Also in The Little Book Café Series
To Bertie, with love and cuddles.
‘Emma, what have you done now?’ Linda Tizzard shrieked as she opened the bathroom door and stared at her daughter, open-mouthed.
Emma shot up guiltily. She mopped at a lock of her now bright tangerine hair with a stained towel. ‘Thought I’d go auburn. For a change.’
Her mother thinned her lips in a way Emma remembered only too well from childhood misdeeds. She was in trouble. Big trouble.
‘Auburn? You mean Tango orange, don’t you? Get this bathroom cleaned up now. It’s turned the bath orange. Why on earth didn’t you come into the salon and have it done properly, child?’ Linda grabbed a flannel and began scrubbing.
Emma pursed her lips. ‘Maybe ‘cos I can’t afford Klassy Kutz prices?’
Linda paused in her cleaning and looked at her daughter in exasperation. ‘You never stop to think, do you? Just like your father. You could have come in as a model or had one of the apprentice stylists. Suki wouldn’t have minded.’
Emma chose not to answer. Suki owned the salon Linda worked in as a stylist. And she thought Suki would have minded very much. Although her mother adored the woman, Emma thought she was little more than a slave driver. She ran the shower hose attachment over the orange-splattered basin. ‘I really don’t know why you don’t start up on your own, Mum, rather than renting a chair at Suki’s.’
‘You think we’ve got that sort of money?’ Linda glared up at her daughter. ‘You need to get your head out of those clouds.’ She resumed scrubbing.
‘You could always go mobile. There’s always a need for mobile hairdressers and all the money would be yours then.’ Emma sighed knowing it was no use. Her mother was permanently in a bad mood. Emma knew it was worry over money but it didn’t make it any easier to live with. She knew Linda would never leave the salon. Her mother always chose the safe option. ‘Owning businesses isn’t for the likes of us,’ she always said. ‘Know your place and keep your head below the parapet,’ was her mother’s much-repeated motto.
‘I’ve got a perfectly good job at the salon, thank you very much,’ Linda said predictably. ‘And we need the money coming in, what with your dad’s job looking dicey. Seems there’s no call for a traditional vacuum cleaner nowadays. Folk all want those fancy cordless ones.’
Emma lapsed into silence again. Her family seemed to lurch from one crisis to another. Last week it had been one of her mother’s regulars moving away from Berecombe. As she’d been a twice a week set and blow-dry customer, it meant a loss of income. Lurking in the background was the constant threat to her father’s job as office manager at a local manufacturer and this week Stevie, her thirteen-year-old brother, had got into trouble at school. She stared out of the bathroom window at the back garden. The small patch of lawn suffered from Stevie’s keepy-uppy competitions and the flower beds, now it was early autumn, had lost their summer glory. Her father’s beloved greenhouse was in one corner and the guinea-pig hutch was in another. It was just the sort of boring garden replicated in every Thirties semi on their street. She sighed again. Everything seemed so ordinary, so dull. Nothing happened to compare with anything in any of the books she read. It was one reason why she’d tried to spice things up. Dyeing her hair at least made a change. The other had been her longing to be more Demelza. ‘Be More Demelza’ was Emma’s new mantra. Passionate, forthright, wild with an independence of spirit Emma admired. That and the fact she’d married one of literature’s most gorgeous men, Ross Poldark.
‘Be More Demelza!’
She hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud until the arrival of Stevie, barging into the bathroom, brought her back to the muddled, overcrowded, monotonous life that was her existence.
‘What the f—’ he began and then remembered Linda banned any swearing in her hearing. ‘What’s been going on in here, then?’ He caught a glimpse of Emma’s hair. ‘Oh boy! Look at you, you ginge.’
Linda reared up. ‘That’s enough. Now you’re back from school, you can clean out those guinea pigs.’ When he began to protest, she continued, ‘Steven, you promised to do them at the weekend. They’re in a right mess. You wanted them, so you look after them. Off you go and no Xbox until your homework’s done.’ Turning on Emma, she thrust the flannel into her hand. ‘And you, madam, can finish cleaning up in here. I want it spotless before your father gets home.’
Linda pushed her son out and followed him downstairs. Emma could hear them bickering as they went. She scowled. There was always too much noise and too many arguments going on in this house. And, at the same time, nothing ever changed. Glancing out of the window and hearing the guinea pigs squeal a hunger protest, she promised herself she’d find somewhere of her own to live. And soon. It was either that or go mad.
Emma pushed open the front door of Hughes and Widrow Estate Agents, catching sight of her hair in the shop window as she did. Self-consciously tweaking her fringe, she grimaced. She’d aimed for the subtle auburn with vivid lights promised on the box but she must have left it on too long. When she’d met up with boyfriend Ollie for a drink in the Old Harbour, he’d laughed at first and then asked when she was going to wash it out. If only she’d checked the small print. Instead of the wash-in wash-out she thought she’d bought, she’d picked up a box of permanent colour by mistake. Ollie hadn’t been impressed when she explained. They’d had a row over it – one of many, recently. He was so serious these days. She’d told him to lighten up and had left him to his
