‘By the way, I meant to ask – did your new mobile phone arrive?’
I shake my head. ‘To be honest, with everything that’s happened, I haven’t even thought to ask.’
Zahira pulls her grey leather bag onto her lap, roots around inside, brings out a black mobile phone and matching charger. ‘You’re welcome to have this. It’s just an old one of mine. I’ve put a new SIM card in and twenty pounds of credit on it, just in case you need it.’ She holds out the phone to me and there is something slightly off beam in her voice: the deliberate effort to sound casual.
‘That’s really kind, but I can’t take it. It’s too much.’
‘Course you can. I’m never going to use it again. It’s ancient and it doesn’t even have Wi-Fi, so there’s no maps or internet, but at least you’ll have a phone for emergencies.’
The phone hovers in the space between us, and I look down at it, unsure what to do next. I have not told Stephen about my meetings with Zahira, cannot think how I would explain to him that a woman I’ve never mentioned has given me a mobile phone.
‘Honestly, take it. I’ve put my number in the contacts so you can call me any time. And I’ve taped the number of the phone on the back in case you need to give it to anyone else. It’s just until you get a phone of your own.’ There is a gentle insistence in Zahira’s voice, like a parent encouraging a child to step into the playground on the first day of school.
My hand outstretches, as if of its own volition, and I watch myself take hold of the phone and the charger, slip them into my jacket pocket, hear myself express thanks. And yet, as Zahira gets up from the bench to check on Elyas, I feel it digging into my ribs and wonder how on earth I will explain its presence in our house to Stephen.
LIVVY
BRISTOL
Livvy sat in front of the mirror, watching the expressions shift across her face like clouds fluctuating in the changing light: apprehension, uncertainty, a tight smile of reassurance. She wondered what someone else would observe, looking at her: whether they would find a woman embracing change, or if they would see straight through her, the fault line of indecision clearly visible, like writing through a stick of rock.
‘Are you ready?’
Livvy glanced up at the woman standing behind her, pulled her lips into a smile. She told herself to stop being ridiculous. This wasn’t a life-changing decision. It was superficial, really, in the grand scheme of things.
Behind her, the hairdresser took hold of Livvy’s newly washed hair, ran a brush from the roots to the ends. There was something soothing in the movement, ritualistic almost, as if they were two women from an ancient tribe performing a traditional rite of passage.
‘You’re so lucky having hair this thick. Mine’s always been thin – nothing much you can do with it. But yours is gorgeous.’ The hairdresser smoothed a palm along Livvy’s hair, tucked it behind her ears. ‘What made you decide to cut it short?’
The question veered from one side of Livvy’s mind to the other, no clear path to an answer.
It had been almost three weeks since she had sat at right angles to Dominic at the kitchen table, irritated by his suggestion that she cut her hair. And yet, over the course of that weekend, he had pointed to actresses on television and models in Sunday supplements, advocating hairstyles he thought would suit her. ‘What’s the worst that could happen? If you cut it and you don’t like it, it’ll always grow back. It’s only hair, after all.’
Since then, there had been a stream of WhatsApp messages in a similar vein: photos of beautiful actresses with angular bobs accentuating razor-sharp cheekbones; articles about women who felt liberated by a change in hairstyle; upbeat GIFs about seizing the day. Dominic had made the point that shorter hair would look more professional. ‘When you go for those meetings in London, you want to look the part, don’t you?’ She had begun to feel foolish, her resistance like a childish affectation. She had studied the photos he’d sent her, begun to wonder if perhaps he was right, it was time for a change. Perhaps she did need something a bit more sophisticated.
After she’d booked the appointment, she’d told no one, not even Dominic, in case she lost her nerve at the eleventh hour. She had fibbed to Bea when she’d dropped Leo with her sister earlier, told her she just needed to run some errands.
‘It was just time for a change.’ The half-truth to the hairdresser emerged with ease, and Livvy folded her fingers together, tucked them in her lap.
The hairdresser swapped the brush for a comb, drew a line along the centre of Livvy’s scalp, the plastic teeth scraping her skin.
‘And you want it exactly like that?’ The hairdresser gestured towards the photo on Livvy’s phone, propped up against the mirror. It was a picture Dominic had sent her of an actress Livvy had never heard of, her hair cut in a stylish bob, a slight wave at the ends where it met her jawline.
Livvy looked at the photo, remembered Dominic’s accompanying message: This would look fantastic on you! She noted the actress’s pristine skin, scarlet lips, the sheen across her angled cheekbones. Her blonde hair, accentuated with expensive highlights, so different from Livvy’s own auburn hair. Livvy tried to picture the style framing her face, but it felt like putting on someone else’s clothes, knowing they didn’t quite fit, like a child playing with a dressing-up box.
‘Are you okay?’ The hairdresser crouched down beside her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. ‘You don’t have to go through with it if you’ve changed your mind. Honestly, it happens all the time. It’s a big thing, changing your appearance. I could just give you a quick trim. I won’t charge you for the restyle.’
The possibility swung before Livvy like a hypnotist’s pendulum. She could just get a trim. Nobody ever need know she’d even made the appointment. There was nothing forcing her to proceed.
Wouldn’t you like something a bit more – I don’t know – grown-up?
Dominic’s words echoed in her ears, and before she had time to change her mind, she watched herself nod with the full vigour of certainty. ‘I’m fine. I was just having a momentary wobble. Honestly, I want a change.’
The hairdresser stood up, moved behind Livvy’s chair.
Livvy watched as the stylist performed one last comb-through. And then the hairdresser separated a section at the back of Livvy’s head, held it between two fingers, and Livvy could feel the air against the nape of her neck, could sense how short her hair was going to be. She heard the decisive, irreversible snip of two metal blades coming together, saw the hairdresser take the severed ten-inch lock, watched it fall to the ground.
It’s only hair, after all.
Dominic’s words repeated in her head like a mantra. She told herself to stop being ridiculous, that it was absurd getting so overwrought about something so superficial. She was a grown woman. She was having a restyle. There was no justification for this sense of loss.
It was only hair, after all.
ANNA
LONDON
I glance up at the large white analogue clock on the kitchen wall, the hands inching towards a quarter to nine. On the stove beside me, a pot of chilli con carne bubbles gently on the lowest heat, congealing where it has been simmering for over an hour. Touching my fingers lightly to the kettle, the metal is still warm where I boiled it at eight o’clock in preparation to cook the rice when Stephen arrived.