Chapter 5
Fringe-gate
Geoff
Lucy is hunched over the big table, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, colouring with the kind of focus that suggests nothing short of a fire alarm will break it.
I’m at the hob, nudging a pan back into line, the thud echoing through the open plan kitchen slash living room. The flat does that. Sounds travel. High ceilings, hard floors, too much space for a single person.
“Uncle Geoff,” Lucy says suddenly. “Ivy went to the hairdresser.”
“That’s exciting,” I reply, chopping onions.
“She got her fringe cut,” Lucy continues. “It was a proper haircut.”
I hum in what I hope is the correct register of interest.
“She sat still,” Lucy adds. “I didn’t. But Ivy said that was okay because I didn’t get a haircut.”
“That sounds very educational.”
Lucy nods, satisfied, and presses harder with the pen. “I like Ivy.”
I slide the onions into the pan and listen to them sizzle. “Yes, you do.”
“She smells nice,” Lucy says. “And she knows about hair. Daddy doesn’t.”
I smile to myself and reach for the wooden spoon hanging by the cooker, missing the hook and clacking it lightly against the brick.
“She let me choose the clips,” Lucy goes on. “Daddy said one was sensible. Ivy said two was a statement.”
I turn. Lucy is holding up her picture, clearly expecting feedback.
“That’s… bold,” I say. “Who am I?”
“That’s you,” she replies. “You’re tall.”
I study the stick figure with its alarming leg-to-body ratio. “Accurate.”
She goes back to colouring. “When are Daddy and Ivy picking me up?”
“Later,” I say. “After work.”
Lucy sighs. It’s an impressive sigh for someone under six. “Daddy works a lot.”
“He does.”
“And Ivy works too.”
“She does.”
Lucy taps her pen against the table. “Their work is important.”
She goes quiet after that, which is usually the moment something clicks into place in her head.
I stir the pan and let her think. Theo’s childminder is away this week, annual leave that can’t be moved, and so Lucy is being passed between me and Jasper like a small, determined baton. No fuss. No drama. Just family doing what family does when the spreadsheet says there’s a gap.
Lucy doesn’t need to know that part. She just knows she’s here. With me. And tomorrow she’ll be somewhere else that still feels safe.
“I like being home with Daddy and Ivy. But sometimes,” she says slowly, “I come here.”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes I go to Uncle Jasper’s.”
“Yes.”
That’s the version she needs. The simple one. The one where adults make it work without announcing the mechanics.
She nods, satisfied, and goes back to colouring, pressing so hard the pen squeaks.
My phone starts ringing somewhere behind me. I can’t see it on any of the kitchen counters or the coffee table.
“Lu,” I say. “I’m just going to take a call. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” She gives me a thumbs-up without looking up, which feels like permission.
I head to the spare bedroom and grab my phone as it buzzes itself off the desk where I left it when I was looking for some pens for Lucy.
I glance at the display. “Hey,” I say. “And before you ask, yes, I’ll be at the rugby on Saturday.”
There’s a pause. Then a laugh.
“I hadn’t even said anything yet,” Declan chuckles.
“You always call to check up on me,” I reply.
“That’s because you always forget,” he says. “Anyway. Since I’ve got you…”
I lean against the doorframe, already suspicious.
“The sixth form I work with are running a photography block,” he says. “They need someone to deliver it.”
“Okay.”
“Four weeks,” he adds. “Two hours on a Thursday.”
I blink. “You want me to teach?”
“Yeah,” Declan says. “Well, more be a guest lecturer.”
I glance around the room. Camera bags stacked in the corner. Lenses I haven’t touched in months. A calendar with more white space than I’m comfortable admitting to.
“I haven’t taught before,” I say.
“You’ve explained cameras to all sorts of amateurs,” he replies. “Teenagers are at least honest about being confused.”
“That’s a ringing endorsement.”
“They asked if I knew anyone,” he says. “You were the obvious answer.”
“When would it be?” I ask.
“Starts in two weeks,” he says. “Same slot every Thursday. I’ll send you the details. You can look and decide.”
“I’m not promising anything.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” he replies. “Just thought I’d ask you before I asked someone rubbish.”
“Always a compliment.”
“Correct,” he says. “And you’re still coming to the rugby.”
“Yeah, mate.”
“Excellent,” he says. “See you!”
The call ends.
I stay where I am for a second, phone still in my hand. Four weeks. Eight hours in total. Teenagers. Cameras.
It would give me some structure. A reason to put shoes on and leave the flat at a specific time instead of drifting from coffee to coffee like a man on an extended airport layover.
I shove the phone into my pocket and head back towards the open plan.
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The wrong kind.
“Lu?” I call.
Nothing.
My eyes flick to the table. Empty chair. Paper abandoned mid-masterpiece. Felt tips spread out like they’re making a break for freedom.
My stomach tightens.
I take two steps further and spot her.
Lucy is kneeling in front of the oven, inches from the door, peering at her reflection in the dark glass. On the floor at her feet are the scissors I left on the counter after hacking open a bag of frozen vegetables because I refuse to clean up before I'm finished.
Next to them are small, unmistakable clumps of hair.
Oh fuck.
My gaze travels up.
Lucy turns slightly, proud as anything.
What she has could technically be described as a fringe if you were feeling charitable and legally obliged not to hurt a child’s feelings. It hangs unevenly over her forehead, one side skimming her eyebrow, the other making a determined bid for her eyelashes. The overall effect is… avant-garde.
