by Di Jones
The hairdressers stopped chewing at the same instant and stared at her for a long moment. Orange eventually asked, through a mouthful of gum, “You Australian?”
“I’m a Kiwi.”
“Kiwi?”
“From New Zealand.”
“We love New Zealand.” Orange punctuated this with a bubble, which she burst with a loud crack. “Seen it in Lord of the Rings. Great place, and full of adventurous people.”
“Not to mention hobbits.” Green guffawed at her own joke, ignoring Orange who was shaking her head in warning.
“Can’t help with the sheep conditioner. But we can sort you out with a new hairdo.”
“I don’t know.” She edged towards the door.
“Yes”, interrupted Green, working her gum as she spoke. “Something more trendy.” She patted the tangled emerald twine on her head as she spoke. “Only two hundred bucks for a cut and colour.”
“G-great.” She swallowed, imagining turning up at work with her hair a vibrant shade of pink or purple.
“Might want to have a chat to the officer outside first,” said Orange, gesturing towards the door. “He’s ticketing your car.”
Relief crashed over her like waves at a surf beach, yet she managed to fix a look of mild regret on her features before bolting out the door.
Outside the parking warden was scribbling on his pad. He looked up momentarily, then tore off the ticket.
“Here you go, lady. Didn’t you know you have to feed the meters?”
“But, officer, this ticket’s for fifty dollars. I’ve only been here five minutes.”
“You’re lucky it’s not for a hundred.”
“A hundred?”
He shot her a look of tempered steel. “Your back tyre’s on the kerb.”
“Thank you, officer,” she said meekly.
“Thank you?” He snorted. “That’s a change of tune.”
“It’s cheaper than the two hundred dollar mistake I could’ve made in there.” She gestured towards the salon, where Orange and Green were standing in the window, watching with interest.
He bobbed his head in agreement and his eyes rolled heavenwards. “Go while the going’s good,” he chuckled, and she jumped in the Chevy and sped off, ticket in hand.
Back in Santa Monica she parked by Third Street Promenade, then walked to a bookstore, to browse the self-help section. It took up the entire second floor of the store, a testament to Californians’ obsession with improving their love lives, self-esteem, luck, and a hundred other attributes necessary for a happy life. After scanning a handful of covers, she picked up The Secret and sank into an armchair to read the introduction. Wasn’t the author on The Oprah Winfrey Show a couple of years back?Not that Oprah needed The Secret, but what a great endorsement. She closed the book with a determined snap and walked to the cash register, where a pimply adolescent assistant was staring into space.
“I’ll take this, thanks.”
“The Secret, huh?”
“It’s a present.”
“Uh, huh,” he sneered, nodding in an exaggerated fashion, his corkscrew hair bouncing with static.
A flush started at the base of her neck, then travelled up to colour her cheeks. “For a friend who’s broken up with her boyfriend.” Her eyes slid away as she said it. Why should she care what this schoolboy was implying? She felt like a fifteen year old again, buying her first packet of tampons at the supermarket.
“Sure,” he said and she couldn’t help but notice the fine down of hair above his lip.
“Um, can you tell me where I can get a good cup of coffee round here?” Was it obvious she was sad, lonely and had no friends? “I’m new to town.”
“Right. Danny’s do a good coffee. Out here, other end of the Prom, turn right.”
Several minutes later she slid into a leather booth, holding The Secret discretely downwards. The hiss of the espresso machine and the aroma of freshly ground beans reminded her she was hungry and she ordered lunch, then opened the book.
“Here you go, grilled cheese, fries and coffee.” The waitress slammed the meal down, spilling the coffee into the saucer.
“Thanks.”
“You reading The Secret?”
Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“What the hell?” The waitress was staring out the window with her mouth hanging open. Across the road a man had backed a late model Mercedes into the car behind it.
“Glad I’m not the only one who has trouble parking in this town,” she said to the waitress.
“Must be the owner of the car he backed into,” the woman replied, pointing to an attractive blonde.
“God, he’s crashed into the one in front now too.” She couldn’t believe someone in this town was a worse parker than she was.
The rest of the diners gathered to watch the spectacle and a running commentary buzzed through the café.
“Look, he’s getting out of the car.”
“Launching out more like,” observed a heavyset man from the table next to her, as the man in the Merc jumped out of the car, landing squarely on the pavement.
“Do you think she’ll hit him?” asked the waitress, nodding at the blonde, who was windmilling her arms in distress.
“I’d put money on it.”
“Hell, he’s running off.”
The waitress shook her head in disbelief. “He was trying to steal it.”
“I’d be straight after him if it was my car.”
“Looks pretty athletic, doesn’t he?” Holly said. “Don’t think I’d be able to catch him.”
The heavyset man nodded in agreement, and within minutes the show was over and the diners drifted back to their lunches.
She bit into her grilled cheese sandwich, The Secret forgotten. What sort of place had she emigrated to? Damn Tom, if it hadn’t been for him she wouldn’t be in this strange city full of thieves and weirdos but back in London. She took another bite of the sharp, tangy, cold melted cheese, but no longer hungry, she pushed her plate away and left the café.
