by Donna Alam
‘He used to look at your bum,’ Ivy says. ‘I saw. You can look up now. He’s gone.’
‘Here.’ I pass her a couple envelopes addressed to Ivy personally.
‘Shove them in the drawer, would you? I’ve got to check June’s perm.’
‘Oh, how the mighty have fallen, eh?’
‘Pays the bills, babe,’ she replies. ‘And a bit more glam than your other job. Bricklayer, wasn’t it?’
‘What, with these nails?’ I flash her my recently manicured hands.
‘How was yesterday, anyway?’
‘Interesting,’ I say, hesitantly. Thankfully, the bell above the door chimes meaning I don’t have to elaborate.
I wasn’t lying—not exactly—when I told Rory I’d be too busy for lunch, but I hadn’t expected it to be this busy. June calls back late afternoon following her meeting at the Scottish Women’s Institute, bringing a much desired fruitcake for a spot o’ afternoon tea. Popping into the tiny kitchen, she makes said tea for all and sundry, though she refuses to touch Ivy’s newly acquired coffee machine.
I’m hoping the fruitcake is really chewy as it’ll give Melody, Ivy’s final client of the day, something else to occupy her gums. I might not have seen her since she and her boyfriend got into a post-fight-make-out session all those years ago, but she’s already getting on my last nerve.
For the last hour we’ve been catching up, which basically meant she’s bored Ivy and I with tales of her life with her husband—who seems to be called my Lloyd—along with her fat little offspring. Looking like something the aliens have beamed down, given her head full of foil, she’s decided to stand by the reception desk to keep me company. I could seriously write her biography, she’s talked for so long. My Lloyd is apparently the assistant manager at the bank at the end of the High Street, and her youngest was born just two months ago—Granny’s looking after the wee bairn to give mummy a break—and Melody, or Malady, suffered the most terrible episiotomy, which I now wished I hadn’t googled on my phone.
‘Ocht, but I feel so bad going on about how blessed my life has been while Fin here is suffering.’ This she announces dramatically to the almost empty salon.
Fin certainly is suffering. From earache. All those fake sympathies she spouts are unfortunately not drowned out even by a turbo hairdryer.
‘It must be terrible to be widowed so young. A foreigner, wasn’t he?’ she asks, turning to Ivy now, faux discreet.
‘English,’ responds Ivy to a twist of Malady’s mouth.
‘Well, it was good of you to give her a job.’ Through the mirror I watch the woman engage the sum of her brain cells. All two dozen of them. ‘Didn’t she go to some flash London university?’
‘Yeah. First class honours degree. She always was really smart.’
Book smart, life dumb, more like.
‘It’s good she’s come home so we can look after her. Maybe I can help coax her out of her shell, once it’s time. The poor love does look terrible in those mourning clothes.’
I keep my head bent over the appointment book to hide my smile. I wonder if she’d consider the black lace Agent Provocateur set I’m wearing as appropriate mourning attire, too.
‘Well, the sooner we get her back into society the better. I’ll invite her around for coffee next week. Introduce her to my wee ones.’
Dream on. I’d rather become a hermit than commit to that kind of society. I’m becoming babysitting fodder for no one.
‘I don’t think she’ll be around long enough, to be honest, Mal—M—Melody. She has the chance of a job down in London. Something corporate.’
‘Well, who’s going to man your reception desk when business is so new?’ From poor Fin to the girl leaving her friend in the lurch. I can’t win.
‘I expect we’ll cope. Most salons do.’
‘You know,’ Malady says, changing the subject as Ivy coaxes her back into the chair. ‘When I popped in the other day to book my appointment, I didn’t like to say—and I hope you don’t mind me doing so now,’ she adds, with a sycophantic smile. ‘But the old lady who brought in cake earlier . . .’
‘June,’ supplies Ivy pleasantly, encouraging her to position her neck against the basin.
‘Don’t you think . . . well, that maybe, she’s no’ quite the demographic you should be aiming for?’
‘June has been coming to this place to get her hair styled since before I was born.’
‘Aye, when it belonged to Agnes Riley. All the grannies did. But now this place would rival any city centre salon.’
