Blood Sisters: Can a pledge made for life endure beyond death?. Julie Shaw

Vic, it doesn’t make the time go faster the more you look at the clock, you know. He’ll get here when he gets here.’

      Vicky pursed her lips. ‘Silly mare,’ she muttered, as she wiped round the adjacent sink for the second time. ‘That’s not why I’m clock-watching. I just want today to be finished because I’m going to a party, that’s all.’

      And, despite Leanne being right about Paddy – which was infuriating – she was as keen to get to the party as anything else. It had been over a week since she’d had any sort of communication with Lucy and, since their last chat, when Vicky had phoned to apologise and Lucy had been so chippy, it was constantly preying on her mind.

      She wondered if this was the way it was going to be between them now. That without the glue of school – the easy companionship, the shared endeavour, the physical proximity to one another – their friendship was destined to wither. They were both working full-time now, several miles away from one another, and Vicky still smarted at how Lucy had so casually alluded to the new workmates she had been going out with that night.

      But key to all of it (and Vicky still cursed herself for letting Paddy dictate terms that night, even as part of her felt Lucy had been over-reacting) was the increasing enmity between their respective boyfriends. Yes, it was true that she had her own issues – she knew she should stand up for herself more, rather than be dictated to by a best friend and a boyfriend with such strong personalities – but none of that would be an issue without the boys.

      She checked the colourant trolley to see if it needed restocking. She simply couldn’t see what Lucy saw in Jimmy. Yes, he was okay looking, but he was about as much fun as a wet weekend in Blackpool, and, being a copper’s son, was often hard to relax around. Like Paddy often said, you really could almost see him sniffing the air, looking for signs of wrongdoing to tell his dad about. His dad who wasn’t just any old copper – who was a detective inspector with the vice squad.

      That Paddy hated Jimmy was a longstanding and understandable fact, particularly now, when he was getting in so much deeper with the terrifying Mo. About which she gnawed on a kernel of constant worry, and could only hope that the garage, under Paddy’s capable stewardship, did well enough that he could leave off the drug dealing. Lucy’s voice kept coming back to her, increasingly coolly and critically. He’s a bloody criminal, Vic. That’s what I don’t like about him. But if that’s the sort of lad you want …

      That was the problem. She did.

      Her client’s hair washed, Leanne had taken her back to be blow-dried, and both were now looking at Vicky through the wall mirror. Leanne bent down slightly to chat into her client’s ear. ‘We know different, don’t we, Mrs Gallagher? We clocked the way she fluttered those eyelashes of hers last time he was in.’

      It was banter, that was all. Everyday hairdressing gossip. Nothing meant by it particularly. Just a bit of teasing. But already she was finding it irritating. And, as she went to make a last cup of coffee of the day for them all, it was with a riposte on her mind, if not actually on her tongue, that last time Paddy had been in, if she wasn’t mistaken, it had been Leanne who’d been fluttering her bloody eyelashes.

      It shouldn’t matter – she knew that, because Paddy so obviously adored her – but Leanne was pretty, too. And, if Vicky’s hunch was correct, she wouldn’t let the small matter of Paddy being taken bother her, not if she really had set her sights on him.

      ‘Here you go,’ she said, bringing Leanne’s coffee back out, and placing it on the reception desk as Mrs Gallagher was paying. ‘I’m going to carry on cleaning in the back while I drink mine. Give us a shout when my Paddy gets here, will you?’

      ‘Will do,’ Leanne replied. Then she grinned at Mrs Gallagher. ‘In fourteen and a half minutes and counting …’

      Forcing herself to ignore it, Vicky returned to the back room. Leanne was okay, really. Just a flirt and a bit of a know-all – which was fair enough, Vicky supposed, since she’d been there two years, and knew so much more about everything than Vicky did; she’d reached that precious milestone – she was even allowed to cut and perm now. And Vicky enjoyed it for the most part, particularly on those days when it was just the girls in, the boss, Francis, being a force to be reckoned with – he ruled the salon like a dictator.

      The washing machine whirred to the end of its spin cycle, so she pulled towels from the drum and began folding them. No, on balance, working here was just fine. And who knew? Once she and Leanne got to know one another better, perhaps she’d have a new friend as well.

      Or maybe not. She emerged with a fresh pile of towels to find Paddy leaning casually against the counter. On the other side of which was Leanne, busy cashing up, apparently, but clearly busier laughing at something Paddy had just said to her, and in that simpering fashion every girl knew so well.

      Vicky marched across to the cubbyholes the towels were stored in. ‘I thought you were going to call me,’ she said to Leanne as she pushed the pile in. Then, because she couldn’t stop herself, ‘but you’re clearly too busy.’

      The words dropped out of her mouth and felt heavier than she’d intended.

      Paddy laughed, then, as if specifically to wind her up, leaning across the counter. ‘I told you she was jealous to death,’ he said.

      The towels safely stashed, Vicky stalked across the salon to fetch her jacket. ‘You’re such a div,’ she told Paddy, who was now standing grinning at her. ‘As if I’m bloody jealous of you!’ It was pointed. It was meant to be. Paddy’s jealousy was legendary. A bloke so much as glanced at her and he could turn caveman in a second. She swung her coat around and pulled it on, smiling sweetly at Leanne. ‘Take no notice of this idiot, Lee,’ she said, regaining her composure. ‘He fancies himself as a bit of a ladies’ man.’ She then turned to Paddy and slapped him on the back. ‘Come on then, loser. Let’s get home and ready to party.’

      Paddy winked and saluted as Vicky shoved him out the front door. ‘Don’t hate me, Vic,’ he pleaded, while ducking another slap. ‘I can’t help it if the birds all love me, can I?’

      ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ she huffed, even though she wasn’t even cross with him anymore. Possession, after all, was nine-tenths of the law and, as Vicky so often reminded herself, it took two to tango, and her Paddy, much as he loved to flirt with girls, had never expressed any desire to tango with anyone else but her.

      Paddy had parked his latest old banger down on Ivegate. It was a bright blue Ford Capri with naff go-faster stripes down it, and despite looking like it belonged in some ancient 1970s TV cop show, it was his pride and joy. Though that was mainly down to the fact that it had a brand new Pioneer tape deck installed in the dashboard, which meant that, coupled with the speakers he’d installed front and back, he could play his beloved Northern Soul music whenever he was driving. Well, blast it out for all to hear, more accurately. He was a bit like the crocodile that swallowed the clock in Peter Pan – you could always hear him coming before you saw him. Not least because he was fast becoming a dying breed – apart from her (and Vicky knew that it was only because of him anyway) Paddy was the only person she knew who still listened to it.

      And looking at him now, as they made their way down Ivegate towards the car, she could see he was hoping they’d be playing it at Vikram’s party. Despite the heat, he was wearing his long leather trenchcoat, over baggy black trousers and a white Fred Perry T-shirt. And as ever, she conceded, he carried it off.

      ‘What should I wear, Pad?’ she asked, once they were both in the car and the music was blaring at the max. She’d learned over time that it was always worth getting his input, in part because she liked to look good for him, obviously, but also because you never knew what ‘good’ might comprise. Sometimes he liked to show her off, and have her dress to the nines, but others – if he was in one of his periodic grumpy moods, he’d tell her she looked slutty if she turned out like that, telling her to tone down the make-up and cover herself up, reminding her that she was his, and his alone. What she’d never quite worked out was what either mood was based on. Mercurial, that’s what