Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
ELLIE
I knew this morning was suspiciously perfect. That’s what they say, right? If something’s too good to be true, then it probably is.
I woke up ahead of my alarm. I checked the forum to find ‘ ilovetopuck’ banned again.
I even texted Mike to agree on a plan for this evening, pushing myself well and truly out of my comfort zone.
I was riding on the high of last night. The drinks turned into food, which turned into a late-night conversation at a quiet bar before we boarded trains going in opposite directions.
Not to mention the goodnight kiss.
I could still feel it lingering on my lips as I did my makeup. I could still feel his hands running through my hair as I did my blow dry.
I was sated .
Was being the operative word, because the moment I pulled up at the salon, my good mood came crashing down like a stylist trolly with a dodgy wheel.
Five seconds. That’s all it took .
And now I’m still sitting in my car, across the street, staring.
The first thing I noticed was the scaffolding, tubes of vertical and horizontal supports crowding the front of the salon.
The second was Greg in a suit, loitering next to the open door, talking to a guy in a hi-vis vest. The third was the sign, black with gold lettering, a fancy font of loops and curls, but there’s no mistaking the three words shimmering in the morning sun.
House of Kathryn
She’s re-branded.
Kathryn has re-branded.
I run my eyes over the gold lettering—bold, pompous, a testament to Kathryn’s self-importance, no doubt. And I wait to feel something … anger? Hurt? Betrayal? But there’s nothing. The happiness I woke up with drains out of me, leaving only numbness.
I sit still for another second, wondering if I should drive off. Wondering if she’d even notice. But she’d love that. She’d love for me to act like this wasn’t happening.
I’m out of my car and marching towards the salon in a flash, grateful I’m wearing flats. As I get closer, Greg turns and clocks me, cutting the conversation he’s having with the construction worker.
“Ah, good, Ellie’s here,” he says, as I come to a stop. “Ellie.” He beckons for me to move closer, like he’s giving me permission. “This is Jordon. He’s just about to dismantle the scaffolding, then you can open properly.”
I plaster on a sickly sweet smile as I greet Jordon, then I round on Greg.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“What do you mean?” he asks, following my gaze to the new signage. “Oh yeah, Kathryn had me pull some strings to get this up today. Apparently, it couldn’t wait.” He shrugs.
“Where is Kathryn?”
“Ah, she won’t be long,” he says. “She said she’ll be back in time for Chantelle’s arrival. ”
Chantelle? Chantelle? Do I know a Chantelle?
I think for a moment, searching the corners of my mind for any recollection, but there’s nothing familiar about the name Chantelle, nor the pending arrival of anyone.
Maybe she’s a new client of Kathryn’s, though I don’t know why Greg would be interested enough to learn her name.
“Um, Chantelle?” I ask, folding my arms as I turn towards him.
“Yeah, the new stylist,” he says, absentmindedly signing something Jordon thrusts under his nose.
I gape at him. “The new stylist?”
Greg narrows his eyes. “Y-yeah. Why do you look so surprised?”
“I wasn’t aware we were recruiting a new stylist,” I say.
“Really? Kathryn said you’d both spoken about offering wedding services, so it made sense to hire someone who specialises in bridal.
” Greg pulls his phone out of his pocket.
“Sorry, El. I need to get this—oh, actually,” he says.
“… we need to catch up about the ‘ you know what’ .” He taps the side of his nose before slipping away, phone pressed to his ear.
A heavy hollowness settles in my chest. Chantelle. Bridal. House of Kathryn. What the?—
The click of heels against the pavement slabs behind me draws my attention away from Jordon the scaffolder, and I turn to see my sister strutting towards the salon, with a brunette who looks like she’s just stepped out of a modern-day production of Hairspray.
“Morning,” Kathryn says as she closes in. “Glad to see you made an effort today.” She casts me an ‘up and down’ look, not even trying to hide her assessment of my appearance.
She breezes past me, practically dragging who I can only assume to be Chantelle through the salon door. Like a lost sheep, desperate to find my way home, I trot after her—impatient for an explanation.
“When did you decide to re-brand?” I say .
“Oh, it’s been on the horizon for a while,” she says. “Genius, don’t you think? I mean … it really captures the image I’m trying to portray. Besides, this is about growth. My growth, really.” She lets out a false laugh. “I’m taking control of my business.”
