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THIRTY-EIGHT
‘What’s happened to your hair?’ I exclaimed when Matty opened his front door.
‘Let’s go round and surprise him,’ my mother had said.
‘Because that worked out so well last time,’ I answered, all eye rolls and snark like any other self-respecting almost teen.
I was different with Matty; craved his approval, his attention. We still hugged all the time, although my mother had finally put an end to the Prisoner Game.
‘You’re too old for all that.’
‘He’ll be pleased to see us,’ she said now as we arrived at his place.
I knew what she was really thinking though. I could tell by the set of her shoulders, the tightness around her mouth.
Still no ring on her finger, still worried he was seeing other women behind her back.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Linda kept telling her. ‘He adores you.’
She wouldn’t listen though, kept agonising.
‘How do I really know he’s working late?’
Ironic given what we learned later. Back then I thought she was being crazy. So did Linda.
‘You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep up with this nonsense,’ she told her.
She used the same words whenever my mother brought up the similarities between Matty and the witness descriptions.
‘Fastest way to the nut house, Am. You’ve got to let it drop.’
It had been a week since we’d seen Matty. A week since the sketch had come out.
‘Up to my eyeballs,’ he said each time she called. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’
‘You’d think being a counsellor was a nine-to-five job,’ she told Linda. ‘How much work can he really have on? Or do you think—’
Linda waggled her finger, gave her head a shake.
‘Uh-uh. Not this again.’
Despite her assurances, my mother wouldn’t let it rest and by the following Saturday, she’d decided to take matters into her own hands.
Nice surprise, my ass.
It was eleven thirty in the morning. Matty opened the door rubbing his eyes. They were bleary from sleep. But that’s not what snagged my attention.
‘What have you done to your hair?’ I asked, jaw to the floor. ‘It’s even darker than Mum’s.’
He ran a hand over his scalp, pretended to be confused.
‘Christ Almighty, how did that happen?’
‘You dyed it?’ my mother said, appalled. ‘What did you do that for? I loved your hair.’
‘Not as much as I love yours.’
Occasionally, she’d talk about getting a Princess Diana do, said a bob would be more manageable, quicker to dry. But Matty always convinced her not to.
