Page 7 of Dreaming Under An Island Skye
‘Evidently. Anyway, I wanted to double-check your address. It appears you live in the Cotswolds?’
She cringed before answering. ‘That’s right, yes, but I’m hoping to visit the area and—’
‘Ah, right. I see. Well, thank you for your application, but we’re really looking for someone a little more permanently local. The last thing we want is to be left in the lurch if you were to be called back home for a family emergency or something.’ His tone was terse and clipped.
She scowled. ‘With all due respect, Mr… Mr…’Shit, what was his name?
‘MacKinnon. Reid MacKinnon.’ By the exasperation in his tone she could imagine the eye roll that accompanied it.
‘With all due respect, Mr MacKinnon, you could be left in the lurch by someone who lived closer. Surely, it would make no difference to you the fact that they had further to travel home?’
Silence descended over the airwaves and Juliette scrunched her eyes tight.Urgh, I’ve well and truly blown that now.
‘That’s as maybe, Ms Fairhurst, but we’dprefersomeone more local. Someone with a genuine interest in the area.’
She was surprised at how disappointed she felt at him brushing her off so easily. ‘Excuse me for contradicting you again, but Idohave a genuine interest in the area. I love history and my mother—’
‘Really? I didn’t see mention of your love of history on your application.’ She heard a shuffling of paper and fingers tapping on a keyboard.
‘Well, it was there, along with my connection to the place,’ she snapped, knowing instinctively that she wasn’t making her case any better for doing so.
‘I see. I see. Well, my apologies. However, we do have some other interested parties in the local area, so I’m afraid we won’t be requesting an interview. Thank you for your interest in the Lifeboat House Museum.’
It was clear that his mind was made up and no amount of cajoling would change that. And in any case, if he were to be her boss, perhaps she’d dodged a proverbial bullet. ‘Okay. Thank you for your call.’ Feeling utterly deflated, she hung up the phone and flopped back onto the mattress, promptly pulling the duvet over her head.
* * *
The next time she was woken by her landline, Juliette checked the clock. It was almost one in the afternoon. She figured she must have needed the sleep. Again, she sat and lifted the receiver from its base, the room had thankfully ceased its rotation. ‘Hello?’ she asked, carefully this time.
‘Jules, sweetie, it’s Mum. I have some news.’
‘Oh, hi, Mum.’ She yawned. ‘What news?’
‘Well, I made contact with Marjorie Dawson from church. She goes to Skye on holiday quite a lot. She’s given me the details of a bed and breakfast place, called Thistle House, on the outskirts of Glentorrin. It’s within walking distance of the village and they apparently have vacancies for the first week of July. It could put you up and you could find somewhere longer term whilst you’re there, maybe?’
Juliette perked up. ‘Aw, Mum that’s great. Thank you. Give me the details and I’ll call them asap. The way things seem to get booked up there, I need to strike whilst the iron’s hot.’
She’d call the bed and breakfast and Mr Grumpy MacKinnon could stick his museum…
3
Juliette sat in the chair before a huge gilt mirror. People around her were reading magazines and drinking coffee, their hair wrapped in tin foil. She felt like she was in some bizarre space-age café or a weird Christmas lunch vignette from a film noir.
Charmaine, the stylist, stood behind her, running her fingers through her wet hair. ‘Are you sure you want it all off, Jules? It’s a drastic step, especially with the change of colour too. I mean, brown to blonde is a brave move on its own.’
Juliette inhaled a shaking breath. ‘I’m sure. I have to reinvent myself and this seems like the perfect way. New hair, new location, new me.’ She hadn’t had her hair cut in so long and it was now midway down her back; the coffee-coloured strands a little lacklustre, to say the least.
‘Okay, well, I’m going to take a quick before pic for the Facebook page, if that’s okay? People love these dramatic transformations.’
Juliette shrugged. ‘Why not?’ Months ago, Juliette would’ve been horrified at the prospect of people seeing her and potentially judging her. Now, however, she was finding the prospect of these changes empowering; exciting even.
Millie had offered to accompany her to the salon. ‘You hate being the centre of attention, honey. I’m happy to come and keep you company.’
But she had refused point blank. ‘No. I need to do this by myself. For myself. Thank you, though. But it’s time I show everyone I can stand on my own two feet again.’
Millie had hugged her. ‘My brave, gorgeous friend.’
With her antidepressants down to the minimal dosage, she had chatted to her grief counsellor on the phone the day before the hair appointment. He hadn’t been surprised at all about her desire for change, which in itself surprised Juliette. He encouraged her to take the next step in her life journey. So here she was, her hair looking bizarre in its tin-foil hat under an orange light, a pile of magazines in her lap.
