by Donna Alam
I should say something—agree or reply—but I can’t seem to find the words, my mind replaying snapshots of this thing. Of us. Of sex. Again.
‘Aye,’ he adds, his slow growing smile confirmation that he’s thinking the same thing. ‘It was definitely . . .’ His gaze flickers from mine, settling on my mouth. ‘Something else.’
My return smile is bashful, my vision now on Ivy’s bright blue boots.
‘I’d better go,’ I murmur, my gaze rising once more. ‘Time, tide and walks of shame wait for no woman, I suppose.’
‘Shame? I’ll be out there later, passing people and dishing out high-fives.’ And then he does something I’ve never seen done in real life, a sort of inhalation-teeth-kissing thing, as though I’m something tasty he’d gladly demolish, given half a chance. His eyes do one last sweep of appreciation over my body before physically rousing.
‘Did you say you rode over?’
‘I cycle, yeah.’
‘Let me grab my keys and I’ll drop you home.’
‘No,’ I say immediately, stopping his progress. ‘Really, it’s fine. It’s not even cold.’ My words are a brightly delivered lie, unsupported as I pull my jacket closed. ‘Besides, the ride over is the only exercise I get.’
He tilts his head to the side as though in study . . . of me. And then I realise what I’ve said.
‘A ride for exercise.’ Holy knicker melting tone. ‘Maybe I’ll have to work you over harder next time.’
Next time . I’d had no plans to see him after last time, viewing his reappearance in my life as fate’s strange gift. And now this one-time offer has doubled by some strange coincidence. Would it be safe to do him—I mean, see him—again?
I tell myself it’s the cold weather that’s stinging my cheeks and chest, reminding myself that this is dangerous territory.
‘Rory,’ I say sort of halting, because the man has determination written all over him. And isn’t he cold standing at the door in an open shirt? ‘I—I hadn’t counted on a second time.’
‘A fortunate happenstance.’ As though reading my thoughts he trails his hand from sternum to waist, sliding it into his jeans pocket. No fair. ‘Serendipitous, really.’
I swallow, then rub the back of my hand across my mouth in a less than ladylike manner before I speak. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘And happenstance programmed my number into your phone.’ Sliding his hand from his pocket he pulls out my iPhone, placing it into mine.
Determined. Definitely.
I make to step from the doorway and into the cool morning air when he grabs a handful of my jacket, pulling my back against his chest.
‘You’ll think about it,’ he says, his warm lips grazing my cheek, so I nod, knowing no good can come from opening my mouth right now. ‘In the meantime, don’t have too much fun without me, aye?’
I stumble from the small step dazzled by the feel of his warm chest, his brazenness or the weight in his words. Who can tell?
My feet crunch against the gravel and I don’t hear the door close, which probably means he’s still watching my ass. I try not to give him the satisfaction of my giggle, especially as it comes from a little left of terrified.
As I pedal across the causeway, I decide the fact that we haven’t exchanged stories beyond the basics, and that I’ve been more than vague about my reasons for being in the village, should give me a little peace. He might know to find me at the house or the salon, but not that I live above it. I’m happy to keep it that way.
Rousing myself, I give a brief shake of my head. No doubt he’ll be on his way soon enough.
Twenty-Six
Fin
I arrive back at the salon very wobbly legged, this time not just from cycling. Parking Ivy’s ancient turquoise bike against the shed door, I quickly jog up the back stairs to change my shoes. I also need to run the straightening iron through my hair and put on a little makeup, but both of those things I can do downstairs on the salon floor. One of the perks of the industry I suppose, though I can’t very well work the desk with nothing more than the wind in my cheeks. I notice my bangs are growing out pretty rapidly as I slick a little moisturiser over my face and make a mental note to ask Ivy to fit me in for a cut when she has time. This time I’ll actually be able to pay, if she’ll let me.
Ballet flats, a black shirt, and I’m ready for the reception desk, so enter the salon to be greeted by Nat’s complaints.
