How to Say Goodbye

by Katy Colins

  ‘Red?’ I stuttered.

  ‘Yes, darling. Rrrrrred. It is in this season. Trrrrrust me.’ He didn’t give me a second to doubt his creative skills as he leant his head back and roared across the sound of hairdryers. ‘Verity!’ The big-bunned, big-eyed girl scurried across. ‘Get Miss Salmone to the preparation area. We’re going rrrrrred!’

  ‘Wonderful choice, Andre,’ she simpered as he flamboyantly strode off. ‘You are so lucky! He is going to make you look, like, so incredible. You won’t recognise yourself!’

  Andre was soon back with a small dish and a slim paintbrush in his hand, ferociously whisking the bright dye mixture.

  I tried to find my voice. ‘When you said red… did you mean like the odd strawberry-blonde strand?’

  ‘Shhh, Andre is at work now. Verity, get Miss Salmone some literature to relax with.’

  Verity dropped a stack of new fashion magazines onto my lap and went to refill my fruity water drink.

  Take a deep breath, Grace. You are very lucky to be here.

  Forty minutes and a magazine later, I was sure some of the people in the ‘Spotted’ section of the magazine had been at Abbie’s funeral. There were a lot of similar-looking Chanel jackets and logoed handbags. Andre had returned and ordered Verity to wash the colour off. I’d been so engrossed in a feature on beautiful women and their beautiful handbags, I’d half forgotten where I was.

  ‘Every woman knows the secret to happiness is hanging off her arm, or across her body, or in the clutch of her hand. Handbags are the one accessory that makes or breaks an outfit. They are an expression of who we are and where we belong. As Nora Ephron famously said: “… your purse is, in some absolutely horrible way, you…” It’s where fashion meets function and a nod to personal style and social status…’

  I glanced down at the bag tucked beneath my feet, my Safest Bag in The World™. I’d read a report which said that bag-slashing was sweeping the nation, so had invested in the expensive bag with a thick, inbuilt layer of cut-proof material, secret zips and a pocket for my rape alarm. I’d only just bought it but, looking at the glitzy handbags and the happy women holding them and grinning in ecstasy, maybe I was missing out? Maybe Grace Salmone deserved a shiny bag for her shiny hair?

  ‘Follow me!’ Verity beckoned, breaking my thoughts, instructing me to lie back on the reclined chair over the sink.

  I was soon lost in follicle euphoria as Verity ran her nimble fingers across my scalp, massaging in lavender shampoo. Abbie had clearly trusted Andre so I needed to do the same. What if Verity is right and I don’t recognise myself? I thought as she vigorously kneaded in candy floss-scented conditioner. But isn’t that the whole point of being here? Verity led me back to where Andre was waiting, slim silver scissors in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.

  ‘Ok.’ Andre paused as I sat back down, fingers under the big fluffy towel-turban that was hiding the new Grace Salmone. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. ‘Now…’ He whipped off the towel with a flourish and as he did, vibrant red locks tumbled down; thick, wet strands slapping my cheeks.

  ‘Wow!’ Verity squealed and clapped her hands together. Andre gave a slight smile then ushered his helper to stand back.

  ‘It’s really… red!’ I couldn’t stop gawping at my reflection. A pale-faced woman with big eyes and hair the colour of a damp letterbox was staring back at me. Andre brandished his scissors. The soft snipping sound woke me from my stunned silence.

  ‘Just, just a slight trim? I really think the colour alone is enough of a change…’

  No one was going to recognise me. No one was going to recognise me! I repeated that thought with a slight smile. I tried to let Andre work his magic, telling myself that whatever style he wanted to go for – bar a Bic razor – was going to be fine. It’s only hair, it will grow back. He swiftly turned on the hairdryer, its turbo sounds blocking out the rising anxiety in my stomach that said that there was no way I, Grace Salmon, could pull off a traffic-stopping shade of red.

  But perhaps Grace Salmone could…

  Ten minutes later Andre switched off the hairdryer. ‘Cover your eyes for the hairspray. I tell you when it is OK to open.’

  I obeyed, making sure to shut my lips from the noxious chemicals.

  ‘OK… annnnnnd open!’