‘That’s kind of you to say.’ For all her thanks, Ivy’s response is pretty bland as she begins sliding the first of the foils from Melody’s hair.
‘And high end salons don’t cater for old ladies, Ivy.’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree. Everyone’s welcome here, especially if they bring cake.’ Ivy shoots me her what the fuck look, but I can only shrug.
‘Very well, I didn’t want to, but I’m just going to come out and say it.’ She clutches the ends of the towel across her chest, her tone terse. ‘When she came in earlier she smelled of wee. Ow!’ Her grip on the towel loosened, she brings a hand to her head. ‘Careful! You’ll have me bald, pulling my hair like that!’
‘Sorry,’ Ivy murmurs, discarding the final foil, and possibly a chunk of hair. ‘But beauty hurts sometimes. And sometimes it just plain stinks.’ Personally, I think she’s lucky not to be getting a soaking from the hose as Ivy begins washing her hair. ‘Because the odour was the result of June’s perm.’ For an encore, she slaps a wad of shampoo on Melody’s head and begins rubbing vigorously.
‘Sleekit bitch,’ Ivy mutters later, locking the front door as Melody leaves. ‘The nerve of it. How dare she be all . . . sobsequious—’
‘Obsequious.’
‘Yeah, that. Leave poor June alone. Did you see the face on her as she handed over her gold credit card, like she was hot shizz?’
‘I used to have a black one myself.’
‘Next time she makes me show her what an inch of hair looks like I’ll get the clippers out!’
‘Shall I destroy her customer card?’ I ask, fanning it in the air. I don’t suppose there’s much chance of her coming back, despite leaving with fabulous hair.
‘Oh, she’ll be back,’ Ivy mutters, staring out into the darkening street. ‘Said she wanted hair like Scarlet Johansen and I told her I could totally do that, seeing as I’d done her hair before.’
‘You did the blonde bombshell’s hair?’
She nods. ‘Last year. On location.’ She turns to look at me. ‘The movie’s out later this year.’
‘I know what location means! How come you’ve never mentioned her?’ I thought I knew all the stars she’d worked with. Come to think of it, she didn’t mention Dylan Duffy, either. At least, not until Nat did.
Ignoring me, Ivy begins to tidy her work station. ‘We need to get a Saturday girl. Or a first year trainee. I think we might need more staff—’
‘You loved your job. I know you did. I just wish I knew why you’re back here.’ I push the morning’s mail into her hand as I pass, pulling out the sweeping brush from the cupboard.
‘I’ve just checked the Book-Face thing,’ says June as she breezes in. ‘There are lots of positive comments and reviews from this week. Oh, and Natasha says she’s just doing a wee bit of housekeeping and that she’ll be through soon. Was there any—why, whatever’s the matter, dearie?’
I look up from sweeping at June’s worried tone.
‘Here, sit yourself in yon chair, you’re looking awfully peely-wally.’ She holds the back of her hand to Ivy’s cheek, concern making a v of her eyebrows. ‘Overworking yourself, no doubt. Fin, hen,’ she says, lifting her head. ‘Would you get her a glass of water?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Ivy looks to be in a state of shock as she lifts her head from her correspondence, the fingers gripping the paper are almost bloodless. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock. I . . . I have
to go back to the States.’
‘Why, whatever for?’ clucks June, smoothing Ivy’s hair away from her forehead.
‘A . . . contractual thing. Something I thought I could do from here,’ she adds quietly.
‘And you can’t. Sort it from here, I mean?’
Ivy’s mouth is grim as she shakes her head. ‘I’ll need to close the place until I get back.’
‘Nonsense,’ says June. ‘You’ll leave it to us. Didn’t you say you’d already interviewed a nice young man for a job?’
‘But if I’m not going to be here—’
‘We’ll be fine, won’t we, Fin?’
‘Of course. Whatever you need.’
‘But your job—’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Truth is, I’ve mainly been hanging out and hiding over there. ‘But will you be?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You look scared stiff, Ivy.’
