Page 26 of The Home Grown
“Who’re you talking to, Mam?” Mike says.
And my heart, already sunk to the bottom of my stomach, descends lower.
“You remember, Ellie? From next door? I’m having my nails done at her salon.”
Kathryn would revel in correcting her, but I don’t. I sit in the awkward silence that stretches over the telephone line for a beat longer than anyone would expect. Perhaps he’s thinking of a snide remark, or he’s gearing himself up for a confrontation … or does he think I told his Mam?
Mike’s voice trickles through again, quiet and uneasy. “Uh, yeah. I remember. I thought Stacey’s friend did your nails?”
“She moved away,” Judy says.
There’s a muffled scramble before he speaks again.
“Actually Mam, I’ve gotta go. Got something on that I need to …”
I feel the blood drain from my face. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it.
“I’ll pass your number on, shall I? Maybe you can catch up when you’re back. Though—she is seeing someone…” Mrs Betts flashes me a smile.
Kill. Me. Now.
“Maybe, yeah. I’ve gotta go, Mam. Talk soon.”
The line goes dead, and I reach for the cuticle oil with a shaky hand, fumbling to open the lid.
“I wish he’d meet someone decent, Ellie,” she says sadly as I finish up. “He puts himself out there and gets his heart broken. I don’t like to speak ill of anyone but the girl he was seeing last … nasty piece of work. You know, he had to change his number. She was harassing him and putting all this stuff online … anyway, I’m thrilled,” she says, holding her hands out to admire her nails.
We make our way to the counter, and she grabs a business card after she pays, slipping it into the back of her purse.
“Oh, and I almost forgot…” she pulls out her phone and jots Mike’s number down on the back of a scrap of paper before thrusting it into my hands. “Here. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear from you.”
Judy departs, leaving me with Mike’s number. And because I’m still pissed at him, I scrunch it up and toss it into the wastepaper bin with enough force to make it wobble.
Chapter Six
ELLIE
A phone callrouses me from the snooze I’d been enjoying since it’s my late-start this Saturday. The plan is supposed to involve Kathryn and me alternating weekends, giving us both the chance of a lay-in. Though, I genuinely don’t remember the last time she didn’t coerce me into swapping, so my initial thought is that it’s her, desperately waiting on the other end of the line for me to pick up … guilting me into going in as soon as I can.
I yank the charging cable free from my phone before picking it up, but once my eyes fall into focus, and I read the incoming call on the screen, I realise it’s not her.
No caller ID.
My stomach tightens with nerves as my mind begins to spiral, leaping to the conclusion that it’s Mike on the end of the phone. But what could he want? Maybe he’s spoken with Greg … maybe?—
I deliberate for too long; my thumb hovering over the Accept icon just as the call rings off, replaced by a ‘missed call’notification, and a few moments later, by an alert of a new voicemail.
I swallow hard.
A voicemail.
Nothing good ever comes from a voicemail left by a withheld number. Everyone knows that. And since I’ve already convinced myself it’s Mike, my insides—already pulling and tugging with nerves—kick up a few notches, forcing me to sit up in bed so I can hug my knees.
Five minutes crawl by. I watch the digits on the clock change, minute by minute, as I will myself to tap the play button—telling myself I have until the twenty-five-past marker. But it’s not until the clock hits the half-hour mark, that I finally cave. I pull the covers over my shoulders as I tap to play the message, waiting for Mike’s voice to fill my ear … his deep, maddening velvet-smooth rumble.
Except … the voice is nasal and bouncy—like someone trying to be polite when they really can’t be bothered.
…I wanted to touch base about your application for our bridal stylist feature.
