, I sometimes feel like there’s something missing.

Becky glanced back through the store, and out of the salon’s window to the street.

Oh, I see Barb is pulling up again in your stretch.

Perfect, Linda said. There’s just enough time to get home, make a few calls, and get ready for my dinner this evening. I can try out the new blonde look on my friends.

Who’ll be there?

Nobody famous, if that’s what you’re wondering, Linda said. The hosts are Ellie and Rich Goldman, and another couple, the Williamsons. It’ll be a quiet evening, with just the five of us. And Ellie’s such a good cook.

Linda got up out of the chair, then Becky helped her remove the gown and brushed her down gently.

Off you go then, to your glamorous life, Becky said. Sorry . . . off . . . you . . . go . . . Blondie.

Oh, cut that out, said Linda, laughing as she buttoned her top and picked up her purse. Thanks for everything, and don’t forget to bill me, she said as she walked towards the front door.

I won’t, said Becky, as she followed along, in fact, now you’re a dumb blonde, I’ll over-bill you.

She held the door open, and smiled as she watched Linda move quickly across the sidewalk to the limo, where Barbara was holding open its door.

As Becky turned back into the salon, a customer approached.

Was that really Linda Morrison, the actress? she asked.

Yes, Becky said. She’s been a customer here for years. Since she was sixteen, in fact.

Was she famous then?

Not at all. The first time she came in here, she was soaked through from the rain. She was in tears, and needed fixing up for an audition for her very first movie role.

What happened?

I dried her clothes out, smartened her up, and sent her on her way in a taxi. I remember it because Linda had no cash on her. I did it all for nothing, and even had to pay for the taxi. Becky chuckled.

Did she get the part?

"She did. She was the pretty schoolgirl in Suddenly on the Shore, and she got an Oscar nomination for supporting actress. She came back here to pay what she owed me, and gave me a bottle of champagne too. Becky laughed again. She couldn’t drink any of it herself. She was too young."

Becky watched through the window, as the limo pulled out into the traffic. She’s come here ever since, and that’s been twelve years.

The customer looked at Becky. It sounds like she’s a loyal person, to be with you all that time.

That’s right, Becky said, she’s one of the best. No doubt about it.

Why did she go blonde? asked the customer, still watching the limo as it disappeared in the distance.

That’s a bit strange, Becky said. She has to play a blonde in her next movie, but she also said something about wanting to change things up a bit. I do hope she’s okay.

Oh she must be, said the customer. Who wouldn’t be happy with the life of a celebrity?

Hmm, said Becky.

2. Encounter

A few miles from the salon, shoppers in the Manhattan book store stood in line, holding the books and gifts they’d chosen. They waited patiently, as each cashier dealt in turn with the customers.

The line was moving slowly, and some were frowning at the lady at the furthest cash desk, holding everything up as she argued with the salesperson.

I don’t understand this, I ordered it weeks ago. It should have been here by now. I even pre-paid. Can you please check again?

The young man behind the counter looked at the elegantly-dressed woman. Yes, Mrs. Goldman, of course, he said, maybe the book is being held under the wrong name. That can happen. Please give me a second or two to check.

Still making trouble, I see, Ellie, said a deep voice.

Ellie Goldman turned round to see who had spoken. She looked at the tall man, and took in his rumpled hair and his tweed jacket. He looked like something out of a sporting goods catalog.

Suddenly, her look of puzzlement changed into a broad smile. Michael? she said, in disbelief. Michael Cartwright? It can’t be.

Indeed it is, said the man, the very same. Accept no substitute. He grinned broadly at Ellie.

My goodness, said Ellie, flustered, how long has it been? How many years?

Well, Ellie, I thought I’d let you work that out. You were always good at math.

Over twenty years, I think, Ellie said, since just after we all graduated. And you know what that means, don’t you?

At a loss, I’m afraid.

It means I should just strangle you, disappearing like that. Where on earth have you been all this time?

Ah, a long story, Michael said.

The sales clerk returned, carrying a package. I’ve found your order, Mrs. Goldman, and it was under the wrong name after all. I apologize for all the confusion.

He put the wrapped book on the counter, then placed the receipt on top.

Ellie turned back to face the young man. Thank you, she said, relieved to have her purchase in her hands.

And may I suggest the Crime section, added the salesperson.

What? said Ellie, puzzled.

The Crime section, he repeated, they probably have several books on how to strangle your friend.

Oh, quite, Ellie said, chuckling as she collected her things. She stepped away from the counter.

So, Ellie, Michael said, taking his friend by the arm, how about we get a coffee here, and catch up?

He looked from side to side, as if checking for eavesdroppers, then said, It’s a little-known fact that they only break even on the books here. They make their real money on the cappuccinos. It’s the least we can do for them.

Oh, Michael, said Ellie, I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m having friends to dinner this evening, and if I don’t get going now, nothing will be ready.

Well, we can catch up some other time.

But wait, said Ellie, brightening, this is perfect. You must join us for dinner tonight. Rich would love to see you.

"And how is that dashing husband of yours? Michael said. A CFO at some bank or other, I heard? And you, Ellie, you’re a judge? He fleeces them, and you hang them? A perfect combination."

Ellie smiled. Still a comedian, I see, Michael. Yes, Rich’s fine. You can see for yourself later.

As she spoke, she took a pen from her bag, tore off a piece of the sales receipt, and scribbled on it. Here’s the address and the phone number. It’ll be six o’clock for drinks, and we’ll probably eat around seven. Be sure to come early, so you and Rich can catch up.

Ellie, I really shouldn’t intrude on you and your friends.

It’s an informal dinner, Ellie said. Just a few of our friends, like the Williamsons, and Linda Morrison.

Well, said Michael, as if thinking it over, I used to be indecisive, didn’t I . . . but now I’m not so sure.

He laughed, then went on, Of course, I’ll be happy to intrude. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

You can bring someone if you like.

Michael’s smile suddenly disappeared, and he looked away, towards the windows on the far side of the store. Nope, he said, it’ll just be me.

Oh, said Ellie. Well, see you later then, dear. She kissed him on the cheek, then made her way through the store and out onto Fifth Avenue.

Michael watched her as she went. He looked at the paper she’d given him, then folded it