I head to the bathroom, where I stare critically at myself in the mirror. My face is pale and there are bluish smudges beneath my eyes. My skin isn’t too bad – a little dry around the eyes, and there are more lines there than I’d like. Not too bad for a working thirty-seven-year-old with two kids. My hair is shiny and sleek, but it has to be because it’s my job. I can’t go to work with bad hair. I’m not any worse looking than Madeline, am I?
I don’t even know why I’m going down this rabbit hole. I can’t believe I’m thinking these things. There could be any number of reasons why Toby and my sister-in-law met up today. So why did he lie to me? And why is Madeline not returning my calls or messages? Something’s up, and I need to find out what.
Seven
EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO
The rain lashes against the plate-glass windows as pedestrians are buffeted along the pavement, their clothes and hair frenziedly whipping around them. Inside, as I sweep the floor of the salon, the sound of the vile weather is drowned out by the whine of hairdryers and the thump of music.
I’ve had my Saturday job at Waves Salon for almost a year now, and it’s been great to earn my own money and have respite from studying. Especially now that it’s just me and Dad at home. Although it may as well just be me with all the conversation I get out of my father. I’m also trying to recover from the fact that my younger sister Dina has just gone off travelling. She only gave us one week’s notice that she was leaving, and Dad didn’t even seem that bothered about it. Just told her to stay out of trouble.
I can’t say I’m surprised that she left. She was always going on about how she couldn’t wait to get out of Shaftesbury. But it’s still a shock. Her leaving makes me feel like I’ve failed somehow. Like I’ve let her down. Like I’ve let Mum down. Like I didn’t do enough to keep our family together. I guess it’s kind of a slap in the face.
I could never imagine going off and leaving my home town. I love it here. I’m in the final year of A-levels at sixth form college, but my plan is to train as a hairdresser once I’ve finished. My boss, Jennifer, has agreed to take me on here full-time and I’m looking forward to it. Put it this way – I have no clue what else I’d do if I weren’t doing this.
One of our stylists, Debbie, beckons me over to wash her client’s hair, a smart-looking brunette woman who I vaguely recognise from college, although she isn’t one of my lecturers. The woman smiles and I lead her over to the basins at the rear of the salon. She puts her handbag on the floor by her feet and sits down in one of the leather chairs.
‘You go to the college, don’t you?’ she asks as I drape a towel over her shoulders.
‘Yes, I’m doing my A-levels.’
‘My name’s Sally Bennet. I run the marketing department there.’ She leans back over the basin.
‘I thought I’d seen you around. Is that comfortable for you?’
‘Yep, fine thanks.’
I switch on the shower head and let the water run for a moment before testing the temperature.
‘What A-levels are you doing?’ she asks.
‘English, Art and History.’ She’s obviously a talker. Some customers just want to relax while they’re having their hair washed. But other customers, like this lady, love to chat. Jennifer says we have to take our lead from them, and only talk if that’s what they want. I start soaking her hair. ‘Does that feel okay? Not too hot?’
‘No, you’re fine. You’d never believe it was May, would you? It’s horrible out there.’
‘I know. I’m not looking forward to walking home later.’
‘I read a piece about the salon in the local paper last week, written by one of the staff here I think. Do you know who that was?’
‘Oh, yes, that was me.’
‘Really?’ She pauses. ‘Well it was very professionally written.’
‘Thank you.’ It’s a good thing she can’t see my face, because I can feel my cheeks turning pink.
‘Did you have any help writing it?’ she asks.
‘Jennifer – she’s the owner –gave me a few bullet points to include. She knows I’m doing an English A-level and that I enjoy writing, so she let me do it.’
‘So the article was all your own work?’
‘Uh, yes.’ I turn off the water and reach behind for a bottle of coconut shampoo.
‘Impressive. The piece in the paper said you also organised a fundraiser recently.’
‘Yes, just after Christmas. The salon was a sponsor. It was in aid of the local cancer hospice.’ I squirt a couple of blobs of shampoo onto her wet hair and start massaging it into a lather.
‘That’s a great cause. How much did you raise in the end?’
