“We ran into her at the Bridal Expo,” I explain. And she repeatedly “ran” her bouquet against Keats’ chest.
Hmm, his strong, firm chest…
I can just picture it now with that lion tattoo.
Heather studies my expression and a tentative smile forms on her lips. Damn, she’s perceptive. I wonder what else she can tell about me?
“Linda was getting clucky,” Heather continues, instantly drawing my complete attention. “She started dropping hints about tying the knot and having babies. After Keats bought the car, she broke up with him—right there in my living room. She said buying such an expensive sports car with barely a backseat meant he didn’t see children in his future. She gave him an ultimatum—her or the car.”
“And he’s going to let you learn to drive in it, honey?” Henrique pipes in, sounding impressed.
I’m not tempted to tell them that Keats is finally choosing a woman over his car—because that woman is not me.
“You ready, honey?” Henrique asks my new friend, placing a tanned hand on Heather’s shoulder. He has a pair of shiny chrome scissors in his other hand.
Mrs McAllister closes her eyes and nods. With his super sharp scissors in hand, Henrique pulls the plait taut, then starts to cut through her thick hair. He has to widen and close the blades several times over her tresses, making Heather wince with every crunch of her substantial mane. I imagine it’s like those public executions in medieval times when the axeman’s blade doesn’t quite do the job with the first cut. For Mrs McAllister, it seems just as painful. Her eyes begin to moisten.
“Have you seen any new movies?” I ask quickly.
I want to distract her before she bolts out of the hairdresser with only half her locks snipped off. If this make-over helps her get rid of even a little of the baggage Dr McAllister left her with, I know she would feel so much better.
“No,” Mrs McAllister says. “But I love watching films.”
I tell her about the latest movie I saw and my new celebrity crush—safe topics. In the process, I’m learning a lot about my new friend. Home all day, Heather has an encyclopaedic knowledge of celebrity news and gossip which a Hollywood tragic like me can definitely appreciate. In a way, she’s almost like the older, wiser version of Jillie—just not as excitable. And a bit faster on the up take, and more responsible. Okay, she’s nothing like Jillie, except for the fun factor. And the fact hours just melt away while I chat with her.
“Here you go, honey,” Henrique says as he finally detaches the plaited hair from my new friend’s head. He passes it to her, and it’s almost a foot long. “Doesn’t that feel lighter?”
She nods, biting down on her lower lip as her eyes glisten. But a tentative smile breaks through like a bit of sunshine behind a rain cloud.
I give her arm a squeeze while Henrique and I pretend we haven’t just seen her come close to breaking down.
A couple of hours later. Henrique tucks the last glossy locks into place.
“You ready?” I ask Mrs McAllister.
She shuts her eyes and nods. I can’t supress my excited grin—I’m so happy for her. Maybe this is what it feels like to have a mother, or an aunt I like. Henrique swivels the chair till Heather is facing the mirror. She cracks open one blue eye. It blinks a couple of times before the other eye joins it. Her lips quiver as she takes in the short, slick, dark brown bob—like Catherine Zeta Jones’ in Chicago.
Oh shit, she hates it.
But then Mrs McAllister’s mouth stretches into a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of her eyes and puts two deep dimples on each side of her mouth. Just like Keats. I never noticed before how much her eldest son takes after her.
“So you like it?” I ask as warmth fills me.
“I love it. But…”
I hold my breath while I wait for her to finish her sentence.
“…can we go shopping now? I need new clothes.”
I am beyond relieved. It’s like the Grinch when his heart starts to get bigger—there’s definitely an ache in my chest that’s not all together unpleasant. “Whatever you like, Mrs McAllister.”
She appraises herself in the mirror, lifts her chin, and draws back her shoulders till she’s no longer slumped and defeated. “You know what? Jeff divorced me, so I should stop using his name. Call me, Heather or, if you must, by my maiden name, Ms Radley.”
Chapter 10
My Miz Peggy website feels neglected. I’ve been on it every day but I don’t have the time, the energy or the interest to maintain it right now. I still answer the emails, finalise stock orders, promote new products, and do my weekly mini-fiction stories but I haven’t done anything different for the site itself.
Isabella and Byron’s wedding is just taking too much of my time and energy, and I have to say, my interest, too. It’s now well into May, and after a month of looking through wedding mags, and calling reception venues, I’m hooked. Probably because wedding planning is infinitely a lot more pleasant than answering sometimes perverted queries from my website’s subscribers.
Besides, the wedding industry is filled with the in lurve—my website is quite often frequented by the lonely and the horny. I’m seriously beginning to consider changing careers to wedding planning.
But I need to snap out of it.
Miz Peggy is my bread and butter. And I’m so close to my goal of saving up for the minimum deposit on a house. I don’t even want to get married. I’m sure I’d be worse than a mechanic who doesn’t drive—a wedding planner who doesn’t believe in marriage. With a sigh, I open up another email from my advice service.
Dear Miz Peggy,
My boyfriend’s obsession with my weight
