The Barbershop Girl Page 2

  Scott shrugged and looked entirely unrepentant. ‘I missed the taste of home and I haven’t got down to the farm to pick up another case yet. So back to Alex Crane.’

  ‘Alex Crane? Who’s Alex Crane?’

  ‘The famous guy who was chatting you up when I walked in.’ Scott ran his thumb along the base of his glass.

  ‘Famous? How?’ Amy’s eyes narrowed on the American sailor at the next table. With looks like his, she was sure she would have recognised him if she’d seen him in one of the trashy magazines at her salon, not that she’d had the time to look at them lately.

  ‘He’s a popular opera singer. Tenor. He’s only on all the billboards and flyers in the bloody city. You been sniffing the perming solution again, Ames?’

  ‘Opera singer? I thought he was a sailor.’ The mouthful of wine Amy had just swallowed turned to acid in her empty stomach.

  ‘A sailor? Look at him, babe. If he’s a sailor, I’m Popeye.’ Scott paused, then his eyes widened. ‘Oh Jesus. What did you say to him?’

  ‘Only that I had a boyfriend like I always do. He’s a sailor,’ Amy insisted, even as she realised the man hadn’t said as much. She’d not given him a chance. The minute she’d heard his American accent she’d run on autopilot. ‘Bugger.’

  This time Scott couldn’t contain his booming laughter and she gave him a glare dark enough to singe his socks off before twisting to furtively study the men at the next table. The sailor, maybe opera singer, was looking the other way, but his friend was still openly scrutinising her with a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile as if she were part of a joke. If what Scott had just said was true, she probably was.

  She twisted back around. ‘Scott, tell me I didn’t just insult an international celebrity? Please, please, just tell me you’re joking. That would top off a truly crappy day.’

  ‘Dunno.’ Scott drained his wine glass in one go and filled it up again. ‘Chill. I hear Crane’s a pretty nice guy. And he’s not looking pissed off right now, so I doubt it. Can’t say the same about his friend, though. That’s Ben Martindale. By all accounts, he’s a total prick.’

  ‘Ben who?’ Amy dared another look at the thug who had now turned back to his friend. Something about his features reminded her of a more rugged, younger Clive Owen.

  Scott’s expression turned incredulous. ‘You really don’t get out much, do you squirt?’

  ‘No time.’ Amy’s mind whirred at the implications of committing such a major social faux pas. Her professional reputation, her livelihood, relied on keeping famous people very happy so they, in turn, recommended her businesses and made her very happy. Pissing off an international celebrity was not a part of the plan. With Perth being such a fishbowl, it wouldn’t be hard for this Alex Crane guy to find out who she was if he was the vengeful sort.

  ‘Do you think I should apologise?’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt, but don’t stress. I don’t think it’s as big a deal as you’re making it.’ Scott swirled the wine around his glass and regarded it for a few seconds before raising his eyes to hers. ‘You know I missed this. Missed you too.’

  ‘Yeah. Love you too, sweetie. Give me a sec.’ Amy kept watch on the men at the next table, who were now engaged in conversation. She was going to have to make this right.

  She took a deep breath, pushed her chair back abruptly and bridged the short distance as quickly as her four-inch heels allowed, ignoring a twinge of pain as her feet protested at having to work again after sixty hours on the job over the past week.

  Neither man noticed her approach until she was standing at their table.

  ‘Hello again,’ she chirped, forcing a cheerful smile, deliberately keeping her eyes on Alex Crane, while surreptitiously smoothing her sweaty palms over her dress. She immediately found herself the centre of attention.

  ‘Hi,’ Crane replied with a surprised, weaken-the-knees grin.

  The thuggish friend was another matter entirely. He nodded at her in greeting but a sarcastic smile played at the corner of his lips. Maybe it was just the contrast of short hair, heavy black stubble and icy pale green eyes that set her nerves on edge. To Amy, he looked dangerous, moody – definitely someone she didn’t want to know. Not that she could dwell on that right now. She turned back to Crane, who was looking anything but offended by her earlier mistake. Still, best to be sure.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to the spare chair at their table.

  Amy winced with feigned regret. ‘I’d love to but I can’t. I came over to apologise.’

