Chapter 6
Chapter Six
ELLIE
A phone call rouses me from the snooze I’d been enjoying since it’s my late-start this Saturday.
The plan is supposed to involve Kathryn and me alternating weekends, giving us both the chance of a lay-in.
Though, I genuinely don’t remember the last time she didn’t coerce me into swapping, so my initial thought is that it’s her, desperately waiting on the other end of the line for me to pick up …
guilting me into going in as soon as I can.
I yank the charging cable free from my phone before picking it up, but once my eyes fall into focus, and I read the incoming call on the screen, I realise it’s not her.
No caller ID.
My stomach tightens with nerves as my mind begins to spiral, leaping to the conclusion that it’s Mike on the end of the phone. But what could he want? Maybe he’s spoken with Greg … maybe?—
I deliberate for too long; my thumb hovering over the Accept icon just as the call rings off, replaced by a ‘missed call’ notification, and a few moments later, by an alert of a new voicemail.
I swallow hard.
A voicemail.
Nothing good ever comes from a voicemail left by a withheld number. Everyone knows that. And since I’ve already convinced myself it’s Mike, my insides—already pulling and tugging with nerves—kick up a few notches, forcing me to sit up in bed so I can hug my knees.
Five minutes crawl by. I watch the digits on the clock change, minute by minute, as I will myself to tap the play button—telling myself I have until the twenty-five-past marker.
But it’s not until the clock hits the half-hour mark, that I finally cave.
I pull the covers over my shoulders as I tap to play the message, waiting for Mike’s voice to fill my ear …
his deep, maddening velvet-smooth rumble.
Except … the voice is nasal and bouncy—like someone trying to be polite when they really can’t be bothered.
…I wanted to touch base about your application for our bridal stylist feature.
Listen, your work is solid, but to be honest, your social media just isn’t where it needs to be for our audience. We’re really looking for stylists who are already engaging online and have that buzz around their brand.
The words swim in my brain.
I’d suggest focusing on building a stronger online presence—show off more of your work, connect with your audience, that sort of thing. Maybe down the line we can revisit.
We appreciate you reaching out, and best of luck.
Disappointment hits me in the chest—almost knocking the air out of my lungs .
I wasn’t mentally prepared for this. I wasn’t ready.
A tight pressure contracts around my stomach, like I’m about to throw up … but I don’t. I drop my phone on the stretch of empty bed next to me and cry instead. Silent, hot tears trickle down my cheek as I hug my duvet.
The magazine. The rejection I sort of knew was coming but I wasn’t ready to give up that tiny slither of hope I’d been clinging on to. I guess I should be relieved to finally know … accepting that it wasn’t meant to be, but the sting thrums through my bones, reminding me I’m not quite good enough.
Not yet, anyway.
I give myself another ten minutes of wallowing before prying myself out of bed and heading to the shower, turning the water on with an air of someone keen to wash away the pity, because that’s not going to get me anywhere.
What I need to do now is dust myself off and figure out how I can move forward—how I can be better.
Half an hour later, I make it out to my car and head towards the salon, taking a quick detour via the corner shop to grab a copy of their latest magazine, keen to find out who I’m up against.
I flick through the pages of glossy photos before stopping on a feature and honing in on the name of the stylist and her social media handle, pulling my phone out of my bag to have a look.
A photo gallery of visual bliss presents straight away. Uniform, organised, aesthetically pleasing to the eye.
Everything mine isn’t.
I flush with embarrassment; grateful I’m in the refuge of my car. What was I thinking?
I don’t have a website; I don’t have reels or short videos showing clients what a day in my life looks like, or what sets me apart. And honestly? I don’t think I have the energy for it. It looks exhausting—like something built for people with time, money, and confidence.
Money .
If only I still had my share of what Grandad left me.
But I don’t. I loaned it to Kathryn to help her open the salon. Long gone now, no doubt.
And suddenly, the burst of desire for betterment fizzles out as I shove the magazine, and my ambition, into the glove box before pulling away, driving towards my sister’s dream instead.
I don’t tell Kathryn about the magazine. A tactical decision because I’m not in the mood for her false disappointment, nor her inability to show genuine empathy.
In fact, I try my best to avoid her chit-chat for most of the day, opting to keep myself busy around my appointment times by cleaning and sorting through old paperwork—though that probably wasn’t my best idea considering the crap it dredged up last time.
I make it right through to closing without too much stress—unless you count Rick’s message pestering me for hen-party updates … but as I close the blinds, Greg walks in through the door, his typical move for a Saturday, collecting his beloved from work.
He closes the door behind him, guiding the latch into place silently as he looks around the salon.
“Where’s Kathryn?” he asks, keeping his voice low.
“Just finishing something upstairs,” I say, making my way back to the counter.
“In case you’re wondering, I still haven’t heard from him,” he says in a half whisper, leaning his hip against the desk.
“Oh, I haven’t thought about it,” I lie.
“Well … your husband …” A smirk slips across his face, but he drops it when my expression remains stoney. “Sorry, I mean … I spoke with my buddy, James, and he said the certificate isn’t the full version, so we need to see if we can get hold of that before we can proceed.”
I freeze midway through replying to an email, fingers halting mid-strike on the keyboard .
I adjust my head slightly to glare at Greg.
“You’re kidding, right?” I say. “So, you’re telling me it’s definitely real, then?”
Greg straightens up.
“Well, it’s still up for debate, but he’s worked in family law for years. He’s seen this sort of thing before. He said there’s typically a formal document or something—in addition to what you’ve provided me. Do you remember there being anything else?”
“Like what? I thought I gave you the—” I lower my voice to less than a whisper, mouthing the words ‘wedding certificate’ .
“No, what you’ve got is a partial marriage registration?—”
“Shh,” I hiss, checking the threshold to the stairs. “So, until we get the full version, we don’t really know? It could be a false alarm?” I ask.
“It could be,” he says. “But we need to get James on board officially.”
The word ‘officially’ has my stomach swimming. Because that means money … money I don’t really have.
“Right.”
“Just let me know how you want to proceed,” he says.
“If this is legit, we can sort it without him—but financially, it’d be way easier if he cooperated.
I’m not sure what kind of person he is but, he could rock up in the future and demand half of your house and whatever.
I mean—the likelihood of it being a success would be low, but it’s still a thing. And a stress you don’t need.”
I blink at him, unsure what to think, let alone say.
My head reels with the possibilities, and I mentally kick myself for letting myself get into such a ridiculous circumstance.
All I know is, I cannot be married to Mike Betts.
First, he’s stolen my dream wedding—ripped away the perfect day I’d imagined since I was a kid. The fairytale. Fall in love, get engaged, have a story worth telling. All of it… ruined.
Second, he’s a dick.
“Okay,” I say, blinking back the tears.
I put all my concentration back on the email, keeping my eyes away from Greg.
Greg and his perfect proposal.
“Maybe he has a copy of the original certificate? Did you get his number? I could call him on your behalf.”
I cast a look toward the wastepaper bin—now empty— before shaking my head.
Greg shrugs.
“Well, hopefully he’ll reach out soon.”
The staircase creaks—Kathryn’s footsteps killing the conversation like a guillotine blade.