by Cassie Hamer
Her little girl! Her precious little girl, walking so confidently onto that stage in front of all those children and parents! Missy had never felt more proud, or envious. When she heard Lisa break into spontaneous applause it was all she could do to not join in. It should have been her, Missy, being the embarrassing mum. Instead, she had settled for taking a photo—a poor substitute—but she had to do something to express the thump of maternal pride in her heart.
What a silly, silly thing to do! Lisa had noticed her, and the fact that she had noticed was both reassuring and frightening. Reassuring, for it told Missy that Lisa had accepted Ellie as her own—she was watching her as a mother did, seeing and sensing anything of possible threat to the child, including the sight of a complete stranger taking Ellie’s photo. But at the same time it was frightening, because Lisa’s expression told Missy she thought it strange. At any moment, Missy expected her to stand, point at her and shout: It’s you. You are the terrible mother who abandoned this poor, wonderful child. But Lisa wasn’t the type to make a scene. Missy knew enough of her to know she was too sensible for that. After all, Ellie was in no imminent danger, so Lisa would wait—and that was Missy’s chance to escape, a chance she took, bumping knees with the other mums as she bumbled her way out of the ceremony, her heartbeat roaring in her ears.
This was not the time to be exposed.
The police hadn’t arrested him. Not yet. Every day she rang and hounded O’Dea, and every day he promised the same: We’re very close, trust me. Just a little bit more time. We have to nail them. All of them.
When Missy hung up, she was angry. And not just with the police. How had she ever got caught up with such a dangerous loser? It was the biggest mistake of her life, and she’d known that from the minute he looked at their little girl, still waxy with vernix, and laughed. ‘She looks like a monkey,’ he’d jeered over the cooing midwives. In that moment, Missy knew that Ellie was the best and worst thing she had ever done. Best—for Ellie was hers to love and cherish. Worst—for it meant she would forever be tethered to Kyle.
What had she been thinking? How had she ever fallen for him? Over the years, Missy had asked herself the question time and again. But the answer was never satisfactory. She was young—just nineteen when they’d met at the Hoey Moey, Coffs Harbour’s most dodgy pub. Her, an apprentice hairdresser looking for nothing more than a few laughs to go with her Vodka Cruisers. Him—slightly older, with confidence bordering on arrogance, intoxicating green eyes and hair the colour of deep, rich soil. Why hadn’t she asked more questions? Demanded to know who the parade of visitors were that came to his house in the middle of the night? Why he never seemed to have a real job, just bits and pieces here and there that didn’t quite explain the volume of cash he always had in his wallet?
It seemed so obvious to her now, but back then she was young and in love and by the time she thought to ask, she was two months’ pregnant and Kyle’s arrogance had taken on a menacing edge. Every minute of the day, he wanted to know who she was with, which clients she’d seen at work, which friends she’d had coffee with, who she’d spoken to on the phone. She told him he needed to back off. Let her breathe.
I’m only asking because I love you. I don’t want to share you, he would say angrily, to which she would tell him he needed to trust her.
I don’t trust anyone.
Any hope she’d had that Ellie’s birth might improve things quickly evaporated. If anything he was worse. He started to check her phone, her emails, insisted that if she wanted to go anywhere with Ellie, then he had to come too.
Kyle wasn’t just clingy and controlling, he was also stupid and dangerous. All it took was one look at tiny baby Ellie, lying in a hospital bed with wads of tape around her little finger to make up Missy’s mind. What kind of idiot could think it a good idea to take a four-month-old on a motorbike ride?
I was only going down the street and back! She was loving it.
Sure, right up until the point Ellie tumbled off and had the top of her little finger severed in the process.
In that moment, Missy hadn’t screamed or cried as she wanted to. What would be the point? She’d been asleep when the accident happened, catching up after another restless night of feeding Ellie, and blamed herself for the injury as much as her stupid boyfriend.
In the hospital corridor, she told him she was leaving, that she would tell the cops he was responsible for the maiming of their daughter. She and Ellie would go and live with Terri.
