Wildflower Bay
Authors: Rachael Lucas
To Zoe, my brave, brilliant, beautiful sister.
Contents
Chapter One
The keys felt reassuringly expensive. Jingling them in her palm, Isla clipped down the stairs, pausing for a moment, as had become habit, to look out at the streets of
Edinburgh stretching out below her, the golden sandstone buildings glowing gently in the pale early sunlight. This was what she worked for. This was what made the hours of slogging, day after day,
fighting her way to the top of her game, worth it. She peered down to the road below where her pride and joy stood, its scarlet paint glossy as a pillar box. Isla Brown allowed herself a small
smile of satisfaction.
Slinging her Mulberry bag over her shoulder, she circled down the stone staircase, the sound of her heels echoing in the silence of the morning. With a
plip
, the driver’s-side door
unlocked and she slid into the seat, inhaling the delicious scent of new car.
This was Isla’s favourite time of day in the city. Nobody around but delivery men and end-of-shift security guards; streets empty but for seagulls and pigeons swooping down on the remnants
of a night’s revelling in the capital, helping themselves to discarded chips and half-eaten burgers. They’d be gone soon, the slate wiped clean every morning by council workers who
swept up the detritus and restored the city to her stately glory.
Isla stopped at a traffic light, fingernails tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, feeling the smug purr of the engine. Flipping down her sun visor as she waited, she checked her make-up.
Her face was an immaculate mask of primer and foundation, with a slash of red lipstick that matched her gorgeous new convertible perfectly. Isla brushed a speck of mascara from her cheek, pushed
the visor back up and roared away from the stop light, sending a group of nearby pigeons flapping into the air in surprise.
Later on, the street outside would be nose-to-tail with traffic, on-street parking impossible, the pavement choked with office workers heading up to spend their lunch hour in the sunshine of
Princes Street Gardens – but arriving at this time of day meant Isla was able to pull up right outside work and park. That way, she could spend all day looking out the window at the
manifestation of her years of hard work. She locked the car, casually clicking the keys as she stepped through the gleaming glass doors of Kat Black Hair.
With a few taps she’d deactivated the alarm system and – as she’d done every day for two years, since taking over as head stylist – headed through to the little staff
room. She liked her mornings to be routine. Breakfast was always alone in the flat; never a problem, as Hattie, her housemate, rarely surfaced before eleven. A quiet journey to work (until
she’d bought the Mazda it had been on foot, with Isla changing out of trainers and into work shoes before anyone caught her looking anything other than immaculate) and then this – her
daily ritual. Switching the kettle on, Isla set to work making sure that everything she needed was in place. Her trolley was neatly stacked, each little compartment filled with precise piles of
everything she might need, from rollers to kirby grips, combs to clippers. ‘The secret to a good cut is an organized stylist,’ she would intone to the juniors, firmly.
‘The secret to a good cut,’ the parrot-haired Chantelle, who was second in command and snapping at her heels, would respond, archly, ‘is a stylist who isn’t afraid to
take risks.’
Isla frowned, imagining Chantelle’s cocky tone. Unfortunately Kat, who owned the chain of salons, had a soft spot for Chantelle, and for some reason didn’t seem to recognize the
merits of Isla’s precise, methodical ways. It wasn’t fair. She gave an experimental snip with her favourite scissors, imagining as she did so how it would feel to chop the irritating
Chantelle’s rainbow-tipped mohawk off ‘by accident’. She wouldn’t be so pleased with herself then, would she?
Taking one china and one paper cup of coffee through to the reception desk, Isla sipped as she waited for the computer booking system to kick into life.
There was a clatter as the salon door was shoved open. A tangled head of hair, which hadn’t seen shampoo in some time, topped a weather-beaten face.
‘All right, Isla, hen?’
Isla looked up from the screen of the Mac. ‘You’re late today, Tam. Busy night?’
‘Aye.’ Tam gave her a wink. ‘Had to see a man about a dog.’
He hitched up the shoulder of his oversized greatcoat. Isla pushed back her chair, picking up the coffee she’d made him.
‘Thanks, darlin’. See you the morn’.’
Isla smiled at the routine of it. ‘Not if I see you first.’
Tam raised his coffee cup in acknowledgement and headed back down the steps, where a brindled bull terrier sat waiting patiently. Isla turned back to the computer screen.
Another packed day – just how she liked it, and some of her favourite clients. And a note from Kat to say she wanted a cut and colour done on her own hair after closing tonight at six.
That was good – the perfect time to remind Kat just why she was top stylist, and hopefully drop in a few hints about the benefits of moving Chantelle to the salon up in Morningside. She could
suggest it as a career-enhancing move, after all . . .
‘It’s definitely blue.’
Isla looked in the mirror at Kat’s thunderous expression and frowned slightly, shaking her head. This had never happened before, and there was no way – absolutely no way – that
it could have occurred.
‘It can’t be.’
She never did anything without double-checking. Closing her eyes for a moment, she visualized herself standing in the back room of the salon, mixing the toner with the correct shade –
no.324. She could see the figures on the box, could remember pulling it down from the shelf. At the time, two more boxes had fallen down from a nearby stack and Mel, the shyest, most junior of all
the trainees, had darted to pick them up for her, stepping back deferentially without a word.
