The Good Mum. Cathryn Parry
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“Ashley, there’s a man here for you,” her young coworker Kylie said, approaching Ashley’s little corner workstation with a pen in her hand. “He’s a walk-in, so he’s not on your schedule.”
And just like that, a little thrum of worry passed through Ashley. Ridiculous, she told herself. You’re doing fine.
Putting her hand to her stomach, she breathed out slowly. Worrying was the big issue of her life, it seemed. No matter how much she worked and tried and strove, her old fears always resurfaced—usually when she was facing a change. She’d been through enough counseling to recognize what was happening, but this one-day-at-a-time stuff sure did challenge her. And of course she was being challenged—she was dealing with major life upheavals. All the biggies. New apartment. New job. New school for Brandon. New routine.
“You look kind of pale,” Kylie remarked, tilting her head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I am.” Honestly, she needed to pull herself together. She had worked hard to find this job within walking distance of Brandon’s new school in Copley Square, Boston, and she couldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.
She stuck a smile on her face for Kylie, the young receptionist who controlled the front desk at Perceptions, the sleek salon where Ashley needed to keep working for the next two years, at least until Brandon graduated from his private middle school. “I’m just getting used to my new workstation is all. Let me clean up a bit first.” She picked up her broom and began sweeping up snips of blond hair from her last client. “Who’s the man I’m taking?” she asked as casually as she could.
“I didn’t ask his name.” Kylie’s brow furrowed, perhaps catching her mistake. Ashley got the distinct impression that Kylie was somewhat new, too. She eyed Ashley’s broom. “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that. We have interns to sweep up hair.” Maybe Ashley imagined it, but she thought she saw Kylie roll her eyes ever so slightly, as if Ashley was a hopeless rube.
It was true Ashley had never worked in a salon like this one before. For the hundredth time that morning, she glanced uneasily at the gleaming surfaces of the upscale space, so different from the homey blue-collar haunt where she’d happily worked for the past twelve years. Going to work there had been like being at home. Where everybody knows your name, as the old theme song went. Her old boss, Sal, hadn’t run a place patronized by intimidating customers who seemed to ooze money and privilege. The lady getting foil highlights in the cubicle next to Ashley’s had set down a handbag that cost three thousand dollars. Ashley had noticed it in the window of the boutique next door. That was more than three times the monthly rent in her old neighborhood.
“Ilana specifically asked me to give you this client,” Kylie explained. “He came in with his grandmother, and I think she’s important. At least, she’s in the private treatment room with Ilana now.”
Ilana was the owner of Perceptions, and Ashley’s new boss. She’d also informed Ashley that for her first two weeks on the job, she was on probation until she proved herself.
“Okay.” Ashley blew out her breath and squared her shoulders. No pressure here. “I’m on it. Do you know what he wants? A trim and a blow-dry?” she guessed.
“Um, I don’t know,” Kylie said, “but he really needs a haircut. Just wait until you see him.”
“Oh, my.” One of Ashley’s fellow stylists murmured beneath the hum of her blow-dryer. She’d probably been eavesdropping, and was now craning her neck toward the front of the salon. Ashley couldn’t see what she was looking at because of the L-shaped placement of the workstations.
As the new girl, Ashley was tucked into the farthest corner, out of view of the waiting area. She was also set back from the spectacular floor-to-ceiling views of bustling Newbury Street, the Fifth Avenue of Boston. That part she didn’t mind.
Setting down her broom, Ashley followed Kylie. When they rounded the corner and she had her first unobstructed view of the waiting room, Ashley stopped short.
Her next client looked as out of place in the salon as Ashley felt.
He was tall and broad, almost wild-looking. His handsome face was sunburned, and his wild, dark hair fell to chin level. He seemed gruff and untamed and not at all like the well-groomed city types who usually came in here.
Fascinated, Ashley watched him. While he paced the room, his hands tore through his hair. He wore a drab-colored, collarless, button-up shirt with an olive-toned canvas vest. His cargo pants were utilitarian, and they fit him...very well, she thought with a flush. His shoes were something new to her. Sort of like work boots, made of nice, though somewhat battered, leather. Higher end than she would have expected.
As she watched, wondering what to make of him, he sat in a chair in the far corner. Alone, he leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes.
The stylist beside her sighed, and Ashley understood why. Even from this distance, her next client exuded a raw sexuality.
With his collarless shirt partially unbuttoned, and his tanned forearms crossed across his wide chest, he appeared completely uncivilized. He gave her the impression of wanting to be outside, free and unbound. His appearance didn’t seem important to him at all.
She swallowed. What would it feel like to be so free?
Ashley shook herself. It did her no good—in fact, it was dangerous—to feel curious about any man, even if just physically. She was far too careful in her life to risk doing anything that might negatively affect her son.
“How much time do I have to cut his hair?” she asked Kylie. She was thinking about her probationary status. “Ilana will want me to be finished by the time his grandmother is ready to leave, I assume?”
“Um, yeah.” Kylie nodded. “I heard his grandmother tell Ilana they were going out to lunch afterward. She said she hasn’t seen her grandson in a year because he was overseas with the Doctor’s Aid volunteer group. I think they just came from the airport.”
“Wait, he’s a doctor?” Ashley asked.
“That’s what she said.”
Ashley’s heart sped up. Her sister was a doctor. Brandon desperately wanted to be one himself. Hence their odyssey to a new, scary life that was so far out of Ashley’s league that she felt terrified half the time.
Except maybe she didn’t need to feel terrified with this man. She knew doctors. Knew what they needed. Knew what they wanted. Understood how they preferred to be treated.
“I’ll have him ready in thirty minutes,” Ashley said.
“Don’t forget our protocol,” Kylie murmured.
Ashley tried not to snort. She threaded her way toward him past rows of swivel chairs and stylists’ sinks, briefly thinking of her old friends who would have made fun of Perceptions’ snooty attitude. Protocol, indeed. In Sal’s shop, Ashley had had the freedom to use her own personal style. Just a lean against the cabinet in her workspace cubbyhole, with her legs crossed, a casual smile for the client. Easily sliding her feet in and out of her comfortable leather clogs that she’d owned forever. While she encouraged new clients to talk, Ashley would take in the shape of their faces, the forms of their features. With her fingers, a quick, impersonal assessment of the texture and condition of their hair.
Perceptions’ rules were different. Lead the new client to the special consultation room. Offer them tea or water. Complete an assessment worksheet. Above all, dress and act the part of a hip, cutting-edge stylist. Ashley felt as if she was dressed for going out clubbing, which she did not do. That young, carefree, confident girl had vanished, years ago, the day she’d discovered she was pregnant and had to make the biggest decision of her young life. Thirteen years later, here she was. Struggling to maintain control.
She stopped at the threshold to the waiting area. As if on cue, the door to the private treatment room opened, and Ilana stuck her nose out.
Ashley clasped her hands and