Marcie huffed, and as she did, a ray of light broke free from the blanket of cloud. It hit her directly, soaking her in warmth. Her blond hair, so different from my own thin, dark locks, caught the light so she looked almost otherworldly. Ethereal. Beautiful, even at that age. Wisps of baby hair created a halo around her. Mum caught her breath, grabbed for Dad’s arm, nodded toward her. They smiled at each other in a way they never seemed to for me. The ray disappeared. We caught up with Marcie, and she was forced to stick with us for the rest of the walk. At the school gates, Mum gave her a hug that was at least two seconds longer than mine. Dad patted us both genially on the shoulder. Equally. Like we were the same.
And then it was just the two of us.
It’s not always true what they say about twins: I didn’t always know what Marcie was thinking, and she was usually oblivious to my emotions. But that day, she seemed to sense my nerves. Her small hand slipped into mine.
“Stick with me,” she’d whispered with a confidence that felt too old for her. I suppose, looking back, it was a confidence that came from always coming first. She’d never had to fight for her place in the family, whereas the trauma of my birth still hung over my every interaction with Mum. Dad tried to bridge the yawning chasm between us, but it had never been right. I craved the looks Mum directed at Marcie. Thepride I’d see in her expression when Marcie excelled. The laughter when she told a boring joke. Even when Marcie was told off, it was done with smiling eyes.
When Marcie looked at me as we stood at the school gates, it was with an expression similar to the one Mum wore as she bandaged a cut. Pity. Marcie knew she was the favored one, and she felt sorry for me. But I let her clasp my hand in hers anyway, and I was grateful—stupidly grateful—for the comfort. She didn’t mention how it was still clammy from being clamped round my book bag. She led me through the cavernous hallways, into our new classroom, and she didn’t let go, even when the teacher came over to greet us.
Marcie beamed at her, then introduced us to everyone in the vicinity.
“I’m Marcie, and this is my twin sister, Iris.”
It was that easy. I became popular by default, on the assumption that any sister of the wonderful, sweet, enigmatic Marcie Jones was someone worth being friends with.
The day passed mostly without incident. Marcie was swarmed by our new classmates, and she tried to include me at every turn. Being twins worked in our favor. We had that hint of the exotic about us, even if our looks could not have been more different. At the end of the day the teacher called us over to her, asked us questions about home and if we’d enjoyed our first day. I scuffed my foot against the carpet and allowed Marcie to answer for both of us. But as we were leaving, I looked up and saw the teacher’s quizzical expression travel from Marcie to me. It was one I’d seen countless times before.
A look that could not quite comprehend how two such different personalities could have come from the same womb.
People claim all children are charming, but it’s not true. I knew, even then, that I did not possess that special quality. That I was a mere moon reflecting Marcie’s radiant light. She carried that charm with her until the day she died.
Seven
I booked the appointmentat a salon ten minutes from work. It’s more upmarket than my usual place, and I can’t really afford it, but Mum’s bathroom—I take a deep breath just thinking about it—must be a breeding ground for at least fifty different species of mold. Plus, I’ve seen the photos of the girls on Jack’s profile. Those dye jobs must be worth hundreds, and if he’s accustomed to the best, who am I to deny him?
I scroll absently through Jack’s photos as the hairdresser—Tony—applies the dye in silence. Still no joy on the Sally front, but no one under the age of forty checks Facebook regularly, so I remain hopeful.
“New boyfriend, is it?” Tony peers hopefully over my shoulder and points to the screen in a painfully obvious attempt to claw back his tip. Truthfully, I couldn’t afford to pay it anyway, but at least now I have an excuse.
Tony had wrinkled his nose when he first saw my poor, damaged hair and picked at the brittle strands.
“When was the last time you hadthisdone?”
I’d glared at him in the mirror. “My boyfriend died, so hair hasn’t been top of my priority list, funnily enough.”
That shut him up. He broke his silence only once, to ask about color, and I’d pulled out the picture of me and Marcie. Only a little creased from my pocket. “That color,” I’d said, pointing to her. “As close as you can get.”
Now I consider him in the mirror. I could maintain my dignified, sad silence, but his question has unlocked a delicious set of possibilities. “Yes. We haven’t been seeing each other long,” I say. Then, to remind him that I am still vulnerable, fresh off the back of tragedy: “I’m dipping my toe in the dating pool. No one could ever replace Freddie, but I think there’s something special about this one.”
“Must be new. He hasn’t even added you as a friend yet,” he says with a chuckle that makes me want to singe him with the straightening irons. I need to get control of myself. My voice shakes with suppressed rage: “He’srespectful of my grief.” And Tony finally appears to grasp—even if he doesn’t fully understand—the gravity of my situation.
He wouldn’t understand. Only those who have experiencedtrueloss can know what it’s like to lose the one person who anchors you to this world. Freddie understood that, perhaps even better than I did. He changed toward me after I told him about Marcie. What had started as harmless flirtation became something deeper, something more entrenched, as though our common loss bound us together. He checked up on me constantly—first about my work, though it was obviously a smokescreen for what he really wanted to ask. The questions about timelines and design choices were more and more frequently suffixed by inquiries into my well-being.
“How are youreally?” he’d ask, and I’d touch a self-conscious hand to my hair—another tic I’d picked up from Marcie—and tell him I was fine, in a stoic sort of way.
It worked so well that, by the end of my second week there, he’d asked me on our very first date.
“Sorry. That you went through that,” Tony mumbles now. He looks suitably chastened, so I resume my stately silence. He opens his mouth only once more—half an hour later—as though he’s going to attempt another conversation, but seems to think better of it. Luckily, the hair dryer puts paid to any further endeavors.
He may be an insensitive prick, but Tony’s very good at his job. I twist my head as he holds the mirror up behind me. This is the closest I’ve ever got to that gorgeous golden coloring, and there’s a lovely sheen to it that I can never seem to replicate myself.
I still don’t leave him a tip, though. He can think about what he’s done and hopefully be more gracious to his next customer.
—
“You look amazing,”Mick says when I enter the café.
My new look is wasted on someone like him, but he’s right, so I bestow on him a gracious smile. I’m so happy not even the prospect of an imminent five-hour shift in this ghastly place can dampen it. I don my apron with positive flair, then remember what I need to do today, and tone it down a bit.
