Cher Mogg asked more questions than she answered, mainly about time off and holiday pay. ‘Do I get a discount on treatments?’
‘The successful applicant will enjoy lower rates,’ said Sadie cautiously.
‘Any experience?’ asked Fi loudly, as she led a client through to Treatment Room 1.
Cher wrinkled her nose. ‘Never had a job before.’
‘But it says on your CV you work for the family firm.’
Sadie flicked through her notes.
Fi’s snort could be heard as the treatment room door closed.
‘That’s, you know, casual.’
‘The family business is . . . ?’
‘Breaking legs!’ came through the door.
‘Import and export,’ said Cher with a face that dared
Sadie to say any different. ‘Do you own this place?’
‘Yes.’ All Cher’s questions, even innocuous ones, felt like a slap in the face.
‘So you’re like a boss lady?’
‘I am a boss lady. Well, a boss. The lady bit’s incidental.’
‘Respect,’ said Cher.
‘Thanks,’ said Sadie. The girl – no, hang on, this was a woman in her early twenties – the woman was unexplored territory. She didn’t give the usual responses. Manners? Irrelevant apparently. ‘You haven’t asked about salary.’
‘The money doesn’t matter.’ Cher stood up. ‘That it, then? Do you want to ask me one of them trick questions like what’s my main fault and I say “oooh, I’m a perfectionist”?’
Sadie laughed. Interviewee number three had said exactly that. An empty nester with time on her hands and a solid background in the beauty industry, three was currently the front runner.
‘I do have a question, actually,’ said Cher. ‘Sakura.
What’s it mean?’
‘It’s Japanese. It means cherry blossom.’ Sadie gestured
through the glass. ‘After the tree.’
‘That one?’ Cher scowled. ‘It’s bare.’
‘Back in April it was a riot.’ The mews’ cherry tree bore no fruit; it saved all its energy for the profusion of pinkish double flowers that burst like supernovas once a year. ‘It’s still lovely when it’s bare. You just wait; in autumn the leaves turn orange like flames. The cherry tree’s a symbol of spring. Renewal.’ Sadie had named the salon with care.
‘Tell me why you want the job.’ She walked Cher the short distance to the doors, propped open to make the most of the late May sun.
‘I don’t want the job,’ said Cher. ‘I need it.’ She pointed at the price list hanging by the desk. ‘That should be on the door. In case a shy person can’t make their mind up whether or not to come in, and worry they’ll be embarrassed if it’s too pricey. That’s a customer you’ve lost.’ Cher turned. No goodbyes for her. ‘People can be right muppets.’
By Friday, U- Turn’s sign was up. Hero was in several places at once, painting window frames, shouting instructions, carrying boxes, boxes, endless boxes.
Popping out to buy towels – Sakura’s washing machine was a temperamental creature and had let them down yet again – Sadie stopped awkwardly to say good morning and ask how it was going. She wondered why he made her feel awkward; she’d met many a good- looking man in her life but there was something different about Hero: a vitality that buzzed off his warm skin. A promise of something.
While she was wondering she forgot to pay attention and he had to repeat himself. ‘How’s the mutiny going? Mrs Bob still gunning for me?’
‘’fraid so. I did point out that all these workmen are good for the bacon sarnie business, but she thinks you’ll lower the tone of the mews.’
‘Doesn’t Bob’s vest do that all on its own?’
Sadie laughed. Maybe a little too much. She coughed and ended the laugh abruptly. ‘Well, anyway . . .’ She backed away from Hero.
‘Yes, anyway,’ he echoed. Amused again. As if he knew the effect he had on her.
When she returned with a bale of white towels, Fi said, ‘You took your time! I should be in with Mrs Lightfoot and her enlarged pores.’
‘Sorry, sorry. I ran all the way down the high street.’ Sadie dumped her towels and Fi snatched one.
Fi frowned. ‘The high street? Why didn’t you cut through the estate, past the church? Much quicker and—’
‘I just didn’t, Fi, okay?’
Fi looked at her. Really looked. Dialled down her attitude. Filled the kettle and said that Mrs Lightfoot’s pores had been waiting forty years, they could wait a minute more. ‘There.’ She put Sadie’s favourite mug in front of her. She didn’t ask; she knew better. ‘We need a receptionist, like, now,’ she warned as she sashayed away.
Cherry Blossom Mews was good at Sundays. The businesses were all closed, as befits the day of rest, but their cheerful fronts, each so different, detracted from the loneliness that Sundays can bring. Amber’s pea- green painted window crammed with How- much?!- priced soft toys sat chummily beside the only vacant shop. Opposite them, Qwerty’s books were piled in enticing columns alongside Bob’s banner of those three little words: Full English Breakfast.
Traffic coughed hoarsely beyond the gates. The grand houses opposite, long since chopped into bedsits, oozed radio programmes and squeaking babies. Sadie, her arms full of flowers, dragged the gates open. The drawbridge was down; she stepped into the morning.
‘Off somewhere?’ Hero was there, wearing a tee spattered with paint. ‘Time for a coffee first?’
‘Coffee?’ Sadie responded as if coffee was some exotic substance she’d once heard of. She shook herself. ‘Sorry. I mean, no, not really.’
‘Right.’ He pursed his lips slightly. He’d wanted –expected? – her to say yes. ‘Lunch with a friend?’ He nodded at the flowers.
‘He’s more than a friend.’
Two and half hours later, Sadie pulled up alongside a high wall. Old and venerable, as befitted its purpose. Trees nodded over it, shedding a leaf or two on her faithful old Saab. It was, she thought, a long way to drive for a picnic.
First, there was a chore to do. Get the rejections out of the way first, she decided, dialling Cher’s number. ‘Hi, Cher? This is Sadie McQueen from Sakura. Just calling to say—’
‘I didn’t get the job. My name. S’okay.’
‘Well, no, I – don’t hang up!’
‘What?’
‘Can you start tomorrow?’