Cowboys and Englishmen

Chapter One   'I can never get anything right.' I grimaced, almost unable to look at the orange stripes currently adorning my head. Perhaps if I closed my eyes and pinched myself, I'd discover that this was just a bad dream. A very bad, hair dye disastrous dream. But pinching didn't work. Great chunks of brassy, bleached segments stood out against my natural brown barnet. Why I thought I could undertake a tricky highlighting job, I'll never know. 'It'll calm down a little. The girl in the YouTube clip said it takes a few washes to....' 'To get rid of the tiger look?' I clutched at the wet clumps of frazzled hair, staring in dismay at Donna Collins, my best friend. Sister from another mister, partner in crime, BFF, and right now the person I would most like to strangle. In the whole, wide, world. 'I think it said about using blue shampoo? We could try that?' Donna was only half listening to me; her eyes were glued to a half-naked Ryan Gosling on the tv. But even gorgeous Ryan couldn't distract me from this catastrophe. Abs or no abs. Le sigh. 'Blue shampoo?!' I glared at her, wondering what she was on. It wasn't unlike Donna to come out with some daft comment. She'd been doing it since the day we met. Sometimes it was endearing, other times, like today, not so much. 'Might have been purple? Maybe?' I groaned, eyes finding my forlorn looking purse on the coffee table. I had barely enough money to get me to the wedding in three days time. Let alone enough to visit a hairdresser and have them rescue my train wreck of a dye job. Donna was skint too, having just bought the third pair of shoes this month that she 'really needed'. 'I'm sure when you wake up tomorrow you'll look like a sun kissed Californian surf princess.' Donna enthused, tapping her chipped pink nail against the box of 'Honey Highlights'. Right above a woman wearing a pink bikini and smiling inanely. No way would I look like the bikini clad blonde. I was at least fifty pounds heavier and my hair was more Ronald Mc Donald than surf chic. In fact, the more I looked at the woman on the box, the more I wanted to strangle her, too. 'I'm going to have to wear a hat until I can get this fixed.' I slumped down defeatedly next to Donna, scooping up a handful of Maltesers and practically inhaling them. 'But the irony here is that my hair is only marginally worse than my bridesmaids dress.' We both winced as our eyes fell upon the horror that my sister, Melissa, had chosen for her seven bridesmaids to wear. The garment was described as ‘lemon yellow’ but in reality it glowed a radioactive shade of neon. Ghastly layers of chiffon gave it a frothy feel, and made me look like I'd put on two stone. Melissa has gushed that the dresses were exquisitely detailed, like wearing spring itself. And I wondered whether my mother had dropped her on her head as a baby. My chances of snaring a dishy usher or the best man would be scuppered before I even arrived. And now I had the matching hair-do for the fashion crime hanging off my living room door. Marvellous. But little did I know, things were about to get a whole lot worse. Enter my overbearing mother, one sandwich short of a picnic, one runway short of an airport, and a woman more glamorous than Miss Jackie Collins herself. My mum is so consumed with finding me a husband that she sends me a rundown of the top ten men she finds on online dating sites, every single week. Now, with my younger sister getting married, mum had upped her game, conveniently having me bump into men she'd hand-picked. While we were out shopping, at one of her 'ladies tea parties', even whilst accompanying me to my smear test. I kid you not. 'Hello darling!' Mum greeted, as if she were greeting a live studio audience instead of her eldest daughter. Mums over the top greetings are as fake as her boobs. 'Hi mum.' I plastered on a smile, because I knew her drop by visits were anything but brief and once she stepped into the light she'd not be able to disguise the horror on her face when she caught sight of my hair. Too late, of course. 'Oh Sammy love, is this the new fashion? Darling it looks absolutely repellent.' Good old mum, never one to hold back with the old punches. 'Della dear, doesn't her hair look tragic?' Mum can't be bothered to learn anyone's name. Unless royalty, almost all people are beneath her. Donna sank back into the sofa, like she thought my mismatched cushions would camouflage her. Donna Collins is not mother’s biggest fan. 