Isla made a non-committal sound of agreement. It sounded a bit egotistical to agree, even if she’d worked her backside off to get to that position. Somehow, in this tiny little salon, she felt a bit awkward about flaunting the awards and competition prizes she’d won over the years.
‘Well, I was head stylist for a salon in the city centre.’ She downplayed it, realizing as she spoke that Shannon had drifted a little closer, sensing there might be gossip, and was now spraying cleaning fluid onto the shelves behind the sinks, wiping down the surfaces, her cloth moving slowly as she flapped in on the conversation.
‘It’s kind of you to help Jessie out like this.’
Isla could have sworn Mrs Mac cocked an eyebrow at her, but in the second it took to look closely at her expression in the mirror, it was gone.
‘Well, I’m between jobs at the moment – I can’t start my next one for two months.’ Isla snapped the end on another roller, completing a neat row. ‘Gardening leave.’
Mrs Mac nodded, saying nothing.
‘I’ve never been a fan of gardening myself,’ piped up Jinny, who’d reappeared and was standing, propped against the reception desk, a Spar bag of milk in her hand. ‘Too much mess, and all those worms and beasties and God knows what else in the dirt. It’s no’ natural.’ She waggled her pale, skinny fingers in explanation.
‘Och, I’m not that much of a fan myself,’ smiled Mrs Mac. ‘I do like my nice window boxes, mind. But I’ve a gardening friend who does them for me, fortunately.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Isla, absently.
‘She works up at the estate, too.’
‘I didn’t realize there was a housing estate on the island. It doesn’t seem big enough.’
‘Not a housing estate,’ chuckled Mrs Mac. ‘Duntarvie Estate – the Maxwells’ place.’
Jinny was flicking through a magazine from the rack, forehead creased in a frown, muttering to herself. She stopped, opening up a double-page spread, and thrust it at Shannon. ‘Here. You must’ve seen this? Debbie Anderson married Jack Starr there the other week? It was in Hello!’
Isla had spent most of her working life watching her clients sitting, designer clothes protected by a gown, flicking through celebrity-filled glossy magazines. She didn’t pay the magazines much attention, only skimming through on a lunch break if she was stuck for something to read – she was generally nose-deep in her latest novel, her childhood reading habit having lasted into adult life. Shannon, roused from her blasé attitude, pressed the open magazine into Isla’s hands with an expression of pride. ‘Look at that. I bet your hotshot Edinburgh salon never made it into Hello! magazine, did it?’
Isla murmured a vague acknowledgement as she looked at the pages, seeing a huge and expensive-looking castle in the background and two fake-tanned, perfectly dressed soap stars beaming out from the photograph. The place wasn’t familiar, but the faces were. And, Isla noticed, the hair was expertly styled – they must have brought their own stylist up with them for the event. There was no way that had been done by anyone here in Jessie’s place. Unless there was some other salon hidden away – and she definitely hadn’t seen any sign of one during her brief exploratory tour of Kilmannan.
‘That’s Duntarvie House in the photos, look.’ The pride in Jinny’s voice was unmistakable. ‘Imagine our island in Hello! magazine. Bruno from the cafe says he had half the cast of Hormel Heights in there the next day, picking up bacon rolls before they got the ferry back home. Those of them that didn’t get taken off the island in a helicopter, that is.’ Her eyes misted over, and she ran a fond finger across the page. ‘One day I’m going to live that jet-set life. Get myself a posh salon in Edinburgh. Maybe when you’ve finished working here, Isla, you could give me a wee job working in your place? I’m a hard worker.’
Isla, who’d so far watched Jinny turn up twenty minutes late, slope off to the shop for chocolate biscuits, and now daydream over Hello! magazine, raised an eyebrow in the mirror at Mrs Mac.
‘Thanks very much, dear,’ Mrs Mac opened her purse, pulling out a ten-pound note. ‘Keep the change, get yourself something nice.’
