ELLIE
Kathryn looks tanned. The kind of tanned that screams carrot oil and questionable SPF choices. Like she’s been baking somewhere hot, trying to bronze herself into a new personality.
I guess that explains why it’s taken her so long to confront me, though the last thing I want right now is an altercation with my sister, even if I am seeking a distraction.
All morning, I’ve done nothing but stress over how to tell Mike about the hashtag, because the longer I leave it, the worse it’s going to be—especially now he’s mentioned how keen he is to uncover who’s behind it.
But I can’t dwell on that right now. Kathryn marches up to me, waving a bottle of nail gel in the air, not giving one iota of consideration to the full salon of clients—mine due at any moment.
“I need to speak with you,” she snaps.
“Me?” I say, looking around in mock surprise before settling my gaze back on my sister.
“This.” She waves the tiny bottle. “This is a twenty-five-pound bottle, and it’s ruined.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” I say.
I pluck the bottle from her hands, turning it over before loosening the lid. The thick, sticky substance clings to the brush as I swipe it against the bottle, a grin barely suppressed.
“Maybe it was a dodgy batch?” I offer, all wide-eyed. “Have you called the rep to complain?”
Her mouth thins to a tight, angry line. “I know it was you,” she says. “I know it was. And I know you changed the password to the bookings computer and stole my clients.”
“How can I steal your clients when you don’t do hair?” I say. “Look, I came and got my things, yes. But this?” I flash her a glare, forcing myself to lie. “I’m trying to get myself up and running, I don’t have time to?—”
The vein in her forehead pops as she stiffens her jaw.
“Bull. Shit,” she says. “I know it was you. You were the only person with keys and … do you realise what you’ve done? You’ve ruined all my spring colours and—I can’t even…”
“Maybe you should look after your things better,” I say, thrusting the bottle into her chest.
Her nostrils flare as she stuffs it into her bag. And for a second, I think I’ve won. I think she’s going to leave. She even takes two paces back before she stops.
“Maybe you should stop being such a jealous little cow.”
Everyone in the salon turns to gape at her. Everyone. Even my client standing next to the half-open door.
What I should do is turn and walk away—leave Kathryn to stew, but I can’t. She wants me to bite back, and I do—the years of pent-up anger leading me to this.
“Jealous?” I snap. “Of what?”
“Me,” she says—but it comes out in an ‘isn’t it obvious’ sort of voice that has me reeling.
“You?” I say. “Why would I be jealous of you?”
“I have Greg … Greg has a great job. He can provide for me. My house—the car I drive … my business. The list is endless, Ellie.”
I burst out laughing, acutely aware that people are looking, but I can’t stop myself. I’m like a bull, fixed on the mesmerising red that my sister’s emitting.
“Greg?” I scoff. “Why the hell would I be jealous of Greg? He’s got the personality of a soggy newspaper.”
She rolls her eyes, stepping towards me.
“We both know hockey players don’t make a lot of money, Ellie. I can only guess you jumped into whatever the hell you’re doing with—” Her mouth twists into an expression of disgust. “—Michael Betts, because you can’t stand to see me married first. It’s desperate, and it’s pathetic. ”
I was wondering how long it’d take her to bring Mike into the argument.
I throw my head back in amusement. “Oh, I get it,” I say. “This isn’t about me or Greg at all. In fact, it’s nothing to do with Mike, either.”
Kathryn glares at me. Eyes in a fiery rage, like she knows the hand I’m about to play.
“Don’t,” she snarls.
I purse my lips.
Kathryn takes another step towards me. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
“Jeremy,” I say. “This is everything to do with Jeremy, isn’t it?”
I expect her to say something—no, scream something. I expect her to spew out all the reasons why I’m never to breathe his name again, but she doesn’t.
Her eyes fix on mine, her breathing ragged, her eyes wide and?—
Before I realise what’s happening, she launches herself at me, talons for nails digging into my scalp as she grabs my hair, pulling at the roots.
The air leaves my lungs as I’m knocked backwards, falling to the floor in a scramble of arms and legs, Kathryn on top of me, screaming into my ear.
I can’t make out what she’s saying. I’m too busy fighting back, trying to unclasp her fingers from my hair—burning at the scalp.
Then Megan’s face comes into view, alongside Grace, the apprentice stylist, both hooking arms around Kathryn to restrain her.
“Don’t you dare say his name to me again. Don’t you dare.” She fights against Megan. “He never loved me—the same as Mike will never love you. They’re both the same. Fuckboys with no hearts. And now look at you?—”
“That’s enough,” Megan says.
“Don’t you?—”
“I think you should leave. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t come back,” Megan tells Kathryn, shoving her awkwardly towards the open door of the salon—my client stepping aside to let her pass.
But I’m standing here. Humiliated. Crying silent tears.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to no one in particular. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
Then Megan’s back by my side, her arm wrapping around me as she squeezes my shoulder. I’m expecting her to boot me out, right behind my sister, but she doesn’t. She lowers her voice to a tone of softness and understanding.
“Why don’t you take a few minutes? And I’ll fix your hair once I’m done with my client.”
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh that has my knees wobbling beneath me.
Oh, God. My hair. What the hell has she done to my hair?
I bolt over to the mirror, forcing myself to look at my reflection—to see the damage.
There’s a clump of hair missing. A whole patch of it, pulled out from the roots, or so it looks.
And all I can do is stand here and cry. Though it’s not over the loss of my hair—but the loss of my sister.
Because there’s no way I’ll speak to her ever again.