  ‘Yeah? Why?’ Alex Crane’s smile slipped a little as his forehead wrinkled in a frown. Now that she looked at him clearly, Amy kicked herself for her earlier assumption. This man was far too polished to be a sailor. His clothes – a soft-looking moss-green jumper and black jeans – screamed money, and his immaculately groomed curly black hair had no doubt been styled at a top salon. Never mind that his friend Mr Neanderthal was wearing a black suit that had to have been tailored to his lean, hard-looking body. She’d never met a sailor who wore a suit. How had she missed that?

  ‘I thought you were a sailor. That’s why I told you I had a boyfriend. I don’t. Not that that’s important and you’re not . . . a sailor, I mean. My friend just told me you’re a musician. An opera singer?’ Amy drew a deep breath. ‘So yeah, I’m really sorry. I’d love to make it up to you. If you want to come to my barbershop on MondayI can offer you a free cut-throat shave. My place is called Babyface. It’s not far from here. Most people know about it.’ She darted a glance at the thug friend, who was still watching her while flipping a packet of foreign cigarettes over and over on the table in front of him. It felt like he was laughing at her. The sensation wasn’t pleasant. It was even less pleasant when he spoke.

  ‘What time Monday?’ His voice was sharp, his diction precise. Educated English. Expensive English. While waiting for her answer, he ran his eyes over her new dress as if tallying up every little fault so he could laugh about them later. It was an extremely rude gesture and Amy’s hackles began to rise.

  ‘Pardon?’ she asked, doing her best to keep her expression friendly for Crane’s benefit.

  ‘What time?’ the man repeated, as if she were slow.

  ‘Be nice.’ Crane gave Amy another warm smile. ‘Ignore him, he’s not house trained.’

  ‘I’m always nice.’ The thug’s eyes narrowed and his mouth quirked, almost imperceptibly, at the side. Now Amy knew for sure he was playing with her. She’d watched her sister’s cat wearing that same expression when lying on his back asking for a tummy rub. It was always a trap.

  ‘It’s alright.’ Amy turned back to Crane. ‘I open at nine.’

  ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ he prompted.

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘Amy. You know, damn, thank you so much for your offer, but I’m flying out to Sydney on Monday. My name is Alex.’ He held out a hand and Amy automatically shook it. His palm was large and warm, his fingers long and narrow, enveloping her hand reassuringly, momentarily putting her at ease.

  ‘I know. My friend just told me.’ She darted a look back at Scott before gently disengaging her hand. She could be imagining it, but Alex seemed disappointed at the loss of contact.

  ‘Well, great. I’ll be back in town in a few months’ time. I’d love to see you.’ He flashed her another thousand-watt smile.

  Amy felt a surge of happiness as her usual unfailing optimism returned. This incredibly handsome man wanted to take her out? Maybe dolling herself up tonight hadn’t been such a tragic waste of time after all. ‘That’d be great. Just wait. I’ll give you my card.’ She returned to her table as quickly as dignity allowed, ignoring Scott’s enquiring expression, and retrieved a business card from her bag.

  ‘Here you go.’ She handed it to Alex moments later, her voice a little breathless.

  ‘Great.’ He took it, immediately tucking it into his wallet.

  ‘Oh well. Great, then. I, ah . . . I have to go.’ Amy gestured to her table where Scott was monitoring the
proceedings with a faintly protective air. Relieved to have avoided a disaster and elated by Alex Crane’s obvious interest, she spun around and began to walk off.

  ‘Ben.’ The thug’s cut-glass voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

  She turned. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s what you should write in your appointment book for nine on Monday.’ With that, he nodded curtly before turning to Alex, dismissing her. Amy was tempted to walk back to their table and pour Ben’s glass of wine over his head.

  ‘Want to tell me what went on there?’ Scott asked, having heard that last exchange and noticed Amy’s quicksilver change of mood.

  ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve finished this glass.’ Amy threw back a mouthful of wine. Scott was right. It did taste like home, dark and full of swirling, faintly acidic memories.

  ‘So.’ She swallowed with a grimace, then curved her reluctant lips into a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I missed you too. Tell me about London.’

