Page 129 of The Home Grown
The emptiness of the salon is obvious as soon as I get out of the car. I go around to the boot and pull out the stash of reusable shopping bags I never remember until I’m at the till, tucking them under my arm as I head towards the doors.
Deep breath.
At least there’s no one around to see me—not that they’d suspect something unless Kathryn has updated the neighbourhood watch—but I slip the shutter key into the lock and rotate it fifteen degrees. The shutters spring to life, jutting upwards as they clear the bottom of the door. Then they breach the half-way mark and I cut them there, ducking underneath and rooting through my keyring for the front door key.
Bingo.
She’s not changed the locks … but I know for a fact she’ll do that once she’s noticed I’ve been here.
She must have got Greg to remove the mirror, along with the fragments of glass and the broken vase, because the floor is clear, which makes things easier for me. Less pussyfooting.
I shake out several bags, setting them on the floor, then I start grabbing things. All my things, anyway.
My scissors, hot tools, combs, and brushes. My stylist belt, prep products, dye samples—basically anything I bought or invested in. I decide to leave the trolley—because frankly, getting that replaced is relatively easy and carrying it out may draw too much attention to myself and I’m not sure it’ll fit inmy car. But I finish stuffing the bags as best as I can, turning back to the window to check the coast is clear before ducking outside and cramming them into my boot.
But I don’t feel satisfied.
I stand on the pavement for a few seconds, worrying my lip before I head back inside, straight for the counter where I fire up the computer.
How pissed would she be if I deleted her entire bookings record?
It’s petty but?—
I shake my head and back away from the desk, the glow of the computer screen fading as I move over to the nail station instead. The rows of gel polish are lined up like soldiers. Kathryn’s army of colours, ready for battle.
A thought flickers through my mind.
I can’t … can I?
But I’m impulsive. Not capable of thinking rationally, apparently.
Just like Kathryn.
I pick up one of the bottles from the middle row—‘Pillar-box Red’. The colour of danger—untwisting the cap. I set it back down, lid open, air rushing inside.
Exposed.
Then I move along the row,‘Leonardo’s Model’,a glittery shade of purple is next. Followed by‘Pigment of my Imagination’, and‘You Had Me at Halo’—summer favourites, now slowly spoiling under the glare of my payback.
Five shades in, I pause. This is pathetic, right? Petty and childish and—maybe a few more won’t hurt. I’m not exactly ruining her relationship with Greg, right? It’s not like I’m smashing the bottles, is it? I’m not storming in here, breaking mirrors and causing chaos.
No. I’m just doing a little sabotage—like she did withmymirror.
I’m just … letting air in.
Givingthese bottles space to breathe so they can feel as free as I do.
She’ll be wondering why her stock is gloopy next week. She’ll probably call the rep and complain, accuse them of sending her a bad batch; something she’d have got me to do before.
But this can be her time to waste.
Not mine.
Not again.
I know two wrongs don’t make a right,but surely this only scrapes the surface of wicked given Kathryn’s extensive list of wrongdoing.
‘Love is in the bare’is the next victim. Followed by‘Baby, take a vow’, then‘Lavendare to find courage’,which makes me laugh out loud before I change my mind and fasten the lid, slipping it into my pocket instead.