‘Right,’ says Natasha, suddenly appearing by the side of Ivy’s chair. ‘Who do I need to kill?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fin
Driving Ivy’s battered Fiat, I take her to Glasgow airport very early the following Tuesday hoping to get to the bottom of Saturday’s mail; the catalyst of her sudden trip. Lord knows I’ve tried to get her to open up over the weekend, but she’s been so closed lipped. To my shame, I’d even gone as far as sneaking into her room to search for clues, or rather, the letter, only to be rumbled when she’d walked in. The worst of it is she seemed too distracted to recognise I’d given her a bullshit excuse.
‘You’ll message me when you arrive?’ I ask again, anxiety creeping into my tone as Ivy turns her gaze from the passenger side window.
‘For the twentieth time, yes,’ she replies wearily. ‘And once more, just for your benefit, I already have a hotel room booked and I’ll be getting a cab there straight from the airport. No murderous hitchhiking for me.’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘And I’ll be sure not to talk to any strange men on the flight,’ she says, ignoring me. ‘Or in the airport, and I definitely won’t pop to the loo and leave my glass unattended. I don’t want to get roofied and ravished in economy class. I have lived and travelled on my own, remember. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me.’
I don’t need to be clairvoyant to know this is untrue; there’s something going on. I just don’t know what.
‘I really can’t see why you couldn’t have gotten a lawyer involved. This contract bullshit seems very . . . well, bullshitty.’
‘Trust me,’ she says, turning away once again. ‘This is the best way. The only way.’
‘But best way to what? That’s what I don’t understand. I know I’ve been a mess the last few months, but don’t think I haven’t noticed . . . noticed you.’ The lack of lightness that usually surrounds her. The negativity with which she seems to paint all men. ‘You’re not yourself, and sometimes when I look at you, you seem to be almost shimmering.’
Ivy huffs, folding her arms. ‘I think you’re right. You’ve spent too much time in your pyjamas these last few months, overdosing on Twilight and now your imagination is working overtime. Anyway,’ she adds with an audible huff. ‘The lion can eat the flippin’ lamb for all I care.’
‘Exactly my point.’ My hands grip the steering wheel tighter. ‘Mrs Vegetarian.’
‘Your skin is pale and ice cold and . . . and your eyes glow red.’ Hands clasped at her chest, she lays it on pretty thick. ‘You don’t sleep. You rarely go outside. I know who you are—Fin!’ Her loud cackle echoes in the tiny Fiat, sounding ridiculously false.
‘Real funny. I didn’t mean to imply you look like Disco Vampire Barbie. It’s more like you shimmer like you’re supressing . . . I don’t know, words, maybe?’ I slide my gaze her way. ‘Rage?’
She shoots me a withering look, her responding tone flat. ‘There’s nothing going on, so you can stop with the conspiracy theories.’
‘Theories,’ I repeat. ‘How’s this? I theorize there’s a guy at the bottom of this flight.’
She huffs again, her following words more than a touch brusque. ‘Please keep your eyes on the road. I need to get to Glasgow, not Inverness.’
‘Fine, have it your way.’
‘If I had my way he’d be at the bottom of the ocean.’ This she mutters almost under her breath.
I spend the rest of the car journey worrying about her. And then on my way back, worrying about seeing Rory. I didn’t call him Saturday, not after Ivy opened the damn letter. There was no way I could’ve left her alone, especially as she’d taken a vow of temporary silence while erecting a shelf of concern over her eyebrows. We’d gone upstairs after Natasha and June left for the day and she’d immediately logged onto her laptop to book a flight, point-blank refusing to discuss any of the reasons beyond what she’d already said. A contractual thing. She had to go back.
I thought about calling Rory to explain—maybe take a raincheck?—but it just seemed a little too much. Too familiar. Too easy. Too much like I was looking forward to seeing him again. In not calling, I’d decided, I was sending a message. A signal high into the sky, sort of like the one Batman has, only mine says, Not that interested.
Obviously, I didn’t think it through properly. Didn’t project the possible outcomes beyond the evening itself, because I’m now on my way to work and I’m pretty sure he’ll be there. And I am interested. Interested, that is, in what he has to offer. Namely some awesome sex. I know I oughtn’t, that I should keep on sending those uninterested signals, but it’s easier to ignore someone you don’t have to see.