No, you won’t. Checking to make sure no one was watching, he’d pressed her up against the wall, hand to her throat, and hissed the words into her ear. Because if you do, I’ll come for you, and I’ll make sure our precious little girl loses much more than just a finger.
When he let go, Missy had run to the ward bathroom and vomited. She’d stayed there, thoughts tumbling and turning, until her daughter cried—a small, pained cry—and, in that hospital toilet, Missy found her resolve. Ellie needed her. For the sake of this innocent child—her own flesh and blood—Missy needed to make a plan.
Back at home, she started watching Kyle closely, making notes and hiding them. On the rare occasions that Kyle left the house, she set Ellie up in her bouncer, and turned the rooms upside down, searching for anything that might be incriminating. It wasn’t that hard. In fact, it was depressingly easy. The wads of cash under the floorboards, a stash of pills in the safe with his date of birth as the combination. With every discovery, Missy kicked herself for having been so naïve, so blind to what was so clearly happening under her nose.
After two months, she was ready. Kyle was becoming more erratic. He had to go to the Gold Coast, he said, just for the day, but she wasn’t to leave the house. He would call her to check. As she waved him goodbye, she dropped her hand quickly to hide the tremble in her fingers. This was her chance. Strapping Ellie into the pram, she walked the four kilometres to the police station, and in the grim interview room she told O’Dea everything she knew, on the strict condition of anonymity. If Kyle ever found out, there was no telling what he would do to her and Ellie. The detective listened intently. At the end, he’d collected his papers and thanked her. Kyle was already on their radar, but with her information, they could now make an arrest.
True to his word, O’Dea and his men pounced on Kyle as soon as he walked in the door. They made a show of arresting Missy too, just to deflect any suspicion. Later that night, she walked out of the police station under an inky midnight sky, a familiar face waiting for her.
‘You’re safe now, love,’ said Terri, putting Ellie into her arms and absorbing Missy’s sobs. The relief was overwhelming.
Missy was free, or at least, she thought she was. Two months later, in the baby aisle of the supermarket, a hooded figure shoved at her shoulder.
‘He’s watching you. And the kid. And when he gets out, he’s going to take what’s his. He knows what you did …’
At first, Missy thought she imagined it. She was still sleep deprived after all, thanks to Ellie’s continual night feeding. But as the hunched, grey shoulders sauntered away, Missy knew it wasn’t her mind playing tricks.
Kyle knew. He knew she’d dobbed him in. He was still watching her through his loser mates and when he served his time, he’d come for her, if not sooner.
Clutching the trolley for support, Missy headed robotically for the checkout. O’Dea had promised complete confidentiality. He’d given his word and failed her.
Later at the police station, with Missy still shaking from shock and anger, he promised to get to the bottom of it. If there were any corrupt cops in Coffs, he’d find them. She could see he was genuinely shocked.
Whatever.
She didn’t trust him, or any of them anymore.
It was time for her and Ellie to disappear.
Draining her bank account for the final time, Missy bought a one-way train ticket to Sydney. Onboard, with the kilometres clattering by, she swore into the downy hair on Ellie’s still-forming scalp that she wo
uld devote her life to keeping her safe. She hadn’t even told her own mother where they were going.
It was how it had to be.
For six years she’d been so careful. Never getting close to anyone. Never signing anything. Never using anything but cash. It was exhausting, trying to stay hidden in an electronic world. But they’d managed, until now, and Missy’s faith in the world had been a little restored. She still believed it was a dangerous place, but it wasn’t dangerous for everyone. It certainly wasn’t dangerous for the children of St John’s—a school so trusting that it openly displayed its school calendar on the internet, telling the world that assemblies were every Thursday at 2.30 pm and then throwing open the doors to whoever turned up. People like Missy. People like Kyle, who she knew, if he had any clue about Ellie’s whereabouts, would simply turn up and take her, or worse.
But here was the thing. He didn’t know where Ellie was. Only she did, and on the off-chance Kyle found Missy, she sure as shit wouldn’t tell him anything.
