The following Saturday I was in the salon wrestling with Mrs Johnson’s flaky scalp and thinning locks in a vain attempt to grant her wish to ‘make me look like that girl from The Pussycat Dolls’. I scrolled down my phone for pictures and we established that Nicole Scherzinger was the ‘doll’ Mrs Johnson wanted to be. This wasn’t an easy ask – she was the wrong side of fifty with a bad case of halitosis and a penchant for cheese balls, which she crunched throughout the process. I doubted this would be the snack of choice for any of The Pussycat Dolls, least of all the glamorous Nicole.

I was thinking how much easier it would be to write my essay, ‘A postmodern critique of Frankenstein and the nature of the seventeenth-century scientific revolution’, than it would be to transform this chunky mother of five into a Pussycat Doll, when my phone pinged. I slipped my hand discreetly into my pocket and saw it was a message from Dan. Seeing his name on my phone never failed to give me a warm glow in my tummy, like someone had just put a string of fairy lights in there. I hadn’t seen him much since we’d returned from Paris and usually we didn’t get to see each other much in the week. This made our time together all the more special and I couldn’t wait to see him, but before I could read his text I had to try and turn Mrs Jackson into a Pussycat Doll. This was quite an ask, and the more I backcombed and curled, all I could see before me in the mirror was John Travolta in Hairspray.

I continued with the ‘makeover’ and twinkled for a while as I put Mrs Johnson under the colour warmer. Sending a prayer that Sarcastic Scarlet would do something miraculous to her elephant grey, I disappeared to take a much-needed break. I sat in the dark little staffroom littered with the detritus of everyone’s lunch and opened the text message. When do you finish tonight?

I texted back that I finished at seven and he asked if we could meet. We hadn’t arranged to see each other that evening, so this was an unusual surprise.

Do you have something special planned? I texted.

Sadly not : ( I need to talk to you, babe was his response, which was slightly ominous and didn’t sound like he had a fun evening in mind. I suggested he come over to ours, but he said he wanted to speak to me privately, which was a little odd. He was usually happy to spend Saturday nights at Emma’s with us all. I couldn’t think what he might need to talk to me about – the fact he wanted this to be a private conversation suggested something huge. But I didn’t have time to call and ask him, so I just texted why the cloak and dagger? I waited a few seconds and his response came back: Don’t want to text. Let’s talk later xxx

I felt vaguely nauseous and agreed to meet him in the nearby pub later. A little tinge of worry marred my day now, but the show must go on and I headed back into the salon, putting a big, bright smile on my face.

Greeting my ten o’clock like she was Beyoncé, I chatted about the weather, Britain’s Got Talent and Donald Trump’s hair, but my mind kept wandering to Dan: what did he want to talk to me about that had to be kept private?

I spent the rest of the day trying to smile, cut, colour, and blow-dry – attempting to work miracles with the strange hair dyes and often even stranger clients. Women of every age, colour and sexual persuasion came through those doors. Today I would welcome Frida – seventy-two, blue rinse, side parting, husband with Alzheimer’s and a long-felt desire for Latin men (Frida, not her husband). Later, Thomas would arrive in his work suit and after only a couple of hours would leave with sequinned lashes and his hair teased to within an inch of his life. Mandy’s extreme make-up, lashes and tango tanning had made her into a goddess for local drag queens and ballroom dancers. The sights that walked up and down those stairs to the Heavenly Spa were scary and spectacular. I sometimes felt like I was working backstage at the Moulin Rouge, with all the hair and nails and tits and teeth – and that was just the men!

Throughout this madness I trimmed, teased and cajoled hair into all kinds of shapes and styles, while trying not to think too hard about what Dan’s text could mean – but I couldn’t work it out. I even shared my concerns with salon-owner Mandy, the twenty-five-year-old slutdropping champion (she had the satin sash) whose proudest boast was that she could drink ten Porn Star Martinis and ‘still drop it like it’s hot!’ Apparently.