And I have a really bad poker face.
Not to mention I’m currently dressed for ease of access. I’m wearing a dress to a building site, for fuck’s sake. And long, black boots. God, I’m such a cliché.
Awkward doesn’t even cover it. I’m going to spend my days drooling over him, aren’t I? Why did it have to be him contracted to design the gardens, anyway? I can only hope the universe is looking out for me and he’ll have been called away to other jobs today. Though not permanently because . . . see above reference to sex.
I don’t think I’m through having sex with him . . . which is probably a sign of another kind. Maybe this one needs to be placed inside a red triangle and labelled dangerous.
Oh, but sex. He was really good. The best. And therefore, I’d like to do it—him—again.
There I go thinking with my recently installed metaphoric dick.
Or maybe I’m ovulating?
Or maybe he really just fucked my brains out.
Whatever the reason, my heart beats with an uneasy kind of anticipation as I pull on to the driveway.
At the back of the big house, I park at the stables just as Rory comes out of my house. Okay, so it’s not exactly my house. More like my little sanctuary, though perhaps not any more. He waves as he sees me, coming to open the driver’s door. Fuck. I turn off the engine; my hands tighten on the steering wheel as he pulls open the door.
‘No bike today?’ he asks, holding out his hand. So, he doesn’t appear to be annoyed that I blew him off this weekend.
‘Evidently not.’ So why is it that I sound so cross?
‘Well?’
‘What?’ I snap in response, while cursing him and his pale t-shirt and wondering if he knows how hot he looks.
‘Well . . . are you getting out of the car? Maybe planning on doing some work today?’ The corner of his mouth hooks into a half-assed smirk, igniting the simmering flicker of anger inside my chest. Especially as he turns his wrist, looking pointedly down at his watch. He’s got good hands. Strong wrists. Great forearms. A subtle tan and—brain, shut the hell up!
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, it is nearly lunch time.’
‘What? Now you’re the talking clock?’ I climb out of the car without taking his hand. ‘It’s not even ten—’ I grab his wrist with the intention of seeing the exact time, the next
words propelled from my mouth in a seriously high pitch ‘—is this a Patek Phillipe?’
I know it is as I bring my face closer, peering down at it. I know because Marcus wore the same brand, though this one has a masculine leather strap rather than the gaudy gold one I’m more familiar with. I wonder what happened to it. Whatever, you could still buy a house in most places with the cost of one. And how in the heck is Rory wearing one? To garden?
‘It’s a knock off,’ he says, pulling back his hand. ‘I got it in Ibiza last year. I’m surprised it’s still working, to be honest.’
‘Oh.’ My hands fall to my sides, the flame of anger turning to relief.
‘So, work?’ he says fully smirking now as he slides both hands into the pockets of his jeans.
‘Yeah. I suppose.’ I fold my arms across my chest as I look away, something—and I’m certain it’s not just his watch—bothering me.
‘Come on, darlin’,’ he almost growls. ‘I know you can do enthused. I’ve seen it.’
And if his words aren’t suggestive enough, the look he gives me leaves me in no doubt as to what he’s referring. His eyes then move from my lips and linger over my breasts, my nipples stiffening, almost feeling the brush of his gaze. His lips twitch, his eyes purposely unmoving from my chest, clearly enjoying the reaction he’s causing. He’s pushing my buttons—yes, those and my metaphoric ones—and he knows it. And this just burns my ass. He might be good and he might know it, but that doesn’t give him the right to . . . to make me feel so pissed!
Buddy, there’s a time and a place, and right now is neither of those things.
In other words, I bite. Badly.
‘What is your deal? Because what I do is no concern of yours.’ That damned smile breaks free, and despite imagining pushing my hands into his hair and dragging his mouth to mine, my blood pressure is totally about to erupt, and not in the fun, sexual way. ‘For your information, I’m contracted to twenty hours a week and last week I spent over triple that amount here. I don’t have to answer to you, but if I did, I’d tell you I didn’t need to be here until this afternoon when the gym equipment arrives and that I don’t need to come back until Wednesday when I’m meeting with new builders, okay?’
