Sophie’s in there too. ‘Floss promised to givemefirst shout if ever she sold! I hope David Byron’s ready for a fight!’
Even Mum’s having her say. ‘Sophie’s got a castleandthe best credit rating in St Aidan. Byron won’t get a look in!’
Now it’s Kit’s turn to look bemused. ‘Nothing’s been decided. I was simply making theprivatepoint to Floss that High Tides isn’t as bad as she perceives.’
Clemmie smiles at him. ‘I think we’ve got that now, Kit. It might be a good time for you to leave us to take in what you’ve told us.’
Kit’s staring around the room, like it’s sinking in how many people he just shared this secret with. He gives a cough. ‘I trust I can count on everyone here to be discreet?’
No one looks up in acknowledgement, because they’re already glued to their phones passing on the news to anyone and everyone they can think of.
Which is my cue to say goodbye and remind him this is St Aidan, not Hackney. ‘Good luck with the privacy policy, Kit! Enjoy your cakes.’
There won’t be any more for him from my kitchen, that’s for sure. What’s more, I’m kicking myself for rushing out of the loo. Two more minutes redoing my eyeliner, he’d have been gone, and this showdown would never have happened. With something so beneficial for the village I’m tempted to give up now.
But then I think of my coloured birds hanging from their arc of string. Now I’ve had a glimpse of how comforting a place can be when it feels like home, I don’t want to give that up. And I might be standing on my own, on a very wobbly tuft of dune grass – but at least it’s mine.
If I’m going to give this fight everything I’ve got, I need to come out from under the duvet! I need to stop pretending I’m not here and get my act together. Ideally, I need to become something everyone would miss if it weren’t here. I just don’t have the first idea how I’m going to achieve that.
14
The Hideaway, St Aidan
Pony tails and dark horses
Saturday
‘Is this pink too bright?’
Tallulah’s newly coloured hair swings in front of us in a luxuriant arc. Having emerged from this afternoon’s dedicated blow-dry area by my bed for her ‘ta-da’ reveal, she’s scouring the circle of faces in the living room searching for approval.
‘It’s fab – the most vibrant yet.’ I’m leaning out from the kitchen, talking through my chocolate brownie.
Tallulah nods. ‘That’s why I went last. We’ve been winding up the dose.’
With nine newly coloured heads, there’s so much swishing of hair it’s like being in the dunes when the breeze sweeps through the marram grass. Except here in the beach hut every version is a different shade, all the way from pale oyster to pulsating crimson.
Milla laughs. ‘With magenta, there’s no such thing astoomuch, Tallulah.’
I smile at Milla. ‘Not feeling left out? I’m sure we could persuade your mum to let you have a pearl-blush version?’
IMHO Sophie might need to flex a little more now Milla’s getting older; if she holds her reins too tight, it could blow up in her face. But what do I know?
Milla twists a flaxen tress between her fingers. ‘Pink doesn’t really suit who I am now.’ Her sigh is fraught with frustration. ‘If I struggle to be taken seriously as a woman with mayonnaise-coloured hair, I doubt that looking like I’ve collided with a raspberry milkshake will help any.’
That’s stopped me in my tracks. ‘Wow!!! Good point well made.’
She pulls a face. ‘I know I’m letting the pink-hair fundraiser down, butI amplanning to support it – just in my own way.’
‘Great!’ It’s good she’s being true to herself. ‘I’ve only ever seen the world as a dark brunette – except when all my hair fell out, obviously.’
That was so traumatic, I’ve been glad of any hair at all ever since. When I was ill I tried never to grumble, but my first chemo round hit me like a freight train. I should have known what was coming – after all, the cocktail of poison was designed to kill the worst cells invading my body, so it wasn’t going to do much for the rest.
Everyone responds differently to treatment; some people lose their hair, other luckier ones don’t. Looking back I wish I’d bitten the bullet and been brave enough to have a pixie cut straight away; at least then I could have done some good and donated my locks to wigs for kids. Instead I clung on to my optimism and my long hair simply because it was so much of who I was.
Milla grasps my hand. ‘You were super pretty with a shaved head. But it must have been hard.’
Chemo knocked me so low I didn’t brush my hair for a week, and when I finally did it came out in clumps that made me feel sicker still. My hairdresser was so kind – she was round with scissors in the hour – not that there was much left to crop. But at least that way I wasn’t the one picking my hair up off the floor.
