Page 73 of The Home Grown
“I told you, it’s only?—”
“Stop it, Michael. Fix it. Nothing good can come of this.”
And she hangs up.
But instead of the bubbling excitement I was expecting after the revelation—I feel flat. Like I’ve been knocked over by a Zam and run over repeatedly.
Fix it.The words ring in my mind—just like the GM’s did:do what you need to do to make it happen.
I stare out into the lobby for a moment before putting my attention back on my phone, deciding to check my bank account to see if I could afford one of those mail-order brides. But considering I don’t even know how much they cost, nor do I want to get caught out browsing through the internet to find out, I shove my phone away and try to come up with a new plan.
A couple exit the lift, hand in hand, merrily on the way to whatever outing they have planned. I watch as they move across the lobby, laughing and smiling. Happy in each other’s company. But all I’m thinking is, ‘I bet he didn’t have to coerceher into hanging off his arm.’And the guilt of asking Ellie to lie for me ripples through my bones.
What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck was Iactuallythinking?
I guess I wasn’t. That’s the bottom line.
Typical, Bettsy.
I watch as the couple exit through the revolving door, the draft excluders dragging along the polished floor as the glass panels move forward. Round and round. Round and round.
They disappear out of sight and I’m about to look away when something catches my eye.
As the door spins around and the segment opening into the lobby empties, a porter steps out, carrying an enormous bouquet.
Purples, pinks, whites, greens. Fresh flowers that turn several heads as people pass.
Flowers that make me think of Ellie.
Ellie likes flowers. And I bet she’d likethoseflowers. Or maybe ones just like it—more purple, perhaps. I’m sure she likes purple, given the collection of towels she had in her bathroom.
Maybe I should send her flowers? I mean … it’s probably a dumb idea, but it’s all I’ve got.
The porter sets the flowers down on the reception desk and I conclude that it’s the right thing to do. I’m going to send Ellie flowers, but her bouquet needs to be bigger. I want a fuck-off bouquet that fills the door to Ellie’s salon and has all her clients asking who sent them because go big or go home, right?
Don’t get me wrong, I know this isn’t going to fix things, but it’s a start. A gesture of good meaning that may give me the chance to talk with her … to apologise in person. I figure I can send the flowers this morning, then rock up once I’m dismissed for the day and see if she can find it in her heart to forgive me.
Without hesitating, I pull my phone out of my pocket and unlock the screen, browsing through to my contacts andhovering my thumb over my mother’s name. Because if there is anyone who’d know where to get flowers from, it’s her.
My heart thumps as I listen to it ring.
“Everything okay?” she asks in a semi-panicked voice. “Have you found out yet? Did you get in?”
“Morning, Mam. Um … not yet,” I lie, figuring it’d be better to wait for the official news from Coach. “I’ve just called because I need a favour.”
“Oh?”
I realise I can’t tell my mam who I’m sending flowers to, so I twist the truth a little.
“One of the boys is in the doghouse. He wants to send his missus flowers in the way of an apology … local delivery … that sort of thing. Any idea where’s best?”
And ten minutes later, Ellie has an expensive bouquet winging its way to her.
ELLIE
Concurrent activity.I’ve always woven it into my day because, let’s be honest, waiting for colour to take isn’t asit and starejob, it’s alet it work and check back in regular intervalsjob 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.
Except, I haven’t logged on to my social media account in days because I’ve been spending all my free computer time on the bloody fan forum in a keyboard debate with ‘IlovetoPuck29’ who has subsequently, become ‘IlovetoPuck30’because ‘29’ is now banned.
