Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (7 page)

When I finally arrive home it’s close to six o’clock and Mum’s in the kitchen chopping vegetables with a ferocity usually reserved for highly skilled martial arts experts. I dump my things in my floral explosion of a room, change into my comfy track pants and T-shirt, and wander into the kitchen.

“
Hi Mum. Good day?”

“
Oh I thought I heard you come in, darling. Yes, thanks, although there were quite a few patients full of the remnants of winter bugs today, coughing and sneezing all over the place,” she responds with clear disdain, wrinkling her nose.

“
Well, you
do
work at a doctors’ surgery, Mum. Kinda goes with the territory, don’t you think?” I reply, grabbing a carrot from the chopping board to munch, avoiding her razor sharp knife for fear of losing a digit.

“
Well yes, but I don't have to like it,” she sniffs, julienning the remaining carrots to perfection.

“
What's for dinner? Smells good whatever it is.”

One thi
ng I can say for my mother, she’s a damn good cook and loves to experiment with different cuisines. When I was a teenager she went through an Italian phase followed in short succession by a Cajun one that nearly had me popping out of my size twelves. But thankfully she then got into wholefood vegetarianism for a while, which counterbalanced things out nicely.

Judging by the delec
table aroma right now she’s entered a Southeast Asian phase of some description.

“
It's going to be a Thai beef dish. I hope you like spice, dear. I made it a couple of weeks ago for Prue's Potluck Dinner for the Homeless and everyone absolutely raved about it,” she says with obvious pride.

“
Now. You can help by measuring out a cup of jasmine rice from the pantry and soaking it for 10 minutes, please dear. Tell me all about your day. You met your first client, didn’t you?”

I survey Mum's impeccably organized pantry and reach f
or the jasmine rice container.

“
It was so great, Mum. She's this woman in her forties whose husband's run off with some bimbo. She wanted us to create a new style for her so she can get out there and find true love again.” I look at Mum out of the corner of my eye, hoping I haven’t hit a nerve.

Although Dad didn't leave her for another woman,
Morning came on the scene relatively quickly after his move to Nelson and there was a fair bit of gossip around Karori at the time about it, which Mum was forced to weather.

She raises her eyebrows but kee
ps on expertly and relentlessly chopping.

“
Not that I know why, I think she's totally great.” I put my hand on her shoulder, carefully steering clear of the knife.

S
he pulls away. “The rice isn't going to soak itself, Jessica.”

“
Oh, right,” I reply.

I measure out a cup of rice and pour it into a bowl of water, feeling self-conscious about my
clumsy attempt at being a supportive daughter.

Mum
subscribes to a cast-iron upper lip approach to anything even vaguely resembling emotion. That ubiquitous motto 'keep calm and carry on' could have been written solely for her use.

During her divorce from my Dad she didn't once cry in front of me, although I heard her qui
etly sobbing in her bedroom one night when I stayed up later than usual. I'd asked her about it the following morning but she'd simply smiled brightly at me and said I must have been imagining things. Of course I knew I hadn’t.

So I learnt from a relatively young age that she kept a pretty impenetrable wall ar
ound her. The result being, although I love her, we don't have what you’d call a close mother-daughter relationship by any stretch of the imagination.

“
Anyway,” I continue, giving in and deciding it's safer territory to talk about my day. “She seemed really happy with what we did by the time we left. Oh and Morgan took off half way through with no explanation. Totally weird.” She hadn't called to explain or even to see if I'd managed to get home, which is pretty low.

“
As lovely as Morgan may be she’s always been a little overly self-absorbed, dear. I’ve known that from when you were teenagers. Now, strain the rice and pop it in a pot with two cups of water.”

She adds
the vegetables to the pan, stirs them into the sauce and replaces the lid. My mum isn’t keen to share her emotions but clearly quite comfortable with offering her opinions on others.

“
No she's not!” I protect. “She was never a ‘Narci’, not like Brooke. Morgan's a sweetheart and I'm going to text her to make sure everything's all right.”

Feeling incensed on Morgan’s behalf
I walk out of the kitchen, grab my phone from my handbag and sit down. But there are no messages from Morgan, just one from Ben.

G8 2 C U. Drink?

I text back.

Yes! 2nite?

It’d be good to get out. My evenings back in Welly so far have comprised of dinner with Mum followed by an early night on the single sofa bed - that is when I’m not out having panic attacks at my cousin’s school musical.

Hardly a rock
‘n roll lifestyle.

I then text Morgan to ask if everything's
all right with her and my phone rings almost instantly. It's Morgan.

“
Hey babe, how did the rest of the session go?” she asks straight away.

“
Good. Put some more outfits together with her and she looked
a-mazing
in them. Such a transformation! You should have seen her, Morgs, she was so thrilled with the way she looked. She came over all emotional at one point, you know, clothes with special memories and all that, but I talked her through it, focusing on her new styling. Now she’s totally into it! We agreed to meet up to shop together on Friday.”

All the time we spend with a client is billable, so getting her to go shopping means more profit for us.

“Great. What time?”

“
Ten o’clock at Doreen’s Bakery. She liked your idea of going to the Willis St shops first, so I thought a place close by was the go. Seems she’s been a conservative department store shopper for years but wants to branch out. I really think we made a difference to her today, Morgs.”

I feel genuinely proud of how I'd pulled the session back on
track this afternoon and want Morgan to know I’m feeling more confident about my abilities as a stylist now as a result.

