Short Story: The Purple-haired Lady

Short Story: The Purple-haired Lady

Alice looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes fixed on the luminescent wig that adorned her head. She began to preen and brush the shiny purple tresses with her hands. She felt magnificent and beautiful.

Sitting on the sofa, her fingers combed through the mane and enjoyed the warm sensation emanating from them. Mmm, she thought. It’s so delightfully luxurious. She was truly relishing this skittish and playful time. But naturally that was to be expected; this female hair adornment was after all from one of the finest you could buy from Cecil’s in the high street; The Betty Range.

When Cecil gracefully placed the purple jewel onto her head, he flitted animatedly like a child who had reached the next level on the latest computer game. Alice though wasn’t sure.

"Oh Alice darling, I won’t let you walk out of here without this. It’s costly, lustrous and gorgeous and sweetie you’re worth every penny!"

The wig reminded her of when she was a child and used to pretend her favourite yellow cardigan was long blonde hair and she was a glamorous pop star.

Her body stretched out on the sofa and her legs dangled off the edge whilst she pointed her toes in a grandiose fashion. It had a wickedly decadent effect on her mood. This was the time to indulge in her favourite habit.

"Yes, I’m ready for you now, my love."

On the floor, was the latest copy of the celebrity magazine “Star Chronicles”. Alice began to rifle through the ten-page article that featured Michael Rogers.

Michael was an actor she had adored ever since she first saw him in the police drama show “Banged to Rights”. She loved the sensitivity that he brought to the role and she was amazed at how uncannily he looked like her late husband Jeffery.

Her eyes scanned down the page; looking for something in particular. Finding it, she read out loud;

"'Michael Rogers attended the première of his new film Strange Fruit with the actress Lucy Chapman. She was wearing her trademark purple dyed hair in a short bob. It is rumoured that Michael and Lucy are seeing each other after they met on the set of the film.' Stupid cow, just look at the way she’s throwing herself at him, it’s disgusting."

Alice could feel herself getting hot. The globules of liquid began to drip down from underneath the wig and rested on her temples. It wasn’t just the wig that was causing her to sweat profusely. Lucy Chapman bothered her. She began to stare intensely at the picture of them together.

As she held the magazine in one hand, the other swooped down symbolically to scratch the face of the actress. Whipping the wig off her head, Alice became agitated by the images that were on the page.

She picked up a half empty glass of red wine that she had previously been drinking. Swigging it down, she then picked up a letter that was addressed to Michael Rogers and began to read;

Dear Michael,

I just thought I’d send you this picture. Do you like my new look?

Why won’t you respond to any of my letters? I know you love purple. Lucy Chapman is no good for you.

I dreamt about you last night. She’s bad news; let me help you to get rid of her.

All my love, Alice xx

Alice sealed the letter in an envelope. On her walk to the post box she wondered if he would finally respond to this letter.

Perhaps these letters were not actually getting to him? After all, it’s not uncommon for things to get lost in the post.

"That’s it! I bet that Lucy woman is intercepting his mail."

Two boys were walking past her and heard her ramblings. They couldn’t resist the opportunity to respond to her outburst.

"Oi Jono, did you hear that mad woman talking to herself?"

"Yeah, she’s totally off her trolley. Have you seen that purple wig she wears? It’s minging!"

Unable to contain her outrage at their comments she turned and shouted at them.

"Shut up, you stupid, immature, little idiots!’Her face became horribly contorted in front of them. When they saw her wide glaring eyes, she looked deranged. The shock of this caused them to turn and run as fast as they could down the road.

Alice couldn’t remember anything else about that day. She was now at home sprawled haphazardly on the sofa. Having polished off a whole bottle of wine, she had passed out. The purple wig was sitting at a jaunty angle on her head like a sailor’s hat.

The dreams she had when she slept these days, nearly always featured Michael. Her thoughts about him were becoming less lucid and more multifaceted. Sometimes the confusion made her wonder where the reality began and the fantasy ended. It was easy for her to latch onto the latter when this happened.

"My beautiful boy how could they have done this to you?" Michael was sitting opposite her on a chair in her room. He seemed to be extremely distressed about something.

She got up from the sofa and slowly moved towards him. Her body was experiencing such an overwhelming sensation. It made her feel dizzy and light-headed. This was such an unexpected turn of events. There she was, completely transfixed by the man of her dreams.

"There my love, I’ll make it better."

Her hands reached out to touch him as she closed her eyes.However, something was wrong with this scenario. Her actions were not reciprocated by him. Alice opened her eyes. No, she would not be greeted by the loving arms of the man she adored.

Instead her hands were touching the cold glass of the television screen. The six o’clock news was on the telly. The reality of where she was had kicked in for a change. She was standing in her living room again. The dull yellowing wallpaper and the drab green carpet had put her right back at home and not with him. She emerged from this reverie, despite the fact it had felt so intoxicating and real.

The news broadcast featured Michael. He had been accused of hitting Lucy. After a bitter court battle, he was finally acquitted of all charges.

