Page 74 of The Home Grown
She’s replied to my latest post. It’s taken her a whole day, but she’s replied, and I can’t help myself. As soon as I’ve finished adding foils to my client’s hair, I’m running into the backroom to pull my laptop from my bag. Times like these call for a big screen—not the screen of my phone where I have to zoom in and scroll awkwardly to read properly.
From: ilovetopuck30
Subject: RE: Bettsy the Playboy
Oh, look who’s got himself a fan club? Must be a lonely time at your weekly meetings. I mean who else wud bother 2 turn up? Maybe his mother, but that’s because there are slim pickings on the son front.
I gasp in horror. What the?—
I don’t give any thought to my reply before tapping out a response.
From: Cantsleep1
Subject: RE: Bettsy the Playboy
Wow, I knew you were desperate for attention, but this is scraping the bottom of the barrel. I guess it must be tough trying to land a hit when all you’ve got is bitterness and poor grammar.
Honestly, have you nothing better to do? Say whatever you want about Bettsy, because I’m certain you don’t matter to him. But dragging his family into it? That tells the world everything we need to know about you.
#justiceforBettsy
My fingers hover over the keyboard of my laptop as I re-read my post. I want to call her out, let people know who she really is, but I don’t. The proof is non-existent, and I’ve learnt acting on impulse rarely works out in the way anyone hopes.
I hit ‘post’ as a shriek from the front of the salon pulls me back into the room.
Kathryn is peering out of the window, her hands cupping her face as she repeats,‘oh my God, oh my God’,over and over until I see exactly what she’s referring to.
I close the lid of my laptop and stand as the door to the salon creeks open and a bouquet enters the room.
I say ‘bouquet’because I can’t see the person carrying the gigantic arrangement aside from a pair of legs moving unsteadily across the tiled floor.
“Oh, my God,” Kathryn says again, rushing to take the flowers from the delivery person.
She scoops them into her arms before setting them down on the front counter, pushing aside a stack of magazines to make room.
“Wow,” I say, taking in the purple freesia, feeling a little envious towards Kathryn’s fortune.
I’ve never had flowers sent to me—and I’m sure this is just one of many bunches Kathryn has had over the years from Greg. Except this one is the biggest, most extravagant arrangement I’ve ever seen; Greg must have really messed up this time.
“Oh, my—you’re solucky,” my client says, turning in her chair to admire the sight.
I move towards her and check the progress of her foils to distract myself from the gushing Kathryn’s about to undertake.
“Aren’t I just?” my sister replies. “Honestly, he’s a keeper—such a romantic.”
Kathryn fusses over the flowers. I watch her move around the counter from the corner of my eye, gently rotating the presentation base as she takes in each petal in turn. Pinks, purples, whites … honestly, they are beautiful, and I want to get a closer look, but I know Kathryn won’t appreciate my breathing near them.
“I just need a signature,” the woman, wearing a‘Flowers by Daisy’apron, says, handing Kathryn a receipt book and a pen.
Kathryn scribbles a name and thrusts the book and pen back towards who I assume to be Daisy, her eyes not leaving the bouquet for a second.
“Oh, they really are the best I’ve had,” Kathryn says, and Daisy, with a sharp nod, turns and exits, the salon door thudding behind her as she leaves.
“What’s the occasion?” my client asks.
“Oh … probably ‘just because’, he’s that type of guy—” But Kathryn’s face freezes in a comedic horror—like she’s just witnessed Greg in a lip-lock with Daisy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”
