Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets

by Jessica Fox

  I scooped some haggis onto my fork and took a bite. A meaty, nutty flavour of roughage swirled in my mouth; it was delicious, salty and quirky, with smooth and rough textures mixing together. Every forkful was incredibly filling, like swallowing heavy mud. I cleared only half my plate and Euan looked disappointed.

  Despite his solitary habits, Euan had been particularly attentive that week, cooking in between my efforts, taking me out to do things, filling the firewood basket and sharing his home. I didn’t want him to think I was unappreciative of all his effort.

  Taking a deep breath, I rallied my appetite and pulled the plate closer, scooping up large mouthfuls of dinner until the other half was finished.

  Euan tilted his head, amused. “So you like haggis?”

  “It’s delicious, I just have a food baby.” I put my hand on my belly, now swollen. “I don’t think I can eat for another week.”

  Euan’s eyes darkened, suddenly pensive. “You know, you’re the first woman who really has lived here, I mean, full-time.”

  “Oh.” I said, shifting uncomfortably. I wondered if “full-time” wasn’t said with a hint of trepidation. “Well, I’m really liking it.”

  Euan took a sip of wine.

  “Are you liking having me here?”

  “Of course,” he replied, nodding, and quickly stood up, clearing my plate. It was an unfair question; what else is a kind, polite person going to say?

  I watched as Euan leaned his tall, slim frame against the sink and wondered why I had been the first of his girlfriends to make a home with him above the Bookshop. Was it the isolation? The lack of heat? The wrong time, place, person? Or was there something more complicated hidden under Euan’s calm surface?

  “It must be a big change for you, having me here?”

  Euan shrugged. I watched as he poured himself another glass of wine.

  “This is an experiment, you know,” I continued. “You’re not stuck with me. If ever you felt it wasn’t working, I’d leave.”

  Euan laughed. “I know you would – ‘take me to the airport, Euan’,” he said, feigning a high-pitched girly tone, and I rolled my eyes. He walked over to the table, slowly, never taking his eyes off mine. “But it’s just not that simple for me, Jessy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a ditherer.”

  Silence quickly descended between us. I wasn’t completely sure what he meant, but whatever a ditherer was, I felt as if Euan had just handed me a big piece to a puzzle.

  My eyes searched the room. Outside the cold dark night was creating ice-crystals on the window, making the dimly lit kitchen look bright and warm. Over on the refrigerator, I spied a new picture of Euan and me on top of Cairnsmore. He must have put that up a couple of days ago but it was only now that I noticed it. It was held on with a small magnet, and I could see our smiling faces staring at me. Looking at it, I couldn’t help smiling back. The kitchen, in that moment, no longer felt like his kitchen, but ours. I had my bit of string added to the nest.

  Chapter 31

  “Beauty before me, beauty behind me, beauty to the right of me, beauty to the left of me, beauty above me, beauty below me, I am on the pollen path.” – Navajo saying interpreted by Joseph Campbell, THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES: Folklore and mythology section, front room, second bookshelf on the right.

  Feeling at home in a new place is not just about loving the landscape or understanding the language, but is also accomplished, as superficial as it may sound, by establishing important creature comforts: a hairdresser, a good place for waxing and, being Jewish (and American), a good doctor. This holy trilogy, symptomatic of my middle-class Bostonian upbringing, was at the forefront of my mind as December extended its chilly fingers and I stood, shaking with cold, attempting to trim my hipster fringe in front of the mirror, between great white puffs of breath.

  In Los Angeles I had made an effort to feel fabulous, a valuable lesson from Rose that I did not want to forget just because I was in a remote corner of Scotland. I especially needed to feel fabulous today. I was not only teaching my first – and Wigtown’s first – yoga class, but tonight I would be going to my first dinner party. Hosted by clients of Euan who would often give him first editions of anthologies to sell at auction, it was black tie only and our first big social engagement as a couple. In the unlikely event that word had not yet reached those attending that I had returned, tonight they would be in for a surprise.

