“Done!” the woman says to herself, clicking the hairdryer off. She points at her reflection. “Looking good!”
Grace smiles. “I agree.”
The hairdresser swivels around, touching her heart. “Holy Mother of God! I didn’t see you there! I’m so sorry. Have you been waiting long?”
“I literally just came in.”
“And there I was gawking at myself in the mirror, going on like a total looper.”
“It made my day, to be honest.”
“It’s early.” She smiles then touches a black swivel chair that faces a wall of mirror. “Come, have a seat.”
The children won’t be up for ages, Grace tells herself. She deserves this. Maybe she even needs it. She is not the person he wanted her to be. She is herself. She has broken away from him. She is free. Free to be the person she was before she ever met him. If she could just find that person, the energy of her, the confidence, the strength…. Well, hair is a start.
Grace sits into the chair with a new determination.
“So! What are you having done?”
Grace eyes her reflection like a dare. “Something drastic.”
“I knew you were fun the minute I saw you!”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. And I was right. No one asks for drastic.” The vivacious blonde swings a black silk cape over Grace’s shoulders as though she was born to do so. She ties it with Velcro at the neck then looks at Grace in the mirror. “I’m Jane,” she says, a question in her voice.
“Grace.”
“You’re not from around here?”
Grace hesitates. News in the village is everyone’s. It just takes a few minutes. On this occasion, that’s fine. Grace should probably get word of her arrival out now, acclimatise people before she appears in the surgery on Monday.
“Actually, I am! I’m Des Sullivan’s daughter, back from Dublin!” She says it like it’s a great thing. It could be. Eventually. Maybe.
“Oh, yeah! I heard you were coming. Sure, that’s great altogether. Welcome to Killrowan. The real capital! You have kids, don’t you?”
Grace smiles and nods. “So, I want it all off,” she says, to end that line of inquiry. “Especially the fringe. Maybe feather it or flip it to the side or, I don’t know, both?”
“So, you definitely want it short?” Jane confirms, like she’s experienced some post-cut changes of heart.
“Yup.”
“Short short?”
“Short short.”
Jane nods seriously like she’s about to perform surgery. She lifts pieces of hair and lets them fall. “Okay, I have a suggestion. It’s a little bit mad. But hear me out.”
Grace glances at the people going by outside. No one rushing. Lots of chat. A few laughs. It’s October and the tourists have gone. Just locals now. Farmers, new age hipsters and people working in the town. Grace had hoped to be here by September for the start of the school year but the legals took longer than expected. She hopes that Jack and Holly will settle in and that the change won’t swamp them. Starting over is never easy. And life in Killrowan couldn’t be more different to the one they have left.
Jane works fast, snipping away with the same confidence she tackled her own hair. Grace watches strands fall like shackles. Her heart lifts at the thought of no longer being designed by Simon. Even thinking his name makes her skin crawl.
The cut is definitely short short. It frames her face, highlighting its heart shape and her delicate features. But Jane was right.
“It needs something more.”
Jane grins, then disappears. She returns with a trolley and gloves on her hands.
The bleach goes in. Grace’s scalp tingles and her eyes smart. There’s a moment of doubt as she remembers her request for drastic. But there’s no going back now. And, however terrible it turns out, it won’t be what it was. It won’t be his.
“Will I do your nails while we’re waiting for that to work?” Jane asks.
Grace looks down at her hands and splays out her fingers.
“Ah, sure you’re grand,” Jane says when she sees the French manicure.
“Actually, no. I want that off.”
“But it’s perfect.”
The way Simon wanted Grace. And it was easier, in so many ways, to go along with it. The only thing she kicked back on was plastic surgery. No matter how much he criticised her face, it was hers. Her biggest disincentive, though, wasn’t her appearance but the niggling fear of going under an anaesthetic while he hovered with a scalpel.
