‘Interesting,’ I say, hesitantly. Thankfully, the bell above the door chimes meaning I don’t have to elaborate.
I wasn’t lying—not exactly—when I told Rory I’d be too busy for lunch, but I hadn’t expected it to be this busy. June calls back late afternoon following her meeting at the Scottish Women’s Institute, bringing a much desired fruitcake for aspot o’ afternoon tea. Popping into the tiny kitchen, she makes said tea for all and sundry, though she refuses to touch Ivy’s newly acquired coffee machine.
I’m hoping the fruitcake is really chewy as it’ll give Melody, Ivy’s final client of the day, something else to occupy her gums. I might not have seen her since she and her boyfriend got into a post-fight-make-out session all those years ago, but she’s already getting on my last nerve.
For the last hour we’ve beencatching up, which basically meant she’s bored Ivy and I with tales of her life with her husband—who seems to be calledmy Lloyd—along with her fat little offspring. Looking like something the aliens have beamed down, given her head full of foil, she’s decided to stand by the reception desk tokeep me company. I could seriously write her biography, she’s talked for so long.My Lloydis apparently the assistant manager at the bank at the end of the High Street, and her youngest was born just two months ago—Granny’s looking after the wee bairn to give mummy a break—and Melody, orMalady, suffered the most terrible episiotomy, which I now wished I hadn’t googled on my phone.
‘Ocht, but I feel so bad going on about how blessed my life has been while Fin here is suffering.’ This she announces dramatically to the almost empty salon.
Fin certainly is suffering. From earache. All those fake sympathies she spouts are unfortunately not drowned out even by a turbo hairdryer.
‘It must be terrible to be widowed so young. A foreigner, wasn’t he?’ she asks, turning to Ivy now, faux discreet.
‘English,’ responds Ivy to a twist of Malady’s mouth.
‘Well, it was good of you to give her a job.’ Through the mirror I watch the woman engage the sum of her brain cells.All two dozen of them. ‘Didn’t she go to some flash London university?’
‘Yeah. First class honours degree. She always was really smart.’
Book smart, life dumb, more like.
‘It’s good she’s come home so we can look after her. Maybe I can help coax her out of her shell, once it’s time. The poor love does look terrible in those mourning clothes.’
I keep my head bent over the appointment book to hide my smile. I wonder if she’d consider the black lace Agent Provocateur set I’m wearing as appropriate mourning attire, too.
‘Well, the sooner we get her back into society the better. I’ll invite her around for coffee next week. Introduce her to my wee ones.’
Dream on. I’d rather become a hermit than commit to that kind of society. I’m becoming babysitting fodder for no one.
‘I don’t think she’ll be around long enough, to be honest, Mal—M—Melody. She has the chance of a job down in London. Something corporate.’
‘Well, who’s going to man your reception desk when business is so new?’ Frompoor Finto the girl leaving her friend in the lurch. I can’t win.
‘I expect we’ll cope. Most salons do.’
‘You know,’ Malady says, changing the subject as Ivy coaxes her back into the chair. ‘When I popped in the other day to book my appointment, I didn’t like to say—and I hope you don’t mind me doing so now,’ she adds, with a sycophantic smile. ‘But the old lady who brought in cake earlier...’
‘June,’ supplies Ivy pleasantly, encouraging her to position her neck against the basin.
‘Don’t you think... well, that maybe, she’s no’ quite the demographic you should be aiming for?’
‘June has been coming to this place to get her hair styled since before I was born.’
‘Aye, when it belonged to Agnes Riley. All the grannies did. But now this place would rival any city centre salon.’
‘That’s kind of you to say.’ For all her thanks, Ivy’s response is pretty bland as she begins sliding the first of the foils from Melody’s hair.
‘And high end salons don’t cater for old ladies, Ivy.’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree. Everyone’s welcome here, especially if they bring cake.’ Ivy shoots me herwhat the fucklook, but I can only shrug.
‘Very well, I didn’t want to, but I’m just going to come out and say it.’ She clutches the ends of the towel across her chest, her tone terse. ‘When she came in earlier she smelled of wee.Ow!’ Her grip on the towel loosened, she brings a hand to her head. ‘Careful! You’ll have me bald, pulling my hair like that!’
‘Sorry,’ Ivy murmurs, discarding the final foil, and possibly a chunk of hair. ‘But beauty hurts sometimes. And sometimes it just plain stinks.’ Personally, I think she’s lucky not to be getting a soaking from the hose as Ivy begins washing her hair. ‘Because the odour was the result of June’s perm.’ For an encore, she slaps a wad of shampoo on Melody’s head and begins rubbing vigorously.
‘Sleekit bitch,’ Ivy mutters later, locking the front door as Melody leaves. ‘The nerve of it. How dare she be all... sobsequious—’
‘Obsequious.’
