The Summer Villa

‘Hey! I said I need you to leave, so off you go.’ Annie poked at his exposed leg. He was wearing boxers, another cause for relief in her books. He didn’t seem her type at all, either; he was bone-skinny with a bit of a culchie accent, so she had no idea how or why he’d ended up here.

But did she even have a type these days?

Still, if this gobshite thought he could grab a lie-in at her expense, he was sadly mistaken. She’d throw him out on his arse herself if he didn’t skedaddle on his own, pronto.

Her persistence got his attention and he forced his eyes open once more.

‘Hey, why don’t you get back in and we can finish what we started last night?’ he said suggestively, and Annie’s hackles rose even more.

‘Are you deaf? Get the feck out!’ She grabbed the end of the duvet and yanked it off him. ‘I mean it.’ Then, grabbing his clothes, she marched across to the door of her flat (which didn’t take long as it was a tiny studio) and flung it open, launching his stuff through. ‘Don’t let it hit you on the way out.’

Her unexpected guest looked completely bewildered. ‘What the hell? Why are you being so weird? You asked me back, remember? You were all over me.’

Annie didn’t remember – that was the problem – but she wasn’t about to tell him that. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I told you already that I’ve got stuff to do and you’re getting in the way. So please just go,’ she insisted.

She watched as her guest jumped up again and stepped out into the hallway, scrambling for his clothes. He pulled his shirt over his head, sticking his arms into the sleeves in one smooth movement, then eyed her angrily from the doorway.

‘You’re something else, you know. Pure psycho.’

‘I know,’ she murmured airily, as she closed the door behind him, her heart racing a thousand beats a minute. She’d done a pretty good job convincing him of her bravado, but all the while she’d been terrified. A strange man in her bed and in her flat. It wouldn’t be the first time things had gone awry.

‘That’s it. No more getting pissed out your head, Annie … No more.’

She walked to her bed and looked at the sheets with scorn, before yanking them off. She’d be doing a wash today for sure. Once all the bedding was off, she returned to the bare mattress and flopped down on the edge of it.

Annie O’Doherty was never supposed to live, but she had. Abandoned in the toilets at Connolly train station in the centre of Dublin almost thirty years ago, she’d barely been breathing when she was found by a curious Irish Rail cleaner, who heard a noise from inside the ladies. There he found an infant, scarcely a few hours old, and had called for an ambulance.

Even before she had a name, Annie was making headlines for all the wrong reasons.

Placed into the Irish foster system from the start, she eventually found herself part of a family. Robert O’Doherty, her foster father, had doted on her. He was the reason she’d been chosen by them – a real-life orphan Annie.

He always said he saw something in her eyes, a spark, which told him she was the right child for him and his wife Eileen. They’d formally adopted her when she was five, and over the following twelve years she had the most amazing life she could imagine. They didn’t have much money, just enough to get by, but after Robert suffered a heart attack and died, life was upended.

That’s when Eileen started drinking and Annie had no choice but to rely on herself. Life had steadily declined after that. The tongue-lashings, accusations of theft, and even the added bonus of being accused of trying to seduce Eileen’s boyfriends. As if she would stoop so low.

Now she sat on her bed thinking about just how badly her life sucked. She was thirty-two years old, working at a low-budget hairdressing salon for a woman who didn’t know a perm from a curl, paying an exorbitant rent for her tiny Dublin shoebox, and nothing or no one stable in her life whatsoever.

Most of the friends she had during her teens were by now settled with families of their own, while Annie embarked on a string of disastrous hook-ups with lads who were only after the craic. That had suited her down to the ground all throughout her twenties, but now it was getting old – as was Annie.

These days she mostly went out on the town with some of her hot young co-workers from the salon, and was already starting to feel (and no doubt look) like the desperate ’oul wan.

Feeling a fresh wave of hangover-inspired exhaustion, Annie fell back on the bed and lay atop the exposed mattress. She stared at the cracks in the yellowed ceiling as she tried not to cry. She was frustrated and disillusioned.