  I kept one eye shut as the other nervously flickered open. I inhaled sharply. The mousy brown mid-length hair I’d walked in with, the same style I’d had for about thirty-three years, was now a deep rich shade of red, that bobbed perfectly on my shoulders. It was full of volume, a glossy shine, and looked ridiculously healthy considering the dye and ozone-layer-destroying products on it. I blinked. Nope, it was still me.

  ‘So, Miss Salmone. Happy?’ Andre purred, running his fingers through the ends. They seemed to spring back to his touch. Verity was sniffing loudly behind me – was she crying? I couldn’t take my eyes off my reflection to check. My skin looked brighter, my eyes sparkled and my fingers instinctively went to stroke my new do.

  ‘No!’ Andre batted my hand away. ‘You leave it like this. Like this is perfection.’

  I nodded blindly and let him spin me halfway on my chair so I could stand up. Verity took my robe, shaking off tendrils of red onto the shiny floor. I numbly followed her to the tills, giving Andre a brief wave.

  I must have been in a state of shock as when the pretty receptionist told me how much the experience cost, I handed over my bank card, assuming I’d misheard her. I tried to tell myself that this feeling, one I could understand Abbie getting addicted to, was priceless.

  *

  Back home, I knew that Andre had said not to touch it, or I’d ruin the lines or something, but I couldn’t help myself. I felt elated at what I’d achieved, tinged with the tiniest edges of disgust at how much I’d spent to achieve it. But future-Grace could worry about the bank statement. Today was about Grace Salmone and her bouncy new do. I felt like this hair deserved cocktails and dancing. It didn’t deserve to be sat in with a battered copy of Jane Eyre and thermal pyjamas.

  But, who was I going to go for cocktails with? It was like painting a house; when you finished one room you realised just how grubby and unloved the rest of it was. I still needed to do a lot of work on the rest of me. It was plain to see that I needed to get some friends – OK, a friend. I powered up my laptop. I knew where friends were ready and waiting, if I had the courage to find them.

  You have a new notification, Facebook helpfully told me. Tina Salmon wants to be friends! I ignored my mum’s request and clicked on the search bar.

  I hadn’t spoken to my ‘best friend’ since I left London. I knew that I shouldn’t, nothing good could come of it, yet I did it anyway. I typed in Tasha Birtwell. There were sixteen matches that popped up, but only one of them had worked at Cooper & Co. I clicked on it. She looked different. Older, obviously, her long chestnut hair was messily piled on her head. She had also put on quite a bit of weight and was cuddling a toddler, their similar pudgy faces beaming at the camera. Tasha Birtwell was a mother? The party-girl that was always up for a laugh, now the mum of a little girl?

  I’d always imagined we would have had our babies at the same sort of time. Sharing maternity leave, enjoying coffee mornings with our cherubs and swapping tales of sleepless nights. We would have done it all together, that’s what best friends do – right?

  Her profile wasn’t set to private so I soon had access to a snapshot of her life over the past five years. I thought I’d feel more, seeing her smiling face and silly expression beaming up at me. That biting, nauseating feeling was certainly there at the pit of my stomach, but not as ferocious as I’d imagined it might be. She’d lost the title of being my best friend, snatching the promised future we’d imagined we’d share together. And all because of him.

  I needed to close her page down. Stop haunting myself with what could have been. My old wounds were stinging. A lot of her profile page was full of baby-related spam. Blurry photos from toddler mornings she’d been to, reques
ts for advice on potty training and the odd selfie with a glass in hand.

  Yay. It’s Friday! Mummy deserves a drink #Wineoclock

  I clicked my mouse on the next photo but the screen didn’t change. I then realised that I’d accidentally liked it. The photo was quite well hidden in the depths of one of her photo albums, one of her and her daughter at the zoo, in front of the lion enclosure. A flush of heat rose up my body as I clicked unlike. Would she see that I’d done that? Would Facebook send a message telling her that I’d been perusing her page and liking her photos? Oh my god. I was just about to close my laptop when another image stopped me in my tracks.

  It was one Tasha had posted from a Timehop, captioned.

  Best days of my life – pre-kids of course!

  The photo was five years old. My mouth filled with saliva looking at the candid, unfiltered shot.