Grace doesn’t know which he hated most, red or black nails. Right now, black feels more rebellious. She picks up the varnish and hands it to Jane. Who smiles.
“That’ll be so cool with the hair.”
While Jane has been working on Grace, the place has been filling up. Another hairdresser has arrived and conversations are humming. Grace overhears “Young Dr. Sullivan.” a few times and feels the glances she is getting. She closes her eyes.
“Young Dr. Sullivan, back again like a bad penny?” a voice booms.
Reluctantly, Grace opens her eyes. In the swivel chair beside her, an overweight, middle-aged woman with a ruddy face is smiling at her.
Grace’s return smile is gracious. “Hello.”
“Hi, I’m Jacinta Creedon, the butcher’s wife. Jacinta O’Donovan that was.”
“Oh, my goodness! I remember you from school!” Jacinta is only three years older than Grace but looks at least ten. “How are you?”
“Ah, sure. I could complain but who’d listen?” She chuckles like she’s very contented with her life. “You’re going fierce mad with the hair.”
Grace looks in the mirror. And barely recognises herself. Her cropped hair has been entirely bleached of colour. “Silver” tones have been added. Grace was expecting that. What she wasn’t expecting was to have years taken away with the colour. Her light green eyes seem suddenly huge, making her look like one of those anime characters. Or a pixie. Her features were drowned by the bob; she sees that now. Grace looks like someone entirely new. Someone cool, maybe even fun. Someone not afraid of adventure. Not afraid of anything. Maybe.
“It’s gorgeous,” Jacinta says.
Grace turns and smiles at her, thinking her lovely. She’d forgotten how friendly people were here. Nosey, yes. But warm too. Genuinely warm.
“And look at those nails,” Jacinta says, like a fan.
The other hairdresser arrives behind Jacinta and looks at her through the mirror. “So Jacinta, what’ll it be?”
“Oh. The usual.”
5
The hair has taken up most of the morning. Grace texts Des to let him know she’s on her way, then dashes into the supermarket. She ignores turning heads and flies down the first aisle, snatching things up. She stops, trying to decide between two brands of peanut butter. That is when she realises just how good her hearing is. From someone in the next aisle, she catches:
“Young Dr. Sullivan down from Dublin.”
“With her notions,” someone else chimes in, sotto voce.
Grace’s heart lurches. Notions are the worst thing you could possibly have in Ireland. Notions about yourself and how brilliant you are. What makes anyone think she has notions? Her hair? The nails? What? She feels herself colour. It can’t be a good look. Silver head, red cheeks.
“The cut of her!” the clandestine conversation continues.
“And when she opens her mouth, you’d never think she was from here at all.”
Grace tells herself she doesn’t care. Let them think what they want. Whoever they are, they don’t know her. They just want something to talk about. Something to entertain themselves with. She has bigger things to worry about.
“I wonder what has her coming down here… without the husband,” the conversation continues.
Right! That’s it! Grace swings her trolley around into the next aisle. There they are, huddled together. One, she doesn’t know. The other is Jacinta Creedon who Grace had decided was lovel
y, half an hour ago.
Seeing her, the women clam up.
“Oh Grace, ’tis yourself,” Jacinta says, innocently.
“With my notions,” Grace replies, eyeballing her.
Jacinta blushes.
Grace pushes the trolley through them.
She’ll have to come back to this aisle when she’s done.
In the meantime, she is going to live up to their expectations. They think she has notions? She’ll show them notions. Into the trolley goes freshly blended coffee that smells like heaven, homemade cheeses from West Cork, the finest of breads and salami. An expensive wine. She collects tofu and chickpeas and quinoa for Holly, delighted with the health food section. She spots tortilla chips and goes a bit mad. In a frenzy of rebellion, she starts snapping up all the foods that Simon used to disallow. Tortilla chips (three packs). Ingredients for chilli con carne. Salsa. Guacamole. Beer. To hell with him. To hell with Jacinta and her pal. To hell with everyone. Grace will answer to no one. Ever again.
