“Excellent,” he says. “See you!”
The call ends.
I stay where I am for a second, phone still in my hand. Four weeks. Eight hours in total. Teenagers. Cameras.
It would give me some structure. A reason to put shoes on and leave the flat at a specific time instead of drifting from coffee to coffee like a man on an extended airport layover.
I shove the phone into my pocket and head back towards the open plan.
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not the comfortable kind. Thewrongkind.
“Lu?” I call.
Nothing.
My eyes flick to the table. Empty chair. Paper abandoned mid-masterpiece. Felt tips spread out like they’re making a break for freedom.
My stomach tightens.
I take two steps further and spot her.
Lucy is kneeling in front of the oven, inches from the door, peering at her reflection in the dark glass. On the floor at her feet are the scissors I left on the counter after hacking open a bag of frozen vegetables because I refuse to clean up before I'm finished.
Next to them are small, unmistakable clumps of hair.
Oh fuck.
My gaze travels up.
Lucy turns slightly, proud as anything.
What she has could technically be described as a fringe if you were feeling charitable and legally obliged not to hurt a child’s feelings. It hangs unevenly over her forehead, one side skimming her eyebrow, the other making a determined bid for her eyelashes. The overall effect is… avant-garde.
“Uncle Geoff,” she says. “I made it like Ivy’s.”
I close my eyes.
Just briefly.
This is what happens when you let your guard down for twelve seconds.
I open them again and crouch slowly, carefully, like I’m approaching a wild animal.
“Lu,” I say gently, because volume matters here. “You know scissors are a grown-up thing.”
She nods. Immediately. Too quickly. This is not her first offence.
“I was careful,” she says.
I glance at the fringe. One side is ambitious. The other has given up entirely.
“I believe you,” I say. “But next time, we ask first.”
She frowns. “I wanted to look like Ivy.”
That lands harder than the hair situation.
