Page 23 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘That, my dear, I very much doubt.’
There is a smell which I know. A strong, synthetic one that I recognise but can’t put the words on. Memories of scrubbing hard at my hands with it surface. There are two women and a man: Two of them are busy with clients, and the third smiles when I enter. I look around, taking it all in. I can see why they need to do promotional work and hand out free cuts. The chairs are mismatched and the lighting flickers. I can spot no drinks and biscuits, and the shelves behind the counter where you normally have over-priced hair products are empty.
‘What can we do for you today?’ the woman asks, smiling.
‘I have been told I’m in need.’
She laughs and pulls a black cape from the wall hangers.
‘Oh, poor love. Let’s get you sorted,’ she says. ‘I’m Gemma, and I’ll be doing your haircut today.’
I sit down and look at myself in the mirror. Then close my eyes immediately.
‘I can’t imagine what it’s like at—forgive me for saying it—your age. You know,the streets.’
‘You just have to wear the correct shoes, I find.’
‘Oh, is that so?’ she replies whilst spraying my hair with awet, fruit-smelling mist. I close my eyes, some of it has already landed on my eyelashes, like dew drops.
‘Definitely. Not all streets posit dangers, though. They’re not all cobbled.’
I walk back to the town hall feeling quite energised and only remember Zara when I, well, see Zara in front of me. On her phone. Anxious. On my street corner. When she sees me, she runs towards me, arms flailing.
‘Edith!’
‘That would be me.’
‘You and I had a deal. No walking off, under any circumstances.’ Then she mutters,goddamn itto herself. I should remind her of the countless times in the past that I have called up her parents explaining her absence or failure to be back by the curfew. Telling them she was studying with Blade when they were nowhere to be found. Because I trusted her. And she needed a break, a bit of freedom.
‘I’m back before our bus leaves.’
‘Is that abob?’ she notices my hair do for the first time. ‘Did you go and get ahaircut?’
‘I believe I was part of some modelling gig. Free makeover in exchange for pictures.’ They took three pictures. One from the back with my chin down, one from the side with my chin raised, and one from the front where I smile.
I hand her the business card I was given.
‘Haircuts4homeless.’ Then she bursts out laughing. ‘Edith, did you just let these people give you a makeover? You’re probably all over their social media. Ohgosh.’
I feel the penny drop, so to speak.
‘Please.Pleasedon’t do this again,’ Zara says.
‘No, it will be at least six months until I need another haircut.’
‘I’m serious. Blade will kill me. Heck, Blade may evencome home.’
Oh no. Notthat.Blade has stuff to do.
‘Okay. No more haircuts, and I won’t accept drinks from strangers anymore either, for good measure.’
‘People give you free drinks?’ I think that’s admiration in Zara’s voice. ‘Wow, I’ll come find you for tips, if the world ever gets rough.’
Then my pocket buzzes, and I get my phone out. +46. I know which country code that is, so I press the little button on the side. Quickly.
‘Do you need help to answer that?’ Zara is too switched-on. Too tense.
‘Just an alarm. Wanted to be back here on time.’ I smile. I press the phone firmly into my pocket and make a mental note to ask someone—perhaps the nice estate agent with the ballet loafers—how to activate that Silent function I know exists.
