Chapter Three
‘Hi, Sophie,’ trilled my boss. Ruby reversed out of a floor-to-ceiling stock cupboard, a grin on her face. ‘How are you this morning?’
I shut the door to the tiny hair salon and shrugged off my jacket.
‘Not so bad,’ I said, forcing a smile.
Ruby paused for a moment, her arms full of tin foils, hair dye and bleach brushes. She gave me an appraising look.
‘Hmm. You look like my mum when she’s been walking one of her four-legged doggy clients and had a run-in with an off-lead hellraiser.’
‘Oh?’
‘In other words, you have a face like a slapped bum.’
‘Gee, thanks, Rubes.’
Ruby was only nineteen and said things how they were. Her mother, Wendy, was a lovely woman who’d recently remarried. Ironically, Wendy’s new husband had turned out to be my divorce lawyer. Wendy’s life had fallen under the gossips’ spotlight when her first husband had… well, let’s just say there had been some eyebrow-raising tittle-tattle.
Wendy had gone on to buy a dear little house called Clover Cottage but, since marrying Gabe, she’d permanently loaned the cottage to her daughter. Ruby had recently qualified as a hairdresser and gone on to turn a small outbuilding into a tiny hair salon. Her business had taken off almost immediately thanks to Little Waterlow’s high street salon – my original workplace – going into administration.
Following my redundancy, I hadn’t wasted a moment, and hotfooted over to Ruby’s place to see if she needed another pair of hands. Happily, she had.
Despite our age gap, we got on well. Occasionally I babysat Mo, Ruby’s little girl, if she and her partner Simon wanted a night out. They were a lovely little family and it made me wistful for the children I’d always hoped to have with Teddy but which, despite our many attempts at IVF, had never come along. Perhaps – looking back at our bumpy marriage – that had been a blessing in disguise.
‘So come on then,’ said Ruby, scrutinising my face. ‘What’s up?’
I hung my jacket over the coat stand in the corner.
‘It’s something and nothing.’
Ruby dumped the foils and hairdressing paraphernalia on the tiny reception table, then stuck her hands on her hips.
‘Forget the nothing and tell me the something. In fact, hold fire while I put the kettle on. We’ve got ten minutes before our respective clients arrive, so sit down for a minute and take some deep breaths. I can tell you’re rattled.’
She disappeared into a small backroom that housed a loo, miniature washbasin, a washing-machine-cum-tumble-dryer, and a slither of worktop upon which sat a kettle and a microwave.
I flopped down on the chair by the washbasin and stared through the window. The view was of Ruby’s home. Clover Cottage was chocolate-box pretty, especially with its arc of pink rambling roses framing the back door. The beautiful blooms gave off the sweetest fragrance throughout the summer months.
I gazed at the roses, my mind wandering to some different flowers. Namely, my bouquet. George had suggested I go for something in silk, claiming they’d make a nice keepsake. Together, we’d trawled through a website. He’d paused to consider some artificial lilies.
‘These are nice,’ he’d enthused. ‘I love them in this colour.’
They’d been grey.
I’d since visited Daisy Kingston, another resident of Little Waterlow, who had her own florist shop in the heart of the village. She’d promised to give me a bouquet of mixed blooms in a riot of different colours.
It had struck me – briefly – that George could, at times, be somewhat controlling. However, I’d then dismissed the thought. So long as I agreed to whatever George wanted, there wasn’t a problem. That said, I wasn’t too sure what he’d say about my choice of bouquet.
Ruby interrupted my musings.
‘Here we are,’ she said, handing me a mug.
‘Thanks, sweetheart.’
I took the drink from her, sipping gratefully as she settled down on the cutting stool. Her gaze met mine. She was an extraordinarily pretty girl with a shocking pink crop that set off bright blue eyes and elfin features. She beamed at me over the rim of her cup.
‘So, go on. Spill the beans. Think of me as your personal agony aunt.’
‘Hmm. Okay.’ I set down my cup and pretended to type, my fingers wiggling in the air. ‘Dear Aunty Ruby. I have a problem. I’m getting married this Saturday–’
‘Indeed, and I’m doing your hair,’ she dimpled. ‘Oh, sorry. I’ve interrupted. Carry on.’
I continued air typing and talking.
‘My best friend thinks my fiancé is boring, and my ex-husband says I shouldn’t marry George-’
‘What’s it got to do with either of them? Oooh, sorry. I’ve done it again. Continue.’
‘Something happened this morning. Something that really rattled me–’
I paused as my eyes suddenly brimmed.
‘Yes?’ prompted Ruby, alarmed at a possible display of waterworks.
I frantically blinked the tears back into their ducts.
‘I had a message from Thomas Tabby Cat.’
Ruby frowned, cupping her hands around her mug.
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘On Instagram.’
‘You follow a cat?
‘He follows me.’
‘I’m not following.’
‘I don’t follow him either.’
‘Sophie, what the heck are you talking about?’
‘It was an anonymous message from someone calling themselves by that name.’
‘Oh, I see. A promoter, right?’
I shook my head.
‘No, a troublemaker. They told me that George was a cheater.’
‘Whaaaat?’ she squawked.
‘And now I feel deeply anxious. It’s triggered me. You know, after all the shenanigans when married to Teddy.’
‘Look, I don’t know your George. I mean, I’ve met him a couple of times when he’s popped in here to see you after work, but – first impressions and all that – he doesn’t strike me as someone who would muck a woman about. After all…’ she trailed off.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, don’t take this the wrong way, Sophie, but he’s quite an ordinary looking guy. I privately thought he was punching when you introduced him to me.’
‘Punching?’
‘Yeah, you know. Punching above his belt. After all, you’re way better looking than him.’
‘What are you talking about? I’m nothing special. In fact, I’m very ordinary.’
‘No, you’re bloomin’ not,’ Ruby snorted. ‘Look at yourself!’ She jabbed a finger at one of the two huge mirrors on the opposite wall. ‘Look at that reflection. You’re gorgeous.’
‘Ruby, I’m fifty. My face looks like it needs ironing.’
‘You have a few laughter lines, that’s all. It shows you have a sense of humour. But never mind them. Look at the rest of you. You have a cloud of long, dark hair. Flawless skin that glows with good health. Beautiful brown eyes. You remind me of Nigella Lawson, and my Simon has always fancied her. You’re still very attractive. Whereas George…’ she trailed off again.
I finished the sentence for her.
‘Isn’t.’
‘No, sorry, he definitely isn’t. In fact’ – she took a deep breath and looked a bit sheepish – ‘I privately wondered what on earth you saw in the guy. I can see he drives a big car and heard he has his own company. I put the attraction down to his bank balance.’
‘Bloody hell, Rubes. I’m not that shallow,’ I protested. ‘I fell for George because’ – I floundered for a moment – ‘well, because he’s a nice guy.’
‘So is my dustman but I wouldn’t want to marry him.’
‘George is dependable. And’ – I hesitated for a moment before ploughing on – ‘yes, if I’m honest, he’s a tiny bit boring. But that’s fine by me.’
‘In which case you must agree that George isn’t the swaggering, cheating type.’
‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘It was my first husband who was like that.’
‘Teddy. Yes, I’ve seen him about the village. He’s still a good-looking guy. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing marrying George?’
‘Why? Do you think Thomas Tabby Cat is telling the truth and giving me a genuine warning?’
‘Er, no.’ Ruby shook her head. ‘I meant that you don’t sound like you’re in love with George.’
I opened my mouth in shock.
‘Ruby, that’s not true. I love George to bits.’
‘Not the same thing,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, are you in love with George?’
I was saved from answering the question thanks to the arrival of our first two clients of the day.