  In an instant I could feel the weight of his arm around my shoulders. His aftershave filling my nostrils when he leant forward, laughing at something Tasha’s boyfriend had said. His teeth were the most perfect shade of white I’d ever seen. He had a small dimple in his chin that I hadn’t noticed until that very moment, highlighted under the disco lights of the awards ceremony after-party. It was the first time in my life that I’d felt like I belonged. My eyes flew over the faces of people I’d known, people that were now complete strangers, huddled together, champagne flutes in their raised hands. That feeling of togetherness.

  It had been Tasha’s idea to have a group photo. Herding up our colleagues so someone could capture the moment. I’d forgotten it existed. It was one of the very few photos of us together. Henry hated having his photo taken, but in that moment, lubricated by disgusting sambuca shots when we’d won Team of the Year, he’d lost those inhibitions and jumped in at the last minute.

  I didn’t recognise myself, even with the old dull mousy hair and awful attempt at using some of Tasha’s make-up. I remembered she’d laid out all her eyeshadows and lip glosses in the ladies’ loos as we’d got ready. Laughing gently at me because I didn’t know how to use a pair of torturous-looking eyelash curlers. I’d desperately tried to fit in, to be as carefree as the rest of them.

  Without thinking, I moved closer to the screen and gently pressed the pad of my thumb across his face. He looked so young. We all did. I had my face slightly turned away from the camera and in his direction.

  I clicked on the names of the people tagged in the photo. Only Henry and I were missing. A part of me wondered if people, outsiders, would assume we were a secretive couple who preferred to keep things private. Everyone else’s pages showed they were in a relationship, or married, or they had a baby in their profile picture. Even Tasha’s ex from back then was smugly coupled up, and he had a face only a mother could love. Thinking about that group shot, there was still an obvious thing missing from my life. As much as I’d hoped to prove my mum and Ms Norris wrong, I was a little lonely being single.

  With my new look, I needed a new life. A new attitude. Henry had controlled my head for long enough. Maybe it was time to put myself out there? I felt buoyed with the confidence that my new hair gave me, so I took a deep breath and googled.

  Looking to meet singles in your area?

  Links to different dating sites filled my screen. It didn’t take me long to realise I’d made a huge mistake. I clicked on a couple of site and was soon scrolling down near identical pages of near identical men.

  Topless pics. Illiterate men with a penchant for flexing their biceps. Heavily filtered selfies. Cheesy, pun-filled profiles. It was just too much. I closed the laptop down and took my new hair to bed.

  Chapter 15

  I was just laying out a tray of rock cakes when I heard the door open. Ms Norris walked into the church hall. She spotted me and stopped in her tracks, looking around uncertainly.

  ‘Hi, Ms Norris,’ I said.

  ‘Oh hello dear! I’m sorry, lovey, I still can’t get used to you as a redhead.’

  I smiled. It had been over a month, and I too kept being surprised by my reflection.

  ‘I have to say, I’ve been really looking forward to this evening. It’s becoming a highlight of my week!’ She chuckled. She’d swapped her Friday morning catch-ups for this weekly group a couple of weeks back. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much these sessions are helping everyone who attends already. Just look at young Marcus.’

  I glanced at the scruffy teenager who was pocketing the rock cakes I’d made.

  ‘He’s definitely got a spring in his step since the first time we met him.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I mused. ‘Do you think so?’

  She nodded dramatically.

  ‘So, Grace, I’ve been meaning to ask: this new look isn’t for a new man is it?’ My cheeks flamed under her playful stare. You had to avoid Ms Norris’s eyes when she looked at you like that. She had this ability to catch a whiff of a lie before it even formed around your tongue.

  ‘You know me, I’m not really looking…’

  A millisecond later I imagined Daniel Sterlings’s face in my mind’s eye. What was wrong with me?! After Abbie’s funeral I’ll admit that I had looked him up online. I’d liked his Facebook business page where he shared photos of his finished pieces, along with a pithy sentence or two.

  Inspiration comes from where you least expect it #openyoureyes

  A sense of satisfaction is born from the simplest of forms

  Check out this month’s Home and Interiors magazine as I feature in their list of 40 under-40 designers to watch – made up to be included in this!