‘Why didn’t he just pop into the salon and talk to me “privately” outside, or in the staffroom?’ I said over her usual lunch of choice, a Big Mac with fries and a Diet Coke – which she said ‘killed’ the calories in the food. I wish! ‘And the text was so short and to the point – no heart emoji, no “I love you,” just that we need to talk,’ I added, absently dipping a chip into a pot of tomato sauce.

‘Uh-oh,’ she said, through a mouthful of burger.

‘What?’ I stopped dipping and looked at her.

‘Bitch, please?’ she said, like I knew what she was talking about.

‘What?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

‘Not to me.’

‘Bruce has found someone else to play with his bush oysters… Do you think?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said.

‘He could be shagging someone else?’ she suggested. ‘Just putting it out there,’ she added as she chowed down.

I looked at her, ‘Mandy, I… you can’t just say that.’

She shrugged. ‘If he has… shagged anyone else… even if he’s only grinded on some slapper – then he’s a gonner.’ She took another huge bite of burger and wiped her whole face with her napkin.

‘Mand… I really don’t think—’

‘Seriously, babes,’ she said, emerging from a ketchup-soaked napkin, ‘if he has, and you want me to get someone to have a word with him, Jase knows a few blokes in Spain who’d rough him up a bit for you?’

‘NO… no… thanks, Mandy,’ I said, panicked. I didn’t doubt that Jason, the love of Mandy’s life, knew men who could ‘rough up’ other men. But I didn’t want Mandy taking this into her own hands and turning a misconstrued text into attempted murder on the Spanish Costas. So I put on a fake smile and feigned hopefulness. ‘He might just be meeting up to announce that he’s whisking me off to Barbados?’ I offered.

‘Barbados? Ha, dream on, bitch,’ she smiled. She called everyone ‘bitch’ these days, it was a term of endearment where Mandy was concerned and she patted my arm affectionately. She finished her Big Mac, and when she saw I’d put mine down, offered to finish mine too. I handed her the lot – the talk of bush oysters had suddenly made me lose my appetite.

I went back to the wannabe Pussycat Doll, whose look was more ‘Bride of Chucky’ after the salon’s latest batch of cheap Lithuanian hair dye. As none of us spoke Lithuanian, the names on the tubes had always been a mystery to us, so the former owner, Sue had christened them all in her own tongue and the names had stuck. We still worked with ‘Wicked Cinnamon’, ‘Malevolent Blonde’, ‘Strident Peach’ and my particular favourite, ‘Sarcastic Scarlet’, which today had done its worst on Mrs Jackson. Being the professional I am, I bravely brushed through and pretended everything was ‘fabulous’. While attempting to pile up the vivid monstrosity on the top of Mrs Johnson’s head, I told myself I could cope with whatever Dan had to tell me – and it was probably nothing… but I still worried for the rest of the afternoon.

---

I arrived at the pub just after eight and immediately spotted Dan in the corner, away from the hubbub. He had a half-drunk pint in front of him and a perspiring glass of white next to it on the table, and I softened at the sight of him – and my white wine.

‘Hey,’ he said, in that lovely lilting way of his, standing up to greet me as I reached the table. We hugged and he made room for me next to him, and as I sat down, I kissed him on the cheek, pushed my arm through his and grabbed my drink.

‘So, what’s all the drama and intrigue?’ I asked, desperate to find out. ‘Have you won the lottery or something?’

‘I wish! Sorry, babe, I didn’t want to worry you, but I didn’t want to put it in a text either…’ He wasn’t smiling, the dimples weren’t there and he looked worried.

‘What?’ My mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Put what in a text?’

‘I should have phoned you… but you know what I’m like about… difficult conversations. I had to see you.’

‘What? What’s the matter?’ I was going to throw up there and then on the shabby-chic wooden table in front of a pub full of strangers.

