A Royal Pain .01.

I really only went in there to get my roots done. If I'd known the impact it would have on my life, well, let me assure you I would have chosen a different salon. Perhaps the one in Knightsbridge my mother was always raving about. You don't expect to go to a hairdresser's and have your life turned upside down. You go there for a simple act. No fuss. You walk in, have your head slathered in dye, maybe get a head massage thrown in too if you're lucky. You sit there while some stylist fries your brains with a hairdryer and once you're done you walk out looking wonderful. Voila. Simple. No stress. In fact, it should be the least stressful thing ever. Yes? Not so.

"A cup of coffee while you wait, mademoiselle?"

I shook my head gingerly at the young, rather good-looking assistant, trying to ignore the fact that my hair stuck up in odd-coloured tufts. I ought to have been used to the colouring process, but it never failed to horrify me that for thirty minutes every six weeks I looked like some grungy punk.

"A magazine, perhaps?" he persisted, determined that I should appreciate the full extent of his helpfulness. I smiled tightly. I had a copy of Vogue Paris in my bag, bought just that morning. Unfortunately, I had been relieved of both my bag and my coat upon entering the salon and they hung in the closet a tantalizing few metres away.

"Oui, merci." I sighed, defeated, and returned to examining my hair. It looked suspiciously orange, which troubled me slightly, considering I'd asked for my usual honey-blonde to be refreshed. I didn't fancy the idea of walking around resembling a clementine.

"Voila, m'moiselle."

I took the magazine proffered to me and glanced at the title. An almost inaudible groan escaped my lips. I'd hoped for Tatler, maybe even, at a stretch, Harper's Bazaar. Vogue, as I'd learned from my many visits to the salon, was hoping for too much. The magazine in my hands had about as much in common with Vogue as a high-street shop has with Armani. In fact, the only similarity was that they were both magazines.

I flipped it open and tried not to let my distaste show. Gala magazine, a favourite of continental hairdresser's and doctor's surgeries, is famous for carrying photographs of lesser known royals milling around at garden parties, and is about as classy as Hello! or OK!. Except, of course, its subject matter is of a slightly higher class. Here, for example, were four pages dedicated to the break-up of the Duchess Helga von Something-burg's marriage to a Danish count. I skimmed the details of her heartbreak ("The Duchess reclines in a luxurious Victorian chair, smiling through her pain") and arrived at the wedding announcements, which were marginally less boring. Several identical, bland faces stared back at me as hands were held and engagement rings shown off. I examined the photographs closely, looking for familiar faces; I knew these girls.

Or rather, I knew their peers. Hadn't I grown up with people just like them? Hadn't my school years been spent in the company of second cousins, twice-removed, of the Duke of Blahburg? The Prince of Wales' godmother's grandchildren? Rich heiresses and blue-blooded playboys had formed my childhood peers, and despite taking great pains to stay away from the less friendly members of this society over the years, a lot of them had refused to be erased from my life. Take the couple on the next page, for instance. A mousy-haired girl with fantastically huge ears, and to my knowledge, an incredibly annoying laugh, stood smiling into the eyes of a man so nondescript you would have trouble spotting him in an empty carpark. I'd spent a distinctly unmemorable week in Courchevel skiing with them a few years back, the only remarkable incident being the evening when Javier, my then best friend, had stolen a crate of wine from the nearest bar and proceeded to spend the night forcing it down everyone's necks in an effort to liven the place up.
What was her name again? Something old-fashioned; Prudence perhaps? No, the small print beside the photograph informed me, it was Prunella. Prunella Livingston-Jones, soon to be Mrs Stanley Collingwood. Their nuptials were to take place in a small chapel on her parents' estate in North Yorkshire and it was to be a traditional white wedding.

I stifled a yawn. How boring. How predictable. Not even worth covering, really.
I flipped the page nonchalantly and studied a photograph featuring a rather plain blonde whose only redeemable feature was her stunning choice in footwear Miu Miu sandals that I'd been coveting myself. From the legs up, however, she was about as nondescript as Mr Stanley Colling-something. She was smiling uncertainly into the camera and clutching the arm of -

"Jesus Christ!"