Michael had been working on a film called “The Specialist” It was about a detective who helped women get justice when they were suffering from domestic violence. The director David Reardon felt it was in Michael's best interest not to carry on playing the lead role under the circumstances.

Alice could hardly believe her ears as she listened. The actor Michael Rogers was at his flat in Woodford but would not comment on the events. Instead, he issued a statement by a legal representative which read;

'It would seem that despite my innocence, I am being penalised for wrong doing. I am deeply hurt by the decision to axe me from the movie.'

"They can’t do this. He’s done nothing wrong!"

There was a book on the floor. It knocked over an empty vase as Alice hurled it at the telly. The sound of the shattering pieces of glass seemed to be an effective addition to her rage.

"I need a drink," she shouted. "I can’t stand this."

Her body felt a tremor, overwrought with sensations. She was irritable and on edge. Stomping towards the kitchen and headed straight for the fridge. There was half a bottle of gin on the shelf. Her eyes were direct and her motivation undeviating. She gripped the bottle firmly by its neck, dragged it out of the fridge and slammed the door.

Her head worked in a snappy fashion and darted around the room, looking for a glass. She spotted a lone tumbler sitting by the side of the sink; it contained the remains of some red wine she had been drinking last night. A tiny amount of the drink had created a small film of stickiness that resembled a blackcurrant juice drink.

Unperturbed, she unscrewed the bottle top, threw it onto the counter and poured the gin directly into the glass until it almost reached the top.

She devoured the drink producing small gulping noises from her mouth. Some of the alcohol slopped and dribbled down her chin. Ignoring this, she paused only sporadically when her throat seemed to signal that it was not ready to welcome the potent brew at such a high speed. She coughed and hacked up some of the gin. It had become astringent to the taste and unguent in its texture.

Finally, the drink was finished and the empty glass crashed back down onto the counter, in victory.

Walking back towards the living room some of the tension in her head had now released a little. Sitting down in front of her computer, she began trawling through various sites on the internet. Alice was after something in particular; more information to do with this breaking news. She felt there was a strong urge to help him, to make the people who had caused this unhappiness in his life, realise what they’d done. But more importantly, she wanted desperately to be near him.

The journey on the train was far too long. Alice half expected to see the press camped outside his house but she didn’t. She assumed that because it was now quite late in the evening, they had given up waiting for him and had gone.

Walking on the opposite side of the road she did her usual scan of the area to make sure no one had seen her. She crossed over and crouched behind the large row of bushes in a small alcove leading to the door of his home. This would be her waiting place for what seemed like hours.

Alice would always have some gin disguised in a water bottle to help keep her warm. As far as she was concerned, it also kept her thoughts more coherent. During this time she would write letters and poetry, declaring her love for him.

She often posted these items, along with special charms, stones or aromatherapy oils. It was her way of showing how much she loved him. The latest poem she ‘wrote’ quoted lines she believed to be her own:

How do I love thee Let me count the ways... Your Alice loves thee to the level of every day’s most quiet need.

In an apathetic world, no one seemed to realise the beauty of Alice’s words. So how could anyone have noticed that they were the skills of another? She ended the letter with her signature scrawl:

I truly believe you can achieve a utopian life with me. It will be perfect for us my love. Please write back soon.

Love Alice xx

Alice had completely finished her water bottle of gin. Tonight, her letter wasn’t full of the beautiful and loving words she thought she had posted. Instead it was a tirade full of illogical, ranting and abusive language. She blamed everything and everyone for the misfortune Michael was going through. She hated his choice of friends, the women in his life and even his acting roles. Nothing was beyond reproach.

The mistakes? They were slight and few.

Alice posted her gifts through the letter box. But why couldn’t she remember the next day what she had posted to him?

The Lavender given to him that night was actually a small bottle of bleach she used at home to sterilise and clean items. The lid had flipped up and she accidentally squirted the contents through the letter box when it was posted.

She neither cared, nor registered these things really. She was far too busy watching an afternoon play on the telly that featured Michael. Alice had also completely forgotten that the radio was on in the kitchen.

“A purple-haired lady was seen running away from the popular restaurant frequented by celebrities. Lucy Chapman is believed to have been violently pushed to the floor by this woman.”

Within the next fortnight, Baxter Studios also coincidently suffered a mysterious misfortune. Their offices were broken into. The reels that featured the new actor who was in the film “The Specialist” were destroyed. It was thought they had been deliberately sprayed with some type of aromatherapy oil.

It was now Friday evening. Alice felt totally exhausted. She sat watching the telly with a glass of red wine in one hand before deciding to have an early night. News at Ten was on. Watching it, she found herself almost nodding off. The presenter read out the story;

“The purple-haired lady was spotted near Baxter Studios. She is thought to have orchestrated a series of crimes and has been stalking the actor Michael Rogers. The police have urged the public not to approach her. They are said to be close to making an arrest.”

There was a knock at the door.

"Miss Alice Smallwood, this is the police, open the door please."

There was no response to their request. When the police broke the door down, Alice didn’t hear them. She had fallen asleep in a drunken state of unconsciousness with her purple-haired wig on.

Poetry Quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How Do I Love Thee"