The hairdresser snips and combs, as I admire myself in the mirror. For a woman of my age, I look very well. Everyone says so.
I’m furious with Elizabeth. What kind of daughter doesn’t answer the phone to her own mother? I’ve called so many times now and left messages.
‘My daughter can be very thoughtless,’ I tell the hairdresser. ‘It’s been an age since she was in touch.’ My voice reaches a higher pitch. ‘I could be ill or in pain.’
The hairdresser, a young Asian man called Fam, nods sympathetically. ‘Maybe she’s busy with the little boy, rushing around, didn’t see her phone.’
‘She has no excuse,’ I say. ‘Tom’s nearly nine years old. What rushing around does she have to do? It’s not as if he’s a toddler.’
Fam laughs. ‘My nephew is nine and is always jumping on the sofas. Can’t sit still. Little boys are a lot of work. Just crazy.’
‘Your nephew wouldn’t misbehave at Steelfield School,’ I say. ‘The headmaster has a very effective process for keeping problem children in line.’
‘Process?’
I hesitate. ‘He has a way with the children. That’s what I’m saying.’
‘Right,’ says Fam, fluffing my hair, not really understanding.
‘The problems with Elizabeth started when her father left,’ I say. ‘He never came to visit and she blamed me. And then he died and I think she blamed me for that too.’
‘Very sad, very sad,’ says Fam, snipping around my neck. ‘Shall we go a little shorter this time? You know? As we get older, short can be better.’
‘No,’ I snap. ‘I don’t want anything to change.’
‘Okay, okay,’ says Fam. ‘No problem.’
I think, reading his face, he has some issue with what I just said. But I can’t be sure.
In recent years, I’ve become aware that I don’t feel things like other people. It can be useful, I suppose. I only wish it still worked on Elizabeth. But these days, she’s slipping further and further out of reach.