Page 22 of Taboo
“Morning, Aunt Amelia,” Jason echoes solemnly. He keeps his eyes on his plate, and his voice is wooden. “I’m sorry I disturbed you last night. I won’t be so selfish again.”
For a second, I’m too shocked to respond. The memory of his poor, tear-streaked face last night is still vivid in my mind, and my first reaction is to tell him that he did not disturb me, and it was not selfish of him to find comfort when he has a nightmare. But one look at Sara smiling approvingly at his prepared little speech makes me clamp my mouth shut. I smile warmly at him and decide to play along. I’m just a guest here. What do I know about bringing up kids?
I slide into the chair next to him and rub my hands together. “Mmm… I’m starving, and those scones look good enough to keep a dragon happy.”
Jason grins at me.
“They are pretty amazing,” Sara says, pouring tea into my cup, the amber liquid swirling. “Try one with Maria’s homemade raspberry jam—it’s heaven.” She hands me the cup, and I take a sip, the warmth spreading through me, easing the tension in my shoulders.
The scones are delicious and we eat to the sound of Sara’s chatter. It is easy and effortless. She tells me about the city’s best boutiques, the hairdresser she swears by. I nod, letting her energy carry me.
Jason chimes in when Sara goes to the kitchen to give Maria some instructions about dinner. He tells me about a bird he saw in the garden, his voice growing bolder, and I smile, encouraging him.
“Was it a blue jay?” I ask, leaning forward.
He shakes his head, describing its yellow and blue wings with wide-eyed wonder. The moment feels simple, almost normal. Then Sara comes back into the room and takes over with her bright chatter.
After breakfast, Jason looks at me wistfully as we head out. He has to stay with the housekeeper and wait for his Math and English tutor to arrive.
The drive to the city is peaceful, Sara’s sleek silver SUV gliding through tree-lined streets, the skyline rising ahead full of gleaming glass towers under a crisp blue sky. The radio hums softly, a jazzy tune that blends with Sara talking on the phone with one of her friends. I hear bits and pieces, but I don’t really listen. Instead, I watch the world pass by—dog walkers, joggers, people in suits hurrying by, a street vendor selling pretzels, another selling hot dogs. The city is alive with motion.
My hands rest in my lap, but my heart races, a mix of anticipation and unease at the outcome of the day, at being so close to Max’s wife.
We arrive at a sleek salon, the name Claire Huntington etched in elegant script on the glass door. Inside, the air is scented with the smell of hair products. The space itself is all white and chrome. Mirrors line the walls. Claire, the hairdresser, comes out to the reception to greet us. She air kisses Sara, then her sharp blue eyes turn to me. She takes one look at my waist-length blonde hair and claps her hands, her bracelets jangling.
“Oh, honey, we’re going to make your hair sing,” she says, her voice brimming with excitement, her energy infectious.
I sink into the plush chair, its leather cool against my back, and face the mirror. One of her girls starts washing my hair while Sara and her go off into the interior of the salon.
When I’m prepped and ready, Claire comes to stand behind me. She grins at me in the mirror, then her hands begin to move with practiced grace, her scissors snipping with precision, trimming just enough to shape my hair, styling it into bangs and layers that frame my face and fall over my shoulders down to the middle of my back.
Then she starts to blow-dry my hair, cascading down my back like a golden curtain. Fifteen minutes later, and the transformation is startling—my eyes seem bigger and brighter,my face softer, more alive, as if she’s peeled back a layer of the woman I’ve hidden away.
“Bet you didn’t know you could look so beautiful, did you?” Claire asks. Her smile is wide and genuine, but I flush with embarrassment.
Sara, who has been sitting on one of the chairs further along and having her roots done while flipping through magazines and sipping from a glass of champagne, comes over and beams her approval.
“Told you,” she says, nodding with satisfaction.
I touch a glowing lock, and my fingers tremble, still startled by the woman staring back—her green eyes brighter, her face softer, as if Claire’s scissors have carved away a layer of the terrible grief I’ve worn for years.
“You’ve made it shiny… like you,” I whisper, my voice clogged with guilt. My jealous heart has judged her too harshly. She is too kind to hurt. As soon as possible, I must leave her house and her family.
Sara’s hand grazes my arm, warm and encouraging. “Ready for the fun part?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with eagerness.
I nod and smile brightly, hiding my sadness.
We step out into the city’s chic streets, the crisp blue sky stretching above us like a promise. Boutiques line the boulevard, their glass storefronts displaying mannequins draped in fabrics that shimmer under the midday sun.
The air hums with life—honking taxis, the chatter of passersby, the faint jingle of a street musician’s guitar—and I let Sara lead, her stride confident, her tote bag swinging at her side. We duck into the first shop, a long, narrow space with exposed brick walls and racks of dresses that spill color like a painter’s palette.
The air inside is scented, the soft melody of a piano recital blending with the rustle of silk and satin. Sara waves to the salesassistant, whom she is clearly familiar with, and moves through the aisles, her fingers deftly pulling pieces from the racks.
“Try this,” she says, holding up a sultry black dress, its fabric sleek and form-fitting, cut low at the neckline and high on the thigh, and a clear promise to hug every curve in between.
My cheeks flush, the boldness of it catching me off guard, and I shake my head, a nervous laugh escaping.
“That’s… a little too much for me,” I protest politely.
