ELLIE
Concurrent activity. I’ve always woven it into my day because, let’s be honest, waiting for colour to take isn’t a sit and stare job, it’s a let it work and check back in regular intervals job which gives me time to pin someone’s hair, do a quick trim or, in my case today, update my social media with photos and news.
She’s replied to my latest post. It’s taken her a whole day, but she’s replied, and I can’t help myself.
As soon as I’ve finished adding foils to my client’s hair, I’m running into the backroom to pull my laptop from my bag.
Times like these call for a big screen—not the screen of my phone where I have to zoom in and scroll awkwardly to read properly.
Subject: RE: Bettsy the Playboy
I gasp in horror. What the?—
I don’t give any thought to my reply before tapping out a response.
From: Cantsleep1
Subject: RE: Bettsy the Playboy
Wow, I knew you were desperate for attention, but this is scraping the bottom of the barrel. I guess it must be tough trying to land a hit when all you’ve got is bitterness and poor grammar.
Honestly, have you nothing better to do? Say whatever you want about Bettsy, because I’m certain you don’t matter to him. But dragging his family into it? That tells the world everything we need to know about you.
#justiceforBettsy
My fingers hover over the keyboard of my laptop as I re-read my post. I want to call her out, let people know who she really is, but I don’t. The proof is non-existent, and I’ve learnt acting on impulse rarely works out in the way anyone hopes.
I hit ‘ post ’ as a shriek from the front of the salon pulls me back into the room.
Kathryn is peering out of the window, her hands cupping her face as she repeats, ‘oh my God, oh my God’, over and over until I see exactly what she’s referring to.
I close the lid of my laptop and stand as the door to the salon creeks open and a bouquet enters the room.
I say ‘ bouquet’ because I can’t see the person carrying the gigantic arrangement aside from a pair of legs moving unsteadily across the tiled floor.
“Oh, my God,” Kathryn says again, rushing to take the flowers from the delivery person.
She scoops them into her arms before setting them down on the front counter, pushing aside a stack of magazines to make room .
“Wow,” I say, taking in the purple freesia, feeling a little envious towards Kathryn’s fortune.
I’ve never had flowers sent to me—and I’m sure this is just one of many bunches Kathryn has had over the years from Greg. Except this one is the biggest, most extravagant arrangement I’ve ever seen; Greg must have really messed up this time.
“Oh, my—you’re so lucky ,” my client says, turning in her chair to admire the sight.
I move towards her and check the progress of her foils to distract myself from the gushing Kathryn’s about to undertake.
“Aren’t I just?” my sister replies. “Honestly, he’s a keeper—such a romantic.”
Kathryn fusses over the flowers. I watch her move around the counter from the corner of my eye, gently rotating the presentation base as she takes in each petal in turn.
Pinks, purples, whites … honestly, they are beautiful, and I want to get a closer look, but I know Kathryn won’t appreciate my breathing near them.
“I just need a signature,” the woman, wearing a ‘Flowers by Daisy’ apron, says, handing Kathryn a receipt book and a pen.
Kathryn scribbles a name and thrusts the book and pen back towards who I assume to be Daisy, her eyes not leaving the bouquet for a second.
“Oh, they really are the best I’ve had,” Kathryn says, and Daisy, with a sharp nod, turns and exits, the salon door thudding behind her as she leaves.
“What’s the occasion?” my client asks.
“Oh … probably ‘just because’, he’s that type of guy—” But Kathryn’s face freezes in a comedic horror—like she’s just witnessed Greg in a lip-lock with Daisy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”
She tilts her head towards me, leaving her eyes locked on the flowers right up until the last second. She stares at me. Blinks several times, then draws my attention to a small white envelope peeking out of the foliage .
“They—they’re for you,” she says, her voice frail.
“For me?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting upwards.
“For Ellie?” my client says, clasping her hands together. “Oh, how wonderful.”
Kathryn plucks the card from a small wire card holder.
I see it. My name, written in curly letters on the front of the envelope.
Kathryn is itching to peel back the flap; there’s a hungry look in her eyes. I stride forward and whip it from her fingers, faster than either of us was expecting.
“Who are they from?” she says. “Who sent them?”
But I’m edging away, trying to come up with an excuse to open the gift card in private because I have an idea I know exactly who these are from.
Kathryn sticks to my side and I know I’m out of luck. I’m going to have to open it right here. Right now.
I brace myself. Peeling back the flap of the envelope and tugging the card upwards. Waiting for Kathryn to say something.
Ellie,
I suck, and I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me. If I’ve not ruined things entirely, I’d love to start over and take you out for dinner.
M x
There’s no doubt in my mind who these are from and my heart flutters involuntarily as I fight back a smile.
I stare at the card, and Kathryn doesn’t hesitate. She pulls it from my hand and moves it closer to her face.
“Mark? Mark is apologising after all this time? Honestly. You should be grateful he didn’t text you when he said he would. The guy is an idiot. ”
I pluck the card from her and slip it back into the envelope, thankful for the conclusion Kathryn arrived at.
I never did hear from Mark, nor have I thought about him since the stuff with Mike reared its head. But here I am, grateful that ‘M’ can stand for both Mike and Mark, and relieved I won’t have to explain the drama between me and Mike to Kathryn.
Not yet, anyway.
“I need to get on,” I say, stuffing the card into a pocket on my stylist belt. The tips of my fingers lingering on the paper for a second before I pull my hand away.
“You’re actually going to accept his apology?” she says.
“I’m with a client, Kathryn,” I whisper under my breath.
“Well, you can’t leave those there,” she says bitterly.
Funny, because I’m convinced they’d be in prime place if they were her flowers.
I march over to the counter and lift the bouquet, getting a delicious waft of sweetness as I carry them over to the windowsill and set them down, allowing myself the smallest of giddy grins as I do.
“There. Out of the way,” I say sharply, resetting my expression before I face my sister.
“Well, tell him it’s not professional to send things like that to your place of work,” she says indignantly.
But I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about Mike. And a smile pulls at my lips.
But then I remember his desperation. The bridal set … are these flowers his attempt to worm his way in and convince me to agree to his ridiculous scheme?
I make my way back to my client, standing behind her chair and looking at her smiling back at me in the mirror.
“Well?” she says. “Who’s this lucky man?”
I shake my head dismissively.
“Let’s check how we’re getting on,” I say, swallowing down the emotion that’s creeping its way upward. I can’t quite decide what it is. Uncertainty? Excitement ?
I peel back a foil, feeling my sister’s eyes burning into me from her place at the counter.
“We’ll leave it a few more minutes,” I say, folding the foil back over.
And as I turn, I lock eyes with Kathryn. A flicker of something on her face.
She’s jealous.