Isla dutifully slotted the money into the till, withdrawing a two-pound coin. It had been a long time since she’d received a tip like that. At Kat Black’s salon it was more likely to be tickets to a theatre show, or a day in a spa, or a discreet fifty-pound note handed over with a smile as her client left, delighted with their latest high-fashion style.
The bell jingled as the door slid closed.
‘Well, I’m surprised to see you slumming it.’ Shannon sat back against the counter, her arms bare, ornately patterned tattoos curling down her toned bicep. ‘I didn’t think you’d lower yourself to a shampoo and set.’
Isla looked at her with surprise. Shannon appeared to have some pretty entrenched ideas about what she was like, given that she’d only just walked in the door. ‘What did you expect?’ Her tone was sharp. ‘Some of us are here to work.’
Shannon gave a begrudging nod. ‘Aye, and I’m glad to see you’re more than happy to pull your weight. Making tea and all.’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
By the end of the day Isla had done four more shampoo and sets, trimmed three shaggy-ponytailed little girls’ fringes, and dealt with the unexpectedly long comb-over of a gnarled old farmer who parked his tractor on the road opposite, lumbered in in work overalls, and demanded ‘his usual’.
‘I don’t know what your usual is,’ Isla had explained, trying to be diplomatic.
‘Damned if I know,’ he’d replied, waving an arm around his head as if he was expecting the answer to suddenly materialize. Shannon and Jinny had been hiding, sniggering, in the corner.
‘Let’s just give it a bit of a trim all over,’ Isla had said, sitting him down in the chair. He’d left quite satisfied, the long strands of hair still balanced across his bald head, and beamed with delight as he paid, explaining as he did so that it was the Young Farmers’ ball that evening and he was helping out on the door, so it was a good job he looked sharp.
It had been a long day. Isla, accustomed to long hours on her feet, was surprised by just how tired she was. It was the newness of everything, she told herself – not to mention the incessant questioning of every client, who wanted to know all about her and how she’d ended up here, and how was Pamela’s arm doing, and how long would Jessie be away?
‘Fancy a quick drink down the Belmont?’
Isla had been wiping over the counter of the reception desk when Jinny’s clear voice broke through her thoughts. She carried on, assuming Shannon was going to respond.
‘Isla?’
She looked up, surprised. Jinny’s expression was kind, and she was talking to her. ‘We’re going for a quick cider. It’s a tradition on a Tuesday. Well, on most days, if I’m honest. If I go home I end up having to help Mum out with dinnertime, and that lot are hard enough work as it is, so it’s worth staying out of the way until they’ve eaten. Anyway, we always need something to look forward to, and Shannon’s hoping Rab will be behind the bar, aren’t you Shan?’
Shannon looked up, indignant. ‘I am not.’ She flushed pink, belying her words. ‘I told him I wasn’t going out, remember?’
‘I’ll get the drinks. You can hide behind the snooker table. Isla?’
‘Thanks, but no, I’m fine.’ Isla had made it a rule that she didn’t mix work and social life. She’d watched the girls and boys from Kat Black’s salon follow the old adage of working hard and playing hard, but she didn’t want to appear unprofessional, and she certainly didn’t want to give them anything on her. And, God, if her one drunken champagne experience was anything to go by, that had been a sensible decision.
An hour later, she happened to be looking out as Jinny and Shannon emerged from the pub opposite. Sharing a hug and a last joke that set them off giggling, they left for home in opposite directions. Isla, who’d cleaned the kitchen and put a vegetarian lasagne for one in the oven, looked on silently
from the window of her borrowed flat. It was best to stick to her no-socializing rule. No matter that it meant she’d only ever gone out once in a blue moon, when Hattie happened to be around to offer her the scraps of friendship she had left over after her packed weekends. Clichéd as it might sound, Isla knew that if she could just reach all her goals, get her life sorted, then she’d sort out the social-life side of things.
The school reunion was going to be the start of it. Helen had been messaging her via Facebook, asking what Isla was planning to wear and worrying that she couldn’t fit her post-baby tummy into the dress she’d chosen. It was quite nice to have someone to chat with – and it made the idea of the reunion a tiny bit less terrifying. She was going to show everyone what she’d made of her life – ‘smelly Isla, Isla-no-clue, Isla-no-mates’. Only then could she prove she’d made it; and then, with that point made, she’d get on with sorting out the rest of her life. It would all fall into place then, she was certain of that. She didn’t need Shannon’s copy of The Rules to work this stuff out.