The magazine slipped from my grasp. Gasping, I reached for the chilled bottle of Evian standing on the counter and took a long sip, hands trembling. It couldn't be! I must have read the name wrong, it couldn't possibly be him!

I dismissed the assistant with a wave of my hand, while appreciating the fact that he'd come running at my yelp of surprise. Staff can be so attentive, especially when they sense they might be in for a decent tip. I drained the water bottle and lifted the magazine back onto my knees. My hands were still trembling like a crack addict's and I forced myself to breathe. I reread the name beneath the photograph several times, my eyes flitting back and forth across the page. "To be wed; date to be announced."

An idea struck me, and I fumbled around beneath the black protective cloak, searching the pockets of my jeans. I eventually located my phone and dialled a familiar number, ignoring the inquisitive looks of the assistant.

It rang several times. I drummed my nails against the magazine, impatiently scrutinising the photograph. That face was unmistakeable. It had to be him. And yet, it couldn't be, it just couldn't...

"Yeah."

Not a question. Just a simple word, letting you know he had indeed picked up the phone and was listening.

"You're getting married!" I hadn't meant for my voice to sound so accusatory. Actually, maybe I had.

"Sorry?"

"Yeah, you better be!" I hissed, lowering my voice so as not to attract too much attention. "You could have at least told me!"

"Saskia, is that you?" He sounded supremely unconcerned. My teeth gritted as I pictured him sitting on his balcony, basking in the Madrid sun. Perhaps his new fiancee was with him. Urgh!

"Yes, Javier, remember me? Your best friend?" I spat the words out, trying to make them as venomous as possible. I wanted him to feel the full extent of my wrath. "Javier, I want you to guess what I am holding in my hand right this minute. No, wait," I cut him off as he began to reply. "you'll never guess. It is a copy of Gala magazine. Your face is in fucking Gala magazine! And do you know what it says?"

"I'm sure I can guess."

"I don't want you to guess! I want you to explain why you didn't tell me!" My voice began to rise, and I became aware of the assistant once again hovering by my side, but I was far too incensed to complain about his obvious eavesdropping. Javier had begun to say something. I interrupted him mercilessly.

"Why, Javier, did I have to learn about it from Gala magazine? Why could you not tell me yourself?" I jabbed my finger into his paper face on my lap furiously. "Newsflash, that is not how best friends treat each other. They tell each other everything! And. I. Mean. Everything." I hit the offending magazine once for every word I spat out, not caring that by now the entire salon was gaping at me as I spoke.

"M'moiselle?" asked the assistant, nervously. "M'moiselle, your hair-"

"Not now!" I snapped at him. Couldn't he see I was furious? Furious? No, I was incensed. So much so that my face had started to burn.

I returned my attention to my phone, where Javier was speaking in a soothing voice. "Saskia, listen, I-"

"I. Am. Hurt." I told him, placing heavy emphasis on each word in order to pile on the guilt.

"Saskia-"

"No! Do not speak. I am hurt that you couldn't take the time to call me, and inform me of your engagement. I am hurt," I paused for breath, becoming aware of a burning sensation flooding through my entire head. "that you never even told me about this, this," I scanned the print in search of a name. "this Clarissa person. What sort of a name is Clarissa, anyway?"

"She-" he began, but for the last time, I cut him off.

"I don't want to hear it. This is the last straw. I forgave you for throwing up all over the limo at my New Year's Eve party. I even forgave you-" I raised my voice over his indignant retort. "for telling James that I fancied him. But I will not forgive you for this. If I am not important enough to warrant you telling me about your impending marriage, then clearly I am not important enough to be called your friend."

I ignored his splutters of protest and snapped my phone shut. It started to ring almost as soon as I'd hung up, but I pretended not to hear it and turned to the assistant, trying to smile serenely. Only then did it register somewhere within the depths of my fury-addled brain that my scalp appeared, as it were, to be on fire.
I screamed. He ran. The salon fell into a deadly silence, and my mood, not that I'd have thought it possible, descended even further into gloom.