'Thanks Mum. I was trying a new trend. But enough about my hair, what brings you here?' I'd turned distracting mum into an art, desperate to avert her attention from me. Mum eyed the flat warily, like she always did, as if she assumed a black mamba might launch itself from the airing cupboard, or a drug dealer might be lurking in the kitchen cooking crystal meth. The first few months of living here she insisted on having my brother in law escort her here for fear of being kidnapped. It's Southend on sea. Not the ghetto. But our family home was in Kensington, a large, eight bedroom affair, with more staff than an NHS hospital, so this was considered unsavoury turf to mum. She's never had a cup of tea here; I think she assumes water sanitation hasn't left London yet. Mum looked at Donna, as if considering sitting down on my sofa. And then she thought better of it. 'Honey bun, I ran into Scott today. You remember Scott?' Why did she always say things like that? Of course I remembered Scott. He was my boyfriend of seven years, a guy I met whilst studying creative writing at university. When Uni ended we bought the flat together, wanting a place by the sea, dreaming of lazy days on the beach with our vintage Nikon cameras. In fact, the spot where Donna sat right now? He proposed there, in his family guy pyjama bottoms and his hair wild and sleep mussed. It didn't take long before the romantic notion of living by the sea, and being together 24/7 gave Scott cabin fever. Loads of our friends were getting married and having kids and one night I came home and his bags were packed. He told me that he was too young for marriage, or engagement. He wanted to see the world. The usual rubbish. And just like that, Scott was gone. 'Did he look well?' The truth was I couldn't care less what he looked like, but mum looked like she was waiting for a response, so I indulged her. 'Oh he did! He's got a new job; he's an editor at Harper Collins! Isn't that incredible? He's really grown into his looks; he was wearing this gorgeous suit. Armani I think?' Mum smiled at the memory, 'Yes it must have been A rmani because I remember I'd just been looking at Armani suits with Melissa. Did I tell you who her brother in law is bringing to the wedding?' I sighed; she could never, ever stay on point. 'You were talking about Scott?' I reminded her, maybe a little impatiently. 'Oh yes! Well he and Miranda had a boy!' 'Sorry, who now?' 'Scott darling! Keep up!' Mum rolled her eyes and passed a knowing look to Donna, who sensibly stayed out of this. 'I meant who's Miranda?' 'Miranda dear! Scott's wife! We keep in touch via email. She's a lovely girl, if a little high pitched, but she has the most immaculate nails! And her shoes! I forgot to ask her where she got them; I'll have to send her a little message later!' Mum broke off, because at this point I was holding the bridge of my nose and reminding myself to take deep breaths. I'm not usually this stressy, but first my financial situation, then the hair, and now my commitment phobic ex having a wife? And did she say they had a baby? 'Well I just wanted to tell you that the tot was born last Thursday. In case you wanted to send a gift basket. He's called Gabriel. Isn't that such a gorgeous name Sammy boo?' I felt sick, bile clambered up the back of my throat at a rate of knots and I steeled myself against the kitchen door frame. Scott and I had talked about kids once upon a time. Gabriel was the name I suggested, as we playfully discussed having two boys and two girls, laid on this very living room floor. And now, not only had he moved on, going against everything he insisted, to marry some woman with perfect nails. But now they had a son. And he'd stolen my name. 'Well I just thought I'd pop by with the lovely news sweetie! I should be going; your sister wants me to sample cake with her. They decided on a chocolate tiered cake but now she's having second thoughts! But I'll drop by tomorrow; I've found you the perfect date for the wedding!' Before I could protest, or say anything more, mum repeated her ridiculous air kissing and scurried off into the night, holding a bottle of pepper spray out to ward off the hoards of attackers lying in wait for her. And I returned to Donna, face planting in the bowl of chocolate with the sudden urge to find Miranda on Face book and gleefully discover that she was some ugly troll. But I knew that the way my day had gone, she was some supermodel. Like the bloody woman on the hair dye box.