In the household section, she finds some bleachy concoction that should work on the black stains in the bathroom. She also picks up a candle. Not the fanciest candle she’s ever seen. But it’ll cheer the house up a little. She hopes.
The checkout girl – who Grace has never met – addresses her as Young Dr. Sullivan, proving that, not only has news spread of who she is, but her title has been decided upon. Something tells Grace that fighting it would be a spectacular waste of energy. As would pointing out to the checkout girl that “Young” Doctor Sullivan is probably twice her age.
“So, that’s it. We’ll never see Dr. Sullivan out anymore now,” the young and, until now, chirpy blonde says with regret.
Grace frowns. “What do you mean?”
She scans the wine casually. “Oh, just that he hardly leaves the house now, only to come down here for his few messages.”
“Why is that, do you think?” Grace asks, trying to hide her worry.
The girl lowers her voice and leans across the conveyer belt conspiratorially. “I’d say he’s embarrassed. You know, on account of the Parkinson’s.”
No filter, Grace thinks. And just as well. This is information she needs to know.
Out on the street, laden with bags, (Why didn’t she think to bring the car?) she spies a florist called Petals. And hurries inside. She can’t go around changing her father’s home but there’s nothing to stop her from brightening it up. She chooses lilies. Waiting for them to be wrapped, to avoid conversation, she wanders into another part of the shop. Oh. It has a lovely line of interiors brands. She spies gorgeous towels and tea towels. Which she brings back to the till. Too late, she remembers that she is spending borrowed money. She will have to change her ways. Simon encouraged her to spend, wanting her to look good, the house to look good, the children to look good. He just didn’t care how they felt.
“You’ve great taste, Young Dr. Sullivan,” the florist says, taking the towels from her.
Inside, Grace groans. “Thank you…. I don’t know your name?” she says, to equal the playing fields.
“Petal,” she says, so quietly that Grace isn’t sure she’s caught it.
“Petal?”
The florist closes her eyes and nods. “I was doomed from the start.”
“But you called the shop Petals!” She must like it.
Petal shrugs. “Well, it makes sense to call it Petals, doesn’t it? I mean, I’d be stupid not to. Everyone knows I’m Petal.”
“I think it’s a lovely name.”
Petal places the towels carefully into a tasteful, coffee-coloured bag bearing the Petals logo in pink. “You didn’t grow up with the teasing I did. I should hate flowers. Instead, I love them.”
“It shows,” Grace says, glancing around the shop at the beauty, the creativity.
“Aw, thanks.”
“You know, you could always change your name.” Grace has changed hers back and the sense of freedom has been amazing. But then she notices Petal’s professionally branded apron, matching the bags and the shopfront outside. With all the branding, Petal is probably stuck with her name.
But the florist brightens. “I could! Couldn’t I? I mean, I could keep the shop the same. It still makes sense even if I’m not Petal.”
“What would you go for?” Grace asks, encouragingly.
Petal taps her upper lip. Then brightens like she’s having a Eureka moment. “You know, I’ve always liked Jacinta.”
Grace’s reaction is from the gut. “I’d stick to Petal if I were you.”
Struggling to carry everything, Grace passes two men in their twenties jumping down from a tractor in mud-splattered Wellington boots. They step back to let her pass.
“Here, let us give you a hand,” one says.
“It’s fine. Thanks, though.”
They take the bags from her anyway. All of them.
“Thanks so much,” she says awkwardly. “I’m just up here.”
“Oh, you must be Young Dr. Sullivan, so,” says the more confident of the two…brothers? Non-identical twins?
It’s one “Young Dr. Sullivan” too far. “I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“Ah, ’tis just to distinguish you from the other Dr. Sullivan,” one says, reassuringly.
The other is busy looking into her eyes. “You don’t look it.”
He’s not flirting, Grace tells herself.
