‘Well, did you tell them we’re not taking him, that I won’t have it, that we have a fifteen-year-old girl in the house and I’m not allowing some strange teenage boy we don’t know to live under the same roof as her. Did you? Did you tell them that, Tom?’

I must be shouting now because I seem to be attracting the attention of passers-by. Every second person is turning to look at me. Hiding my face to the wall I listen to Tom’s voice moaning at the far end of the phone.

‘I told them all that, they said there would be a social worker coming out to talk to us this evening. How quickly can you get home?’

‘Tom, you can tell the cops to shove their social worker up their uniformed arses. I’m not taking that boy into our house and that’s final.’

My shaking hand struggles to end the call.

‘You tell ’em,’ a passer-by shouts as I turn around, tears streaming down my face. This is unbelievable. Tom is beginning to sound like he’s prepared to entertain the idea. Does he not hear me? Can he not see the madness of it all? I know the kid needs somewhere to go, I get that and I really feel sorry for the boy. His mom is dead, he only recently found out who his father is. He must feel like his whole world is collapsing around him and as much as I’d love to be able to help him I have my own kids to think about. What would it do to them having a stranger living under the same roof? There has to be a better way, there has to be someone else. We’re probably just the first and easiest option. Then again Tom is his dad. Oh, I don’t know what to think.

Wiping the tears on the sleeve of my shirt I walk towards the salon door just as Megan steps outside.

‘Here.’ She pulls me to the side of the entrance and hands me a tissue. ‘Girl, you’re going to have to tell someone what’s going on. I’m not suggesting me but there has to be someone you can share your problem with, Sal. You’ve been in bits since Saturday and I’m guessing it’s something to do with that teenage kid whose hair you were doing when you collapsed.’

‘I’m okay, Megan. Thanks.’

Deep breaths, pink lipstick and I’m walking back into the salon. Megan is right, I do need to talk to someone, but not her. This is my work place, my sanctuary: if I drag my problem in here where can I escape to?