Her business.
I’m lost for words, really, I am. Because even though it is technically Kathryn’s salon, we’d agreed it was a joint venture. After all, I’ve put money into this place too.
Kathryn, smug and triumphant, turns to her new companion.
“Anyway—Ellie, this is Chantelle. Chantelle, this is my little sister, Ellie.” She flicks her hair as she turns back towards me. “She’s going to be starting here today. Would you mind grabbing her coat and putting the kettle on?”
Chantelle, on cue, slips out of her coat and holds it out to me, but I don’t take it. I stand rooted to the spot, committing my attention to my sister.
I lazily point towards the back of the salon before saying, “the coat hooks are there.”
Chantelle backs away and I shuffle closer to Kathryn.
“Do we need a new stylist?” I ask.
“Yes,” Kathryn says. “It’ll give you a chance to focus on the business side of things, El. Get the accounts in order. I mean, I know you do a pretty good job at that, anyway, but you won’t have any more distractions now.”
“The accounts?” I say, my voice breaking.
“Yes. The accounts. I’m doing you a favour here, El. You said you’d rather not do treatments so?—”
“I said I’d rather not do nails and spray tans,” I snap. “That’s not what I spent years perfecting. I didn’t even want to do those things … ever. You—” I jab my index finger towards her “—you were the one who as good as forced me to do extra training.”
Kathryn glares at me. “God, you’re so ungrateful.
After all I’ve done for you.” She pauses before relaxing her shoulders.
“Look, take this as an opportunity to learn from Chantelle. She can show you the ropes of what it takes to be a real stylist. You know, get into the wedding game. Maybe then you can try to get a deal with the magazine.”
Oh, my God. She actually thinks she’s the one doing me the favour. I wish I hadn’t stopped Mike last night. I wish I’d let him put Kathryn in her place.
“Is this because of Mike?” I say.
Kathryn looks like she has smelt something considerably unpleasant.
“Mike?” she says, with an air of someone feigning ignorance.
“You know exactly who and what I’m talking about,” I say. “The flowers—” I look towards the window, grateful that I had the sense to take them home before I attended the bridal workshop. “—ever since those flowers…”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. But I see it on her face, in her eyes. There’s something she’s not telling me. And it’s so infuriating, I could shake her. “Are you going to stand around or?—”
“Jeremy Betts,” I say, more to myself than to Kathryn.
“Sorry?”
“Jeremy Betts,” I say, louder this time, looking her right in the eye.
“I—I’m not here to talk about Mike’s dead brother,” she says with a sharpness in her tone.
I widen my eyes. “Kath?—”
“Can you just get on with opening the salon?” she says. “Maybe if you spent more time working and less time playing ‘Little Miss Detective’ then?—”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say. “Working? Working? Are you sure you don’t mean pandering to your every will?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Kathryn says.
And that’s it. That’s all it takes for something inside me to snap like a cheap comb.
After all the compromises I’ve made, all the times I’ve let Kathryn have her way—I’m done.
“Am I? Because I don’t think I am. I think … you’re scared that I’ll make something of myself. I think you’re scared I’ll find my own way and I’ll make my own decisions and mistakes. And you won’t have control of me any longer.”
Kathryn’s eyes flash, and she turns, reaching for a decorative vase full of glass pebbles sitting on the counter.
Before I can register what’s happening, in one firm swoop she half-spins and the vase sails through the air, clattering to the floor after it rebounds against the mirror opposite my stylists’ chair.
Thousands of pieces of glass and mirror rain down and all I can do is stare at the wreckage. My jaw on the floor.
For a long moment, no one moves. Not me. Not Kathryn. All I can hear is her laboured breathing, heavy and urgent, until there’s a shuffling to my right, and I drag my attention away from the mess to see Chantelle, in an almost comical shock.
Then Kathryn moves. Her expression shifts to horror, then panic as she realises the magnitude of her actions. She looks at me, then back towards the mess.
“That’s your fault,” she says.
I open my mouth to speak, protest even—but nothing comes. I can only stand flabbergasted, willing myself to say something.
But Kathryn, being Kathryn, does what she always does when she doesn’t get her own way. She runs. Without another word, she turns and grabs her bag and bolts for the exit, leaving Chantelle and me in complete disbelief.