‘It is. Do you want to make a booking?’ He sounds rushed, irritated. Like I’ve interrupted him. His impatience makes me stutter.
‘Uh, no. No thanks. I, uh… Do you have someone staying there called Dina Williams? She’s my sister and I can’t get through on—’
‘You mean Dee?’
‘Short, with long brown hair, blue eyes.’
‘Yeah. English chick. Worked here last year. Bolshy.’
That sounds like Dina. ‘I didn’t realise she worked there. Is she around? Can I talk to her? Tell her it’s Zoe.’
‘Like I said, she worked here last year, but she’s not here anymore.’
‘Oh. Well, do you know where she went? Do you have a forwarding address or number?’
‘All I know is she said she was heading home to the UK.’
‘Really? The UK?’ He must be mistaken. ‘Do you know when that was? Was it before Christmas?’
‘Way before that. Can’t remember exactly, but it was months ago.’
Months ago? That doesn’t sound right. ‘Would anyone else there have an address for her? It’s just… her phone isn’t working, and I haven’t been able to get in touch.’
‘No, none of us knew any more than what she told us.’
‘Can you ask around? See if she mentioned a place to anyone else?’
His sigh travels down the phone line.
‘Please.’
‘Let me have your number. I’ll ask, but I doubt anyone knows. No offence but she wasn’t exactly the most likable person.’
‘Oh, right.’ Back home, Dina always had a chip on her shoulder. She was never easy to get on with. But I somehow assumed that after she went off travelling, she’d managed to find some peace. That she was off having fun. I’m a little sad to discover she hadn’t been liked. At least not by these guys. Sure, her messages to me are never particularly long. And they’re mainly in response to me checking to see if she’s okay. But I always imagined she was having a good time – making friends, having amazing experiences, maybe even finding love or romance. To hear this guy speak so badly of her makes me feel a bit sad, and defensive on her behalf.
‘Sorry,’ the man sounds apologetic. ‘You’re her sister, I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘I know she might not be the most outgoing person in the world but, like you said, she is my sister, so I’d like to know that she’s okay.’
‘Yeah, of course. I’ll ask around. I’m Matt, by the way. What’s your number?’
I give him my details and hang up, not holding out much hope that he’ll call me back. I wonder if it’s true that she came back to the UK last year. Or maybe it’s just what she told him. If they weren’t friends, then it’s quite probable she lied about coming home. When I last spoke to Dina before the wedding, she was apologetic about not being able to fly back, so I’m sure she was still in Thailand. But what if she was lying to me? What if she’s in England and she doesn’t want me to know?
Seventeen
NOW
I take the phone from Jennifer and look down at the screen. It’s Cassie’s regular online magazine column. My heart plummets as I read the headline:
When Hairdressers Attack
Below are side-by-side colour photos of Cassie Barrington – one of her looking happy and glamorous with her long golden locks. The other of her wearing a crumpled sweatshirt and no make-up, looking glum with her new short haircut that’s completely messed up and un-styled. My whole body fills with reluctant understanding and dread as I start to read:
It’s everyone’s worst nightmare, and this week it happened to me. Not so much a bad hair day, as a catastrophic one. It happened when I was back visiting my cosy little hometown of Shaftesbury in Dorset, super-excited to catch up with my school pals and visit all my childhood haunts. I love living in London, but I’ve been yearning for a bit of simplicity, not to mention my dad’s home-cooked meals (he’s a far better cook than my mother – sorry, Mum, but you know it’s true). I’ve been eating out locally, shopping in cute country boutiques, and I thought while I’m here, I’d visit one of the hairdressing salons – support local businesses, and all that jazz.
I was a little nervous to place my trust in someone else’s scissors, as my own stylist has been cutting my hair for years. You know how it is when you find a good one – you never let them go, you’d follow them to the ends of the earth! Anyway, this particular local salon has a great rating online and I’ve known some of the staff for years, which is part of the reason why I decided to go there in the first place – I knew it would be good for their business to have a customer like me, someone who’s in the public eye.
What I wasn’t expecting was that their jealousy of my success would lead to the situation in which I now find myself. That is, without my trademark mane of hair that I’ve had since I was a teen. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m crying as I type this.
