with Drew away.” She eyes me seriously. “I could spiral.”
“Right,” I say hastily. “Awful. Poor you.”
“Anita says I’ve got to prioritize myself,” Nicole carries on. “Take care of myself. You know? It’s always about other people, but sometimes you have to say, ‘Sod other people; it’s about me. I deserve it.’ Sit there.”
Nicole nods at a chair and I take a seat. She brushes out my hair, sprays it with something from a bottle, then starts winding it round the curling wand.
I notice a book on the dressing table called Your Animal Psychological Self, and Nicole follows my gaze as she creates a tightly curled ringlet.
“I’ve got into psychological profiles too,” she says. “I’m a Dragonfly. I’ll give you a questionnaire. You should, like, rearrange your whole life according to…” She trails off and stares critically at a second ringlet. “Your hair doesn’t really shine, does it?”
“No,” I admit. “It doesn’t.”
My hair is the same length as Nicole’s—shoulder-blade level. But while hers ripples and glows with a combination of highlights and natural brilliance, mine just hangs. Nicole blasts my head with more spray and pulls my hair so tight that tears come to my eyes.
“You know Ryan’s got a girlfriend?” she says. “Ariana. I mean, I don’t know what you’re expecting, Fixie, but—”
“Leila says they’ve split up,” I say, too quickly.
“Really?” Nicole makes a skeptical face and releases another ringlet. “I follow Ariana on Instagram. She’s amazing. She’s all about compassion too. Compassion through cuisine.”
“Right.” I try to sound more nonchalant. “Well, they’re over now, so—”
“Look, this is her.” To my dismay, Nicole thrusts her phone into my field of vision. “She’s so inspirational. I commented on her pomegranate salad once, and she replied to me.”
“Don’t!” I want to wail. “Don’t show me pictures of Ryan’s girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend, or whatever she is!” But that would sound insecure, so I keep my mouth shut. I know Nicole isn’t trying to torment me; she just doesn’t think about other people much. She’s scrolling through the photos now, presumably searching for her own comment. Short of closing my eyes, I can’t escape, so I gaze morosely at the blond Californian vision in front of me, doing yoga, cooking, and rollerblading in tiny shorts.
I’ve seen Ariana’s Instagram page before. Well, of course I have. I keep following her, then un-following her, then following her again. She probably thinks I’m a nutjob, if she’s ever noticed me, which she won’t have done because she has 26.6 thousand followers.
“Here we are.” Nicole finally stops on a photo of Ariana wearing a pink crop top and leggings, standing in an arabesque pose, holding out a big salad to the camera.
“I mean, is she exercising or cooking or what?” I say at last.
“Both,” says Nicole. “It’s her new thing. She cooks and works out all at once.”
“Right,” I say, trying not to fixate on Ariana’s white teeth and perfect rounded butt. “Well. You know. Good for her.”
As Nicole releases another ringlet, her phone bleeps and she reaches for it. “Oh,” she says, frowning at a message. “I have to go.” She puts the curling wand down and reaches for her bag. “Sorry,” she adds as an afterthought. “Julie from my yoga class is at the tube station. I said I’d meet her, because she’s never been here before.”
“You’re going now?” I say in horror. “But what about my hair?”
“I’ve started you off,” says Nicole. “You can finish it yourself.”
“No, I can’t!”
I catch my reflection in the mirror and wince. Half my head is a ringletty mass of curls. The rest is lying flat and dispirited, like a girl who hasn’t been asked to dance.
“Please finish it off,” I beg. “It won’t take long.”
“That’s not the point!” Nicole seems offended. “Fixie, you could be a little less selfish. My husband is halfway across the world, OK? This is a really difficult time for me.”
Her phone buzzes with a call and she lifts it to her ear. “Oh, hi, Drew,” she says irritably. “I’m in the middle of something, yeah? I’ll call you back.”
She rings off and glowers at me again. “Friendship is vital for my endorphin levels right now. And you want me to stay here and fix your hair?”
Now she puts it like that, I suddenly feel shallow.
“Sorry,” I say humbly. “I’m sure I can finish it off myself. You go.”
“Thank you,” says Nicole in pointed tones. “And blow the candles out when