She was safe with the Wheeldons and Missy couldn’t jeopardise that. Not until Kyle was back behind bars.
Missy tugged at her collar and jammed her hat down. She’d got too close, turning up to the assembly at St John’s. Now was not the time for making mistakes.
Back at the hotel, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. What she was about to do simply had to be done and probably should have been done earlier. Now, there was no choice. She was going back to work. Her boss would never allow her to wear a cap and, at this point, anything she could do to keep her identity a secret was worthwhile, just in case Kyle managed to somehow come looking. This was a small sacrifice. It was only hair. So what if she had been growing it for the past five years? It would grow back, eventually. That’s what she always told clients who were unsure about making a radical change.
She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, picked up her scissors and just above the nape of her neck, cut the whole thing off. She looked at it, in her hand.
Just dead cells, nothing more.
The biology of hair was the first thing they’d been taught at college. That’s why it doesn’t hurt to cut, the teacher had explained. Hair isn’t like skin, it’s just dead cells, and that’s how Missy had treated it until Ellie was born. When her baby girl emerged with a shock of dark hair, Missy had nuzzled her nose in it, feeling the incredible softness of the strands that had grown within her womb.
As Ellie had grown into a little girl, the nightly brushing of hair had become their ritual, one hundred strokes every evening before bed that transformed Ellie’s hair from a bird’s nest into a shining sheet of silk. It had never been cut. The ends of Ellie’s now waist-length hair were the same cells with which she had been born—the ones that had grown within Missy. There had been times Ellie had asked for a cut, the length annoyed her and the knots were endless, but Missy always resisted. In solidarity, she had agreed that as long as Ellie didn’t cut her hair, neither would Missy—a promise she had now broken.
She removed the hair elastic and started snipping. The back was hard to reach. She would use the clippers for that. An edgy undercut would suit the platinum blonde she was about to become.
Two hours later, Missy took a final look in the mirror. Under her feet were hanks of dark hair, and in the confines of the small bathroom the chemical smell of peroxide was almost overpowering. She gripped the basin.
She was barely recognisable. Even to herself. Except for one thing.
Missy took a breath. Her fingers fumbled. Slipping and sliding. She tried again. Bugger. Slipped. Wait. Nearly got it. Just a little bit more. There.
The nose ring made a tinkling sound as she dropped it down the sink.
She looked again at her reflection.
Bare-faced. Bleached and stripped back. She barely recognised the woman staring back at her.
Perfect.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘Four major catastrophes, Jamie.’ Ben’s face was creased with worry.
‘Talk to me,’ Jamie ordered, removing the headset through which the director was screaming at the DJ to get his dirty equipment off the white, lacquered runway. Your fucking turntable is turning my runway to shit.
‘Okay, well, first of all, the globes in the strobe light have blown and the lighting technician’s gone AWOL.’ Ben held up a second finger. ‘Two of the models had a bender last night and haven’t turned up. Also, the editor of Shopping Madness is refusing to get out of her car until we guarantee a front-row seat. And lastly, Nala says her assistant—’ Ben used his fingers to quote the word ‘—who I think is actually her best friend’s boyfriend, is saying the music needs to be louder and so Nala wants to know if that’s possible.’ He removed the pencil from behind his ear and held it expectantly over his notebook. ‘What do we do?’
‘Walk with me,’ Jamie said to Ben, striding through the plethora of half-naked women standing around racks of clothes. Fashion shows were always terrible for one’s body image and Jamie always emerged from them with a new resolution to hit the gym twice as hard. She saw Ben look sideways. ‘Hey, buddy,’ she snapped. ‘Eyes on me, thanks.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It’s just a little distracting.’
Jamie stopped at the fire exit and pointed to the door. ‘Outside here is where you’ll find the sparkie—it’s where all the tradies hang out for smoko. As for the models, I’ve actually got a couple of extras on standby.’ She leant in. ‘I always have back-ups. Models are flakier than pastry. Two drinks and pffft, they’re in bed for days. The downside of zero per cent body fat.’ Jamie took out her phone. ‘Just call Miriam at the agency, and she’ll send them over. I’ll shoot you her number.’ As she tapped her phone, Jamie kept talking. ‘As for the Shopping Madness princess, give her my spot and I’ll watch from backstage. And on the music issue, tell Nala’s assistant—’ Jamie quoted the air ‘—to go fuck himself.’
