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THE CHOICE WAS a pair of my mother’s trousers that aged me ten years or a pair of Anna’s “biggest” skinny jeans. I opted for the latter, and as long as I don’t breathe or bend all day, I’m just about getting away with them. Anna loaned me some black heels I’m sort of thinking might find their way to my car boot when I leave. Accidentally, of course. And Mum gave me a white shirt, which, tucked in and with the sleeves rolled up, doesn’t look too bad.
I feel slightly ridiculous walking behind Anna as she struts, in a dress, heels and fur coat, into the nail bar in Richmond as if she’s just stepped off 1950s Broadway. She makes a screeching sound that has me squinting and wishing I could turn down the volume of my ears when she sees someone she knows and takes up a seat next to her at the bar.
My mother takes a stool next to Anna, and I sit on my mother’s other side. She signals to one of the beauticians. “Marybella, this is my daughter, Dayna. She’ll have the same as Anna and me.”
Marybella takes a seat on the opposite side of the bar and grabs hold of my hands, examining my cuticles and mismatched nail lengths. It’s not like I don’t keep myself in decent shape — I wax regularly, have my hair trimmed every six weeks — but nails aren’t top of my list, especially when I spend half my days on rigs and refineries talking about oil or biofuels made from fish guts.
Marybella gives me a giant keyring hung with false nails painted in various colours and asks me to choose one. Another member of staff brings out three glasses of prosecco and places them down on the bar in front of us.
“I think this one would be lovely on you,” my mother says, leaning across my shoulder to pick up one of the fake nails.
I smile inside, enjoying how it feels to have my mother tell me which colours might suit my nails and sitting next to me drinking godawful fizz. “Taupe it is.”
“How’s Constance?” Anna asks her friend. My ears prick up.
“A complete mess,” her friend says theatrically. “I mean, it was only three weeks ago. They should have been on their honeymoon, then those pictures of Clark and Camilla Normen of all people were on Facebook.”
“Urgh, she’s a whore.”
“Anna!” my mother interjects.
Anna turns to face her. “What? She is.” She turns back to her friend. “So, Clark and Camilla?”
Her friend shakes her head and takes a sip of her bubbles. “No. It was apparently an unfortunately timed photograph.”
“Like anyone believes that. Everyone knows his reputation.”
Anger stirs in me irrationally. I know Clark’s reputation, but I want to defend him. He wasn’t with Camilla Normen. But I just stare at my hands as Marybella starts to paint my newly shaped nails.
“Well, she believed it once he told her what really happened. Apparently, he was in Verbier with his ex-girlfriend and they slept together.”
I choke on my prosecco.
“No!”
“Yep. He met Constance yesterday and told her everything, told her he’s in love with his ex, always was.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell Marybella, accepting a tissue.
“Who is she?” Anna asks.
Shit. Shitty fuck fuck fuck.
“Mmm, I can’t remember.”
I exhale subtly in relief and take another drink.
“Dayna. That’s it. Dayna Cross!”
Holy mother of fuck. I spray my entire mouthful across Marybella.
It feels like the entire nail bar drops silent and all eyes stare at me, the megabitch. In reality, I know other people look because I just spat prosecco all over the technician, not because they know I slept with Clark Layton two weeks after he called off his marriage. Not because Clark Layton told his ex-fiancée that he’s in love with me and always was.
Anna’s stare could sear my flesh, but she doesn’t concern me. It’s my mother’s look that steals my attention.
“You and Clark? Clark Layton? Layton?”
My mother has never known any of our story — not four years ago, not eighteen months ago, not that I’ve been in love with him for years.