  The invitation had come on cream-coloured card with fancy silver lettering, and to my delight, I had seen my name included next to Euan’s. I had not yet become acclimatised to calling Euan my boyfriend, but seeing us together on paper reminded me that we were already linked, at least in some of the community’s eyes. Drinks were to be served from seven till eight, at which point there would be dinner, then dancing. Though I hadn’t seen exactly what posh meant (a word we didn’t have in the States), this invitation looked like the definition of it. The highlight for me was that it was to be hosted on an estate, with ruins in the grounds dating back to medieval times.

  My hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I held the scissors up to my forehead. It was useless to try and cut my own hair. With a day already full of appointments, perhaps I could fit in a haircut too. If the local barber could see me this morning, I’d have just enough time to make it to the doctor’s office down the road, and then Euan had agreed to drive me to my waxing appointment. It had felt strange asking Euan to take me, since you always wanted a new boyfriend to believe that your manicured beauty was entirely natural – not the result of hours of painful waxing and tweezing. However, not having a car had limited my options and offered many perks too. The hassle of parking had disappeared, along with the petrol bills; and not spending a quarter of my day stuck in traffic was still a novelty.

  The only spa in an hour’s radius that claimed it could do a full wax was a tiny little place 40 minutes away called Kelly’s Studio. Set in a sleepy little village, the studio offered all kinds of treatments and alternative therapies.

  Kelly herself had answered the phone. “And what kind of treatment would you like?” She had a thick local accent.

  “For my bikini,” I had whispered, covering the phone with my hand. “I’d like a Brazilian.”

  “What’s that?”

  A Brazilian was standard in LA, like getting your car washed or picking up your eco-friendly dry-cleaning. I quickly looked around. I had used the phone at the front of the Bookshop, within earshot of other customers. Leaning further over the counter, I turned my back towards them, and replied, barely audibly. “That’s all of it off, you know, everything.”

  “Oh yes, we call that a Hollywood,” she said. I had found that point of difference entertaining. “I’m the only one here certified for that kind of wax, dear, so let’s say late afternoon?”

  “Great,” I said, relieved. “Could I also book a massage as well?” I had decided to treat Euan to a massage for having driven me all the way there.

  Ice twinkled in geometric snowflake formations on the glass of the bathroom window. I put away the scissors. Abandoning hope of maintaining my chestnut-brown shag of a haircut myself, I ran down the stairs and found Euan.

  “How much does Harry charge?” I asked, only now noticing how fitting his name was for his profession. Euan was stooped over a pile of books near the computer. He was researching prices, looking up the name and date of publication of the books to find if any were listed on AbeBooks or Amazon. From his expression, I could tell there weren’t any treasures so far.

  “I don’t know for girls,” Euan said without looking up. “Maybe five pounds?”

  “Five?” That sounded incredibly cheap to me. I started to become worried. “Well, how much does he charge for your hair?”

  “Three pounds,” Euan said.

  “Oh my God,” I mumbled.

  The smell of the doctor’s office hit my nostrils the moment I opened the front door of the surgery. Standing in the dark hallway, I waited in a short line
for reception, then was told to sit in the small, brightly lit waiting room. I suddenly felt exposed. In LA it would be highly improbable for me to see anyone I recognised at the doctor’s, but in Wigtown it would be impossible for me not to see someone I knew. In line with me were familiar faces from the Co-op, and sitting next to me was a woman I had seen during my morning runs.

  Feeling like a beetle in a petri dish, I looked around anxiously. I wasn’t at the doctor’s for any sordid reason, but I realised I might raise an eyebrow or two by being there so soon after my arrival.

  “Jessica Fox for…” the piercing voice echoed from speakers above and tripped over the next words, “general check-up, please see reception.” They had been reading from my information form. So much for anonymity. Everyone stared as I made my way to the front of the room. I was Jessica Fox and I was here for a check-up.

