where Hannah was waiting. Dressed in black combats and a black top, she looked more like a sniper than a hairdresser.
‘You’re not doing me a sneaky favour?’ Cara asked suspiciously.
‘Nah. Guest cancelled. Ten minutes’ notice. They still get charged, I still get paid. Weekend away, you’ll have a better time with good hair. Jump up there till I shampoo you. Get rid of –’
‘That poxy chignon.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re so right. Good hair makes everything better.’ Cara brimmed with sudden levity, as Hannah massaged her skull. ‘I’ve sort of been dreading this weekend.’
‘Why’s that? All those kids?’
‘Ha-ha. No, but now that you mention it … My own two boys are the most amazing kids ever born. Like, obvs.’ She joined in with Hannah’s grim laughter. ‘And their cousins are lovely. But …’ It was the boredom she couldn’t handle. Half an hour spent taking care of a gang of eight-year-olds and she began to panic. It made her desperate to dive into her phone but unable to fully surrender because, without her constant surveillance, one of the kids was likely to fall into a fire or break their leg jumping off a table.
At the mirror, Hannah switched on her hairdryer, with the same grim purpose as a person revving up a chainsaw. ‘Boho waves do you?’
‘God, anything. Yes.’
After the dryer, Hannah did some magic with a GHD. Cara watched as lengths of shiny, dark-brown waves tumbled around her face and wondered why she could never manage this at home.
But Hannah was a genius. She was so good at hair that the Ardglass management were prepared to overlook her less-than-sunny manner.
Finally, Hannah ran her fingers through Cara’s waffle-like waves. ‘There you go. Done.’
In the mirror, Cara’s suddenly shiny hair was all messy, on-trend glamour. The rest of her really needed to up its game to be worthy of it. More make-up. Better clothes. ‘You’re amazing, Hannah.’
Hannah regarded her dispassionately. ‘You look good. Breaks my heart that all your great hair is hidden in a bullshit chignon.’
‘Look, I’ve nothing to give you –’
‘Hey! You’re my friend. I don’t –’
‘– right now. But I’ll wine you on Tuesday.’
‘Off you go. Don’t kill any kids. Or do. It’s your weekend.’
She put in her earbuds, found Michael Kiwanuka on her phone, and stepped out into the spring day.
Even though it was only two thirty, the Luas home was crowded, maybe because it was the Thursday of the Easter weekend and people were already knocking off.
She’d finished early because she’d started early. Her usual start time was 10 a.m. but today she’d come in at six to wrangle Billy Fay. They were good employers, the Ardglass, so it was only fair.
When she got home, the boys had to be fed – more fish fingers, more oven chips, more baked beans. Then Baxter needed to be dropped over to her parents before they started the drive to County Kerry. They’d get to the hotel just in time for dinner.
Her feelings about the upcoming weekend were decidedly mixed. On the one hand, four nights in the dreamy Lough Lein hotel: everyone – even people who, unlike Cara, weren’t obsessed with hotels – would kill for less. On the other, Jessie and Johnny paying for all of them made her squirm. But on the third hand, Cara and Ed could never have afforded it and Jessie really did insist and – hey! A man had stood up: a precious seat had become free.
As she dived, so did another woman. Both had their hand on it, both had equal claim. They locked eyes in a silent battle of wills. Cara looked at her skinny-jeaned adversary. I’m as deserving of that seat as you are, she thought. Right now I have the best hair in this entire city. Then she remembered what Billy Fay had called her. Fat bitch …
An upsurge of self-loathing burst its banks and rushed through her every cell. She moved back into the jostling throng, surrendering the seat to the victor.
FOUR
‘Oh!’ Jessie’s tone made Johnny pause.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘That profile in the Independent. It’s already up online. I wasn’t expecting it for a couple of weeks …’
Shite. ‘It’ll be fine. Forward it to me.’
In silence they both read.
Jessie Parnell is late. By three minutes. She sweeps into the PiG Café, on full charm offensive: a finance meeting had overrun, parking had been tricky and she hopes I haven’t been worried.
(A friend of mine has a theory about punctual people – they either have excellent manners or they’re monstrous control freaks. I