At last, Deirdre has blown in from Paris to attend to my coiffure. I sit on a staight-backed chair in the middle of her very small living room in the middle of her very small flat in the middle of Bellevue Hill. Baby Eddy has had his cast removed at last. Now he is getting around in a plastic brace. It holds his little legs in position whilst allowing him to execute a tottering walk and a kind of down-dog crawl with his bottom raised high. In the last three weeks his thigh muscles have developed magnificently and he has transformed from a baby into a little boy. He has started to be naughty. It is wonderful to witness.
Ashley is barbecuing homemade organic burgers on the tiny balcony. Smoke drifts in and gently fills the room.
Despite being a top international hair stylist, Deirdre is the blondest, bubbliest, nicest person a friend could wish for. Kind of Claudia Schiffer meets Bridget Jones. We chat about Paris and London and far away people that we both love and miss. “Do you remember Lily when I cut your hair in the Camden Brasserie?” How could I forget? It was about thirteen years ago. I had recently ended a nine-year relationship with Brendan, the self-obsessed photographer. Deirdre and I got good and drunk and then she cut my hair - in the restaurant. “How poetic,” I say. “That was the end of Brendan haircut and now here you are again, doing the end of Nick haircut.”
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