Kill me now.
I grab her arm and steer her towards the door before she can mortify me any further. “Thanks for the update, Struan. See you later.”
As soon as we’re safely outside, I release Mum’s arm and round on her. “You’re terrible!”
“What? Heishandsome. I tell you, if I were thirty years younger and single?—”
“Mum! Does it not occur to you that he’s exactly like Danny was? All grins and patter. How did that work out for me?”
Mum’s expression softens. “Sorry, love. Honestly, I was just being friendly.”
I blow out. Maybe I’m overreacting. But the wound is still too raw, and Struan’s particular brand of casual confidence hits too close to home.
“Anyway, where first?” Mum asks, wisely changing the subject.
We start with the boutique next door. The bell above the door chimes as we step inside, the scent of expensive wool and lavender potpourri wrapping around us. My stomach flutters—this is it, my first real pitch to the locals—but I push my shoulders back and paste on my brightest smile.
A woman behind the counter looks up, her faded blonde bob tucked neatly behind her ears.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Ainsley Reid. I’m opening the new salon next?—”
“Oh, fantastic!” She brightens. “I’m Moira. So you’re taking over Maggie’s old place, eh? She did my hair for years, and I always went for the same thing. But honestly, I’ve been thinking for a while it’s time for a change. What would you do with this?” She gestures to her bob.
My stylist brain switches on instantly. I take in the colour, the texture, the way it frames her face.
“I’d add some lowlights for dimension, maybe a bit of honey to warm it up, and for the cut...” I tilt my head, visualising. “A graduated bob, slightly shorter at the back, would give you more volume and frame your face beautifully.”
Her eyes light up. “Sold! Book me in. For opening day, if you’ve got a slot.”
“I do.” I pull out my phone and bring up the booking app. “How’s ten o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
By the time we leave, Moira’s got a handful of flyers and has promised to put one in her window. I walk out feeling lighter, a spark of confidence flaring in my chest.
See? Icando this.
We continue along the seafront, popping into the bakery, where the owner promises to mention me to her regulars, then the Lighthouse Café, where I leave a stack of flyers by the till. With each friendly chat, my confidence builds.
Outside the corner shop, a group of older women stand chatting. They listen politely as I tell them about the salon, but when one flips the flyer over and scans the price list, her eyebrows shoot up.
“Maggie never charged anything close to this,” she says. “And this iswithyour opening discount?”
“Well, the services are quite different,” I explain, keeping my voice pleasant. “I specialise in modern cutting techniques, balayage, colour correction?—”
The women exchange a look, the kind that needs no translation. As Mum and I walk on, fragments of their conversation drift after us:
“. . . daylight robbery . . .”
“. . . Maggie did my hair for twenty years . . .”
“. . . she won’t get customers with those prices . . .”
And just like that, my fragile confidence takes a hit. Because what if they’re right? What if I’ve completely misjudged this? I don’t justwantthis business to succeed, Ineedit to. There’s too much at stake for it to fail.
“Don’t take it to heart,” Mum says, patting my shoulder. “Folk can be resistant to change, especially the older generation. But they’ll come round when they see how fabulous you are.”
I want to believe her but doubt is already nibbling away at my resolve.
