Forfeit (Original Edit)

Chapter Twenty-Six

A year ago, my husband died. Yesterday, my boyfriend walked out on me. Next year, I'd stay in bed for January.

The salon junior combed my hair and I stared at the horror looking back at me in the mirror. Grey skin, a spot on my chin, hair wet and scraped off my face, black circles under my eyes. I looked awful. Okay the lighting in the hairdressers made everyone look dreadful but I looked worse than Tabitha's ritual abuse. I prayed the cut wouldn't take long, taking a deep breath to combat the heat and chemical pong threatening to overpower me. This kind of hangover could only be disposed of with another bloody drink.

My face reddened as I remembered Robbie's phone call yesterday. He'd told me to come round and apologise to Xander. I'd laughed and told Robbie to fuck off. Oh God. But I refused to think about Robbie or Xander while I sat in front of the mirror. Instead, as the teenage assistant pushed up her sleeve, I smiled.

'What does your tattoo mean?' I squinted, trying to make sense of the swirls on the inside of her forearm.

'It's roman numerals of my son's birthday.' She smiled proudly. 'I got them off the internet.'

Roman numerals? I knew eleven would be XI which seemed fortuitous, but I had to dig out my phone to Google the three hundred. For the first time that day, I smiled and asked the salon junior where she had her tattoo done. Haverton Ink, here I come.

   

Clara hugged me the minute I stepped into the house. 'How are you?'

'Being a widow, one year on? Fine. Boyfriend walking out? Fine.' I held her at arm's length. She looked so beautiful - vast but beautiful. 'Bump's looking good. How are you?'

'Concerned. He's walked out and you're fine?'

'Can I say I told you so?' I wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on. 'I told you he'd leave and I told you he'd try to break my heart like he did all the others. This is exactly why I refused to fall in love with him and his pretty face. He left yesterday.'

'I know.'

I paused as I took the mugs out of the cupboard. 'You know?'

'He phoned to ask me to keep an eye on you,' she said. 'Hair looks good. How's the hangover?'

'Bloody awful,' I admitted, hating she knew me so well. Still, my hair did look awesome. I'd had six inches chopped off my layers and the curls, no longer weighted down went wild - a white blond cloud of corkscrews and ringlets tumbled just past my shoulders. 'Check this out.'

I lifted up my hair and peeled back the plaster, showing Clara the tattoo at the base of my hairline. It looked ace but getting it done had bloody hurt.

'Jesus. Is that real?' Clara asked.

'Bethany Palmer has an X on her wrist but I thought this was way cooler.' Gently putting the plaster back, I shook out my enormous hair. 'It's a reminder not to be so fucking stupid in the future.'

'What, by being fucking stupid now? You've just branded yourself with a tattoo that says CCCXI.'

'I thought it would look better than 311. Five hundred and ten would've been perfectly apt, DX, our initials. If he'd have shagged around for the last few years like he did at eighteen, he could've hit over five hundred easily.' I poured water on the teabags. 'It's only one or two a week since he was fifteen.'

'Have you actually lost your mind? It's a tattoo, Daisy.'

'Did I tell you he has one? He had it done in Barbados. It says Drunk And Fucked. I bet he's regretting that now.' I couldn't look at Clara but stared at the wedding photo of her and Scott on the wall. Xander had kissed me under that same tree.