Life was supposed to improve the older you got, wasn’t it? Life was supposed to be a series of ups and downs. So when was her up coming? When was it her turn to have something good finally come her way?

Tears stung her eyes and she didn’t try to stop them. It wasn’t every day that Annie allowed herself to feel her emotions. Pretending she didn’t have any seemed to work best for her over the years, at least for a while, until the flood rose too high, smashed the dam and, like now, she had to release it.

She hated her life. She hated this dingy kip of a flat. She hated her job, her mother, this stupid city.

She hated everything.

‘No more,’ she said firmly as she balled her fists at her sides. ‘No more. After today, you’re making a change. Things are going to be better. You’re going to make them better.’

But even as she said the words, Annie knew she was kidding herself. She’d tried that mantra before.

And still, nothing ever changed.

Chapter 10 (#ulink_e346a98f-e99c-5d68-863f-768a7122005b)

‘Good morning, Betty,’ Annie sang, as her first salon client of the day took a seat in the chair in front of her. ‘What’ll it be today?’ she asked as she danced about, getting the woman ready for her treatment.

She wrapped and secured an apron around her neck and draped a towel over that, clipping it in place.

‘You’re in great form today. Is it a fella who’s responsible?’ the older woman teased as her eyes followed Annie’s every move.

Betty was one of her regulars. She always came for the same thing – a wash and set – despite Annie’s angling to get her to try something new. She never did. Most of the women who came here were the same.

‘No,’ she replied, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. ‘Why must it be a fella? Why can’t we just be happy all on our own?’

Betty guffawed. ‘Sure, isn’t that the only reason God created Adam?’

Annie rolled her eyes as she chuckled. ‘Maybe you can’t be happy without a man, Betty Corcoran, but I certainly can.’ She looked at her client in the mirror as she began to run her fingers through her hair. ‘I make myself happy.’

Betty sniggered.

‘Don’t mind that one,’ her boss Rose put in. ‘She’s Not-So-Little Miss Sunshine these days,’ she said, taking a blatant aim at Annie’s muffin-top – another thing she’d been meaning to fix by taking long walks in the evening after work. But she was always too tired.

The salon owner teased the hair of the blonde in front of her. Rose was lost in a time warp, still back in the Eighties, where people liked their hair puffed up to the size of a football helmet. And the explanation for why all of the salon’s clients were in their forties or older, Annie knew; no one else would be interested in getting their hair done by her.

‘At least sun is better than rain,’ she quipped back at her boss. ‘So what colour do you want?’ she asked, turning her attention to Betty. ‘Same as last time?’

‘I’m thinking something spicy for a change,’ she answered with a wicked grin.

Annie raised an eyebrow. ‘Spicy?’

Betty smirked. ‘I’m meeting my fancy man tonight,’ she boasted. ‘I want to look my best.’

‘In that case,’ she answered, ‘I think you’d look amazing with a richer burgundy shade. I can darken your eyebrows a little too,’ Annie added as she turned towards her mixing station and began pulling colours from the cupboard.

People thought just a tube of solid hair dye could give you the right look, but that wasn’t true. You needed the right mix to give the highlights and low tones. She grabbed a fire-engine red, a dark blonde, and a chestnut, with the addition of a drop of dark brown to make a tone that would be uniquely Betty. That was what Annie did.

She didn’t ‘do’ cookie-cutter clients. She made sure everyone who stepped away from her station was spectacular in their own right. She picked up the dyes, mixing them quickly in a fluorescent pink bowl with her medium brush.

‘So where did you find this fancy man then?’ she asked as she began applying dye to Betty’s roots, starting at the back.

‘At Tesco,’ she replied. ‘He was trying to pick the right peppers and I helped him find the best one.’

Rose laughed. ‘Passion over peppers. Spicy indeed.’