Wildflower Bay (2 page)

Hattie was lovely, but had literally no idea about real life. The daughter of an ex-Cabinet minister, she was loaded beyond belief. Rather than subject her to the dubious delights of student
digs, Mummy and Daddy had bought her an Edinburgh pad when she came up here to study anthropology at university years ago. Easily bored, she had dropped out after a couple of years (just when the
work got hard, she admitted, with a giggle, over a gin and tonic one night) and had befriended Isla when, on a whim, she took a year-long course in aromatherapy. Back then, Isla had still been
living at home, saving every penny she could and taking the long, winding bus journey to and from the city from the outskirts of town, where her dad lived. They’d formed an unlikely
friendship – and Isla had been flattered to be offered a room in Hattie’s flat for ‘your share of the bills only, darling – honestly, this place is some kind of tax dodge,
they won’t care a hoot if you’re in here.’

Four years later, they were still rubbing along together – Hattie strewing chaos behind her, apparently oblivious, and Isla picking up the mess, out of a sense of duty and vague guilt that
she was living rent-free in one of the nicest streets in Edinburgh’s sought-after New Town, surrounded by the sort of expensively dressed people whose hair she cut daily. Hattie, meanwhile,
worked (in the loosest sense of the word) for her cousin Jack’s dress agency in a little shop in Stockbridge, the quaintest, prettiest corner of the city, where she spent most of the day
flicking through her phone. She was so well connected, though, that she brought in a never-ending stream of well-to-do customers – and so charmingly ditzy and posh that nobody seemed to
notice that she only turned up at lunchtime, and not at all if she’d been out on a Thursday night (‘Fridays are basically the weekend, darling’).

Throwing the wet towels into the basket in the utility room, Isla noticed a Post-it note stuck to the stripped-pine kitchen door.

Can’t find phone so no point texting me. Off to Milly’s house for weekend. H x

Isla furrowed her brow for a second trying to remember which of the glossy-locked, shiny-toothed identikit girls was Milly. The one with the bloody enormous country estate in Dalkeith –
that was it. Squaring her shoulders, Isla checked her phone.

No messages – unsurprisingly. Realistically, the only person likely to text her was Hattie – or her dad, who was flat out at the moment with a music festival going on. She put the
phone down on the coffee table and switched off the television. Later, she’d have a look at Facebook and see what was happening. There wasn’t much point in stressing about what Kat was
going to say in the morning.

Isla slipped out of her clothes and folded them neatly on the chair in the bathroom. Turning on the shower, she stepped into the huge walk-in cubicle, allowing the rainwater-style cascade to
pour over her head before stepping back and carefully scooping out a handful of luxurious sugar scrub. She massaged the fragrant mixture in methodically before stepping back under the shower and
rinsing herself thoroughly. Closing her eyes, she stood under the water and shampooed her hair before applying a moisturizing mask to smooth down the cuticles. No matter what had happened at work
today, she wasn’t going to let her standards slip.

Cocooned in an immaculate white waffle dressing gown, Isla curled up on the sofa with a pot of Earl Grey tea. She picked up her phone, tapping on the Facebook icon.

They’d updated the header. Beside the words ‘Melville High School Reunion’ was a new – old – photograph. Isla winced as she expanded the image. There she was,
fifteen years old, scruffy and friendless, perched on the end of the front bench with the other nerds nobody would speak to. And – she scrutinized the photo – standing behind her,
making a face, was Jamie Duncan, with a cheeky hand on the knee of Adele Downie from across the road. Adele’s lipsticked smirk gave Isla another wave of the same feeling she’d
experienced earlier: panic and fear, fear and panic. She swallowed it back with a too-hot mouthful of tea.

‘We’re turning 30 this year!’ shouted the header. ‘Join us to celebrate – sign up below.’

Isla looked at the list of names of people who would be attending. It had grown by ten since yesterday. Underneath there were long gossipy threads, people catching up after over a decade apart.
Photos of babies and weddings, sad tales of motorbike accidents and silly reminiscences. She scrolled down and down, drinking her tea, drinking it all in. She hadn’t clicked the button to say
she was attending. But Isla had a plan, and she’d been working on it since the day she’d walked out of Melville High School for the very last time.

‘Morning, Isla.’

