Page 4 of Secrets of Starshine
“I can imagine,” he says, standing next to me. “This must all have been a lot to take in. She only told you recently, didn’t she?”
I nod. She did, and I’m not sure why. Maybe this would all have been easier to deal with if I’d seen it grow, seen it develop. If I hadn’t been presented with it as a fait accompli. Or maybe she suspected I’d behave exactly like I am now – like her mother – and that I’d bring her down at a time in her life when she very much wanted to stay up.
“She’s told me, you know,” he continues, “all about your dad. About her depression afterwards. The way you had to grow up overnight, and the way you’ve always taken such good care of her. Don’t think for a minute that she doesn’t appreciate it.”
She hasn’t always seemed like she’s appreciated it, in all honesty. Sometimes she has seemed to resent it, and recoiled from the intrusion into her solitary existence. Other times she has taken it all for granted – the endless visits, the shopping, the cooking, the coaxing her out of her shell. I have always loved her, but I’d be lying if I said I had always enjoyed her dependence on me.
“Well, families are complicated, aren’t they?” I reply, knowing that Kenneth does not need to be exposed to the inner workings of my wonky mind. “And she seems happy. I suppose that’s all that matters.”
“I hope she is, hen. I know I am. But I understand why you might feel a bit ambushed by all of this – if you’ve looked after someone for a long time, it’s hard to just switch that off, isn’t it? All I can tell you is that I love her, Cally. I love her and my life is better with her in it, and I’ll take good care of her. You can count on that.”
He places a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I smile at him. He is genuine. He is real. And he does, now I see him from this angle, look a little bit like a beefy Liam Neeson.
“Thank you, Kenneth,” I say, patting his hand. “That’s really all I need to know. Now we’d better go back inside. That tartufi won’t eat itself.”
“Tartufi…” he says slowly. “What on earth is that?”
“No clue,” I reply, “but it better be good.”
FOUR
Working in a busy hair salon in the run-up to Christmas is quite the rollercoaster. It’s not as hormonal as wedding season, and doesn’t have quite the adrenaline rush of Ladies’ Day at Aintree, but it’s close.
Everyone wants to look their best for office parties, for trips out with family, for the big day itself. There is a steady flow of colours being topped up, trims, re-styles, curly-blows, up-dos and perms. The blast of the dryers competes with the sound of chatter and pop music from the radio; the trainees are scurrying around preparing colour solutions and cutting foils and sweeping up discarded locks. The sofa where people sit and wait is always crammed, and the windows are always steamed up.
I have been doing this job for years now, and I genuinely love it. I work long hours and I’m on my feet all day, but the pros far outweigh the cons. I like the company, I like my ladies, I like the bustle – and it gives me a real sense of satisfaction when someone walks out of the salon feeling like a million dollars, or at least a lot better than they did when they walked in. It’s easy to mock, but a good salon isn’t just a place where women get their hair done – it’s a place where they feel relaxed, a place where they can escape the demands of everyday life, a place where they are someone else’s number one priority. A place where they are looked after instead of looking after others.
It’s also, I’ve learned over the years, a safe space for some of their most outrageous conversations. You wouldn’t believe some of the things people tell you while you’re cutting their hair. Perfectly normal women will give you graphic updates on their sex lives; polite older ladies will complain about their husbands, and literally everyone will tell you about their holidays, their kids, their pets and their health. You’re half stylist, half therapist.
Today, I am in need of the distraction. I am in need of other people’s problems, in need of mindless chatter, in need of Taylor Swift songs being played very loudly, and in need of feeling in control – like I am actually doing something I am good at.
It has been two weeks since my mother’s grand announcement, and yesterday she left. Kenneth arrived in his Volvo, and swooped her away from our small house. A van had come the day before and moved her belongings from her flat, and she’d spent the night with me and Sam.
It has been the strangest of times. She’s emptied out her place with ruthless efficiency, discarded the flotsam and jetsam of her life as though none of it mattered. The knick-knacks, the books, the out-dated furniture she’d never wanted to replace. She’d previously always hated change, always hated things moving on, and had always seemed determined to surround herself with the past.
