Met Dad for lunch and once we got the tricky stuff out of the way (“Well … how is Alan being with you?”, “Um… Actually, not too bad. But I hardly talk to him, to tell you the truth.”) we got down to business.
Dad absolutely loves my salon business plan: three treatments (tanning, waxing, nails), the Tanarama booth and even its name – Ta-dah! Then I took a deep breath and made my proposal.
“So,” I said, “how would you and Uncle Pete like to invest in the business?”
I told him how I thought it would work. For a 25% share, Dad and Uncle Pete would buy the Tanarama booth and the equipment. I’d rent out nail tables and equipment to three beauticians, which would cover most of the salon’s rent, and the beauticians could keep what they made for themselves.
He looked over my three-year forecast, which shows me making profit at the end of the second year. “The Tanarama booth alone has the potential to make fifty thousand a year,” I told him, “and I’ll also sell nail and beauty products.”
“How much do you need?” he asked.
“About thirty thousand.”
Dad looked thoughtful.
“But I plan to pay you back the full thirty thousand pounds within three years, plus let’s say … five per cent interest on top,” I told him. “And if I do, the salon becomes one hundred per cent mine.”
Dad raised his eyebrows. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“It’s business, Dad,” I said. “Don’t take it personal.”
And he laughed because that’s the title of Deborah Gordon’s autobiography.
“Well, in that case,” he said, once he’d finished chuckling, “as long as you agree that we can always retain a ten per cent share, I’m sure I can convince your Uncle Pete.”
“Deal,” I told him. And then we shook hands. Yippee!
7 p.m.
OMG. Kellie just called and said out of the blue, “We’re going to Turkey!”
“We ARE?” I replied, shocked.
“Yep. A couple of weeks before your birthday.”
“But I can’t afford to, Kel, I’m putting everything I have into my salon.”
“Shut up,” she said. “I know that – that’s why it’s on me.”
“No–o! I can’t let you spend that kind of money!”
“It’s gonna cost peanuts, trust me. A little, ahem, deal I’ve just negotiated.”
I sighed. “Who is he, Kel?”
Then her voice completely changed. “OK, then, Mum, see you later.” Then she whispered down the line, “I’m with him right now”, and she was gone.
Yay! I’m going to Turkey!
Sunday 9 November – 11 a.m.
So Kellie happens to have met the only straight male flight attendant on the planet. OK, so I’ve only flown three times (to Majorca, Majorca and Majorca) but I’ve seen nearly every episode of London Airport and all the male flight attendants on that show are as camp as a row of tents. But not this one. His name is Jack (after his English mum’s favourite uncle) Ozdemir (he has a Turkish father), and according to Kellie, they’ve been head over heels for two whole days now.
Two days?! Well, it must be for real. LOL!
I hope that doesn’t sound too bitchy. I’m happy for her, but I also happen to know what Kellie’s like. If I’m honest, I’m just hoping she doesn’t fall out with him by December because he’s arranged our seventy-five-pounds-each-flight-plus-accommodation trip to Bodrum in Turkey, and I can’t wait!
Monday 10 November – 9 p.m.
Met Dad and Uncle Pete for a talk.
“Have you identified premises yet?” asked Uncle Pete. “Have you decided what area your salon is going to be in? And whether you’ll have any competition? These are the things I need to know.”
Come back, Kara, all is forgiven.
Tuesday 11 November – 1 p.m.
I’ve managed to find a few interesting salon options online: two are local, three are in Shepherd’s Bush. I’ve called up the landlords and made appointments to see them this week.
Friday 14 November – 5 p.m.
If I see one more expensive-for-no-good-reason premises, I’ll scream! Landlords want to charge a fortune for just a building with four walls and a lick of paint! Grrrr.
6 p.m.
I’m meeting James for a drink and catch-up this evening, and I’m so–oo looking forward to it. He always cheers me up. (Mainly, I admit, because he makes out that I’m so bloody wonderful.)
11 p.m.
Something strange happened tonight. James was complaining about the boss of the hair salon he works in, but all of his gripes about what his boss expects him to do seemed like reasonable requests to me. Realized I’m on the other side now and that’s probably how my beauticians will be complaining about me.
But the biggest surprise is, I’m starting to think that maybe – just MAYBE – Kara wasn’t so bad after all.
Does that make me a mentalist?
Monday 17 November – 9.30 a.m.
And the Great Salon Hunt goes on. Aa–aaaaaaaargh!
Friday 21 November – 3 p.m.
Yay! I’ve just seen the best building! It has one large room with enough floor space for nail bars and a (v. grotty but easily replaced) sink at the back, plus space for cupboards and a washer/dryer (for towels). There’s also a smaller room at the back that’s a perfect size for the Tanarama booth, and another room upstairs that can be used for waxing. And it’s in a great location – only twenty doors down from Kara’s.
Monday 24 November – 7 p.m.
“I like it,” said Dad.
“Not bad,” added Uncle Pete, nodding. (Uncle Pete is like the Simon Cowell of our partnership – we always want his approval.) “But what about the other salon down the road, won’t it be hard to get customers?”
