Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“I like your hoodie,” he said, grinning. “Tell me about your obsession with eighties pop.”
I took a sip of wine. “Actually it wasn’t my obsession. My boss at the salon was a huge eighties pop fan. Massive. It was all we played at work. We used to have theme weeks.”
“Theme weeks?” He took a bite of his bread and I couldn’t help but watch. Even the way he chewed was sexy.
“You know, Prince week. Purple Rain week. Madonna week, Like a Prayer week. George Michael solo artist week before he came out, George Michael solo artist after he came out.”
“Gotcha.” He nodded.
“It was either beat her or join her and I decided, just giving into the synthesizers was easier. Although, if I’m being honest, Kajagoogoo week was a low point for me. They really only had one good song and if I never hear it again, that’ll be fine by me.”
He laughed and I wanted to run my fingers over the stubble that had grown on his chin in the last few days.
“What made you become a hairdresser?”
I smiled because he didn’t say it in a sneering way or condescending way. He just seemed really interested.
“Honestly? Hairdressers were renowned for taking people on at sixteen, and I needed a job to put a roof over my head.”
I popped a chunk of bread into my mouth and chewed, watching him watching me.
“And you needed a roof over your head at sixteen because . . .?”
“Because . . .” Was I really going to tell him? I didn’t even like to think about it, let alone discuss it. The thing about Jacob was whenever I was near him, he made me feel safe. Like he was on my side and looking out for me. He’d asked the question and he deserved the truth. “My parents split when I was twelve. Dad moved to America, started a new life, had a new family. My mum . . . She threw herself into finding a new man and it caused arguments. When I hit sixteen, I walked out after a huge row about her sleazy boyfriend moving in. When I went back, she’d changed the locks.”
He let go of the spoon in his bowl and sat back. “She kicked you out?”
“I suppose technically I left.”
“Jesus. What did your dad say?”
I shrugged. I hadn’t been able to get hold of him for weeks after. Stupidly I’d tricked myself into thinking that when I did speak to him, he was going to tell me to get on a plane and live with him. “He sent me five hundred pounds. Basically told me ‘goodbye and good luck.’”
Jacob shook his head. “So you didn’t make it up with your mum?”
The question made my stomach curdle. “No. I found out about the apprenticeship from my friend’s mum. I think my boss felt sorry for me and let me live above the salon.”
“God, I’m sorry. She never came after you? Did she know how to find you?”
“Yeah, I was on social media. Years later I found out the salon owner had gone to see her to assure her I was okay. Apparently my mum just shut the door in her face. It was fine.” Objectively, it wasn’t fine. Anyone listening to my story who had committed parents, or at least parents who didn’t hate them, would think it was less than fine. But for me? It was almost easier to leave a house where I wasn’t wanted than to stay. “I got a job. I made good money for my age. I had a roof over my head.”
He reached for my hand but I picked up my spoon and took another mouthful of soup. I didn’t need his pity. I was fine.
“Sutton,” he said, a line forming between his eyebrows I hadn’t seen before.
I shook my head. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. Your parents should never have had children.”
I laughed. “We can agree on that. Honestly, it’s all I ever knew. And it means that I’m tough and resourceful and independent.”
“You’re like a grown-up Matilda.”
I scrunched up my nose. “No superpowers.”
He laughed. “I’m not sure about that. You’re pretty phenomenal—”
I fixed him with a look that said Don’t you dare make this about sex.
“I was going to say at your job. But yes, you’re great in the bedroom too.”
I tossed a piece of bread at him.
“Hey, don’t waste the sourdough,” he said. “Carbs are important.”
I tore off a piece from what was still in my hand and popped it in my mouth.
“So when did you change your mind to medicine?” he asked.
I thought back to staring into the mirror at the salon in my popstar-of-the-week t-shirt, counting the hours until my last client was in the chair. “I was bored,” I said. “I knew I was bright and capable of doing . . . more. I liked hairdressing. I liked the independence I had. And it was fun. But when I was at school the teachers assumed I’d stay on after sixteen and do my A-Levels, then go on to university. I thought so too. Anyway, I’d pushed school to the back of my memory until one day, a girl from my school came in for a haircut. She’d been in the year below me and she didn’t recognize me. I only knew her because her mum always walked her home from school—long after any other parents were still walking their kids to school, and about a decade after my parents last walked me to school.”