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“I’m fine. I want to throw Morag in the loch, but I’m fine.”
“Ignore this.” Magenta pointed to the women in disgust. “Heck, it’ll probably increase business. Everyone will come out to see what the fuss is. Don’t give her the satisfaction of fighting. She feeds off it.”
Kirsty knew her friend was right, but the thought of conceding made bile bite at her throat.
“Let’s go. We have a marketing plan to implement, remember?” Magenta tugged at her sleeve.
“This isn’t over,” Kirsty told Morag.
She was rewarded with a superior smirk.
“New chant, let’s get on with it,” Morag ordered.
“We don’t know, but we’ve been told, dirty knickers here are sold...”
The shop door slammed behind them. Kirsty stood with her hands on the hips of her ankle-length woollen skirt and fumed. Magenta stared at the protesters and shook her head slowly.
“Do you think they even know what they’re chanting?”
Kirsty didn’t care.
“Auch, no,” Magenta said.
Kirsty spun towards her.
“What?” She wasn’t sure she could take any more, but she had to ask.
“Nothing.” Magenta turned her back to the window.
Suddenly the display of nightdresses beside her was fascinating.
“Maggie,” Kirsty said. “You need to tell me.”
“You can’t call me Maggie, remember?”
Kirsty wondered if she had ever been that young. Nineteen seemed like a lifetime ago.
“I forgot. Sorry, I won’t do it again. Promise. Now, what’s the problem?”
Magenta pursed her lips.
“I think I know who’s behind this,” she said.
Kirsty was instantly alert.
“Who?”
Magenta pointed out the window. Kirsty followed her finger. Her gaze went past the protesting women, over the road and up to the twitching curtain over Betty’s shop.
“He wouldn’t,” she said.
“I saw them all at the window a minute ago,” Magenta said. “Betty had her evil grin on.”
“No!”
Kirsty could feel her eyebrows trying to escape up her forehead into her hair, which wasn’t possible since she was still sporting the short haircut she’d been forced into in hospital.
“You think it was...”