“Kara’s?” I replied. “I used to work there, remember? Her clients are a lot older than we’re aiming for. They want skin lasering and stuff and are willing to pay a fortune. Our market is young women who want to be brown and manicured for a night out at a decent price.”
Uncle Pete nodded again. “OK,” he finally agreed. “NOW I’m willing to go to the bank manager and ask for a loan.”
Yay!!!!
Tuesday 25 November – 9.30 a.m.
Dad and Uncle Pete have a meeting booked at the bank! The only problem is that it’s on Monday.
“Oh no–ooo,” I said to Dad. “That’s the day I’m going to Turkey. I’ll have to cancel.”
“Cancel? What for?” he replied. “You’ve done all you can do now. And if you ask me, I think you should take a break. It’s going to be non-stop for you if we get this loan.”
Wednesday 26 November – 11 a.m.
I know it’s a bit sad but I’ve already started to pack for my trip to Turkey!
Dear God, please don’t let Kellie fall out with Jack before Monday.
Monday 1 December – 2 p.m. Turkish time (that’s midday to those who are freezing their asses off in London, tee-hee!)
Jog on, miserable grey. Hello–ooo Bodrum, Turkey – clear blue sky around one huge spot of glorious yellow. Now we’re talking!!
Jack (dark, good-looking and wears his furry eyebrows very well) is spending the holiday with us and he’s taking us to the port this evening. He says there’s a great English bar there called Lenny’s. Bring it on.
Midnight
Boys are the last thing on my mind, and that’s probably why I met a gorgeous one tonight.
The port of Bodrum surprised me. I’ve never thought of Turkey as rich or glamorous, but it’s well classy – there are some incredible yachts in the harbour. Earlier this evening I spent ages staring at them, wondering what on earth these people did for a living to be able to afford them. And for a brief second I thought, If I’d stayed with Robbie, I could have lived like that. But it was only very brief – and probably brought on by the fact that they were showing a Premier League Monday-night football match on the big screen in Lenny’s. Yuck! I’d spent months having to watch bloody football and I wa
sn’t about to watch another match tonight, not now I had the choice, so I went for a walk around the harbour and that’s when I met this boy. His name is Stephen Campbell. He’s Scottish, with a mop of thick brown hair and lips that were made for kissing, and he’s on crutches because he’s had an operation on his knee.
He caught me off guard. I was leaning on a barrier, staring longingly at one of the yachts in the port and I’d literally zoned everybody out – all the couples and groups of friends drinking and chatting outside the various bars – until I heard a voice behind me say, “How the other half live, eh?”
And I turned around to see Stephen’s gorgeous face smiling at me.
“Yeah.” I sighed dreamily. “They’re amazing.”
Instead of walking on, he stood there shyly, not saying anything. I could feel myself starting to blush because I thought he was a bit of all right, so to cover it up I pointed at his crutches and asked how he’d ended up like Long John Silver.
He gave a chuckle. “No, I haven’t got one leg just yet, merely a very suspect knee.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“A wee ligament problem, but I’ve had an operation – it’ll be fine.” He dismissed it as if it was nothing. I couldn’t help smiling at his lovely accent and the way he’d used the word “wee”. “It was written by a Scotsman, you know,” he added.
“What was?”
And when he said “Treasure Island”, I thought, Wow, a man who actually reads. (Robbie wouldn’t know Treasure Island if it fell from the sky and hit him on the head.)
Then a massive roar went up from Lenny’s, so I guessed someone had scored.
“Not watching the football?” I asked him.
“Och, no! I get enough of that at home. What about you?”
“Me? I’d rather stick a hot needle in my eye.”
He laughed. “You can’t hate it that much!”
I thought of Robbie. “Oh yes I can.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s refreshing to hear, because all the pretty girls I meet in Glasgow seem to be obsessed with football.” Then he added, “Well, footballers, anyway.”
“Poor fools,” I couldn’t help saying.
“I agree with you,” he replied. “But then again, I would.”
I smiled. He smiled. And then he gazed at me without saying a word. I’ve never in my entire life wanted a boy to ask me out more than I did then. So I decided to take a leaf out of Kellie’s book (a much more subtle one) and went for it.
“How long are you here for?” I asked.
“Two weeks,” he replied. “You?”
“Snap,” I said.
We worked out that he was leaving one day before me. Then I asked who he’d come with and he told me he was on his own – a friend of a friend had got him a deal on a plush hotel so he could recuperate. When he asked me the same thing, I told him I’d come with my best friend and her man.
“They’re proper loved-up. I feel a bit of a lemon actually,” I said.
“Where’s your boyfriend then?” he asked.
“I don’t have one.” I couldn’t have told him quick enough. He looked pleasantly surprised.
“Well … maybe we should meet up,” he said. “Go see the ruins or something. If you’re up for it, of course?”
And I thought, Of course I bloody well am!
Sunday 14 December – 10 a.m.
I can’t believe that in an hour I’m going to have to say goodbye to the best guy I’ve ever, ever, ever met. And I don’t know whether to tell him that us lying on his hotel bed last night and him telling me we shouldn’t go any further until we’re back home in the real world, then holding me in his arms until the sun came up, was most definitely number one in the top-ten moments of my life. How do I tell him that?