‘If I’d’ve known there was a uniform, I might’ve had second thoughts.’
‘Away with your complaining,’ returns Ivy. ‘It’s the same as you wore in the last place.’
‘Aye, but now I’m treatments manager, not just staff.’
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, rounding the corner. Ivy is tying on a tiny apron, mostly ignoring Nat’s contempt.
‘How come she’s no’ wearing the thing?’ Pointing a finger in my direction, Nat then runs it around the neck of her new tunic; black with a mandarin collar, she looks like a staff member of a five-star spa.
‘She’s not an employee. Besides, business casual works for the front desk. It’s professional,’ Ivy says as Nat begins to speak again. ‘Like your new uniform. And before you ask, no, you can’t wear it with your hot pants.’
‘It’s too fucking long for a kick off.’ Nat narrows her gaze. ‘And was that some kind of dig at my dress sense?’
‘Of course it’s not,’ I interject calmly. ‘If we had legs like you, we’d all dress like Jessica Rabbit.’ In a strip club.
‘I think I’d prefer to be compared to Jessica Jaynes.’
‘Who?’
‘If you have to ask, it’s no good me explaining,’ Nat replies with a huff.
‘Busty Babes,’ pipes up June from one of the salon stations. ‘I think that was one of her films.’ She twists a head full of old-fashioned hair-rollers over her shoulder, attempting to catch Nat’s eye. ‘Was I right?’
‘Seriously, June, it’s a bit creepy that you’re familiar with my porn collection.’
‘Is that what those files are?’ June asks, scandalised. ‘You dirty wee besom. I’ll remind you, you’re no too big for a skelped arse!’
‘Give over, Nan. I know fine well you’ve seen them as many times as I have.’
I make my way over to the reception counter before either of the pair notice my pink cheeks, having recently being at the receiving end of a skelped ass myself. Who’d have thought that would be something I’d enjoy? The pair continue to verbally duke it out, unconcerned about the presence of others. In their family they don’t believe in hiding crazy. Nope, they pour it a cuppa and tell it to pull up a chair.
The mail dropping onto the mat catches my attention, though I try hard to ignore the mailman waving from the other side of the glass door. The lecherous old toad .
‘He was definitely one of your mum’s less discerning choices,’ says Ivy, sidling up to me at the reception desk. I don’t look up though I nod.
‘Thomas Dawdon. He gave me the heebie-jeebies while he and mom were dating.’
‘He used to look at your bum,’ Ivy says. ‘I saw. You can look up now. He’s gone.’
‘Here.’ I pass her a couple envelopes addressed to Ivy personally.
‘Shove them in the drawer, would you? I’ve got to check June’s perm.’
‘Oh, how the mighty have fallen, eh?’
‘Pays the bills, babe,’ she replies. ‘And a bit more glam than your other job. Bricklayer, wasn’t it?’
‘What, with these nails?’ I flash her my recently manicured hands.
‘How was yesterday, anyway?’
‘In teresting,’ 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 a spot 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 been catching up , which basically meant she’s bored Ivy and I with tales of her life with her husband—who seems to be called my 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 to keep me company . I could seriously write her biography, she’s talked for so long. My Lloyd is 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, or Malady , 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?’ From poor Fin to 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 her what the fuck look, 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.’
‘Yeah, that. Leave poor June alone. Did you see the face on her as she handed over her gold credit card, like she was hot shizz?’
‘I used to have a black one myself.’
‘Next time she makes me show her what an inch of hair looks like I’ll get the clippers out!’
‘Shall I destroy her customer card?’ I ask, fanning it in the air. I don’t suppose there’s much chance of her coming back, despite leaving with fabulous hair.
‘Oh, she’ll be back,’ Ivy mutters, staring out into the darkening street. ‘Said she wanted hair like Scarlet Johansen and I told her I could totally do that, seeing as I’d done her hair before.’
‘You did the blonde bombshell’s hair?’
