Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ELLIE
“I am sitting.”
“Sit properly. Shoulders back. Stop hunching.”
I straighten in the salon chair, feeling like a child called to the front of the class. In the mirror, my reflection looks back at me. Hair scraped into a ponytail, no make-up, the slightly startled expression of a woman who has agreed to something she’s not entirely sure about.
Ainsley stands behind me, studying my hair with the focused intensity of a surgeon assessing a patient. She reaches out and tugs the bobble free. My hair falls around my shoulders in its usual light-brown cloud of split ends and flyaways, doing its own thing entirely.
“Hmm,” Ainsley says.
I eye her in the mirror. “That wasn’t the most encouraging sound.”
“It’s fixable,” she says, lifting a section and letting it fall. “When did you last have it cut?”
I think about this. “Er . . . last summer? Maybe August?”
“Jesus, Ellie.”
“I’ve been busy.” I haven’t really, but I’m not a big fan of haircuts. Staring at my reflection, making awkward small talk, feeling like I’m in the spotlight the whole time. It’s just not my thing.
“Busy is not an excuse for—” She takes a lock of hair between two fingers and gives me a look. The split ends speak for themselves. “Right, let’s do something with this.”
Blair, who’s come along to watch the proceedings, raises her coffee cup in a toast.
“Come on,” Ainsley says. “Let’s get you washed.”
At the basin she works shampoo through my hair, her fingers firm against my scalp. It actually feels pretty good. Better than when Maggie, the old salon owner, did it.
“So,” Ainsley says, “are you nervous?”
“About the haircut?”
“About tonight, silly.”
“Oh. That.” I swallow. “Yes. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
Blair, who’s followed us to the basin, leans in and lowers her voice. “That’s normal.”
“Is it?”
“Of course. You’ve wanted this for the longest time, right? It would be weird if you weren’t nervous. But you’re going to be fine. Just try to enjoy it.”
Back at the chair, Ainsley sections my hair and begins cutting. I watch in the mirror as damp strands fall onto the cape and drift to the floor. It’s more than just a trim. She’s reshaping the whole thing: shorter layers around my face, longer through the back.
She works quickly, moving around me with quiet confidence. Every so often she pauses, tilts her head, adjusts something. I try to follow what she’s doing, but honestly, it’s a bit like watching a magician: impressive, mysterious, and completely beyond me.
Gradually the layers fall into place. And the woman in the mirror . . .
It’s not a different version of me. Not some makeover-montage transformation where the ugly duckling becomes a swan.
It’s me, but with my hair actually doing what it apparently wanted to do all along, if I’d ever given it the chance.
Soft waves frame my face in a way that makes my eyes seem bigger and my jaw softer.
“Oh,” I say.
Blair’s reflection joins mine and Ainsley’s in the mirror. “Ellie,” she says softly, “you look gorgeous.”
Ainsley unclips the cape and gives it a quick shake. “Right, over to Blair for phase two. Good luck tonight, Ellie.”
Phase two takes place in the boutique next door, where Blair takes charge like she’s been waiting for this her whole life.
I make straight for a rack of loose-fitting tops—my usual territory, shapeless and safe—but Blair physically steers me away from it. “Nope.”
“What’s wrong with—”
“Everything. ‘Not fancy’ doesn’t mean you get to hide.”
Douglas hasn’t told me what we’re doing tonight. All he’s said is that I don’t have to dress fancy.
Blair leads me further into the shop, pulling things from rails. A fitted top in a deep teal. A pair of jeans that look like they belong to someone with a very different body than mine.
“Blair, I can’t wear that.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” I gesture vaguely at myself.
“Because you’re a woman with a gorgeous figure and these might actually flatter you? The horror.”
“That’s not—”
“Trust me, Ellie.” She holds the teal top against me. “If I had boobs like yours, I would not be hiding them.”
My face ignites. “Blair!”
“What? It’s a compliment. Take it. Now go try these on.” She bundles the clothes into my arms and points me towards the fitting room. I go because there’s no arguing with her when she’s like this.
Behind the curtain, I pull off my jumper, my back to the mirror, then reach for the teal top. It fits. That’s the first surprise. It’s not tight, not uncomfortable, just fitted.
I hesitate, then turn to the mirror.
Oh.
It looks good. I look good. The top follows the shape of me rather than concealing it. The colour suits me better than I expected, and the neckline dips lower than I’d normally dare.
I stand there a beat longer than necessary, studying myself, not picking anything apart for once. Just looking.
“Well?” Blair calls from outside the curtain.
I pull it back. Her hand comes up to her mouth. “Ellie Macpherson. Look at you!”
“Is it too much?”
“It’s not enough. Try the jeans.”
I try the jeans. They fit too—snug on the bum and thighs, which I’d normally hate, but paired with the top, something about the whole picture just .
. . works. Moira, the shop owner, appears with a pair of ankle boots that she says will “finish the look”, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror wearing an outfit I would never in a million years have chosen for myself, and I don’t hate it. I more than don’t hate it.
“We’ll take it,” Blair tells Moira.
Back home, the nerves arrive in force.
I clip my hair up and shower carefully, doing my best not to ruin Ainsley’s work. Then I dry off, put on the new outfit, and stand in front of my bedroom mirror.
The woman in the reflection looks good. I know this objectively, the way you know the sky is blue or the sea is cold. The hair. The clothes. It all comes together. I look like someone who’s going on a date, which I suppose is the point, but the effect is . . .
Exposing.
Not because I’m half naked—I’m not—but there is more on display than I’m used to.
I glance down at my chest, then quickly back up again.
Right. That’s more cleavage than I remember in the shop, but it’s too late to change my mind now.
Tonight there’s no oversized jumper to disappear into.
No ponytail to hide my hair. Just me, in clothes that fit, my hair framing my face, my boobs very much present and accounted for.
I look like a woman who wants to be noticed.
I think of Douglas seeing me like this, and my stomach tightens.
Deep breath, Ellie.
Right. One more thing.
I reach for the eyelash curler Blair practically forced into my hand earlier, when we popped into the chemist’s after the boutique. She talked me through the technique. Clamp gently, hold for ten seconds, don’t blink. I follow the curler with the black mascara Ainsley recommended. Two coats.
I blink at my reflection. My eyes look . . . brighter somehow. The grey-blue stands out more than it usually does.
On a whim, I get out my make-up bag—a small neglected thing that normally lives at the back of a drawer.
There’s a blush in there I bought on impulse months ago and have never used.
I dust it across my cheekbones, then follow it with a tinted lip balm—not lipstick, nothing dramatic, just enough colour to make it look like I’ve made an effort.
I step back and take in the whole effect. There really isn’t any hiding now. And in about twenty minutes, I’m going on a date with Douglas Fraser, which is both exciting and utterly terrifying.