Now, she has thrown it away – keeping only the things she genuinely loved, the things that mattered the most. All of which could fit into one small van, spirited away to the far north. She left with Kenneth in a state of giddy excitement, and I was unprepared for how much it hurt – how much of a shock to the system it was to suddenly be so useless to her. She’d hugged me, and kissed me, and made me promise to come and visit in the new year – and then she was gone.
I immediately found myself worrying about whether she’d taken her asthma inhaler, if she’d remember to charge her phone, if she had her bank card with her so she could buy snacks at the services. She’d never been good with long journeys, or motorways, or travel in general – always convinced that there’d be a pile up, or that she’d develop a deep vein thrombosis, or that she’d accidentally lock herself in a toilet and have to be rescued by the fire brigade. That, of course, was the old her – and all those neuroses seem to have been discarded along with her collection of ceramic cats.
After we waved her off, Sam went out into town with friends, and I’d been left at home wondering what just happened. Wondering why I wasn’t more excited myself – it was a new beginning for me as well, in a way. I’d always imagined what my life would be like if it didn’t revolve around my mum, and now I am finding that it doesn’t look that great – that it feels empty and grey. Maybe if this had happened when Sam was younger, I would feel differently, but he is at an age where he is naturally and correctly pulling away from me.
I ended up pottering around the house doing mundane tasks like cleaning windows and changing duvets, looking at recipes online, wrapping the last few presents and writing cards for the neighbours. I tried to throw myself into Christmassy things, but my heart wasn’t in it. Basically, I was sad and lonely and bored, and annoyed with myself about that.
Heading into work today was a blessing. I would be busy, and both my brain and my body would be occupied, and I could settle into the hectic rhythms of the salon in a way that would comfort me. I would see my ladies, and chat to the trainees about what outrageous adventures they’d had over the weekend, and at some point put my feet up and have a cuppa with Jo, who owns the salon.
Jo is in her late fifties, but looks disgustingly good on it. She is no-nonsense but kind, the type of woman you want on your side when you’re feeling down, or need a pep talk, or if you accidentally end up in a street fight with a knife gang. Maybe, I think, I can even talk to her about taking on more responsibilities at work – she owns three salons, and has asked me several times if I’d be interested in managing one of them. I’ve always said no, because I didn’t have the time to make that kind of commitment – but hey, now I have nothing but time.
I head into work at ten, which is later than the others as I normally had to call in and see my mum on the way, and am looking forward to a day that contains some normality.
When I arrive at the salon, though, I immediately see that this is not going to be a normal day. For a start, everyone is outside. Jo has her phone at her ear, a cigarette dangling from her fingers as she talks rapidly away. Beth and Olivia, the trainees, are with her. All three of them have wet feet, small puddles forming around their Skechers. Heaps of gear are piled up on the pavement – dryers, a bundle of towels, a stack of brushes and scissors. The big appointment book we keep on the counter is on top, its pages fluttering open in the breeze. A client is standing there looking cold, a black gown wrapped around her shoulders, her hair still in foils.
“What happened?” I say, gazing at Jo in concern. She looks stressed. Jo never looks stressed.
“The ceiling fell in,” says Olivia, her eyes wide in shock. “Like, we were just there, and I was making the coffees, and everything was like it usually is – and then,woomph, it just came down! It was right in the middle of the room, which was lucky – I mean, we could have died!”
She announces this with such relish that I know she’ll be dining out on it for years to come: The Day I Escaped Death.
I pat her on the arm, and make my way to the salon. The door is open, and through it I see complete carnage. Everything is covered in chunks of soggy plaster, and a steady gush of water is pouring from the gap where the ceiling used to be, a small torrent plunging down and splashing as it hits the ground. The floor is inches deep in sludgy liquid, and even as I look on, more of the ceiling is plummeting. A large shard crashes down, landing on the sinks where we wash hair, shattering into chalky pieces.