But all she does is screech down the line at
me. “
Doreen’s
?! What were you thinking? Why didn't you suggest someplace more stylie, more Wellington? Like Pravda or Mojo? We have an image to maintain, Jess. Get with the programme.”

“
Sorry,” I reply, defensively, feeling hurt.

Geez, what’s wrong with
Doreen’s? I used to love going there when I was a kid. Their lime milkshakes were incredible. “It's the first place I thought of and she seemed cool with it.”

And
more to the point, why hadn't she congratulated me on finishing off the session and making sure we got to the next step with her?

“
Well, you'll know for next time,” Morgan replies, her voice softening marginally.

“
And speaking of which, we have another new client. Tomorrow at three. I'll text you the deats. Someone who picked up our flyer at the Lifestyle Expo last month, which is cool. Hey I have to run, Jess.”

Before I have the chance to say another word
she hangs up. She didn't even tell me why she’d bailed on me or thanked me for doing such a good job.

What is
up
with her?

My phone
buzzes, breaking my train of thought. Another text from Ben.

OK.
Ancestral at 8?

Now that's more like it.
Hopefully the name of the bar isn’t an indication of the average age of the patron, however. Sipping a small glass of watered down sherry in a room-full of eighty-somethings isn’t quite what I had in mind for tonight. I might be pushing thirty but ancient I am most certainly not. That notwithstanding, having a bit of fun and a glass or two with my old buddy Ben sounds just what I need.

I text him back
without hesitation.

Abso
-bloody-lutely!

***

As I walk through the bar doors I’m immediately impressed by the large turnout for a Wednesday night. Of course you’d expect any night in London to be heaving, but not so in small, provincial Wellington. It’s also a very chic place - chrome, high ceilings, mirrored walls and cool, laid back lounge music. Feeling right at home I look around for Ben.

I walk over to the bar, catch the attention of the barman and order myself a mojito. Ben and I had some
legendary
nights on mojitos in London and it only seems appropriate to have one now at our inaugural Wellywood night out.

As I pay the barman and take my f
irst sip I turn around to look for Ben and brush arms with someone walking past. I look up to apologise and immediately catch my breath as I realise it’s Scott, American Tennis Adonis and subject of my unspeakable fantasies for the last day.

He’s traded in his tennis kit for a
slim fitting black shirt with two buttons undone at the neck, exposing a tanned, fuzz-free hint of muscular chest, and a pair of blue skinny jeans, tight enough to leave little to the imagination.

He looks like he should be selling aftershave on a billboard somewhere
, not standing next to me in a Courtenay Place bar.

“
Hey,” he drawls. “It’s New Girl. How are you doing, New Girl?”

He gives me a crooked smile, eyes crinkling at the edges, and the rest of the room seems to melt away
as I find myself once again incapable of averting my gaze.

My heart racing
, I stammer, “Good. Great. How are you? Scott, isn’t it?” I reply, attempting to sound blasé.

As if I hadn’t etched his name into my brain.

“Yeah. And you’re Jessica.” He contemplates me with thae same, lazy smirk he had on the tennis court. His smile broadens as a thought occurs to him. “The rabbit? Yeah, I can see that. Jessica Rabbit. Just need to dye your hair red and you’d be there.”

He takes some of my hair in his hand and I immediately
feel tingles run down my spine.

It’s hardly an original line and one I’ve heard a number of times
before, thanks to my less than model-thin physique and long, thick hair. And it really begs the question why some guys have the hots for cartoon characters, but it’s unquestionably sexy coming from Scott.

Although
I can never in my weirdest dreams imagine using a character from a cartoon as a way in which to flirt with someone (“You’re so hot and sexy, just like Bugs Bunny,” I coo seductively into his ear... You see? Not great), all I can do is smile at him and think how amazing it would be to kiss those lips of his and wrap my arms around his firm torso.

With me
just standing, smiling like a mute simpleton, he turns his gaze away from me and looks over my shoulder into his reflection in the mirror, smooths back his blonde hair, and then leans in and almost whispers into my ear.

“
Hey I have to go meet my friends. Coming to the session tomorrow?”

“
I was thinking about it,” I respond casually, trying not to notice his warm breath in my ear.

A
stable of wild horses couldn’t keep me away.

“
Cool, see you then. Bye Jessica Rabbit.” He saunters away from me, out of the door and into the bar’s covered garden area, which is abuzz with laughter, music and conversation.

I take a deep bre
ath in order to steady myself. It’s beyond any doubt in my mind he was unabashedly flirting with me just now and I can’t stop myself from smiling in delight at the thought, my heart slowly returning to it’s normal pace.

A rare case of Bubonic Plague couldn’t stop me from
attending Scott’s next Cardio Tennis session.

Lost in
my thoughts for what feels like an inexorably long amount of time I finally manage to get myself together enough to spot Ben at the other end of the bar, watching me with an amused look on his face. Deciding it’s best to ignore it, I smile and wave casually, indicating with my walking fingers I’ll move around the bar to where he’s perched.

As I reach him
he greets me with a warm hug. “Look at you, all dolled up. You look great, Jess.”

I’d made a bit of an effort this evening, dressed in a short black skirt,
high-heeled ankle boots and sparkly, floaty sleeveless shirt from Top Shop I can’t resist swinging every time I wear it. A very London look right now, I think with a regretful sigh.

“
Thanks. Not so bad yourself. On mojitos I see.”