“I’ve got an idea,” I say. He looks up, the intensity of his blue eyes catching me by surprise again—you’d think I’d be used to it by now. “Why don’t you actually let me drive your car?”
“No. Way. You couldn’t even get through the circuit without crashing.”
“It was a video game. I was using a saucer-sized steering wheel.”
“Practise. I’ll leave this,”—he indicates the game console—“here so you can get your road position right. Brush up on your road rules, then we’ll talk about letting you get behind the wheel of my car.”
“But I’ve had my learner’s since I was eighteen!” I protest, probably sounding like I was back at that age. I took the test and got the permit so I had proof of age to go clubbing and drinking with my friends. I’ve dutifully renewed it every time before it expired.
“Well, that probably means you haven’t thought about road rules in ten years. I’ll let you behind the wheel when you can pass the theory test again, and when you can go around the track safely.”
That sounds like ages away. My features fall. “But I cleared my schedule this morning to go driving.” An overstatement. To free myself up, I wrote the latest instalment of erotic fiction last night—a little frisky business in a photo booth. I’d like to think it’s art imitating life but it’s more like I was low on ideas and I thought my paying customers would probably like the idea of the cramped public space and a camera.
“Oh, we’ll go driving today. But you’re sitting in the passenger seat while I teach you how to handle her.”
I look at the clock on the wall next to the book shelf. Shit, it’s later than I thought. Sitting on the beanbag playing video games with Keats was way too entertaining and time has flown.
“Fine. You can show me stuff on the way to your mum’s house.” There was no time to argue—I’m going out with Mrs McAllister for the rest of the day, and I need a lift anyway.
I get up from my seat to the usual crunching noises of the beanbag I’m on. “I’m ready to go, too. Let me get my bag.”
I’m already in my good clothes so there’s no need to change—it took me an hour to figure out what to wear for my non-date this morning with Keats. In the end, I settled for a floral dress that showed enough cleavage to hopefully keep his eyes off the cellulite on my legs. I’ve left my hair down with my curls perfect from being in two braids overnight. I flick some strands off my shoulders, sneaking a look behind me to see if Keats has noticed. He is lounging on a beanbag leafing through one of my tabloid magazines, a bored expression on his face.
I sigh—he’s so not interested in me.
***
How Heather McAllister got through almost sixty years of life without having heard of a “breakup haircut” is beyond me. Was she so popular in her dating days that she was never the dumpee? Or was Dr McAllister her one and only relationship? Either way, I’m a firm believer in makeovers, especially after a huge life change. And you can’t get any bigger than a divorce, and the death of the love of your life.
“I don’t know,” Mrs McAllister says for the umpteenth time to Henrique, my fabulous hairdresser in Fortitude Valley. He’s a magician with scissors and hair dye, and up to his arched eyebrows in clients. A backlog of women is currently waiting with the latest celebrity mags on dramatic leather sofas in the waiting area of his salon.
Henrique looks at me, pleading with his eyes. He has too many customers waiting and needs decisions. Fast.
“Colour change, length change, style change, babe,” I instruct him. “If Heather recognises herself next time she looks in the mirror, I would be disappointed. We want her to look younger, fresher and ready to flirt.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Heather giggles nervously from the customer’s chair. “Jeff liked my hair like the day we met.”
That explains why she has a Farah Fawcet ’do circa famous red swimsuit photo shoot.
“If you don’t like it, it’ll grow back, but if you love it—and you will because Henrique is a genius—it’ll change your life.” I give her shoulder a squeeze. Something about Mrs McAllister’s fragility makes me want to be upbeat for her and mean it.
She looks at me and nods, cringing. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
I hold her hands and we share a giggle.
“You heard the lady, Henrique. Let’s see some magic.”
Heather’s whole body tenses, and I try to distract her with conversation, starting with my first “driving lesson” with her son this morning. I can’t help but complain that the closest I got to controlling his beloved luxury car was telling him to swing by a 7-Eleven so I could get a low-sugar Slurpee on our way to her house.
“Don’t feel bad, Jess. Keats loves that car,” she tells me as Henrique brushes her hair into a low ponytail. She’s chosen not to look in the mirror during the whole process in case she changes her mind. She grabs my hand and holds onto it when Henrique starts arranging her hair into a single long plait.
Warmth radiates from Mrs McAllister’s hand, infusing me with warm fuzzy feelings and a poignant ache in my chest I barely recognise. I don’t have a lot of memories of Mum, but I remember she used to push me away when I tried to hug her.
“He once lost a girlfriend because of that Audi,” Heather adds, hand still on mine for moral support.
“Linda?” My voice is thick with the emotion of remembering my mother. I cough to clear it.
If Heather noticed that
