One last blow-dry to complete and then it’s time for my break. But before that much-needed moment arrives, my phone beeps. This time I don’t care if Meg pulls me up. I’m not waiting until I’ve finished with my client to find out who it is. I’m too anxious, which is another side effect of the world being pulled out from under you. Anxiety.

Making my apologies to the woman who’s flicking through the pages of Hello! magazine in the seat in front of me, I head to the toilet. It’s Tom, texting me to ring him ASAP. My heart starts that overexcited beat again, thumping in my chest like the tribal dance of worry. Well, it’s going to have to keep playing – I can’t reply now. I can’t leave a client with her hair dripping at my station any longer. I text him back.

I’ll be free to ring in twenty

The fact that Christina Murray’s dress is not what she intended to wear to the awards ceremony – her first choice having been ruined in the dry cleaners – is of absolutely no interest to me. But I can’t tell her that. I must listen and where possible nod in agreement. If my mind was not obsessed with finding out what Tom is about to tell me I would do a lot better. Relay some similar disastrous experience of my own or that of a client, family member, neighbour, friend. Anything or anyone to keep her thinking I’m totally involved in her story. That’s what I do, what we all do. Make the clients feel like they matter. Being able to style hair is just one of the skills needed for the job.

Christina Murray has become sidetracked by a woman, a competitor, sitting at the other end of the salon. Apparently both ladies are up for the same award. Bereft of curiosity, I don’t ask her what the award is for but I do remark on how Christina’s hair is definitely the better of the two. She laughs at my confidence, placing a fiver tip on the shelf before leaving to pay at the reception. Without bothering with coffee, I head out of the salon to the anonymity of the busy street.

Tom answers before the second ring.

‘They’re not buying it, Sal.’

‘Not buying what?’

‘Kenny.’

‘What about Kenny?’ Mentioning his name is like drinking poison. I want to gag after saying it. I know it’s wrong, this is not the kid’s fault, but he should not be my problem.

‘They’re saying he has no other next of kin, that I’m the only family. His grandparents are both dead and the mother has no siblings that anyone knows of.’