Or that five of those top-ten moments have been in these past two weeks: visiting the ruins at Halicarnassus with him (one of the seven wonders of the world), our first kiss on the beach (when I realized those luscious lips weren’t just for show), when he told me he may be only twenty-two but he’s met a lot of girls and I’m the only one he wants to be with twenty-four hours a day, and the moment when he said he might be moving to London in the new year and would love us to continue seeing each other.
“If you’re up for it, of course,” he added in his shy way.
This time I knew him well enough to say, “Too bloody right I am!”
I love so many things about Stephen, but one of the best things about him is that he doesn’t look bored (like Robbie used to) whenever I speak about the salon. In fact I think he actually likes the idea. And I know it sounds corny, but I really believe that Stephen was sent to me by the universe, because he’s made me realize that Spencer and Robbie and everyone else I’ve ever gone out with – or had a crush on (even YOU, if you’re reading this, Mr Leonardo DiCaprio) – weren’t right for me. Stephen Campbell is most definitely THE ONE.
11.30 a.m.
I couldn’t help it. When Stephen came to the hotel to say goodbye, I burst into tears.
He hugged me, and as he squeezed me tight, he whispered in my ear, “Don’t cry, gorgeous, we’ll be together in a few weeks.”
“I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I’m going to miss you, too,” he said. And when he kissed me it felt like the ground fell away and I was floating on air.
Monday 15 December – 9 p.m.
Well, I’m back. Knackered. And the first person I texted when I landed was Stephen.
Me: I’m home baby.
Stephen: Welcome back but you should be here, in Glasgow. With me. x
10 p.m.
I phoned Malibu and told her all about Stephen.
“What does he do?” she asked.
“He’s between jobs at the moment,” I replied. “But he does a bit of this and that.”
“This and that? What the hell does that mean?”
“I dunno, sells cars sometimes and computers, and … he didn’t really go into it,” I admitted. “But he’s not a criminal or anything.”
“You HOPE,” she said.
“No. I… I just KNOW,” I replied.
Tuesday 16 December – 8.30 a.m.
I’ve been summoned to a meeting with Dad and Uncle Pete. And Dad didn’t sound too happy over the phone. Maybe the bank won’t give them the loan.
1 p.m.
Dad began the meeting.
“Which do you want first? The good news or the bad?”
I started to get scared. I’d always known they might not get the loan, but now I suddenly realized I had no idea what else I could do with my life. I’d set my heart on the salon.
“Have you heard from the bank?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
I took a deep breath. “In that case … the bad news first.”
“Well,” he began in a serious tone, “the best way to put it is that the next six weeks are going to be really tough for you – but I’m sure you’ll start moving forwards after that.”
“I’m sure you will,” agreed Uncle Pete.
“Oh,” I groaned as all the life was sucked out of me, “you didn’t get the loan.”
“No,” said Dad. “We DID!” Then he opened his arms and threw them around me, laughing, as Uncle Pete stood in the background and beamed.
“Dad! You are so–ooo going to burn for that!” I told him with the biggest grin ever known to man.
I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but I am going to open a salon in six weeks! Ama–aaaaaaaaazing!!!
Thursday 18 December – 8.30 a.m.
Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me! I am now eightee–een. Happy birthday to me!
Today I’m going to buy paint for the salon now that I’ve employed a painter/decorator and decided on the colour scheme (matt white with a deep-pink back wall, just like in my dream).
Tonight I’m going out with Kellie, Jack and James, but I’m going to take it easy and only have a couple of drinks because I have
so much work to do.
Can’t believe that just when I can finally legally go out on the lash, I have to be a sensible businesswoman who’s on top of her game. (Interviewing potential beauticians tomorrow!)
9 a.m.
Just been delivered a beautiful bunch of red roses. Fifty of them! They’re from Stephen, and in Mum’s opinion they must have cost him a bomb. I sent him a text: Thanks for the flowers. I love you sooo much!
And he sent back: You deserve it. And I love you too. X
10 a.m.
OMG. I’ve just had a call from Robbie!
In my head I’d gone through this moment a thousand times. I’d see his name flashing up on my phone, laugh like a cartoon villain – Remy de Vil, hah! – then thrust my hand down on the end call button with all my might.
In real life I had a bit of a panic. But wanting to hear what he had to say got the better of me, so I answered it but with a bit of attitude. “Yeah?”
“Happy birthday, princess,” he said. And I admit, hearing his voice made me soften a little (well, on top of him actually remembering my birthday).
“Thanks,” I replied.
Then there was a lo–oooong pause when I didn’t know what to say. Then Robbie eventually spoke again.
“I want you back, princess,” he told me. “And I’m willing to do what it takes. I’ll dump Chloe. OK?”
That was another moment I’d played in my head – the one where he comes back on his hands and knees begging for another chance and I tell him to go take a running jump. But again, in real life it didn’t feel that simple.
Don't Lie to Me, Robbie Wilkins Page 14