  Next to the reception window there was a small sign which said: “If you’d like to discuss your problem in private, please ask.”

  There seemed little point in that now. I waited for the young woman on the phone behind the desk to look up. The medical odour was stinging my senses and deep in my subconscious the dark, shadowy sloth of self-doubt started to move. I began to wonder if finding a doctor here might not be worth the effort.

  The receptionist opened the glass shutters of the desk window.

  “Now, Jessica, it says you are here for a ‘general check-up’?” she asked, looking quizzically at my form.

  “Yes. I was hoping to find a doctor.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Are you on holiday?” She peered at me and then suddenly her smile widened. “Wait, you’re the American living at the Bookshop?”

  I nodded. So word had already spread this far.

  “Is this a permanent thing?”

  “Uh,” I stammered, unsure if this was for her form or out of general interest. “I think so.” I hadn’t expected such a simple question to be so hard to answer.

  “Well, Jessica.” She looked at me with concern and pulled out a couple of forms. “You’re sick already. Not surprising with this weather. That bookshop will be freezing.

  “No, no, I mean yes, it is, but I’m not sick.” I paused and she looked confused. “I just wanted to see a doctor.”

  “Why, dear?”

  “For a check-up.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. My American stars and stripes were showing. “You know, and to say hello, to a doctor.”

  “Oh.” She smiled, confused. “Well, thanks for saying hi then.”

  Behind me, I felt intensely aware that I had the attention of everyone in the waiting room.

  “Come back if you’re not feeling well, okay? And tell Euan I hope he’s keeping that icebox of a house warm for you.” The glass shutters closed.

  I stepped out of the surgery onto the street, blinking into the sunshine. Well, that was a bit of a disaster. Euan had tried to warn me.

  I had only two blocks to walk before reaching Harry’s salon. Given how things were going, perhaps I should pass on that idea, too.

  It had taken me ages to find the right haircut and hairdresser in LA, but once I had, it had been the key to giving me a fresh start and a new-found sense of confidence. All that had come at a pricey one hundred and fifty dollars, and, though hair was just hair, I found myself standing outside Harry’s five-pound barbershop in trepidation. With its unassuming faded-blue sign and pictures of models from the 1980s in the window, I felt as if I was Samson facing Delilah. My grown-out locks wielded a type of power: they were a reminder of my old, single, happy life in California. By losing them, I would be losing the last vestige of my Los Angeles identity.

  *

  My reflection stared back at me as I sat, legs dangling, in a comfortable swivel chair. The mirror was framed by dark wooden panels, and below was a shelf cluttered with mismatching clips, hair dryers and brushes. Harry was like an oak tree and he stepped behind me, spreading a sheet over me with his branch-like arms.

  “Nothing really drastic,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound rude. “I just want a trim.”

  “Ay,” Harry squirted a water bottle and mist landed on my hair, making it look thin and matt.

  I searched the room for a distraction. My eyes landed on a basic, colourful map of the world, pinned to the far wall.

  “Do you travel much, Harry?”

  “Ay, but not for awhile, ken.” His massive hands held a fine comb and brushed my hair gently.

  “Is your family from here?” I asked.

  “Lived here all my life, ken, but my sister lives in Aberdeen.” Harry addressed my reflection in the mirror, running his hands through my hair to plump it up.

  Some part of me thought that if I kept him talking, I’d avoid the inevitable and keep him from cutting my hair. “Do you visit her?”

  “Na.”

  “Never?”

  “Never even been to Glasgow. I don ever get over that far,” Harry said with a smile.

  I contemplated this answer for a moment. Here was someone with the map of the world on his wall, who was tall enough to see Glasgow if he stood on his tiptoes, but his long legs had never taken him farther than this small corner of Scotland.

  “Well, I travelled all the way from Los Angeles to get my hair cut by you,” I teased, starting to enjoy myself.

  Harry’s smile faded. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he continued combing.

  “I’m teasing.”

