I have a choice. Drive to work, or drive myself mad. I choose work, for now, mad might come later. I’m still trying to digest what Tom told me last night. The pure unadulterated mess of it all. It turns out this Kenny kid, who half belongs to my husband, is the surviving child of the dead woman whose body was found in Sycamore. The woman whose plants I was admiring on the TV… whose neighbours think she was a lovely woman.
For most of the night I sat on the sofa staring into the darkness, trying to come to terms with what Tom had told me.
The one-night stand had taken place when Tom had started going out with me, but we weren’t going serious and definitely not engaged. It happened the night his team won the championship final and everyone was in Copper’s nightclub celebrating and getting bombed out of their minds. I got the exact date from the championship medal he keeps propped in between his two golf trophies.
Tom kept apologizing, going on and on about how he was pissed and how he never meant it to happen. That it only ever happened the once. He only ever loved me, blah, blah, blah, blah and he never saw the girl again. He didn’t even remember her name. My guess is he never knew her name. Copper’s nightclub has a way of blowing the base off people’s standards.
There’s a part of me feels slightly sorry for Tom, the fool. I still love him despite all his faults. Nothing ever goes right for him. Even a one-night stand seventeen years ago has come back to bite him. Now he’s the sole guardian to a kid he doesn’t even know. And the worst part about all of this is the police want Tom to take care of Kenny, to bring him to our house. To live with us. Such madness.
This is where I will have to put my foot down. A sixteen-year-old boy that we’ve never met moving in on top of us would not work. What are the police thinking? Jesus, Amber would have a fit. She already thinks the house is too small and that we should be moving to one of the big houses they’re building on the old hospital grounds down the road. Dream on, Amber.
So that’s where we left it, after talking for less than half an hour and not talking for a further two. Tom squeezed me tightly, asked me to forgive him for not telling me earlier and promised me he would sort the whole mess out so that it would not affect our family. Tom is going to tell the cops that we will not be taking Kenny to live with us, that we feel the kid would be better off with people he actually knows at this sad time.
Of course there are a lot more questions to be asked, a lot more consequences to deal with, but for the moment, I’ve enough barbed wire to suck on. I need a break, so I’m heading in to my girls.
The salon is extra busy when I arrive. Walking through the door I notice the waiting area is full of clients. I’d almost forgotten about the big awards ceremony taking place in the Morrison Hotel later on today. It’s just as well I didn’t pull the sickie I was intending until the reality of staying at home played out in my mind. At least in the salon I might get to laugh at some point, have my mind transported away from the unfolding drama at home for a brief moment.
‘Morning, Sal.’
‘Morning, Meg. Sorry I’m running a bit late. Is my first client here yet?’
‘Yes, she’s at the basins.’
The basins are situated at the back of the shop near the towel library and beside the staffroom. I glance around to see if I recognize anyone, always on the alert for Charlie’s return. But not today, there are no teenage heads being soaked. These are all mature ladies, in need of special products to disguise their ageing.
Sienna moves her attention from her suds-covered hands and smiles over at me. Suddenly I feel vulnerable, like the whole world knows the shit I’m in. I know they don’t – I’ve only just discovered it myself, so how could they? Yet every gentle hello or smile feels like a gesture of pity. Paranoia is a terrible thing. The weakening of confidence that comes with a life-changing scenario. That’s what I’m suffering from now.
The morning flies past with little thought for Tom or Kenny or Tom and Kenny. I’m too busy. No sooner is one head prepped for the ceremony than another bum lands on the seat. I haven’t even had time for a coffee and I really could do with one.
In the mirror I see Anna working away on the opposite side of the floor. I hope she doesn’t notice me checking her out. Her hair is tied up revealing a tattoo of I-don’t-know-what across the back of her neck. It’s got twists and turns and letters that don’t spell out anything in particular. No bruises, though. Her arms are covered in black lace which is pretty normal for Anna. A long skirt finishes the ensemble and she appears happy enough chatting away to a fellow goth in the seat.
One last blow-dry to complete and then it’s time for my break. But before that much-needed moment arrives, my phone beeps. This time I don’t care if Meg pulls me up. I’m not waiting until I’ve finished with my client to find out who it is. I’m too anxious, which is another side effect of the world been pulled out from under you. Anxiety.
Making my apologies to the woman who’s flicking through the pages of Hello! magazine in the seat in front of me, I head to the toilet. It’s Tom, texting me to ring him ASAP. My heart starts that overexcited beat again, thumping in my chest like the tribal dance of worry. Well, it’s going to have to keep playing – I can’t reply now. I can’t leave a client with her hair dripping at my station any longer. I text him back.
The fact that Christina Murray’s dress is not what she intended to wear to the awards ceremony – her first choice having been ruined in the dry cleaners – is of absolutely no interest to me. But I can’t tell her that. I must listen and where possible nod in agreement. If my mind was not obsessed with finding out what Tom is about to tell me I would do a lot better. Relay some similar disastrous experience of my own or that of a client, family member, neighbour, friend. Anything or anyone to keep her thinking I’m totally involved in her story. That’s what I do, what we all do. Make the clients feel like they matter. Being able to style hair is just one of the skills needed for the job.