Part Two
Chapter Seven
Ruth MacArthur might have been eighty, but she wasn’t too old to appreciate the new fashion for beards – although, thankfully, they weren’t those hairy, scruffy ones that had been around in the sixties and seventies, when everyone looked like they needed a good wash. No, these beards were well trimmed, and looked lovely. And there was no getting away from it: Doctor Lewis was a good-looking man. The mischief-maker in her was tempted to ask the young doctor if she could give his beard a wee pat, just to feel the springy sensation beneath her hands. He wouldn’t take it well, though. He’d probably think it was a sign she was losing the plot. Mind you, if she was thirty years younger, she’d . . . Ruth paused for a moment in the doorway of the surgery, rubbing in a squirt of the newly installed antibacterial hand gel. She counted the years in her head. Forty years younger, maybe, she supposed.
It was a bit unfair that the body aged at a completely different rate to the mind. Nobody ever told you that part. They talked about the arthritis, and getting forgetful, and all that nonsense. When she was a wee girl, she’d imagined herself growing up into a tiny, contented little old lady, but it hadn’t seemed to work out that way. Just the other day she’d been walking past the window of the pet shop and had caught a glimpse of the reflection of an elderly woman hunched in a raincoat, shopping bag over one arm, head bowed against the spring rain. It had been a moment before she’d realized that the image she was looking at was her own. The change from spry young woman – she’d had a lot of looks in the old days, turning heads at the Winter Gardens dances – to this creaky old shell had apparently happened, somehow, when she wasn’t paying attention. It didn’t make much sense. She’d walked down to the cottage along the old familiar streets, head full of memories. That afternoon, in her head, she was seventeen and full of energy, slim and bright-eyed, up to mischief. She still didn’t feel like a proper grown-up inside.
Back home, Ruth hung up her raincoat on the peg by the front door and slipped off her shoes, easing her feet into slippers with a sigh of comfort. It was good to be home, and a cup of tea was just what she needed.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, she pottered around the sitting room of the cottage, turning on the television in time for the lunchtime news, straightening the neat row of cushions that sat on their points against the back of the sofa. She never sat there, preferring the upright armchair that her grandson had bought for her and carted back over from the specialist shop in Glasgow. She’d protested at the time that she was fine as she was, but she had to admit to herself (if not to him) that it made a huge difference. Getting up and down out of that low sofa had been increasingly difficult, but she could sit quite comfortably in her chair, with Hamish the cat curled up on a cushion on her knee, and watch the world go by outside the window. One of the nicest things about getting old was the absolute delight she now took in a nice sit-down and a cup of tea.
Hearing the kettle click off, she turned back, knocking a picture from the mantelpiece as she did so. Dusting the top of it with the sleeve of her cardigan, she placed it back alongside the collection of others, which jostled for space. A blond toddler grinned out at her, sitting beside a pretty young woman, her hair cut in a punky 1980s style reminiscent of Shannon’s newest look. She had an arm slung round the little boy’s shoulder and they were holding a melting ice-cream cone each, squinting into the late summer sunshine, sitting on the wall by the river up in Inverness, the castle in the background, the Highland sky a cloudless blue. Ruth closed her eyes for a moment and could hear the gulls circling overhead, the excited chatter of children as they poured off the boat for their holidays, the jangle of the little merry-go-round that was parked beside the bowling green by the promenade. That had been one of their good days. One of the last good days.