  ‘HARVEY, WHY ARE you doing this to me now?’ Amy considered the drips of water splattering her bare knees with a morose expression. Harvey had another leak.

  Damn.

  She peered up at the corrugated tin roof of her antiquated stone outhouse with a long-suffering sigh. Outside, rain was still pelting down, nearly drowning out the sound of thunder overhead. Much of the water hitting the roof was managing to find its way through an assortment of rusty nail holes to land in her lap.

  She groaned and stood up, balancing on her beloved hot-pink mule slippers – complete with damp pompoms – and brushed the water off her knees before flushing the toilet. Pulling her black lacy matinee wrap tightly around her in a completely ineffective gesture to ward off the rain and cold, she tottered out the door, across her treacherously slippery, mossy courtyard and into her warmly lit kitchen.

  The sweet smell of coffee brewing and chocolate cake baking greeted her senses, as did the sight of a shirtless Scott in the jeans he’d been wearing the night before. He was casually leaning against her kitchen bench slathering a slice of toast with honey, impervious to the faint chill in the house. He shook his head at her soggy appearance.

  Amy held up a hand and narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘Didn’t say anything,’ he said around a mouthful of toast, shrugging his shoulders.

  She washed her hands, then retrieved a butter plate from a bright red kitchen cupboard, handing it to him.

  ‘You didn’t have to. Put a plate under that or you’re gonna be my maid for the day, and put on a T-shirt while you’re at it. You’re giving me a lady moment with all this nudity.’ She nudged his flat stomach with a playful fist, then poured coffee into a pink and white spotted mug, ignoring Scott as he began to choke on inhaled crumbs.

  ‘And if you’re going to die, make sure you call emergency first.’ She settled herself on one of the two mismatched ladder-back chairs at her small square kitchen table and took her first sip of heavenly caffeine for the morning.

  ‘You’re all heart, Ames,’ Scott wheezed. He poured himself his own mug of coffee, then disappeared off to the tiny spare bedroom that abutted the kitchen.

  ‘That’s Princess Amy to you, mister. There’s a brush and an elastic band in there somewhere if you want to tie your hair up. If you’re lucky, it won’t be pink!’

  ‘Cheers, big ears,’ he called back, reappearing wearing his fitted black shirt. His hair had been pulled back into a sleek ponytail and not for the first time did Amy wish she had some of Scott’s Japanese–Australian genetics. The man didn’t have to try. She, on the other hand, had to use the threat of industrial machinery to get her shoulder-length hair to even listen to her, let alone behave.

  ‘How’s your head?’ she asked when he took a seat across from her, stretching out his legs to take up most of the kitchen.

  He winced. ‘Great, now I’ve downed a few aspirin. Not so great when I woke up. How much did we drink last night?’

  Amy shrugged and smiled perkily. ‘Three and a half bottles.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Scott ran his hand over his eyes, then looked at her incredulously. ‘You’ve gotta be the eighth wonder of the world. How is it that you’re half my size and you don’t get hangovers?’

  ‘I just don’t. You going to stick around this morning for some chocolate cake, or are you headed home?’

  ‘Home, babe. Jo’s dropping by for a late breakfast.’ He reached over and tugged at her sleeve. ‘Was last night just a bit of a vent or do I have to be worried?’

  Amy bit her lip, not meeting his eyes. ‘Just a vent, sweetie.’

  ‘You sure? Because it didn’t sound like it. I haven’t seen you cry like that for years. Not since Liam.’ His words hung in the air for a few awkward seconds.

  ‘Well, I was due then, eh?’ Amy slipped her foot out of her shoe and nudged him on the thigh with her toe.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, sweetie. You don’t need to worry.’

  His eyes searched hers for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Alright. I’ll leave it then.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Amy gave him a relieved smile. Around about bottle number two, she and Scott had taken a taxi from the pub back to her little Fremantle house and she’d poured out her tale of woe, going through half a box of tissues in the process.