Kathleen Black glared at Isla. As owner of a chain of exclusive salons (patronized by a select clientele, famed for their discretion, known for their glossy-maned team of award-winning
stylists), she expected the very best. And Isla – prize-winning perfectionist head stylist, super-focused ice queen – was the best.
Kat lifted a damp, most definitely blue-tinged tendril from her forehead. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed, she glared at Isla’s reflection as she spoke, each word crystal-sharp and clearly
enunciated.
‘Chantelle? Here. Now.’
Isla caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her carefully applied blusher now looked clownish against her blanched cheeks. She stood frozen to the spot. She didn’t make mistakes.
‘Kat,’ Isla began, carefully. ‘I know I didn’t get the shade wrong. The box is out the back. Let me show—’
Kat’s pale blue eyes narrowed further. Her chin lifted slightly.
‘I’d rather you didn’t show me
anything
. If I were you –’ her voice was dangerously quiet now, and Isla could feel the long-suppressed, yet all-too-familiar
sensation of panic surging like a wave – ‘I’d get out of my sight. I’ll ring you when Chantelle has fixed this – mess.’ She dropped the strands of hair, which
flopped against her cheek. ‘Life’s too short for mistakes, Isla, you know that.’
Isla felt her hackles rising but she bit back a response, aware that if she spoke out of turn now she’d be on the receiving end of Kat’s notorious temper. She’d gritted her
teeth through a thousand shitstorms, covered Kat’s back when she’d messed up at competitions, and watched countless junior stylists come and go, unable to hack the competition and the
pace of being part of Kat’s team. Isla had held on like a limpet, not taking her eyes off her goal for one second. And now, on schedule, she’d made it.
‘Kat, did you call me?’
Chantelle, ears pricked at all times, appeared from the stockroom, head cocked slightly to one side, managing to direct the smirk playing at the corners of her lips towards Isla whilst still
appearing assiduously sweet and helpful to her boss. Isla’s nostrils flared as she held in her distaste. Chantelle was going to love this.
‘I thought you were going for Raspberry Sorbet?’ Chantelle’s voice was innocent. As if examining a lab experiment, she picked up an offending lock of hair, looking at Isla,
head to one side.
‘I put the colour in myself.’ Isla was clutching at straws, and she knew it. ‘I checked the box. Followed the usual procedures.’
‘Well, you can’t have, can you?’ Chantelle looked triumphant. ‘Don’t worry, Kat, sweetie.’ Kat sat back with a satisfied expression. ‘I’ll have
this sorted for you in no time.’
‘I could—’ Isla began, fruitlessly.
‘You’ve said it yourself many times, Isla. There’s no room for mistakes in this game.’ Kat looked down at her phone, jabbing at the screen with glossy cerise nails.
‘Right. I’ll clear up.’ Isla made to wheel her trolley back into the staff room.
‘Leave it.’ Kat’s tone was final.
‘Mel?’ Chantelle called to the junior. Mel looked up from the pile of hair she’d been sweeping back and forth for the last five minutes whilst earwigging in to the whole
conversation. ‘Get rid of this stuff. Isla’s just leaving.’
Isla opened her mouth to speak, but Kat’s warning glance was enough to stop her in her tracks. Mel wheeled her trolley, equipment lying uncleaned and disorganized, into the staff room. Kat
gave Isla another look, one that said quite clearly: ‘Are you STILL here?’
Isla picked up her bag and slipped out of the door, fuming silently.
The rush-hour fug of diesel fumes and traffic noise hit Isla in the face as the salon door closed behind her. Out of habit, she turned right and started heading down towards
home, fighting her way against a sea of besuited office workers making their way towards Waverley Station. She’d made it as far as Hanover Street and was standing at the pedestrian crossing,
foot tapping impatiently, when she looked down and realized she was still in work shoes and not the trainers she’d always walked in. It took her another second to remember the reason why.
With a sigh of irritation at her own incompetence, she turned and marched back up Hanover Street to where her car stood outside the shop, waiting. It was wedged so tightly between Kat’s
BMW and a side-on parked motorbike that it took her about five attempts to squeeze her way out, each one watched by a smugly judging Chantelle, who stood behind Kat’s chair, repairing the
damage. Isla shot her a look of hatred. She was almost certain she’d had a hand in what had happened.
She drove home in a haze of frustration and anger. Bloody Chantelle had been after her for ages. She climbed out of the car, slamming the door with more force than she intended. It was her pride
and joy. No point destroying it in a fit of temper. She trudged upstairs, picking up the post for Mrs Jones in the middle flat, and popping it through her letterbox as she passed. The house, when
she opened the door, was silent. No sign of Hattie. The huge sitting room was bathed in late-evening sunlight that shone in through the vast sash windows. The rug was rucked up and lopsided. Copies
of
Vogue
and
Tatler
were scattered on the floor. The television was paused on an episode of
Gilmore Girls
and the gigantic, squashy sofa was strewn with wet towels. On the
coffee table there was a disgusting stack of nail-varnish-remover-soaked cotton-wool pads and a bottle of Chanel varnish with the top off. Isla made a sharp noise of exasperation and kicked off her
work shoes.