Ben’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’
‘No!’ Jamie cried. ‘Of course not.’ She put her hand on Ben’s arm. ‘Just leave Nala to me. I’ll calm her down.’
As the minutes ticked by, Jamie’s nerves began to mount. This was it. This was her final chance to prove her worth to Angel and get her approval to either take over at Spin or get her blessing for the Dubai venture. But Jamie wasn’t the only one with everything on the line. This was Nala’s first catwalk parade, and possibly her last, given the cut-throat nature of the Australian fashion industry. She’d put all the money she had into the show (which actually wasn’t much at all) and begged Angel to produce something that would establish her as a fixture on the Australian fashion landscape.
Angel was hooked, both by the challenge and by Nala’s clothes, which were a modern vibe on the African tribal trend and made women look exactly how they wanted to—sexy and elegant. Nala herself was a total sweetheart—a fashion-school graduate for whom everything was ‘stellar’, as in Ooh, that dress is stellar on you or That collar is just, like, stellar, right?
Yes, Jamie’s client was as starry-eyed as her favourite word. But her assistants (there seemed to be about five of them) were dope-smoking douchebags.
Jamie found Nala at the feet of a six-foot glamazon, madly performing last-minute touches to a floor-length, black maxi-dress, shot through with leopard print.
Stunning.
Jamie knelt down beside her. ‘Hon, I hear there’s a problem with the music.’
Nala removed three pins from her mouth. ‘Jamie, you know I think everything is looking like, so stellar, but Justin thinks the music is maybe a teensy-weensy too soft.’
Jamie nodded. ‘Well, you tell Justin that because of the neighbours, this venue has noise restrictions.’
‘Of course,’ said Nala, nodding earnestly. ‘Completely understand.’
‘But—’ Jamie held her hand up. ‘Because I know the manager, we’ll boost the music during the show to just over the legal level, so you tell Justin it’s going to be plenty loud.’
Nala
nearly knocked Jamie to the floor with her enthusiastic hug. ‘You’re the best.’
Jamie rose and straightened her skirt. ‘My pleasure, hon. You are going to shine like a star.’
Nala squealed. ‘My first show.’
‘Enjoy it, lovely.’
Jamie felt a firm hand on her waist. Ben. Still frowning. ‘We’ve got another major problem.’ He guided her away from Nala and behind a black curtain where it was quiet.
‘What is it?’ Jamie felt her nerves re-doubling. Whatever it was, it was serious.
‘The singlets for the drummers haven’t arrived,’ he whispered urgently. ‘The supplier thought the show was tomorrow and he hasn’t even started on them!’
To make Nala’s show really pop, Jamie had organised a crew of African drummers to kick it off with a walk down the catwalk and through the crowd. Jamie had heard them in rehearsal and knew the effect would be extraordinary. To top it off, they’d be wearing cool, black singlets with the word ‘Nala’ emblazoned in white across them.
Shit.
As Jamie visualised the crew of drummers, a thought popped into her head. ‘The guys in the drumming crew are all pretty hot, right?’
‘I dunno. I guess so.’
Jamie frowned. ‘C’mon, Ben. Don’t go all macho on me now.’
Ben set his mouth in a line. ‘Yes. Objectively, they are hot.’
‘Okay, well let’s have them do it topless.’
‘No singlets at all.’
‘Nothing,’ said Jamie triumphantly. ‘But I want the make-up artists to get their coal sticks and slash the word Nala across each guy’s chest.’
Ben nodded slowly. ‘I think that’ll work.’
‘Course it will.’ Jamie knew she sounded more confident than she felt. ‘Now you go see if the drummers are up for it. And if they’re a bit shy, promise them an extra hundred bucks for getting their kit off.’