“Uncle Geoff,” she says. “I made it like Ivy’s.”
I close my eyes.
Just briefly.
This is what happens when you let your guard down for twelve seconds.
I open them again and crouch slowly, carefully, like I’m approaching a wild animal.
“Lu,” I say gently, because volume matters here. “You know scissors are a grown-up thing.”
She nods. Immediately. Too quickly. This is not her first offence.
“I was careful,” she says.
I glance at the fringe. One side is ambitious. The other has given up entirely.
“I believe you,” I say. “But next time, we ask first.”
She frowns. “I wanted to look like Ivy.”
That lands harder than the hair situation.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing my panic. “That makes sense. But Daddy might still have feelings about this.”
She looks up. “Big feelings?”
“Very big feelings,” I confirm. “The sort where eyebrows move a lot.”
Lucy’s mouth wobbles. “I didn’t mean to be naughty.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “You’re not in trouble. We just need to… manage the situation.”
Internally, I am already planning my funeral.
Theo is going to kill me. Not violently. Emotionally. With looks.
I pull my phone out and make the executive decision to phone the one person who might have some ideas on how to manage our middle brother.
Jasper answers on video, sunlight behind him and the distinct sound of seagulls.
“What’s up?” he asks, then stops. “Why do you look like that.”
I tilt the phone so Lucy’s fringe is fully visible.
There’s a beat.
Then Jasper loses it.
Full-bodied laughter. He bends double. Actual wheezing.
“Oh my God,” he gasps. “She’s gone full experimental.”
Lucy’s face crumples. “It’s not funny.”
Jasper straightens instantly. “Hey. Hey. No, Lu. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at Uncle Geoff.”
I nod. “Fair.”
Lucy crosses her arms. “I don’t like Uncle Jasper anymore.”
She turns on her heel and stomps off towards the sofa, flopping down with all the theatrical indignation five-year-olds can muster.
Jasper watches her go. “I’ll fix that when I see her next.”
“By existing?” I ask.
“By bringing snacks,” he says. “And pretending this never happened.”
We both know she’ll have forgotten by morning.
He looks back at me through the screen, the grin fading just enough to be useful. “Right. So why are you calling me?”
I drag a hand over my face. “I need help.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “With the hair, or in general?”
“Right now?” I say. “The hair.”
“Ah,” Jasper says, nodding slowly. “Yes. I can see how that would feel… urgent.”
“I’m not equipped,” I say. “I once cut my own hair when I was seven and Mum had to shave what was left over off. I looked like a tiny Buddhist monk.”
“How do I not know about this?”
“Forget that story. Help! I need an adult,” I add.
Jasper tilts his head. “Geoff. You’re forty-five.”
“And yet,” I say, gesturing vaguely in Lucy’s direction, “here we are.”
He studies the screen again, then sighs. “Okay. I’m in Portsmouth. Miranda’s with me. There is nothing I can do from here unless you want me to draw you a diagram.”
“Please don’t.”
“But,” he says, warming to the solution, “I know someone who can.”
“Who?”
“Call Christa,” Jasper says. “She’s calm. She’s practical. And she will not scream.”
“That’s a very specific list.”
“Remember when she organised that spa afternoon for her, Ivy and Lu?” Jasper says. “If anyone knows anything about haircuts, it’s her. Or,” he adds, “you could just take Lucy to a hairdresser.”
I exhale slowly.
A hairdresser would probably be the easiest option. Professionals. Mirrors. Someone else in charge. Someone who could look at the fringe and say ah yes, I’ve seen worse.
What a hairdresser won’t do is help me work out how to smooth things over when Theo and Ivy turn up expecting the child they dropped off and instead collect one with a fringe she didn’t have this morning.
That part needs strategy.
I nod, even though he can’t see it properly through the screen. “Thanks.”
Jasper grins. “Any time. I live to be useful in emergencies I didn’t cause.”
“I’ll tell her you laughed,” I say.
“Please don’t,” he replies cheerfully. “And give Lu a hug from me when she’s forgiven me.”
“I’ll pass it on,” I say, already knowing I won’t get near her for at least ten minutes.
“Call Christa,” Jasper adds. “Seriously.”
“I’m considering it.”
“You’re considering it far too long,” he says. “Bye.”
I stare at my phone, Christa’s name hovering in my contacts like it knows exactly what it’s about to be dragged into.
Do I call her?
Yes. Obviously yes.
It’s not as if I’ve seen her since Miranda's birthday party. Since whisky and bad decisions and a mutual agreement to pretend none of it meant anything beyond that night. We’ve existed in the same orbit since, crossed paths in theory rather than practice, politely not mentioning the fact we once ended up in the same bed when everyone else had gone to sleep.
And now I’m about to ring her because my niece has cut her own fringe.
Life has a sense of humour.
I glance over at the sofa. Lucy is lying on her back now, one leg hooked over the armrest, staring at the ceiling like a tiny, disgruntled philosopher.
“Lu,” I say gently. “Would it be okay if Christa came to help us?”
She rolls her head to look at me. “Does she have nice hair?”
“She does.”
“And will she be cross?”
“No,” I say immediately. “She’ll help.”
Lucy considers this, then nods once. “Okay.”
That feels like approval.
I look back down at my phone.
Right then.
I tap Christa’s name and lift it to my ear, already rehearsing how to explain that I’ve accidentally allowed my niece to reinvent herself.
The phone rings.
Please answer.