Christina Murray has become sidetracked by a woman, a competitor, sitting at the other end of the salon. Apparently both ladies are up for the same award. Bereft of curiosity, I don’t ask her what the award is for but I do remark on how Christina’s hair is definitely the better of the two. She laughs at my confidence, placing a fiver tip on the shelf before leaving to pay at the reception. Without bothering with coffee, I head out of the salon to the anonymity of the busy street.
Tom answers before the second ring.
‘They’re not buying it, Sal.’
‘Not buying what?’
‘Kenny.’
‘What about Kenny?’ Mentioning his name is like drinking poison. I want to gag after saying it. I know it’s wrong, this is not the kid’s fault, but he should not be my problem.
‘They’re saying he has no other next of kin, that I’m the only family. His grandparents are both dead and the mother has no siblings that anyone knows of.’
‘Well, did you tell them we’re not taking him, that I won’t have it, that we have a fifteen-year-old girl in the house and I’m not allowing some strange teenage boy we don’t know to live under the same roof as her. Did you? Did you tell them that, Tom?’
I must be shouting now because I seem to be attracting the attention of passers-by. Every second person is turning to look at me. Hiding my face to the wall I listen to Tom’s voice moaning at the far end of the phone.
‘I told them all that, they said there would be a social worker coming out to talk to us this evening. How quickly can you get home?’
‘Tom, you can tell the cops to shove their social worker up their uniformed arses. I’m not taking that boy into our house and that’s final.’
My shaking hand struggles to end the call.
‘You tell ’em,’ a passer-by shouts as I turn around, tears streaming down my face. This is unbelievable. Tom is beginning to sound like he’s prepared to entertain the idea. Does he not hear me? Can he not see the madness of it all? I know the kid needs somewhere to go, I get that and I really feel sorry for the boy. His mom is dead, he only recently found out who his father is. He must feel like his whole world is collapsing around him and as much as I’d love to be able to help him I have my own kids to think about. What would it do to them having a stranger living under the same roof? There has to be a better way, there has to be someone else. We’re probably just the first and easiest option. Then again Tom is his dad. Oh, I don’t know what to think.
Wiping the tears on the sleeve of my shirt I walk towards the salon door just as Megan steps outside.
‘Here.’ She pulls me to the side of the entrance and hands me a tissue. ‘Girl, you’re going to have to tell someone what’s going on. I’m not suggesting me but there has to be someone you can share your problem with, Sal. You’ve been in bits since Saturday and I’m guessing it’s something to do with that teenage kid whose hair you were doing when you collapsed.’
‘I’m okay, Megan. Thanks.’
Deep breaths, pink lipstick and I’m walking back into the salon. Megan is right, I do need to talk to someone, but not her. This is my work place, my sanctuary: if I drag my problem in here where can I escape to?
My phone rings. It’s Tom again. What does he want now? Anger seeps through the cracks in my tolerance. I want to tell him to go away and leave me out of it. Sort out the problem, Tom. He promised he would not let the situation damage our family but here he is having difficulty getting his horse over the first hurdle.
When the ringing stops, it’s replaced with the beep of a message.
The social worker. Does he think I’m going to sit in the room with him while he explains that the kid is not coming to live with us? No. You’re on your own, Tom. Just like you were the night you shagged his mommy.
By three o’clock my head feels like it belongs to Anna. Thumping. My mind is going backwards and forwards. It’s not like I can ask anyone else. Hey, what did you do when you found out your husband had a secret child and the child’s mother was murdered? I’m pretty sure even if I put it on one of those Google chat forums I wouldn’t find one other person in the whole world to share the experience with.
Two hours of utter stress pass, my mind imagining all sorts of scenarios, none of them good. Was it just a coincidence that person came into our garden the same night the mother of Tom’s other child was killed? Or were they there for a reason? What if it was the killer? What if they had got into the house? What if they come back?
When the clock allows it, I grab my bag and coat from the staffroom. Time to collect the boys and head home. The fiver tip that Christina Murray gave me falls from my pocket so I hand it to Louise, the new trainee, who is also getting ready to go home. Her eyes light up like she’s never had a fiver before. She’s probably broke. First-year trainees don’t get enough to pay for their bus fare never mind have a lunch. But that’s the hair game, that’s how we all trained. Gradually increasing our income, increasing our skills, until eventually qualifying and ending up with lots of money for our husbands to lose. Don’t be so cynical, Sally, not everyone is married to a fucking idiot.
With Cian and Aaron in the back of the car, I head for home praying that the social worker has left before I get there. I text Tom to make sure the coast is clear. I’m not allowing myself to be judged by some do-gooder who wants to pump me with guilt for not opening my arms wide enough to welcome a stranger into my life.
Tom texts back telling me that she has left. Nothing else, no comment on how the meeting unfolded. I guess he’s keeping that to tell me when I get home. God, I could do with some good news.