She nods. ‘Last year. On location.’ She turns to look at me. ‘The movie’s out later this year.’
‘I know what location means! How come you’ve never mentioned her?’ I thought I knew all the stars she’d worked with. Come to think of it, she didn’t mention Dylan Duffy, either. At least, not until Nat did.
Ignoring me, Ivy begins to tidy her work station. ‘We need to get a Saturday girl. Or a first year trainee. I think we might need more staff—’
‘You loved your job. I know you did. I just wish I knew why you’re back here.’ I push the morning’s mail into her hand as I pass, pulling out the sweeping brush from the cupboard.
‘I’ve just checked the Book-Face thing,’ says June as she breezes in. ‘There are lots of positive comments and reviews from this week. Oh, and Natasha says she’s just doing a wee bit of housekeeping and that she’ll be through soon. Was there any—why, whatever’s the matter, dearie?’
I look up from sweeping at June’s worried tone.
‘Here, sit yourself in yon chair, you’re looking awfully peely-wally.’ She holds the back of her hand to Ivy’s cheek, concern making a v of her eyebrows. ‘Overworking yourself, no doubt. Fin, hen,’ she says, lifting her head. ‘Would you get her a glass of water?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Ivy looks to be in a state of shock as she lifts her head from her correspondence, the fingers gripping the paper are almost bloodless. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock. I . . . I have to go back to the States.’
‘Why, whatever for?’ clucks June, smoothing Ivy’s hair away from her forehead.
‘A . . . contractual thing. Something I thought I could do from here,’ she adds quietly.
‘And you can’t. Sort it from here, I mean?’
Ivy’s mouth is grim as she shakes her head. ‘I’ll need to close the place until I get back.’
‘Nonsense,’ says June. ‘You’ll leave it to us. Didn’t you say you’d already interviewed a nice young man for a job?’
‘But if I’m not going to be here—’
‘We’ll be fine, won’t we, Fin?’
‘Of course. Whatever you need.’
‘But your job—’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Truth is, I’ve mainly been hanging out and hiding over there. ‘But will you be?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You look scared stiff, Ivy.’
‘Right,’ says Natas
ha, suddenly appearing by the side of Ivy’s chair. ‘Who do I need to kill?’
Twenty-Seven
Fin
Driving Ivy’s battered Fiat, I take her to Glasgow airport very early the following Tuesday hoping to get to the bottom of Saturday’s mail; the catalyst of her sudden trip. Lord knows I’ve tried to get her to open up over the weekend, but she’s been so closed lipped. To my shame, I’d even gone as far as sneaking into her room to search for clues, or rather, the letter, only to be rumbled when she’d walked in. The worst of it is she seemed too distracted to recognise I’d given her a bullshit excuse.
‘You’ll message me when you arrive?’ I ask again, anxiety creeping into my tone as Ivy turns her gaze from the passenger side window.
‘For the twentieth time, yes,’ she replies wearily. ‘And once more, just for your benefit, I already have a hotel room booked and I’ll be getting a cab there straight from the airport. No murderous hitchhiking for me.’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘And I’ll be sure not to talk to any strange men on the flight,’ she says, ignoring me. ‘Or in the airport, and I definitely won’t pop to the loo and leave my glass unattended. I don’t want to get roofied and ravished in economy class. I have lived and travelled on my own, remember. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me.’
I don’t need to be clairvoyant to know this is untrue; there’s something going on. I just don’t know what.
‘I really can’t see why you couldn’t have gotten a lawyer involved. This contract bullshit seems very . . . well, bullshitty.’
‘Trust me,’ she says, turning away once again. ‘This is the best way. The only way.’
‘But best way to what? That’s what I don’t understand. I know I’ve been a mess the last few months, but don’t think I haven’t noticed . . . noticed you .’ The lack of lightness that usually surrounds her. The negativity with which she seems to paint all men. ‘You’re not yourself, and sometimes when I look at you, you seem to be almost shimmering.’