  “I knew that, like.” He laughed nervously, quickly snipping away with a sharp-looking pair of scissors. I watched as the first pieces of hair fell like dark snow to the floor. Embrace it, I thought. Nothing you can do now. As more cut hair began to flutter towards the ground, I no longer felt concerned, but liberated.

  *

  Euan stared at me as we entered Kelly’s studio. “I can’t believe you were so worried. You look just the same.”

  My hair did not smell of sweet florals nor did it shine from copious amounts of product. In a flurry of movements and cutting, Harry had trimmed my fringe and hipster shag in only ten minutes. It was shorter, neater and, though terrifyingly fast, Harry had cut it well, leaving my identity still intact, if not a bit renewed.

  “I got you a backrub with Kelly,” I mentioned as we walk through the door.

  “You didn’t have to,” said Euan with a blush, either touched or embarrassed.

  In a studio of scented candles, new-age music and cream colours, Kelly stood waiting for us behind a long black counter. The studio felt sparklingly new and cutting-edge, an oasis of indulgence in a land of farmers, stone cottages and wellington boots. Here was my bit of Los Angeles in Galloway.

  “Euan, hello.” Kelly stepped out from behind the counter, revealing her snug black uniform. She was in her late forties, and her hair was long and curly, with a black coal-like sheen. She hugged Euan and turned to me, obviously thrilled.

  “Now you must be the Hollywood? Come with me, dear.” Confidentiality didn’t seem to exist in Galloway. She took my hand and led me down a hall.

  Thirty minutes later and I was still lying on my back in the small treatment room, staring up at a plastered white ceiling. Though I wasn’t an expert, I thought Kelly was exhibiting signs of being a certified sadist. I was in serious pain as her long, manicured nails tried to unpeel the rock-solid wax from my skin. Every time I cried out, I quickly apologised, embarrassed. Kelly just laughed. She looked delighted.

  This wasn’t the way I had thought a Hollywood wax was done. My entire “area” as Euan’s Irish cousin liked to call it, was covered in hard wax, like an eco-friendly chastity belt. Kelly struggled to rip even the smallest piece of it off me.

  “I might have put the wrong wax on for this.” Kelly looked at my “area” with fascination. There was no sense of apology in her voice.

  “Oh!” My nerves were fraying.

  “To be honest, I haven’t done one of these in years.”

  “Seriously? What are we going to do?”

  �
��Right,” she said. “We’re going to give it a hard yank.”

  Kelly grabbed hold of the wax just below my belly button. “You ready?” I started laughing. It was an awkward defense mechanism, one that always came out at the most inappropriate moments.

  Euan sat in the next room, trying to relax as his back was being pounded by one of Kelly’s assistants. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream shot through the wall.

  Apart from that first visit for the book festival, Euan and I had never had the pretence of a courtship period. We had lived together from the moment we met so there was no veil of mystery. No sense of dating Oz only to learn in disappointment that there was a man behind the curtain. To Euan this had felt as if we were doing things backwards but to me it had felt innovative. We were our daily selves, not the idealised version, from the very beginning. So the fact that he was now banging on the door of my waxing room, shouting to see if I was okay, was not quite as embarrassing as it should have been.

  “She’s fine, Euan,” Kelly yelled, grinning ear to ear.

  Small beads of sweat were slowly dripping down my forehead. “Yes, fine,” I echoed. “We’re almost done.”

  Euan’s footsteps retreated down the hall.

  “That’s optimistic, darling.” Kelly patted my shoulder.

  I looked down to see a patchwork of skin and wax, with Kelly’s fingers pulling off small little bits of each at a time. A hundred wasps stings would have felt better.

  Kelly pushed my legs open wider to get to the more sensitive areas. “Well,” she said, “I can tell you’ve never had kids.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  *

  The van sped along the sunset-lit single-track road back towards Wigtown. Clothed, but still covered in wax, I repeated the words Kelly had said to me. Euan burst into laughter.