When I come home, Mum has a plan set out.

“This week you’re coming to work with me.”

I place my racquet on the stairs ready to carry up later.

“You’re coming to the salon,” she says as though I didn’t hear. “I don’t like the idea of you cooped up in this house by yourself all day.”

I can see where she’s coming from. Ever since my father died, she’s been on edge about security even though it was only a freak accident. As much as she tries to hide it and give me a good life, it’s always there in the back of her mind.

“What about my school work?” I ask, not because I want to get out of going to work with her, but because I’m genuinely concerned about my education.

“You can bring it with you.” Then, with a small, guilty smile she says, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No.”

“You can help by sweeping up hair and little things like that. It’ll certainly make Andre happy.”

My mother has been working as a hairdresser at the same salon for over fifteen years. She’s been getting the same pay for that long too. She hadn’t really minded it – my Dad gained most of the money anyway. But then, again, when he passed away, Mum realised there wasn’t enough money to go round so she asked for a pay rise. Her employer, Andre, said no and, after three years, they’ve been fighting about it ever since.

It does no good that Andre is also Megan’s father – that was how Megan and I became friends in the first place – and now he’s being even stingier since I raced Megan for Dayson.

“Just leave,” I’ve told Mum on many occasions.

“How, Chandy?” she said one time, tone desperate. “How the actual fuck... how?”

She swore a lot, but I didn’t mind.

“It’ll make Andre very happy,” I say now, dryly, “seeing your daughter tagging along. The daughter that attacked his daughter. I bet you he’s got a lot on his hands right now. Like arguing with you.”

“Chandy, please.” Her tone, like that last time, is desperate. There’s something in her eyes that I can’t seem to work out. And then it hits me.

Fear.

Mum’s terrified of him, I realise.

I set my jaw, grit my teeth.

“I’m coming,” I say. “I’m absolutely going with you.”

* * *

“You’re starting tomorrow,” she tells me. And then, as though to prevent me from backing out she goes, “I already called them and they said yes.”

The next day, I know what I have to do. When I get there, I’m going to have a good old talk with him and Mum’s getting the pay rise and that will be it.

We leave promptly. Mum closes the door, swinging her car keys on her finger. It’s a common habit but it eases me.

We ride there in silence. Looking out of the window, I suddenly realise how ugly London is. Not the bright lights by the river or the majestic Big Ben and glorious walks through Hyde Park. I mean the backroads, the side-streets, and the gum spotting the tarmac. It’s all grey.

When we arrive, the car park is almost empty. Mum clicks off the engine and the car is silent.

“I get it you’re mad at him,” says Mum, “but he’s my employer. So don’t do anything rash.”

Nothing rash.

Oh no, I’m going to be as reckless as I can.

The heating hits us as we walk inside. I’m also welcomed to the smell of rose and sweet-smelling shampoos. If I breathe in deeper, I can catch a hint of the harsh reality of the chemicals underneath.

Andre is rather like that. On the exterior he seems like a reasonable man. Good-looking, well-trimmed beard devoid of grey hairs, caramel eyes that twinkle in the fluorescent lights of the salon. His round face, large, and welcoming hands give the impression of a friendly bloke. But all I can see is a man who won’t give my mother higher pay.

“Fiona!” he calls in his warm voice, his arms spread out in greeting. “And your dear little Chandy!”

I meet his broad lips with a dark scowl.

“Come through, dears. Fiona”—he turns to Mum—“your clients are waiting. Check the reservations list for who. And Chandy, sweetie”—his bright eyes meet mine—“you’ll have to do smaller errands for us. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I say tersely.

“Great!” He claps his huge hands together. “Let’s begin!”

He disappears after that. I can’t get a word with him. Sighing, I take the broom from the cupboard and begin sweeping up after the ‘snip-snip’ of my mother’s scissors.

* * *

After an hour of washing everyone’s manky hair, blow-drying it and then eventually sweeping it up, I finally see my chance.

Andre appears from his office. As he passes me, I set down the broom.

“Andre,” I call. “Can I have a word?”

“Not right now,” he sing-songs. “I’m in the middle of talking to a customer.”

I walk up to him anyway. There’s no customer in sight, only him flicking through the reservations on the computer. It seems the receptionist, Maria, has gone for her break.

“I need to talk to you.”

He looks up, feigning innocence. “Whatever about, my Chandy-pie?”

I grit my teeth. It’s the same name Megan called me.

Maybe when he goes home from work and she gets home from school they think of nicknames to call me.

“My Mum,” I say.

His smile widens. “I see.”

I physically square myself, hoping he’ll see it as a sign that I mean business. “You need to raise her pay.”

“And I presume you fight her battles for her?” He flicks through a beauty products catalogue, seemingly bored.

A growl almost escapes my lips. “She’s asked you for three years!”

“And I’ve said no every time.” He stands up, pushing the catalogue away. “Do you want to know why?”

What? I want to scream at him.

“Because of what you did to my daughter.” He rubs his hands together as though he’s dusting them off. “Good day to you.”

I side-step him. “No, this isn’t over yet, Andre-pie.”

He seems bemused at that, as though he likes getting a returning taste of his own medicine.

“You’re giving my mum higher pay and you’re doing it now.” I glance around. “Now, where’s the cheque book?”

“In my office under lock and key, which you will not be getting into. If you do, I might have a good idea to call the police.”

“But why? Why are you being so horrible?”

He blows air hard out of his mouth as though the answer is obvious. I suppose it is but I want to hear him say it.

“You befriended my daughter. A sweet little thing you claimed to be. But I can see right through that thick, pretty, blonde head of yours. You’re nothing more than an attention-seeking child who grapples at every boy in her sight and leaves her friend thrown in the dust when she gets what she wants. That’s who you are to me, Chandy Dixon, a self-centred, vicious beast who attacks my daughter in the school canteen. And if that’s the price that your mother has to pay then so be it.”

There’s something boiling in my blood, something red-hot.

“So this is about me?” I can’t help but raise my voice. Then, when he doesn’t reply, I scream, “Give me the fucking cheque book!”

“Right!” His hand slams down on the counter. “Leave! I can’t afford to have someone so disruptive working in this building – you’ll only inflict your demonic nature onto my coworkers.”

“What’s going on?” Maria, the receptionist has come back. She must have seen my face because she only repeats the question again.

“Leave!” Andre screams in answer. “And when you return, be sure to show a little more respect!”

I’m out of the door before I can start hearing him apologising to the customers.

Mum’s words from before ring in my head. Don’t do anything rash.

Well, fuck it. I’ve never been a rule keeper.