Somehow it wasn’t quite a surprise that Kat was sitting behind the reception desk when Isla stepped into the salon the next morning at half past seven. Kat was all too aware that her top
stylist liked to get in early in the morning and stamp her authority on the place. And this morning she’d decided to get in first.

‘Kat.’ Isla lifted her chin slightly, readying herself for conflict.

Kat, with her newly raspberry-shaded hair tucked under a Greek fisherman’s hat, pushed herself backwards in the sleek black designer chair, crossing one slender leg over the other. Almost
casually, she leaned forward, adjusting the cuff of her butter-soft leather over-the-knee boots. She looked up through heavily mascaraed lashes.

‘You screwed up.’

Isla gave one nod. Without the chance to check out what had happened, she had no way of proving that Chantelle had somehow sabotaged her – even though she was almost certain that was what
had happened. There was no way she could have made a mistake. She’d been working her backside off, and she’d been a bit stressed of late, but she didn’t make mistakes.

‘I’m not in the habit of giving second chances.’

‘Yes, I know, but—’

‘I don’t do
but
, either. You know the deal, Isla. You’ve worked here long enough.’

Isla stood stock still, unblinking. She knew what was coming, but couldn’t quite believe it was happening to her. She’d seen it so many times over the last five years of working in
Kat’s salon.

‘To be honest – and I’m being kind, here . . .’ Kat looked at her with a thin smile. Isla realized that she was trying her best to be generous – something that
didn’t come easily to Kat, who’d fought her way from a Saturday job washing hair at a tiny salon in Leith to a chain of award-winning salons across Edinburgh. ‘If it was anyone
else, they’d get the chop.’ She smiled again, amused at her own joke. ‘But you’ve worked hard for me, Isla, and I appreciate a grafter. You’ve gone as far as you can
here. Chantelle has been bleeding off your clients over the last few weeks, and I’m promoting her to senior stylist.’

Isla stepped back, reeling. ‘You want me to work alongside Chantelle?’

Kat inclined her head. ‘You’d have a problem with that?’

‘You can’t do that.’ Isla swallowed, trying to keep herself calm. There was no way she’d worked up to this point to have it all taken away. She had the reunion coming up,
and this was all part of her master plan. Kat couldn’t take this away.

‘I can,’ said Kat with a small, cat-like smile, ‘Or you can go quietly. Two months’ gardening leave, full pay. I don’t want you taking any of my customers
elsewhere. And I’ll give you a good reference, naturally.’

‘I should bloody well think so,’ exploded Isla. ‘I’ve worked my arse off for you for the last five years.’

Kat inclined her head again slightly, this time in acknowledgement. ‘And it’s dog-eat-dog in this world, darling. Get out, have a break. Go and have a bit of a life.’ She
looked at Isla levelly, raising her eyebrows. ‘God knows, you need one. And then you can find something else in town. I hear Daniel Pardoe’s main girl is off on maternity leave soon.
Well,’ Kat gave a humourless laugh, ‘either that, or she’s been making one too many visits to Greggs the Bakers at lunchtime.’

Isla looked around the salon. Her stunned expression was reflected back at her from every shining mirror. Beside her, Kat sat, long legs extended confidently, examining her fingernails.

‘I need to sort my kit. I haven’t even had a chance to clean it after last night.’

‘Fine.’ Kat’s tone was airily dismissive. ‘The juniors will be in shortly. Best if you’re gone before the others arrive, don’t you think?’

She stood up, motioning towards the door with a sweep of her arm. Isla, nonplussed, found herself walking, robot-like, towards the exit.

And then she was standing at the foot of the steps on a chilly, deserted Edinburgh street. A discarded chip paper ruffled up in a gust of wind, lifting into the air before being plastered to her
leg. Isla bent down to peel it off. The number 6 bus pulled up, depositing the first of a never-ending stream of office workers, laptop bags swinging from their shoulders, pouring into the coffee
shop next door to Kat’s salon, ordering the jolt of espresso they needed to start their morning. She stood, dazed, in the middle of the pavement. The swarm of commuters scurried round her,
ant-like, heads down, not focusing.

‘All right, Isla, darlin’.’