“Would you ever give over?” his companion scolds him.
So he was flirting. When is Grace going to start trusting her gut and stop making excuses for people?
“If I see a beautiful woman why wouldn’t I share my appreciation?” he asks, continuing to look into her eyes.
Stunned and wholly unused to male attention, Grace feels herself blush. Luckily, they’re almost at the house.
She takes back the bags with a quick, “Thanks very much.”
She just wants to be home and stay inside forever.
Home.
Grace brightens at the thought that this word no longer means a palatial mansion in South County Dublin where the air is laced with fear but a tiny, draughty, country house where she is loved.
Three spoons drop into Cornflakes when Grace hurries inside.
“Sweet divinity,” her father says. “Hardly the look of a country GP.”
That’s becoming very clear to Grace.
Jack is staring at her with a look of horror. “You’re not looking for someone else, are you?”
“What? No! That’s the last thing I’d want, right now. Or ever!” She seems to be making the same look of horror back.
“Okay. Good.” He returns to his Cornflakes.
“Well, I love it,” Holly says, getting up and coming for a closer look. “And the nails!” She lifts her mum’s hand and laughs. “Wow.”
If only all of Grace’s patients were fifteen-year-old girls.
“Still,” Jack mumbles into his cereal. “It’s like you’re looking for attention or something.”
Holly pivots around. “You just don’t get it, do you? All Mum wants is to start over.”
Grace looks at her fifteen-year-old daughter, stunned by her insight. “You’re right, Holly. That’s exactly what Mum wants.” Minutes ago, it had been to escape Simon, shake him off. But escaping Simon is still all about Simon. Grace sees that now. What she must do is start over. Because that is about Grace.
She hugs Holly tightly. “You’re wise beyond your years, young lady.”
“I know!”
Grace laughs. And when she sees the look of surprise on her children’s faces she wonders how long it’s been since they’ve heard her laugh. Years? There and then, she makes a promise to herself.
6
Everyone helps to put the shopping away, Jack sampling as many delicacies he can get his hands on. Grace smiles. This is one thing he has never lost: his love of food. His very first word – while eating – was “More!” Jack’s appetite has always reassured Grace.
“Where does this go?�
�� Des asks of the tofu. He looks at Holly as if she must be the intended recipient of this strange food.
“Fridge,” she says, taking it from him and putting it in the door.
“Dad, after lunch, I’m bringing the kids to Drim to get uniforms. Will you come with us?”
“Ah, sure I’m grand here, love,” he says, looking baffled by guacamole.
“Fridge, too,” Holly says, taking it from him.
“I know you’re grand,” Grace persists, “but a change of scenery might… be nice.”
“Mum, you’re sounding all Cork,” Jack says, screwing up his face like there’s a bad smell.
“Maybe because I am from Cork,” she says taking the Gubeen cheese from him before he polishes it off.
“Yeah, but you’re down here, like, two seconds.”
She turns back to Des. “So, Dad, why don’t you come along? Get a coffee and a scone. Have a read of the paper.” Scones, in particular, are Des’s great weakness.
“I’ve things to do, pet.”
“Can’t they wait?” she asks lightly. “Isn’t your pal, Tadhgh, in Drim? Ye could have an old pint of Guinness and a chat.”
“Mum, seriously,” Jack says of her accent.
At the same time, Des says, “Don’t mother me.” He lifts a cucumber from the shopping bag and looks relieved.
Grace feels her stomach tighten. This is not just about getting her dad out and moving. It’s about making sure that no one’s home should Simon show up. Grace can’t have her father face him alone. Simon would run rings around him. He’d probably be sitting by the fire when they came home, whiskey in hand. Should she tell Des? No. She can’t tell him. Should she cancel the trip? No. They need uniforms. She is stuck.
But then Jack puts down a jar of posh olives he was about to open, goes over to Des and puts an arm around him, surprising everyone, especially Des.
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 3
