Page 51 of The Stolen Child

This stopped Nicola in her tracks. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I desperately want to learn how to do what you do.’ Sally’s eyes implored the woman to take a chance on her. ‘I already have a job every night cleaning, but I don’t need much sleep. I can do both. I’ll sweep and mop your floors too. All I ask is that you teach me how to be a stylist.’

Nicola regarded her quizzically. ‘Oh my days. That’s a lot of work for you. You’re only a slip of a thing. How do I know that you won’t let me down?’

‘I’m small, but I’m strong. And I’m reliable.’ Sally pointed to the certificates and said, ‘I want to be like you. I want to have my own salon. I want to help make women feel beautiful, like you did with that lady who just left. I saw how she looked at herself in the mirror before she walked out the door. You did that. I want to learn how to do that too.’

Nicola’s face broke out in a smile. Sally guessed she was about her mother’s age, with fine lines dancing around her mouth and eyes. She had glossy brunette hair that hung in a high ponytail.

‘You’ve got something about you – I’ll give you that. Spunky. Tell me more about this cleaning job of yours,’ Nicola said.

‘I work five nights a week, Monday through Friday, cleaning office blocks. I start at seven-thirty each night and get home by five a.m. So I could be at the salon every morning. If you give me a chance, you won’t regret it – I promise you. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll go, no questions asked.’

Nicola drummed her red manicured nails on the Formica top of the tall desk. She was going to say no. But at least Sally had tried. And she’d keep on trying, like Sister Jones had made her promise to do.

‘I open at nine o’clock every day. How on earth can you come in here with no more than three hours of sleep,’ Nicola said, shaking her head in disbelief.

‘Please. I want this. Give me a shot, at least,’ Sally begged.

‘I must need my head tested. On a trial basis, you can work half days from Tuesdays to Saturdays. We’re closed on Mondays. You can start at midday, until four o’clock. That way, my conscience is clear that you’ll at least get a few hours of sleep every night.’

A wide grin broke out on Sally’s face. She could hardly believe her ears.

‘You need to wear something smart. And put some make-up on, for the love of God. You’re too pale. How in this heat you’ve managed to avoid a sun tan, I don’t know,’ Nicola said.

Sally threw her arms round the woman and hugged her tight as she thanked her repeatedly. ‘I won’t let you down – you’ll see. See you on Tuesday!’

Then Sally practically floated home to her flat. As Sister Jones had urged, she’d chased her dreams, and it looked as if she’d finally caught one!

BEFORE

June 1976

Sally

Doddington Estate, Battersea Park Road, London

Sally hummed to herself as she plugged the shower hose into the tap in the bath. Then she squealed as the ice-cold water hit her. They’d announced on the six o’clock news this evening that the water ban was over. Traditional British summer weather was to return this week, with the heat wave finally ending after a thirteen-day streak.

She put on her favourite jeans and T-shirt, then took two rollers from her fringe that she’d put in when she’d got back from the salon, flicking the curls off her face until they fell into loose waves.

She grabbed the gift she’d wrapped earlier that week and left the apartment.

The lifts were out of order again. This usually annoyed her, but nothing could dampen her mood today. She heard the sounds of kids laughing and shouting as she crossed the concrete courtyard to get to Elsie’s block. A couple of girls had used chalk to draw out squares and were playing hopscotch. A little boy, no more than three, was peddalling furiously on his tricycle, and another group of boys were kicking a football. Sally wasn’t sure she would ever get used to this high-density development, vast and high, with thousands crammed into the small spaces. The flats reminded Sally of Lego pieces stacked on top of each other.

Her butterflies were back as she knocked on Elsie’s door. She was unsure how Elsie would take her good news about Elite. Sally knew that Elsie would be happy for her – of course, she would – but she’d noticed a change in Elsie since their time together in the orphanage. A hardness had crept into her friend.

‘Door’s open,’ Elsie’s voice called out. Sally walked into the flat, where Elsie sat at her dining-room table, applying lipstick in front of a small vanity mirror.

Elsie’s radio cassette sat on the table and a news reporter read the seven o’clock news.

‘I’m shattered. I think I might fall asleep into my lager tonight.’

‘Me too,’ Sally admitted, her ears pricking up when she heard the words ‘Yorkshire Ripper’.

The newsreader continued: ‘Police investigating the Jack the Ripper-style killings in Yorkshire have issued a warning to women – beware of accepting lifts from strangers. And Assistant Chief Constable Jim Hobson, of Leeds CID, has appealed to prostitutes in the Chapeltown area to report any assaults or threats against them in the past twelve months.’

Elsie reached over and switched the news off.