The truth was – not that she’d admit as much to any doctor, no matter how charming and attentive he might be, or how handsomely trimmed his beard – her bones complained when she stood up too long, and she often found herself getting breathless and tired, which was immensely frustrating. Of late she’d taken to sitting down, watching more than her fair share of afternoon quiz shows. Her eyes had grown frustratingly misty, making reading – always her first love – difficult, even with the bold large-print books that were available at Kilmannan Library. The idea of having someone poking around doing a cataract operation made her feel queasy. She’d put the appointment off again and again, until they’d stopped writing and calling. Then they’d tried to interest her in audiobooks, but inevitably those lulled her to sleep. She’d wake up hours later, neck stiff from drooping like a sleeping daisy in the armchair by the fireplace, Hamish circling her feet, prowling for dinner. Getting old was – quite literally – a pain in the neck.
Only once she was sitting down in her armchair with Hamish slinking around her legs, his tail a question mark, did Ruth – reluctantly – open her bag and take a look at the information leaflet Doctor Lewis had given her.
‘It’s just a spot of water retention, isn’t it?’ It hadn’t really been a question, more of a statement.
Doctor Lewis had rubbed his dark beard, twisting round in his chair to look Ruth straight in the eye. She had noticed the dark shadows under his eyes. The surgery hours were long, and they were under pressure to perform in difficult conditions, the target-driven structure not fitting well with an island still set in the ways of its past. The islanders were used to the personal care of an old-fashioned GP and a village hospital, and the current government structures didn’t leave much room for flexibility.
‘I’m afraid it’s not that straightforward, Mrs MacArthur.’
Ruth took a breath in, straightening her shoulders, preparing herself.
‘The blood tests we took show elevated levels of something called BNP in your blood.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she snorted. ‘I’m a card-carrying member of the Labour party.’
Doctor Lewis smiled, a smile that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that particular joke. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, but pressed on. Ruth felt her shoulders sag slightly.
‘Politics notwithstanding, these levels, together with the other symptoms you’ve been showing, suggest that we are looking at a bit of a problem with your heart.’
She was eighty years old. She’d kept an eye on her figure all her life, walked everywhere she could, switched from butter to margarine when they said that was the thing to do, and back to butter again when they changed their minds. She’d eaten home-cooked meals and didn’t drink (well, besides a wee glass of cream sherry once in a while, and at her age she deserved a treat with Coronation Street). She hadn’t so much as touched a cigarette in her life. It was a ridiculous notion to suggest there was anything wrong with her besides a bit of—
‘There’s medication you can take that will help a bit, and it’s a matter of re-education. Take things a bit more slowly, don’t overstretch yourself, that sort of t
hing.’
‘You’ll be telling me I’m to give up all the foods that are worth eating next.’ She could hear the asperity in her voice.
‘No, everything in moderation, that’s the key.’ He smiled at her reassuringly, pulling a sheaf of papers from a drawer in his desk. ‘I’d like you in tomorrow morning for a quick test called an echocardiogram, just to confirm that my suspicions are correct.’
‘You’re not covering me with electrodes and wiring me up to some machine.’
‘Just for five minutes or so. It won’t hurt.’
Ruth tutted. ‘I’m helping with the teas at the community centre tomorrow morning.’
‘Five minutes.’ His voice was firm. ‘Let’s get this sorted out, and we can work out what we’re going to do from here. There’s a support group that meets once a week in the library, I could give you the—’
‘A group of old people grumbling about their ailments? I don’t think so.’
She could just imagine it. No, she wasn’t having any of that nonsense. She had a wee bit of swelling round her ankles, and she’d been a bit tired and achy of late. But who wasn’t, after eighty years of walking around?
‘I’ll give you the details tomorrow, in any case.’ Turning back to the desk, he quickly tapped some information into his computer. Without looking up, he added, ‘And for the record, it might be an idea for you to stop helping out with the teas, and start sitting down and enjoying one yourself.’
‘Pfft.’ Ruth gave a snort of disapproval. ‘I’m not headed for the knackers’ yard yet.’
He looked up, giving her a brief smile.
‘Right, well, if that’s us, I’ll be away then.’
‘And you’ll be back in the morning.’ His tone was warning. He scrolled down the screen, pointing to a calendar page. ‘There. I’ve put you in myself, for half past nine. No excuses.’
‘What if I decide I’d rather get my hair done?’ She was teasing him now.
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