Page 95 of The Home Grown
She breezes past me, practically dragging who I can only assume to be Chantelle through the salon door. Like a lost sheep, desperate to find my way home, I trot after her—impatient for an explanation.
“When did you decide to re-brand?” I say.
“Oh, it’s been on the horizon for a while,” she says. “Genius, don’t you think? I mean … it really captures the image I’m trying to portray. Besides, this is about growth. My growth, really.” She lets out a false laugh. “I’m taking control of my business.”
Herbusiness.
I’m lost for words, really, I am. Because even though it is technically Kathryn’s salon, we’d agreed it was a joint venture. After all, I’ve put money into this place too.
Kathryn, smug and triumphant, turns to her new companion.
“Anyway—Ellie, this is Chantelle. Chantelle, this is my little sister, Ellie.” She flicks her hair as she turns back towards me. “She’s going to be starting here today. Would you mind grabbing her coat and putting the kettle on?”
Chantelle, on cue, slips out of her coat and holds it out to me, but I don’t take it. I stand rooted to the spot, committing my attention to my sister.
I lazily point towards the back of the salon before saying, “the coat hooks are there.”
Chantelle backs away and I shuffle closer to Kathryn.
“Do we need a new stylist?” I ask.
“Yes,” Kathryn says. “It’ll give you a chance to focus on the business side of things, El. Get the accounts in order. I mean, I know you do a pretty good job at that, anyway, but you won’t have any more distractions now.”
“The accounts?” I say, my voice breaking.
“Yes. The accounts. I’m doing you a favour here, El. You said you’d rather not do treatments so?—”
“I said I’d rather not do nails and spray tans,” I snap. “That’s not what I spent years perfecting. I didn’t even want to do those things … ever. You—” I jab my index finger towards her “—you were the one who as good as forced me to do extra training.”
Kathryn glares at me. “God, you’re so ungrateful. After all I’ve done for you.” She pauses before relaxing her shoulders. “Look, take this as an opportunity to learn from Chantelle. Shecan show you the ropes of what it takes to be a real stylist. You know, get into the wedding game. Maybe then you can try to get a deal with the magazine.”
Oh, my God. She actually thinks she’s the one doingmethe favour. I wish I hadn’t stopped Mike last night. I wish I’d let him put Kathryn in her place.
“Is this because of Mike?” I say.
Kathryn looks like she has smelt something considerably unpleasant.
“Mike?” she says, with an air of someone feigning ignorance.
“You know exactly who and what I’m talking about,” I say. “The flowers—” I look towards the window, grateful that I had the sense to take them home before I attended the bridal workshop. “—ever since those flowers…”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. But I see it on her face, in her eyes. There’s something she’s not telling me. And it’s so infuriating, I could shake her. “Are you going to stand around or?—”
“Jeremy Betts,” I say, more to myself than to Kathryn.
“Sorry?”
“Jeremy Betts,” I say, louder this time, looking her right in the eye.
“I—I’m not here to talk about Mike’s dead brother,” she says with a sharpness in her tone.
I widen my eyes. “Kath?—”
“Can you just get on with opening the salon?” she says. “Maybe if you spent more time working and less time playing ‘Little Miss Detective’ then?—”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say. “Working? Working? Are you sure you don’t mean pandering to your every will?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Kathryn says.