  The past week had been a slow-motion film of how sad and pathetic one woman’s life could be. Like all films of that nature, it had commenced on an absolutely peachy note. On Monday morning, Tom Draper, Perth’s most loved TV weather man, had given her a call at her barbershop and asked her out for a few drinks. Assuming her sparkling wit had worked its magic on him during his monthly visits to Babyface, she’d immediately said yes. She should have known better. Not once had she had success with a man who had a dry scalp, and Tom’s was drier than the Sahara.

  Tom’s careless rejection had just amplified the ever-present aching sense of loneliness she liked to pretend didn’t exist. Once alcohol and Scott’s reassuring presence were added to the equation, it was inevitable that she’d find herself curled up, bawling buckets against his shoulder at two in the morning until he put her to bed and stumbled off to her spare room.

  ‘You want a ride to your place?’ she asked, derailing the train of self-pity before it could build up a full head of steam.

  ‘What? Yeah, actually, that would be great . . . you sure?’ Amy had a strong feeling he wasn’t just referring to the car ride.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said firmly. ‘Just let me get changed. I’ve got to do a bit of shopping anyway.’ What she didn’t tell him was that her shopping involved a trip to her local hardware store.

  Later that afternoon, buoyed by a break in the weather, Amy cheerfully clambered atop Harvey’s roof with a tube of silicon sealant in one hand, holding her rickety wooden ladder in place against his blue-painted stone walls with the other. Although it had stopped raining, the leaves and debris on the corrugated iron roof made it difficult to work out which of the rusty holes she was looking at was responsible for her cold shower that morning. She’d just located the most likely culprits when her sister’s loud, husky voice startled her and nearly caused a fatal accident.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jo bellowed from the kitchen door before stomping out into the small jacaranda-lined courtyard. Just over six foot tall and strong from her former job as an engineer working on offshore oil rigs, Jo was able to reach up and easily wrap her hands around Amy’s waist, supporting her as she placed her feet back on the second-from-top rung, ready to climb down.

  ‘Hey.’ Amy grinned, ignoring her sister’s fierce frown. ‘If you could just hold me steady for a few more seconds, I’ll finish, then make you a hot chocolate.’

  ‘You’re insane. You know that, right?’ Jo tightened her grip as Amy leaned backwards to survey her handiwork. ‘High heels on a bloody ladder. Don’t you own a proper pair of boots? What idiot wears heels on a ladder? No. Don’t say anything. The answer’s right in front of me.’

  Ignoring
Jo, Amy calmly capped the sealant, dropped it into the front pocket of her cheerful, daisy-printed apron and climbed down.

  ‘Thanks,’ she chirped as her feet touched the ground. She spun and pulled her sister’s head down for a kiss on the cheek. ‘I was fine, but I love you for caring.’

  Jo ran her fingers through her short, bright red hair in obvious exasperation. ‘At least find yourself some decent work boots like mine. Or get in a pro.’ She looked from Amy’s two-inch-heeled ankle boots to Harvey. ‘Why don’t you just tear this thing down and put a toilet inside like a normal person?’

  Amy drew herself up to her full five feet and one inch. ‘You and Scott are just as bad as each other. He was having a go this morning too. What did I tell you about hurting Harvey’s feelings?’

  ‘Settle, petal. I take it back.’ Jo lifted up her hands in feigned surrender. ‘You want me to put the ladder away?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Amy said pertly. She walked across the courtyard and opened the kitchen door, pulling off her boots and sliding her feet into the slippers waiting just inside. She took the time to untie her apron and hang it on the back door. The heavy screwdrivers and various other tools in its pockets made a satisfying thunk as they bumped against the wood.

  While Jo stopped at the back door to unlace her old beaten steel-capped boots, Amy began heating milk on the stove, breaking in chunks of Lindt chocolate and adding honey, a cinnamon stick and a tiny pinch of salt for flavour.

  Jo was silent as she wandered into the kitchen and took a seat at the table, stretching out her Levi-covered legs in a pose that echoed Scott’s from earlier. She began idly playing with the pages of a French cookbook Amy had left on the table.

  Normally Amy would be chattering away happily, but she knew her sister wouldn’t be visiting today if Scott hadn’t squealed. So instead of talking, she settled for stirring the hot chocolate into a satisfyingly rich brown sludge, and braced herself.