One
Sunday 28thJuly
‘Quick. She’s freaking out,’ Chris said, as he ushered me in through the front door and straight up the stairs. My brother wasn’t great in a crisis, and neither was my dad.
‘Morning,’ I shouted through to the kitchen, where Dad was pacing back and forth.
‘Thank God you’re here!’ he called up, after me. ‘It must be bad, she won’t even let me in to see.’
I wasn’t worried. This wasn’t the first time I’d been brought in on a hair and beauty rescue mission.
‘Abi? Is that you?’ Mum squeaked as I knocked.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ I peered round the bedroom door to find my mum lying in bed, looking terrified. An orange face with bright white eyes, and a rubber duck shower cap covering her hair. A fake tan disaster of Oompa Loompa proportions. Much worse than I’d expected.
‘It won’t come off,’ she said, miserably, holding up her arms. ‘And the toner was supposed to pep up my peroxide, but it’s given me a purple rinse.’
‘Show me,’ I said, gently, one hand on my hip.
She took a deep breath and lifted the orange beak, a large pair of ducky eyes sliding backwards. Her hair was fag-ash grey, with a hint of lilac, and there was no other way to say it – she looked like a drag queen.
‘Mum! What happened? What were you thinking?’
‘I told you it was bad!’ she wailed, frantically. ‘I wanted a fresh look. To reimagine myself for the next ten years. I won’t hold on to your father if I don’t, you know.’
I thought of Dad downstairs, in his cardigan and slippers, barely a whisker on his head. A man who didThe Timescrossword every morning and took three sugars in his coffee, and tried to imagine a sex-crazed gaggle of OAPs wanting to snatch him away.
‘Harry Mason, lover-at-large. You’re right, Mum, he’s hot stuff, you need to watch out,’ I said, with a giggle.
‘This isn’t the time for jokes, Abigail,’ Mum snapped. ‘What am I going to do? We’ve got to be at The Ritz for 2 p.m.’
She peeled back the duvet to show me the full extent of the damage. Her skin was a sickly muddy orange, and she looked an absolute state. I glanced at the clock. 11 a.m. We had time. Chris and I had treated Mum and Dad to afternoon tea at The Ritz for their fortieth wedding anniversary and they’d been looking forward to it for months, but there was no way Mum could leave the house looking like this.
‘Did you put the baby oil on like I said?’
‘Yes,’ Mum said, despondently. ‘An hour ago. Will it work? Please, God, say it will.’
I nodded. It would be fine. The oil would get most of the tan off, and I’d do my best with her smoky hair. Worst case scenario, I could spray it gold and re-colour it another day. ‘It should have done its job by now, so let’s get you in the shower,’ I said, pulling a large, yellow bottle out of my bag and handing it over. ‘Once you’ve washed off those top layers, this lemon salt scrub will shift the rest of it.Elphabauses it six nights a week, and if it can de-green theWicked Witch of the West, I’m sure it can de-orange you.’
Mum did as she was told, scrubbing for her life, while I mixed up a colour gloss for her hair.
‘Coffee for the worker?’ Chris poked his head in and put a mug on the dresser.
‘Thanks,’ I said, eyeing his fox onesie. ‘Interesting choice of day wear, or are you still in your pyjamas?’
‘Got it in one,’ he said, fiddling with the zip. ‘I stayed here last night.’
‘Things still rocky with you and Em, then?’ I asked, my head on one side. Chris had the worst luck with women. He’d only been living with Em for three months and their relationship was already well and truly on the rocks.
‘Kinda,’ he said, with a flat shrug. ‘Women just don’t seem to understand my lifestyle choices, you know?’ Chris had been wallowing in a quarter-life crisis for the past couple of years so I could understand why.
‘It’s working!’ Mum shrieked from the shower. ‘It’s coming off!’
‘Brilliant! Now start scrubbing!’ I called, taking a sip of my coffee, and smiling at Chris. ‘Well, maybe it’s time to review some of those lifestyle choices, eh? Check they’re still working for you?’
‘Hmm… maybe. I’m staying here for a couple of days to give her some space, so we’ll see how it plays out.’
‘Comb this through your hair, Mum,’ I said, passing her the gloss. ‘Then leave it on while you do one last scrub, and wash everything off.’ I turned back to Chris and put my arm around him. ‘You need to get yourself organised, bro. No one wants an unemployed, sofa-surfing, liability of a boyfriend. No offence.’ I ruffled up his shaggy hair and flicked his ear.