Across the road, the Mercedes was still surrounded by a gaggle of bystanders. She walked over, her curiosity piqued, but before she could join in the conversation she noticed she was standing outside a hairdressers.
“Can I help you?” asked a trendy young girl when she walked inside.
“Do you have any free appointments?”
The girl ran her finger down the appointment book. “If you don’t mind waiting, our senior stylist will be free shortly.”
“I’m happy to wait, thanks.”
“Let’s take you to the basin for a wash.” The girl led her to the back of the salon and settled her in before turning on a stream of tepid water. “We had a bit of excitement here earlier,” she said over the hiss of the tap. “A guy tried to steal a car outside the salon and ended up crashing into two others.”
“I saw it all from across the road.”
“Did you? What did he look like?”
“Pretty ordinary,” she said, struggling to remember. “Didn’t look like a thief, not that they have a particular look. Blond. Attractive.”
“The owner of the car was in a terrible state by the time we got outside.” The girl adjusted the water temperature, and steam rose around her.
“Pity no one stopped him.”
“Probably on drugs,” the girl said, rinsing frangipani scented conditioner out of her hair. “Best not to mess with people like that. Our stylist’s free now, so I’ll take you to our cutting bay.”
“What can I do for you today?” asked the stylist, a pin up boy with spiky blond hair, radiant skin, and candid blue eyes.
“I need a serious revamp. Colour and a wicked cut.”
“Let’s take a look at your hair.” He positioned himself on a stool behind her and ran a comb through her locks. “Your hair’s in great condition, but the style could be more up-to-date.” He lifted her hair at the roots, let it fall naturally. “I’d suggest taking three or four inches off and restyling it int
o a layered bob. You need volume.”
“Sounds good. You’re a Londoner, aren’t you?”
“Yes, love, East End boy through and through.”
“Your accent makes me feel homesick.”
He looked at her in surprise. “You don’t sound like a Londoner.”
“Lived there for years, but I’m from New Zealand.”
“That explains it. Been in LA long?”
“No, I arrived about five weeks ago. You?”
“Nearly five years.”
“You must like it.”
I love it here”, he said, “but I still miss a few things.”
“The pubs?”
“How did you guess? And the music scene, but I have a great social life here.”
“Do you hang around with other Brits?”
“No, most of my friends are Americans. I go to lots of parties and movie events.”
“The perfect LA social life.”
“A lot of it’s work related. But I’m not complaining.” He pulled the comb expertly through her hair and parted it deftly as he chatted.
She slumped back into the chair. “Do you live near the salon?”
“Yes, just around the corner.”
“You’re lucky. The traffic’s a nightmare in LA, isn’t it?”
“It is, so I’m lucky I can walk to work. Don’t have a car anyway.”
A feeling of déjà vu washed over her and as the scissors bit into her hair with a metallic snip, she looked at him closely, then widened her field of vision. An attractive man, he wore his jeans and white shirt with the confidence and style of a Calvin Klein model. Is that why he seemed so familiar? She couldn’t pin it down, but an uneasy feeling was settling over her.
He held a section of her hair at right angles to her head, then with a rip, the scissors bladed expertly through her hair. As the strands drifted to the ground, a knot massed in her abdomen and rose to her throat. Her fingers flew to her mouth to try and stop the words escaping, but it was too late and they came out in a hiss.
“Put those scissors down. I know what you are. I saw you outside.”
He froze, scissors midair. His eyes, which had sparkled with confidence only minutes before, widened in dismay, and his features contorted with what she could only imagine was guilt.
She rose from the chair and ripped the cape from her shoulders. “Hopefully you’re a better hairdresser than car thief, but I’m not taking any chances.”
NINE
Brittany
Brittany sat hunched in the passenger seat, shaking like a magnitude seven earthquake. “Damn that bitch of a woman.”
Jenna shot her a sympathetic look. “You look awful, you poor thing. I’ll stay with you tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Thanks, but you don’t need to. Warren will be around soon.”
“I know,” Jenna replied doubtfully, “but I’ll wait with you until he arrives.”
The phone rang an hour later, and Brittany knew it was him before she picked up the receiver.
“It’s Warren. I’m phoning to let you know I won’t be picking you up for our weekend away.”
“What do you mean not picking me up?”
“I can’t, Brittany. Not after what happened this afternoon.”
“Your wife must be screaming blue murder. I bet she’s given you an ultimatum.” A thick silence on the other end of the line signalled she was right, and with difficulty she swallowed the stone that was forming in her throat. “Warren, say something please.”
“I love her,” he said haltingly, “and she’s agreed to try and work things out. I can’t see you again. I’m sorry.”
“You what? Love your wife?” She heard her voice growing shrill, a quality she disliked because it was one she associated with wives. “You said you wanted to leave her.”
“I can’t, Brit. We’ve got too much history together.”
“You don’t deserve me, you weak bastard. Go to hell.” She slammed the phone down with such force it nearly went through the glass coffee table, then she sank onto the sofa, shock engraved into her features.
