I think for a moment about joining in on the joke. Saying something witty and off-the-cuff, but I don’t. I hold back in case I misfire. And instead I just laugh.
Our jolly mood is interrupted by the slam of the office main doors.
“Fuck, it’s Gerry,” Samira whispers to me, as we hear the heavy footsteps climbing the stairs.
“Why is he here?” says Ryan, tutting but not moving. There is no point in trying to wriggle out of this situation. Ryan is lounging in an armchair holding the container of popcorn. Lynn is standing by the dripping bucket hanging up the wet receipts using paperclips and a length of dental floss as a washing line. And Samira looks like she’s running a mobile nail bar.
Gerry looks from one face to the next, then sighs loudly and goes into his office and shuts his door.
“Well, that was a complete disaster,” I say, panicking.
“Complete disaster.Put that in your Tinder bio!”
“Stop trying to put me on Tinder,” I shout. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”
“Oh, that’s good. Putthatin your Tinder—” he begins before I hurl a nail file at his head.
8
A few days later,I’m sitting in the reception area of Happy Hair. Me, the only customer, and my new hairdresser, Jackie, who is nattering away on the phone at volume and seems to be waiting until my exact appointment time and not a moment before.
“I told him,” she’s almost shouting, “get yourself the hell out of Barcelona. Does he think he’s twenty still? Not with that wrinkly ass.”
I look over at Jackie, who rolls her eyes and gestures a chatty mouth with her hand to me as if she’s trying to get off the phone, and yet, it’s hard to believe there is anyone on the other end as she’s talked without pause for the last ten minutes. I have learned thatIvan had better do something about that neck if he’s going to keep fucking around with Beckyand thatJesse needs an OnlyFans account, as he’s one tweet away from showing his hole on Twitter. And then some endless cackling commences, and I can’t help but join in.
I stare down at Joe’s Instagram feed, which for a moment suddenly feels very dull and straight by comparison. I’m not absolutely convinced he would laugh at any gag that isn’t triple layered and dipped in culture. Last night’s post: a picture of his cello with a string missing and the captionDas Ende einen langer Tour. The end of a long tour. So, he’s home in Vienna.
A new haircut and a revamp of my social media are definitely in order, and I plan to do both today.
“Sorry about that, darling,” says my hairdresser, sliding next to me in her oversize black-and-white sweatshirt, her long silvery-blond hair wound up in braids around her head like a crown. “You’re Ash’s new flatmate, then?”
“Ash?” I reply. “Yes.”
“Lucky you,” she says, smirking.
“Yeah, he’s very nice,” I reply.
Jackie raises a single eyebrow, as if there is much to say on this subject. “And he’s overher, is he?”
“Who?” I ask, craning my head to look at her instead of the reflection of her.
“I’m not one to gossip,” she says, nodding, almost willing me to press her further. When I don’t, she looks at me in the mirror and sort of winces, holds a comb to her cheek as if she’s inspecting me.
“Whatcan’tI do you for today, then, lovely?” she says.
“I know. I know,” I say, frowning. “I have had my hair like this for years.”
“Years,” she agrees, nodding.
“I need something fresh,” I say, looking to face the mirror as she moves her head from side to side to take me all in. “It’s just. Like, it says nothing. It just says...”
“Lonely thirty-something with no beans in the bank?”
“Um, I...”
“Do you have a cat?” she is now asking me.
“No.”
