The Alibi Girl. C.J. Skuse

recently started selling Avon on the side actually,’ says Steffi out of nowhere. ‘Would you be interested in a catalogue?’

      ‘Uh—’

      ‘And I’m organising a party at my place on Saturday night if you’re free?’

      I’ve done nothing to warrant this invitation but I’m imagining she gets the smell of money off me, knowing I have four children at private school. ‘It would be difficult,’ I say, between grunts. ‘Saturdays are our family days normally.’

      ‘Bring ’em all along. Our kids’ll be there. They can watch Disney in the family room. The blokes usually go down the pub.’

      ‘My Kaden doesn’t drink. He’s more into his coconut water and plankton shots.’

      ‘Well he can sit in the other room watching Ant and Dec, can’t he? Go on, it’ll be a laugh. I can’t promise any food but people usually only want Pringles and Prosecco at these things, don’t they? Bring a bottle.’

      ‘Well I can’t drink at the moment because I’m breastfeeding but it sounds great. I’d love to come. Thank you.’

      And while my lips are saying I’d love to, I know I won’t go. I’m breaking into a sweat thinking about it. I’m like Ariel in The Little Mermaid. I’m ginger and I want to be with them – up where they walk and run and play all day in the sun. But I can’t be part of that world. And I absolutely cannot be ginger. That’s just how it is.

      But I say no more and after divulging her address, Steffi doesn’t ask me again. She vigorously rubs my head and I’m in ecstasy. By the time we’re on the second shampoo I’m used to the sensations and I just want to feel the pressing of her fingers into my scalp; the rubbing and rinsing and smoothing; the kneading into my back and shoulders. I want to lie in this synthetic coconut paradise forever. I crane my neck through the archway and see Jodie rocking the buggy while scrolling her phone.

      The salon’s getting busy now and the radio blares out ‘Despacito’ which one of them has turned up because ‘this was all we danced to on our holidays’. They went to Spain together, I gather, three of the staff. They spent most of the time ‘paralytic’ but it seems to make them very happy hearing the song again. They’re obviously a close bunch. Natalya with the Princess Leia buns knows all the words and whisks her hips in time to the music. Steffi and Toni are behind me, bitch-chatting about their ex-husbands. Meg with the topknot is folding towels and chit-chatting to her client about her own disastrous holiday to ‘that place where Maddie went missing’.

      ‘It rained most days. And there were all these turds in the sea. Then we got robbed and came home.’

      The taps go off and the water stops to a drip, drip. The chair stops massaging and I keenly feel the loss. A grey towel stinking of cooked mince wraps around my head and I’m led back across the glittery floor to get dried and styled. Jodie’s disappeared to make coffee. The baby’s still sleeping, no thanks to her.

      Any softness in Steffi’s face from the conversation about kids has skinned over. She’s concentrating now – brushing me roughly as the burning air from the dryer sets about my head. She scrunches, ruffles and shakes me until I’m dry before straightening it into a jet black bob with my parting once again located.

      She affords me a few more seconds of bliss as she rakes it through, shielding my eyes while caking it with Elnet. Before I know it, she’s holding up the mirror. Black bob. Brown eyes. The red is dead. Nobody would know it was me.

      ‘That alright for you, Mary?’

      ‘That’s perfect, thanks so much.’

      ‘You’re very welcome.’ She removes my cape and I flick off the brake on the pushchair and wheel Emily over to the desk to pay. I’m expecting her to mention the Avon party again but she doesn’t.

      The radio waffles on – an advert for a conservatory firm, twenty-five percent off windows and doors, some aquatics company are giving away fish and it’s Kids Eat Free at the Jungle Café – none of which I can take advantage of but I pretend like it’s all very reasonable.

      Then the door opens with a little jingle and three men file in, one after the other. There’s no rush to their movements. The first two wipe their feet on the mat, the third wipes his nose on his sleeve. And my entire body floods with ice – I can’t move. They are loud and unapologetic. All laughter and smoker’s coughs.

      My breath catches – I know that laugh. The short, straw-haired one with predatory eyes and a cheeky-chappy smile, like his face is at odds with itself. He carries the air of someone with power. Power over the other two. It’s them. I know it is.

      Think rationally. Think logically. Breathe. Scants is always telling me I’m paranoid. It’s not them. It’s too much of a coincidence, them being here, me being here. Deeper breaths. Act normal. It’s three ordinary men. Three innocent customers.

      Steffi holds out her chubby mitt with the gold rings, her fingers like strangled chipolatas. ‘That’ll be £32.00 then Mary, thank you.’

      I can’t concentrate on anything but the three men. Three little pigs blowing my house down. I can smell their thick layers of aftershave. Aramis, unless I’m mistaken, and something else. Lynx or Old Spice. I can’t breathe.

      The short, stocky one with straw-coloured hair and brown camel coat starts in with an anecdote about a crash on the motorway which meant they were late for something. Late for what, I can’t figure – my brain’s too busy careening around bends. And the music’s too loud – screechy punk guitars now. The brown-haired one in the leather bomber jacket, skinny jeans and trainers does a selfie with the one they call Natalya – old mates? – while the third, built like a tank, is all knuckles and chins and seems happy to stand there, the limelight firmly on the other two. He’s the heavy. They’re all pally – Meg joins in, selfying with the brunette for Instagram. Two others join in – Jodie and Toni. Fawning like the men are rock stars. But I know them. I’ve seen them in my nightmares. And I know that laugh.

      I pay Steffi and tell her to put the change in the charity box. On the counter is a box of hand-knitted animals – lions, tigers and bears – all with a Halloween Scream Egg sewn inside the head with googly eyes stuck on. I want one but I also want to leave.

      ‘A customer makes them for the donkey sanctuary,’ Steffi explains, posting the coins in the tin. I know I’ve got to get out but I can’t decide which animal I want – a lion, a tiger or a bear. Bomber Jacket is coming towards the desk. He’ll stand beside me. He’ll see my face. I fumble for a knitted lion.

      ‘Thanks,’ I say, no more than a whisper. ‘Bye.’ I wheel the pushchair awkwardly towards the door.

      Steffi calls out, ‘Oh, and that Avon party I mentioned…’

      I’m forced to be rude and not answer her. Unbeknown to me, The Tank has followed me to the door and opens it for me before I can get there.

      I daren’t look up. But at the last second, before the door closes, I thank him briefly and we lock eyes. A shadow of a frown that’s either confusion or recognition.

      ‘Mind how you go now,’ he says, and his deep voice sends a freeze through me. Was it a Bristolian accent? Could have been. He only said five words but I caught a definite twang. Tears come and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. All I can think about is getting back to the flat and locking every door and window.

      ‘How are they here?’ I mutter to myself, trying to catch my breath, pushing the buggy back along the road until I’m practically running, back along the high street and onto the seafront. As I pass, the doughnut man sticks his head out of his van and calls out, ‘Charlotte! Charlotte! I saved you some fried doughnut holes!’ But I pretend like I haven’t heard him and keep running, looking behind every few steps to see if anyone’s following. They’re not, they’re definitely not, and there’s salt and sand in my eyes and my throat because it’s windy, but I don’t stop until I’m nearly back.

      I