Chapter Two
Fin
The following coldand very rainy Tuesday, Ivy’s salon opens, and I don’t mind saying we’re all on hot bricks. Ivy has sunk her life savings into the place and Natasha gave up a spot in a busy city centre beauty bar to be here. But me? My terror lies elsewhere. Yes, if the business fails I’ll be homeless, but I’ll be in good company in my cardboard box. Not that it’s going to come to that as this place is awesome—the talk of the village, so June says. And why wouldn’t it be? All sumptuous gilt fixtures, exposed stone walls and raw, natural wood. The place is a million miles away from its previous incarnation as “Agnes Riley’s Hair Emporium,” which hadn’t been updated since 1965, at least.
Ivy’s version of Emporium oozes an old world glamour with a side order of cutting edge, while somehow retaining a welcome that is friendly and very Ivy. I’m sure the village hasn’t seen anything as sophisticated in years. And that aside, Ivy is a hair genius. True story. God only knows why she’s cutting hair in bum-puck Scotland when she could be plying her trade anywhere in the world.
According to Nat, while we’ve both been away, this crummy little no-place has become a desirable commuter community. House prices have sky-rocketed and the yummy mummy tribe and theirsomething in I.T. husbands have moved in. Ivy’s business plan is banking on the upwardly mobile to not be quite so itinerant; for them to shop local for their expensive caramel and honey highlight needs.
But I’m not ruining the cuffs of my Givenchy sweater at the thought of meeting those living in pseudo farmhouses on desirous half-acre blocks. Nope. It’s the locals I’m terrified of meeting again. Since moving back, I’ve barely ventured beyond this building. In fact, it took me weeks to get myself beyond the refuge of Ivy’s spare room. I’ve avoided seeing familiar faces; the bitches I went to school with, the ones who wrote nasty things about me on the bathroom stalls. The boys who may or may not have felt me up behind the gym, but said they did anyway.
Mom and I moved around a whole lot when I was young, but as I turned twelve, she decided we needed to put down some roots and moved us to her home town. I remember being so excited; I’d get to grow up Scottish—be like mom! Get the cool accent and everything.
Yeah, maybe not. But at least I found Ivy. On the not so great side, I also found I’d never fit in.
She’ll turn out just like her ma, that one.
I can still hear the hushed conversations at the corner store and school bus stop. My mother is free spirited. Free with her loving. Or, as they called her at school, a slut.
While Ivy and I were both desperate to get out of this place as teenagers, my reasons were less about spreading my wings. I just needed to be out from under the weight of mom’s reputation. Not that I don’t love her—and I try not to judge—but it was hard growing up here.
So I’m nervous. Very nervous, but I haven’t confided in Ivy. She’s done enough for me already. What kind of friend would I be to say I can’t face a few hours working the front desk? She’s always been sweet and kind to most everyone. She’s one of those rare individuals people never fail to like, while I’m prickly and slightly awkward, though I hide it mostly behind a veneer ofI don’t give a fuck.Like most veneers, it’s only surface deep. Sticks and stones hurt more than words? Tell that to the girl living in a community of curtain twitchers, watching a revolving line of men from her mother’s bedroom door.
‘Well, you know what, bitches? She found her Prince Charming. She just happened to have fucked a whole lot of frogs.’
‘Who fucked frogs?’ Natasha joins me as I stare out at the rain soaked street. ‘Are there Frenchies about? I think I could get off just listening to them recite the alphabet.’
‘No Frenchmen,’ I reply with a sigh as Nat collects the morning’s mail from the doormat.
‘What about him?’ she asks, pausing from flicking through a pile of circulars. ‘Reckon he could be one of them French Canadian lumberjack blokes. I’d let him climb me.’
Huge drops of rain pound against the glass and bounce from the grey sidewalks outside. As I raise my gaze from the miniature river gathering in the gutter, taking in the lone figure crossing the street, clothing soaked to his skin. The weather is hardly an auspicious start for the salon, if you believe in that sort of thing, and it’s an awful day to be caught outside without a jacket or umbrella. As the rain-hazy figure draws nearer, I wonder whether the label Nat has given him is a nod to his clothing or the man himself. It could be either given his build and his dark, wet plaid shirt.
‘You cold?’
I shake my head in answer even as I rub my upper arms, the fine hairs there standing like pins.
‘Right, I’d better go switch on my wax pot. My first appointment’s due soon.’ Clutching the mail to her chest, Nat does a sort of excited jig on the spot. ‘You ready?’ she asks eagerly. Even though the answer is no, I nod. ‘Well, open the door then, numpty.’
‘Oh, right.’ With a frown and a sense of trepidation, I do. ‘Where’s Ivy?’ I ask Nat’s retreating form.
‘Still upstairs, burning sage and brewing success and harmony potions, probably,’ she answers without turning around.
The knot in my stomach lingers as I slide the locks on the door.
Flipping my long blonde braid over my shoulder, I begin fine-tuning the foliage in an expensive bowl of cabbage roses on the reception counter, when the bell above the door chimes.
I begin to turn. ‘Good—’ I begin in my best perkiest receptionist’s tone ‘—ass.’Thatis a good ass. A borderline great ass. A wet flannel shirt clings to his broad shoulders, a firm back tapering to a narrow waist, the wet denim below moulded tothat ass.
‘Sorry?’ he says, the bell ringing again as he turns from closing the door.
Nat’s first appointment is her lumberjack friend.My first thought isn’t too ridiculous.I’d climb that.It’s a pity my second isn’t so sane; my mind just filled with the ridiculous—I wonder what bits he’s having waxed and if she’ll need someone to hold her spatula.
And now he’s just looking at me. Smiling, sort of.
Speak the words, Fin. Sensible ones, if you please.
‘N-nothing,’ I reply belatedly, followed by an even perkier, ‘Hi! Good morning!’ Like this will somehow cancel out my previous words.