‘It’s my brother, John – his wife Kimmie, she called me this morning, says I need to go home.’

‘Oh Dan, I’m so sorry,’ I said, shocked at this news even though it wasn’t entirely unexpected. His brother had been ill for so long I think it was easier for everyone to just imagine he’d remain in this state forever. ‘But hopefully he’ll be okay?’ I offered, unsure of what to say.

‘No… he’s really crook,’ he said, which I knew was an Australian phrase meaning really sick.

‘But it happened before… the deterioration?’ I said. ‘You went to him then, but he pulled through.’ I couldn’t begin to imagine how John and his family coped with this terrible spectre over their lives. It had been with them for years and ever since his diagnosis John knew there were no guarantees of a long-term future. I often wondered how he must feel to know he’d probably never see his boys married, never meet his grandchildren; I couldn’t begin to imagine how awful that would be. I lived for my daughter and granddaughter.

‘Kimmie says this is different,’ Dan was saying. ‘It’s worse than before… Says it feels like time’s running out.’ He looked sad; he was finding this hard to talk about, he’d never really faced his brother’s illness head-on, but it looked like he was now having to.

‘But there’s still hope, right?’ I said, trying hard not to be clichéd, but unable to dampen down my natural optimism.

He shook his head. ‘The doctor confirmed things are… bad.’

I could see by his face that he was really shaken – this had been his worst fear for a long time.

‘Oh, God,’ I said, tears pricking my eyes. I didn’t know John, but felt in some ways like I did. I’d heard all the childhood stories about Dan and his ‘bro’ and it was devastating to think that someone so young – he was only forty – and with a family was looking at the end of his life.

‘He’s lived with this since he was eighteen – pretty crap, isn’t it?’ he said, taking a sip of beer. He put down his glass and swallowed, ‘He’s asked to see me…’

I nodded.

He looked into my face. ‘I have to go, Faye.’

‘Of course.’

I understood, I really did, and there was no way I would make this any harder for him, but I would miss him. I wanted to know the practicalities; I had to be around… I wanted to know the practicalities. I had to be around for Rosie, but wanted to be able to see Dan off on the flight – but with Emma’s new job, it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Not that there was ever a good time for something like this.

‘When will you go back?’ I asked softly.

‘Tomorrow… Monday? Earliest flight I can get, I can’t hang about. Apart from anything else, Kimmie needs help and I feel like I have to step up to the plate. I feel so bloody guilty, Faye, you know?’

I nodded. ‘Dan, stop beating yourself up.’

‘I left him because I couldn’t go through another death – not after Mum. I’ve spent the last twenty years drifting, blaming my itchy feet, but it was my coward’s heart that kept me from going back there for good, to face everything.’

‘But you did go back, a couple of years ago,’ I said.

‘I popped in, spent a few months there and left again. Told everyone I had to see the world, but what I was really doing was avoiding the world… my world anyway.’

I sat in the silence between us, aware of everyone else starting their Saturday night – friends greeting friends, bursts of laughter, the smell of beer filling my nostrils. I wished I could put my arms around him and tell him it was all going to be okay, but I knew it wasn’t.

‘So, will you stay… in Australia, until…?’ I didn’t know how to phrase this delicate question. I was trying so hard not to consider myself in this, but it would have an impact on us and I had to know what he was thinking.

He nodded, but didn’t look at me, just kept turning a beer mat over and over in his fingers. ‘He’s the only family I’ve got, I should have gone back sooner. I can’t keep running around the world trying to pretend it’s all okay.’

‘I don’t know John, but from what you tell me he’s a pretty special guy. He wouldn’t have wanted you to give up your own life,’ I said, my heart beginning to break.

We both sipped our drinks in silence – a silence even I couldn’t fill.

Eventually, I said, ‘So how long do you think you’ll be there?’

He dropped his head and turned to look at me reluctantly. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I won’t be buying a return ticket, Faye.’