Page 94 of The Home Grown
I woke up ahead of my alarm. I checked the forum to find ‘ilovetopuck’banned again. I even texted Mike to agree on a plan for this evening, pushing myself well and truly out of my comfort zone. I was riding on the high of last night. The drinks turned into food, which turned into a late-night conversation at a quiet bar before we boarded trains going in opposite directions.
Not to mention the goodnight kiss.
I could still feel it lingering on my lips as I did my makeup. I could still feel his hands running through my hair as I did my blow dry.
I was sated.
Wasbeing the operative word, because the moment I pulled up at the salon, my good mood came crashing down like a stylist trolly with a dodgy wheel.
Five seconds. That’s all it took.
And now I’m still sitting in my car, across the street, staring.
The first thing I noticed was the scaffolding, tubes of vertical and horizontal supports crowding the front of the salon. The second was Greg in a suit, loitering next to the open door, talking to a guy in a hi-vis vest. The third was the sign, black with gold lettering, a fancy font of loops and curls, but there’s no mistaking the three words shimmering in the morning sun.
House of Kathryn
She’s re-branded.
Kathryn has re-branded.
I run my eyes over the gold lettering—bold, pompous, a testament to Kathryn’s self-importance, no doubt. And I wait to feel something … anger? Hurt? Betrayal? But there’s nothing. The happiness I woke up with drains out of me, leaving only numbness.
I sit still for another second, wondering if I should drive off. Wondering if she’d even notice. But she’d love that. She’d love for me to act like this wasn’t happening.
I’m out of my car and marching towards the salon in a flash, grateful I’m wearing flats. As I get closer, Greg turns and clocks me, cutting the conversation he’s having with the construction worker.
“Ah, good, Ellie’s here,” he says, as I come to a stop. “Ellie.” He beckons for me to move closer, like he’s giving me permission. “This is Jordon. He’s just about to dismantle the scaffolding, then you can open properly.”
I plaster on a sickly sweet smile as I greet Jordon, then I round on Greg.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“What do you mean?” he asks, following my gaze to the new signage. “Oh yeah, Kathryn had me pull some strings to get this up today. Apparently, it couldn’t wait.” He shrugs.
“Where is Kathryn?”
“Ah, she won’t be long,” he says. “She said she’ll be back in time for Chantelle’s arrival.”
Chantelle? Chantelle? Do I know a Chantelle? I think for a moment, searching the corners of my mind for any recollection, but there’s nothing familiar about the name Chantelle, nor the pending arrival of anyone. Maybe she’s a new client of Kathryn’s, though I don’t know why Greg would be interested enough to learn her name.
“Um, Chantelle?” I ask, folding my arms as I turn towards him.
“Yeah, the new stylist,” he says, absentmindedly signing something Jordon thrusts under his nose.
I gape at him. “The new stylist?”
Greg narrows his eyes. “Y-yeah. Why do you look so surprised?”
“I wasn’t aware we were recruiting a new stylist,” I say.
“Really? Kathryn said you’d both spoken about offering wedding services, so it made sense to hire someone who specialises in bridal.” Greg pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry, El. I need to get this—oh, actually,” he says. “… we need to catch up about the ‘you know what’.” He taps the side of his nose before slipping away, phone pressed to his ear.
A heavy hollowness settles in my chest. Chantelle. Bridal. House of Kathryn. What the?—
The click of heels against the pavement slabs behind me draws my attention away from Jordon the scaffolder, and I turn to see my sister strutting towards the salon, with a brunette who looks like she’s just stepped out of a modern-day production ofHairspray.
“Morning,” Kathryn says as she closes in. “Glad to see you made an effort today.” She casts me an ‘up and down’ look, not even trying to hide her assessment of my appearance.