She looked up into a familiar face. Tam was standing in front of her, his dog panting obediently by his side. One ear was plugged into a headphone wire that snaked below the heavy overcoat. Of
course – he was heading up for his morning coffee. Not much chance that Kat or Chantelle would sort him out with a drink, or sneak out a handful of chocolate biscuits every morning.

‘Cheer up, hen. It might never happen.’

‘It just did.’

Getting pissed in the afternoon wasn’t on Isla’s to-do list. In fact, she thought as she swayed gently towards the impossibly chic Harriott’s Bar on George
Street, dressed immaculately, she didn’t even have a to-do list. She didn’t have anything to do.

Sacked, she’d gone home and dropped the car off, made her way upstairs, dropping off the post to a surprised Mrs Jones from downstairs (‘Forgotten something, my dear? You’re
normally out first thing’) and then headed into the flat, where she’d stress-cleaned the entire place from top to bottom because – well, what else was she supposed to do? What
did
people do, when their perfectly executed plans went tits up?

Five hours and seven bin bags of decluttering later, with the kitchen cupboards turned out and sparkling, not a speck of dust to be found even in the darkest of corners, and two of her nails
having been administered emergency first aid in the shape of professional nail glue, Isla realized the answer as she slithered out from underneath the spare-room bed with the hoover hose in hand,
sneezing from the dust.

People don’t hoover when the shit hits the fan
, thought Isla.
And I haven’t come this far not to be in control
. After coiling the hoover wire neatly around the handle,
folding the dishcloth into precise quarters and hanging it symmetrically on the mixer tap, she folded her arms in a childish gesture of defiance that would have made her dad smile, and decided that
what she needed to do now was exactly what people in films would do at this point.

She showered, scrubbed, buffed, moisturized. She trimmed and shaved, plucked, varnished, blow-dried and tweezed. Foundationed and blushered to within an inch of her life, then and only then
– dressed in the skinniest of skinny black jeans and the sharpest of scarlet stilettos, with her tiniest black vest top and a designer jacket that had cost a month’s pay packet but
which she’d allowed herself as reward for winning Stylist of the Year in the regional heats – she opened a bottle of champagne.

With the first glass she composed a text to Chantelle, telling her exactly what she thought of her snide behaviour and her back-stabbing – not to mention her shitty, uneven haircutting,
and the time she missed a whole chunk of a colour job and Isla had to repair it the next day. It was deeply therapeutic. With the second, she booked a taxi into town for half an hour’s time.
The third and fourth glasses slipped down quite agreeably as she stalked Facebook, catching up on everyone’s gossip on the school reunion page and deciding that even if she was temporarily
unemployed (and they didn’t need to know that), she had still done a pretty good job of making the best of herself, and she was bloody well going to show
them
.

Fuck it
, thought Isla, who never swore. She got into a taxi, four glasses of champagne down on an empty stomach.
Fuck it. I’m going to allow myself one night to feel sorry for
myself. I’m going to let myself have that. And then tomorrow I’m going to pick myself up and get back in control.

Isla opened her eyes cautiously. Her tongue was glued to the top of her mouth and she pulled it away, wincing. Light was streaming in through the window of the sitting room.
She must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa. Except – she realized, heart thudding – this sofa smelt of stale beer, and something she couldn’t place that was vaguely herbal. And
there weren’t any curtains at the window of this room. And she was lying wrapped in the arms of a –

‘OHMYGOD.’ Propelled by a bolt of adrenalin that cut through the hangover fug, she jumped sideways off the sofa, sliding in the process on what looked like an ancient sateen
bedspread from the 1960s, and nearly landing in a discarded pizza box with one slice of pepperoni curled up in the corner. She looked at the sofa where she’d slept. Lying in a pair of boxer
shorts, fast asleep and with his arm still describing an Isla-shaped arc where she had been dead to the world just a moment ago, was a total stranger. Quite a handsome one, some part of her brain
registered, not very helpfully – but a stranger nonetheless.

The stranger opened one eye at a time, grimacing. Underneath his thatch of glossy dark-brown hair were two soulful, chocolate-drop eyes. He looked up at her through his fringe, and a lazy smile
spread across his face.

‘Morning, gorgeous.’ He reached out, finding the slice of pizza, and sat up, crossing his legs. His boxers gaped alarmingly. Isla averted her eyes.