Side Parting

CHAPTER ONE Curl Free“Who are you?” Kit froze in the doorway to the lounge, tension snaking up her spine to settle beneath the tee shirt covering her head. Two layers of plastic wrap and a shower cap nestled within the cotton folds of the stained fabric, a sizable helping of green henna baking her hair into a glowing amber. Kit gulped and her gaze swept the room for suitable weapons to defend herself. An unusual tidiness greeted her, and even Langdon’s discarded newspapers sat on the breadboard in a regimented pile. Kit settled shaking hands over her hips and tried the ferocious approach. She blocked out her attire of an old dressing gown and ignored the tickle against her scalp of the henna heating and making a break down the back of her neck. “This is my house,” she snarled. “Who the hell are you?” “Oh.” The woman lifted her chin and viewed Kit through narrowed eyes. Blonde hair covered her head and cascaded over her shoulders in waves. The Barbie doll effect didn’t fool Kit’s expert gaze. She saw beyond it to the repressed curls screaming for release. False eyelashes bounced once, and then ceased. The woman stared at her. Her full top lip rose in distaste as she assessed Kit’s ragged appearance. “You’re the landlady.” Kit gaped. “The landlady?” The title snatched her burgeoning anger and replaced it with hurt. She owned the house, but thought of Langdon, Raki and Jerry as her friends. Her family even. She cleared her throat and fixed a fake smile on her lips. Perhaps her constant absence over the past six months had damaged their relationship. “The boys are my friends,” she asserted. She extended her left hand with her palm uppermost. “Who are you?” she repeated. “And why are you in my house?” “I’m Melinda.” The woman blinked again, and the eyelashes danced. “I’m cleaning.” Her hand rose from beside her and a feather duster appeared, clutched in fingers edged with shiny, red nails. She moved from behind the sofa and Kit saw platform heels too high to walk in, let alone clean a house. “I don’t have a cleaner.” Kit frowned. Her bare feet padded across the floorboards to the kitchen. She turned her back on Melinda and used the time to collect her thoughts. The items she’d got out earlier had disappeared from the counter. “Where’s the lemon juice gone?” “In there.” Melinda pointed the fluffy end of the duster towards the biggest cupboard. Kit’s shoulders slumped, and she poked inside the pantry to retrieve the yellow bottle. Her protest seemed insignificant as she snatched it up and dumped it on the counter. Anger thudded in her breast as she clattered around the kitchen, finding the glass jug she used to mix her henna concoctions and pulling a new packet from her dressing gown pocket. Her mind ran through a list of possibilities. Why would the boys engage a cleaner and not tell her? Did they expect her to contribute cash to the cause? Fears for her empty bank account made her brain rattle. Petrol to Auckland every weekend, plus the cost of the motel had swallowed her wages from working at the dairy during the week. Her mother had lent her the money for the hairdressing course, but she still needed to repay her. “You left it on the counter.” Melinda’s tone held accusation. She didn’t bother to hide her irritation at Kit’s negligence. “I hadn’t finished with it.” Kit searched the cutlery drawer, her fingers prodding each of the compartments in a futile exercise. “It lives in the fridge, anyway. What happened to the scissors?” “There.” Again, Melinda used the duster to point as though it represented an extension of her arm. It rose and fell in Kit’s peripheral vision. “Why are you making more if you’ve already got it on your head?” A sneer of disgust raised her top lip. Kit slammed the top drawer and dug in the one beneath it. She clasped the rubberised handles and snipped across the lip of the henna packet. A cloud of green dust puffed free as she dumped the powder into the glass jug. “This is for next month, and three after that.” “I’ve already cleaned the kitchen.” Heels clicked against wooden floorboards as Melinda approached. “Don’t use the dishcloth to wipe it up either. I’ve washed it.” Kit flicked off the lid of the lemon juice and it squirted across the counter in silent support of her autonomy. Her fingers shook as she snatched a fork from the top drawer and dug it into the mixture. Tingles worked their way up her spine as Melinda’s steps took her to the edge of the tiles and then halted. “I didn’t ask you to clean my house,” she growled. The prongs clattered against the glass as she stirred the citrus into the henna. “I don’t understand why you’re here.” “What are you doing?” Curiosity drove Melinda into the kitchen, though she stood far enough away from Kit’s ire to leave time for a tactical retreat. “Making henna for my hair.” Kit mixed the green paste into a dough and pressed it against the bottom of the glass. Then she dumped the fork into the shiny sink with a clatter and reached into the nearest cupboard for the plastic wrap. She groaned as a tell-tale label appeared when she pulled a length free, advising her to add it to the shopping list. Melinda watched in silence as Kit ripped off a section and placed it over the jug. Then she fitted it down over the dough and stood back to admire her handiwork. Each packet of henna provided enough mixture to create four applications, which she would freeze in individual portions after it marinated overnight. Kit sighed with relief. She’d made a list of her objectives for her first free weekend in six gruelling months. 1. Henna hair. 2. Make another batch and freeze. 3. Relax. Two out of three seemed like short change. She’d fostered such high hopes for the weekend. Her muscles tensed, and she forced herself to turn and face Melinda. The edge of the counter dug into her spine. “We don’t need a cleaner,” she said. The brightness in her tone sounded even faker than she’d intended. “Invoice me for what you agreed to work today, and I’ll pay you. I’m back now, so we can manage, thank you.” “Your fingers are green.” Melinda pointed the duster at Kit as though she hadn’t heard the dismissal. “Do you want me to wash your dressing gown?” Kit stared down at the stained fabric. She fluttered her fingers over the fluffy lapels and hauled the trusty garment tighter around her body. “It is clean.” Her voice bristled with defensiveness. “It always looks like this.” “It’s disgusting.” Melinda’s pointy nose wrinkled into even lines. It created the appearance of rumpled velvet in the centre of her face. Kit’s jaw tensed. She wanted judgement in her safe space like she needed a hole in her head. “I only wear it while I’m waiting for the henna to dye my hair!” she bit. “It’s my old one. I’ll wash it as soon as my four hours finish.” Her brain ran a mental check of how long she had left to wait. The first blessed hour had involved gutting her bedroom and ensuite bathroom after six months of cursory tidying between work and study. She’d laid on her bed and read for the next hour until the henna started dribbling down her neck. Melinda groaned and leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling. “I bet that green stuff is all over the bathroom, isn’t it?” “No!” Kit ground her teeth and took a step towards her. “I clean up my own mess, thank you. Always have, always will. Now, I’ve said you can stop, so please leave.” Melinda used her index and middle fingers to move her fringe out of her right eye. She performed the action with delicacy, evidence of someone who’d taken time to straighten their hair and then added choreographed curls at the end of the process. “You can’t fire me.” Her voice held a sing-song quality. “I don’t work for you.” Her platform shoes clomped across the lounge and into the hallway, up the stairs and onto the landing. A grunt of irritation reached Kit’s ears alongside the whir of the vacuum cable winding itself back into the cylinder. Kit’s jaw dropped at the clattering of a plug grinding against the innards of a wall socket and the buzz of her own vacuum cleaner sucking at the upstairs carpet.