“I can’t believe it, Jenna. He’s finished with me.”
“Let it all out.” Jenna said sympathetically, stroking her arm. “I’m here for you.”
She shook her head in irritation. “Did you hear what I said?” she wailed. “He’s finished with me.”
“He probably didn’t want to, but I guess he didn’t have much choice unless he wanted to end his marriage.”
“He said he wanted to leave her. He’s always said that.”
“But he didn’t, did he?”
“I told you before, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.”
“Neither of you gave him much choice. What could he have done when she found out today? She was furious.”
“I know, but that’s her problem, and anyway, he said he loved me. I’m completely devastated.”
“You know it’s for the best.”
“Thanks for the support,” she said, shooting a venomous look at her friend. So much for exposing her pain and vulnerability.
“Come on, you know I’m on your side. You said he’s not what you want long term.”
“I know what I said but–”
“You’re better off with someone single who can commit to you,” said Jenna.
“I know, but we had great times together and I’ll miss them.”
“Them?”
“Him, I mean him,” she corrected.
“You’ll get over it, sweetie. You’re a strong woman and you’ll meet someone else.”
“I know, but in the meantime I don’t know how I’ll cope,” she said, her tears tracking mascara in their wake. “I’ll have to make major adjustments to my lifestyle.”
Everything that could’ve gone wrong this morning had, and after arguing with Tina over minor Consular matters, Brittany closed her office door and sat at her desk. After a full five minutes staring at the phone, she picked up the receiver, determined to make this call. Slowly she punched the number.
Rrrrng. Rrrrng.
No, she couldn’t do it. She hung up hurriedly, put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. How on the earth could she still want Warren after the way he’d finished with her? Damn his fat bitch of a wife, who had everything she’d ever wanted. The beautiful home, sleek cars, overseas holidays and designer wardrobe. In short, the security and privileges of marriage to a rich man, which she, Brittany, deserved.
Damn Warren, she hated him too, the spineless bastard.
She picked up the phone again, let it ring three times and hung up a second time. She stood up, kicked the wastepaper basket, then slammed out of her office.
Ann, in the office next door, was frowning at her computer screen, lost in thought.
“Ann, I’m going home.”
“Yes, that’s fine,” the older woman said absently.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry, I was concentrating on something,” Ann said, taking her glasses off. “You alright? You look under the weather.”
“No, I’m not alright,” she said a little too sharply. “I’ve got a migraine. I’ve cancelled my appointments for the rest of the day.”
“Can you drive, or would you like me to order you a taxi?”
“Don’t trouble yourself, I can get home okay,” she snapped, not wanting sympathy for a malady she didn’t have.
Ten minutes later she parked her car outside her Brentwood apartment and walked through the landscaped garden. A neighbour was watering plants as she approached.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” said the woman.
She mumbled a greeting in return, but didn’t stop. Warren hadn’t encouraged her to talk to the neighbours, as he worried word of their liaison would get back to his wife. Not that it mattered anymore. Ironic really, that after all the care they took to be discrete in this apartment, his wife found out they were having an affair by busting her in the Beverley Centre.
She’d n
ever get to know the neighbours now, couldn’t afford the rent on this smart apartment on her salary. Life wouldn’t be as comfortable without Warren’s patronage. No fancy apartment, no weekends away, no expensive restaurants, no gifts.
Damn his bitch of a wife – and damn Warren.
Once inside she headed straight to the chiller, pulled out a bottle of Chablis and poured a generous measure into a cut crystal glass. A couple of drinks, a quick lie down, then she’d phone Jenna to see if she fancied a night on the Strip. She’d be buggered if she’d stay at home in front of the TV.
Her doorbell buzzed, and she went to answer it, puzzled. Who would expect her to be home at this time of the afternoon?
“Ms Brooke? Delivery from Blooms.”
With shaking hands she opened an exquisitely wrapped foot-long box. Inside were two dozen long-stemmed, red roses, nestled in silver tissue paper. I love you, read the unsigned card with the flowers, I’ll call you tonight.
She slumped over the box in relief, but it was short lived. She’d been to hell and back the past week, and if Warren expected she’d fall right back into his arms, and his bed, he was deluded. If he wanted her back he’d have to grovel. No man was going to treat her like this, no matter how rich he was.
Two hours later the phone rang, but she ignored it, and instead checked for his message. There wasn’t one, and although the phone rang incessantly over the next few hours, the machine stayed empty. Must have been Warren ringing. Why the hell didn’t he leave a message like any ordinary person would?
Her plans to go out forgotten, she ate a light dinner, unplugged the phone, and went to bed. Hopefully Warren was beside himself wondering where she was, who she was with, and what they were doing. Served him right.
She woke early the next morning and plugged the phone straight back in. It rang instantly, although it wasn’t yet eight.
“Baby, it’s me. Did you get the flowers?” His confident and breezy tone rubbed like a rough nail file.
She slammed the phone down on him. Within minutes it rang again, but she ignored it. Eventually it stopped ringing, and her rising confidence waning, she paced around the apartment restlessly, then threw her gym gear into a bag and left the apartment.