single thing. God only knew how long
it had been since the place had seen a duster, never mind a bottle of bleach.
By the time she’d finished later that afternoon, Isla had used the best part of a bottle of Mr Sheen, three dusters and six J-cloths. It had been absolutely no surprise
to her to discover that the bathroom was also nauseatingly green in colour, nor that the tiles were ingrained with several decades’ worth of holidaymakers’ fingerprints and grime. She
scrubbed the last of the walls with a final flourish.
The bedding she’d been left with was clean, but spark-inducingly nylon and covered with bobbles. It’d do for a night, she decided, but then she’d have to make another trip back
off the island to Glasgow to get something decent to sleep on – that, or order something online. That was a thought – she hadn’t actually found out whether the place had
broadband. Somehow, it seemed unlikely.
She searched the sitting room for a phone socket. Lying under a curtain was a yellowing plastic dial phone from the mid-seventies that was plugged into the wall. It had a dialling tone, at
least. Maybe she could ask Jessie to sort it out. In the meantime there was always the library, or an internet cafe, or – well, someone somewhere must be online, surely? The salon must have
some kind of internet connection. She opened the door that led downstairs to investigate. She’d been determined not to look until she’d finished cleaning the flat – there was only
so much grimness that one person could take.
It was everything she had expected – and more. So much more. The chairs hadn’t been replaced since the dark ages, and there were old-fashioned helmet hair-dryers, 1950s-style, in the
corner of the room. On wheels. The sinks sat in a neat row (at least they looked clean, and the taps sparkled) with a line of shampoo behind them – not the luxury aromatherapy stuff that she
was used to, but the cheapest, most chemical-saturated products available from the wholesaler. Isla shuddered. That stuff was on a par with washing-up liquid. It would strip everything from your
hair – and worse. She’d have to order in some stuff from the supplier, get it couriered up before Tuesday. The juniors’ hands would be red raw, washing hair in that stuff all day
long – and she wasn’t going to subject anyone to that.
She withdrew from the salon and climbed the stairs back up to the flat above. There was no need to sort everything out in one go, and she was suddenly absolutely ravenous.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Pulling out her hairbrush and her powder compact, she tidied herself up. It might be the middle of nowhere, but she wasn’t going to let her standards
slip. She applied a slash of Chanel red to her lips, swept a top-up layer of mascara onto her lashes, and patted some powder on her nose. With a final sweep of the brush ensuring her glossy bob had
not a hair out of place, she headed down Kilmannan’s main street.
It was every bit as grim as she’d remembered. There was a charity shop, a tired-looking newsagent’s, a bakery with the shutters already drawn closed (Isla checked the time on her
phone: half past five. The supermarket was probably shut already) and the Spar on the corner. She pushed the door open. Stacked in the corner in a bargain bin were a pile of calendars, reduced to
20p. Who on earth would want a calendar in June? Isla had a sudden thought, picking one up and popping it into her shopping basket. The choices for dinner were pretty depressing fare. She picked
the least wilted-looking packet of pre-packed salad, a vegetarian lasagne, and a pot of yoghurt from the fridge, adding them to her basket. She wasn’t going to drop her standards and start
eating crap. If the food selection was going to be this awful she’d take the car back on the ferry to Glasgow and pop to M&S once a week. It was unbelievable that people actually lived
like this.
Back at the flat – Isla
it had been since the place had seen a duster, never mind a bottle of bleach.
By the time she’d finished later that afternoon, Isla had used the best part of a bottle of Mr Sheen, three dusters and six J-cloths. It had been absolutely no surprise
to her to discover that the bathroom was also nauseatingly green in colour, nor that the tiles were ingrained with several decades’ worth of holidaymakers’ fingerprints and grime. She
scrubbed the last of the walls with a final flourish.
The bedding she’d been left with was clean, but spark-inducingly nylon and covered with bobbles. It’d do for a night, she decided, but then she’d have to make another trip back
off the island to Glasgow to get something decent to sleep on – that, or order something online. That was a thought – she hadn’t actually found out whether the place had
broadband. Somehow, it seemed unlikely.
She searched the sitting room for a phone socket. Lying under a curtain was a yellowing plastic dial phone from the mid-seventies that was plugged into the wall. It had a dialling tone, at
least. Maybe she could ask Jessie to sort it out. In the meantime there was always the library, or an internet cafe, or – well, someone somewhere must be online, surely? The salon must have
some kind of internet connection. She opened the door that led downstairs to investigate. She’d been determined not to look until she’d finished cleaning the flat – there was only
so much grimness that one person could take.
It was everything she had expected – and more. So much more. The chairs hadn’t been replaced since the dark ages, and there were old-fashioned helmet hair-dryers, 1950s-style, in the
corner of the room. On wheels. The sinks sat in a neat row (at least they looked clean, and the taps sparkled) with a line of shampoo behind them – not the luxury aromatherapy stuff that she
was used to, but the cheapest, most chemical-saturated products available from the wholesaler. Isla shuddered. That stuff was on a par with washing-up liquid. It would strip everything from your
hair – and worse. She’d have to order in some stuff from the supplier, get it couriered up before Tuesday. The juniors’ hands would be red raw, washing hair in that stuff all day
long – and she wasn’t going to subject anyone to that.
She withdrew from the salon and climbed the stairs back up to the flat above. There was no need to sort everything out in one go, and she was suddenly absolutely ravenous.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Pulling out her hairbrush and her powder compact, she tidied herself up. It might be the middle of nowhere, but she wasn’t going to let her standards
slip. She applied a slash of Chanel red to her lips, swept a top-up layer of mascara onto her lashes, and patted some powder on her nose. With a final sweep of the brush ensuring her glossy bob had
not a hair out of place, she headed down Kilmannan’s main street.
It was every bit as grim as she’d remembered. There was a charity shop, a tired-looking newsagent’s, a bakery with the shutters already drawn closed (Isla checked the time on her
phone: half past five. The supermarket was probably shut already) and the Spar on the corner. She pushed the door open. Stacked in the corner in a bargain bin were a pile of calendars, reduced to
20p. Who on earth would want a calendar in June? Isla had a sudden thought, picking one up and popping it into her shopping basket. The choices for dinner were pretty depressing fare. She picked
the least wilted-looking packet of pre-packed salad, a vegetarian lasagne, and a pot of yoghurt from the fridge, adding them to her basket. She wasn’t going to drop her standards and start
eating crap. If the food selection was going to be this awful she’d take the car back on the ferry to Glasgow and pop to M&S once a week. It was unbelievable that people actually lived
like this.
Back at the flat – Isla
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