Page 155 of The Home Grown
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 hera 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 ofGreg?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. “—MichaelBetts,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.
