Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
AINSLEY
Tuesday
A hairdryer whirs. Scissors snip. The till drawer slides open with a satisfying clack that’s becoming pleasantly familiar.
Three weeks in, and the salon is busy. The appointment book is filling up. Word is spreading. I’m not just surviving—I’m building something.
This is what I wanted. What I worked for.
I should be proud. Content.
And I am. Obviously, I am.
As I work on Mrs Patterson’s hair, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Smile in place. Posture confident. The picture of a woman who has her shit together.
So why does something feel . . . off?
I push the thought aside and reach for my thinning shears.
Wednesday
The Ferryman’s Rest is a lot quieter on a Wednesday than a Thursday. Means Blair and I can have a proper catch-up without our conversation being drowned out by a certain folk band.
“Cheers,” Blair says, raising her glass to mine.
“Cheers.” I take a sip of the white wine, letting the crisp tartness settle on my tongue.
We chat about nothing for a while—Finn’s new obsession with dinosaur facts, Lily’s ongoing Barbie empire, the weather turning properly autumnal. Easy, comfortable stuff.
Then Blair tilts her head, that gentle curiosity in her eyes that I’ve learned means she’s about to ask something I won’t want to answer.
“So,” she says. “Struan.”
I set my glass down. “Aye? What about him?”
“I just wondered if—”
“Nothing’s happening there. And I’d really appreciate it if people stopped asking.”
Blair’s eyebrows lift. “Oh. Sorry. Of course.”
Guilt pricks at me. She’s only being a friend. It’s not her fault I’m . . . whatever I am.
“Sorry,” I say, softer. “I didn’t mean to be prickly. It’s just, at the moment my priorities are Lily and the salon. I don’t have the headspace for anything else.”
“Understood.” Blair smiles, no trace of offence. “Subject closed.”
We both take a sip of our drinks.
Blair’s phone pings. She glances at it then smiles to herself—one of those small, private smiles.
“Lachlan,” she says, almost apologetic. “He’s sent over a cute photo.” She turns the screen towards me. “My boys.”
Finn’s tucked against Lachlan on the sofa, Gus sprawled on the floor beside them, all three of them looking half-asleep and utterly content.
A knot twists in my chest. I ignore it.
“Cute,” I say lightly. I drain the last of my wine. “Right, next round’s on me.”
I stand and head for the bar before Blair can say anything else.
Thursday
“Time for your bedtime story, Lily,” I say, pushing open her bedroom door.
I stop short. Because there, taped to the wall above her wee desk—slightly wonky, obviously Lily’s handiwork—is Isla’s drawing. The apology picture. Now pride of place in her room.
“You put it up,” I say, pointing to it.
Lily looks up from arranging Mr Flops on her pillow. “Yep. I like it.”
“You know, you don’t have to display it. If it reminds you of what happened.”
“It’s fine.” She shrugs. “Friends fight sometimes. But then they’re friends again. Can we see Isla this weekend?”
My stomach tightens. “We’ll see about that.”
“But—”
“Bedtime story,” I say firmly, settling onto the edge of her bed. “Go on, pick one from your bookcase.”
Friday
I shiver as I pull the recycling bin out onto the street. The evening air has a bite to it now. Autumn’s settling in.
Headlights sweep across me, then Struan’s van pulls into his drive. Back from picking up Isla for the weekend, no doubt.
As he kills the engine, he glances over and our eyes meet through the van window. He smiles—quick, familiar.
I turn and head for the house at a pace that’s definitely not running away. Nope, it’s just cold and late, and I have things to do.
I’m inside before he even steps out of the van. I close the door behind me and lean back against it, breath leaving me in a tight rush.
Just the cold, I tell myself. Just the cold.
Saturday
I’m in the kitchenette, on my phone, nursing the dregs of a lukewarm tea. The hum of the salon drifts through the door.
I’m scrolling through emails—a supplier confirmation, a booking enquiry, the usual—when a text notification slides onto the screen. A name I haven’t seen in months.
Rachel.
My thumb freezes mid-scroll.
Rachel
Ainsley, I know we’re not on good terms, but Danny’s done to me what he did to you. I’m upset and confused and . . . I don’t know. Just thought maybe you’d understand
I read it twice. Three times.
Rachel. My ex-best friend. The woman who slept with my boyfriend—the father of my daughter—behind my back. That Rachel is texting me for . . . what? Sympathy? Comfort?
And she doesn’t even apologise! Not a single “sorry for what I did”. She actually wrote “what he did to you”, like she wasn’t right there with him, doing it too.
My pulse races.
Of course Danny cheated on her. Because that’s what men like Danny do. The charming ones. The flirty ones. The ones who make you feel oh so special, when in their eyes you’re really not special at all.
For one stupid half-second, my thumb hovers over the keyboard. Old habit. Old instinct. We were best friends once. Used to share everything.
But then I catch myself.
Why should I comfort her? Why should I offer anything to the woman who helped tear my life apart and never once said sorry?
No. I have to protect myself. Prioritise my own peace.
I tap through to her contact. Press “block”.
I set the phone down and pick up my tea. It’s gone completely cold, but I drink it anyway.
Sunday
“Can we get a Ken doll?”
I blink at Lily over the pile of Barbies between us. “A Ken doll? Since when do you want a boy doll?”
“Because Barbie needs a boyfriend, Mummy.” She says it like I’m being thick. “Obviously.”
“Why does Barbie need a—”
“Stwuan Barbie can’t be her boyfriend,” Lily continues, steamrollering right over me. “She’s not really a boy. I want a real boy to be Barbie’s boyfriend. Someone who gives her cuddles and kisses.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Er . . . right. Well, maybe. For now, let’s find Barbie a nice outfit, shall we?”
“Okay!” Lily happily dives into her drawer of tiny clothes.
I try to help, holding up a sparkly pink dress which she rejects in favour of something with more sequins. But my mind drifts.
Cuddles and kisses. Where did that come from?
Sunday (later)
Lily is finally asleep.
It took three stories, two glasses of milk, and a lengthy negotiation over whether Mr Flops needed his own pillow (he did, apparently). But she’s out now, breathing soft and steady, one arm flung over her rabbit.
I should probably try to have a bit of me time—watch some grown-up TV, maybe—but I honestly don’t have the energy for it. So I get myself ready for bed. I’m just pulling back my duvet when I hear it.
A guitar.
A slow, wistful tune drifts through the night air. Acoustic. Gentle. Familiar.
My chest tightens.
I step out onto the landing almost without deciding to. Peer through the gap in the curtains into the dark.
Struan is on his back step, head bent over his guitar, fingers moving softly over the strings. The light from his kitchen window casts him in warm gold, picking out the tawny curls, the slope of his shoulders, the quiet confidence of his hands.
Heat flickers through me—sharp and unwelcome. I remember the last time I watched him play. The kiss. His lap. My body giving in far, far too easily.
I clamp down on it. No.
But the music keeps playing. Something slow and aching, the kind of melody that curls under your skin and finds all the places you’ve been trying to protect.
I step back. Pull the curtains fully closed. Head back into my bedroom and switch off the light.
I’m just tired. That’s all. It’s been a long week.
I climb into bed and lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep.
It doesn’t come.