  I’m no art buff but I could appreciate the time and love he poured into his pieces. He had 1.2k likes. I had been half-tempted to send him a friendly message, but decided against it. He must have left the wake quite soon after Callum had finished giving his speech. I’d looked for him but he wasn’t there to say goodbye to.

  ‘You mustn’t leave it too late,’ continued Ms Norris. ‘You need to get out there.’ She finally took her eyes off me and wandered over to say hello to Raj who’d just walked in.

  I put Daniel out of my mind and clapped my hands for everyone’s attention. We had got a little better at starting on time. I had decided to take my role more seriously. We may not have had the huge numbers that I’d hoped for turning up every week, but Ms Norris was right, these Ask A Funeral Arranger sessions were helping those that came. Marcus did have a slight spring in his step and Deano definitely smiled a little more. If this was going to be worth everyone’s time, then it made sense to treat it with more professionalism. Tonight, we had a schedule. I’d thought of some topics relating to grief and funerals to get us started. I had also had some laminated posters made that I was going to stick around town later, and a Welcome sign that I’d placed outside the front door. Ms Norris had thankfully not repeated her idea of a flash mob to encourage more people to join us.

  ‘If you have a topic you’d like us to cover then please write it down and pop it in the box on your way out. It can be anonymous, of course.’ I smiled at the familiar faces who had taken their seats, handing out pens and pieces of paper.

  ‘Feel like I’m back at school,’ Deano grinned, before jotting something down, his tongue peeking out of the right corner of his mouth.

  Ms Norris smiled at me encouragingly. ‘I’ve got one: how to give yourself permission to grieve. It’s all too easy to bottle emotions up, isn’t that right, Grace?’

  ‘Er, yeah. I’ll add it to the list,’ I said, fixing my eyes on the notepad on my lap. ‘So, I guess I should start by asking how everyone’s week went?’

  ‘I didn’t get any detentions,’ Marcus said, proudly.

  ‘Do you usually have problems with school?’ Ms Norris asked.

  Marcus shrugged. ‘Not before, well, before my grandma… you know.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘But yeah, I think I have got in trouble a bit more. It’s never my fault though!’ he was quick to add.

  ‘Do you feel angry about what happened?’

  ‘Y
eah. I do,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I think that’s perfectly normal,’ said Raj. ‘Of course you’re going to feel angry when someone you love has gone and is never coming back.’

  ‘I went to town on an old guitar I had lying around,’ Deano said, a proud sort of smile on his pale face. ‘Proper rock star moment.’

  ‘If you don’t let it out in some way or other then it will eat you up forever,’ Ms Norris said.

  I shifted on my chair. ‘I guess the best solution is to find a way of release that doesn’t get you or anyone else into trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, my mam said that too,’ Marcus sighed.

  Deano raised a hand again. ‘I also took your advice, Grace, and joined some of the Bowie fan pages on Facebook. To be honest I couldn’t believe how many people were on there, all like me. It’s mad, really.’

  ‘And is that helping at all?’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah, it’s alright. And for once I’m not the biggest Bowie fan.’

  I sat back in my chair listening to them swap stories with a huge smile on my face.

  *

  I was about to make a start when I heard a tentative knock at the door. A sallow slip of a forty-something woman nodded her head to say hello as she peeled her hand off the door handle and stepped into the room. She was wearing a mustard-yellow jacket that only magnified how pale and taut with emotion her face was. Her sunken eyes were bloodshot and marked by deep bags. She looked utterly exhausted.

  ‘Come in!’ I sang, probably a little too manically at the newcomer. ‘Welcome, take a seat.’ I hurried to drag a chair over and place it in the gap next to Deano. ‘I’m Grace, I’m a funeral arranger and…’

  The woman had barely sat down before she began to cry. Her thin, shaking hands clutched at the remnants of a tissue that she dabbed at the tip of her red, glistening nose.

  ‘Do you need a moment?’ I asked softly, aware that this poor lady was being stared at by everyone in the room. She nodded and tried to catch her breath.

  ‘Ok, so, er, Marcus, why don’t you tell us how you’ve been feeling this week?’