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I peek at her scalp, looking for evidence. I can’t find anything other than blonde strands. “Yer too young for gray hair.”
“Not when your brother is Callum Burnes. Just wait. A few years of being married to him? You’ll see. You’ll be as gray as grandma.” Seeing my reflection, she stops herself. “I mean, if you marry him…”
I try to ease her discomfort. “I think I know what you mean already, just from living with him,” I say.
“Yes, I’m sure you do. Now, hold still while I put on your lashes. I need to see the full picture. I need to make sure yer blonde bob doesn’t turn you into a Karen.”
“Karen?” I close my eyes, trying not to move as she presses a delicate strip of long black lashes against my skin.
She talks as she works. “Have you never heard the term? I must have picked it up at work. You know, Karen? American moms from the early 2000s with the blonde bobs. The ones who complain to the manager and think the world revolves around them.”
“Goodness. I’d crawl under a rock before complaining to a manager.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I could never complain. I once ate an entire meal of blood sausages because I thought telling them they gave me the wrong plate was rude. I’d ordered a grilled cheese.”
“Aw, bless! Yer no Karen.” She gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. I love how instantly she accepts me just as I am yet still encourages me to go outside my comfort zone. “Yer as sweet as honey. That’s why yer my little Fi-bee.” Her honey reference makes me blush as I remember Callum tasting his fingers the first day I arrived at the house.
Others have weaponized my sweetness at times, like Carol Ann, who I love to death but who often likes to give me a hard time about my docile nature. Freya and Callum appreciate my softness.
I stare at the mirror. “Do I look like a Karen?”
“No, it’s just the bob cut. You look fantastic.”
“Poor Karens,” I say. “They were unlucky, being named Karen in the first place, I guess.”
She carefully applies red lipstick to hide my natural tones.
It takes a full fifteen minutes to pack all her gorgeous waist-length hair under two layers of wig caps, then tuck it all underneath Kimmie. When she’s done, she looks incredible, as always.
Envy creeps up as I take in her long legs, tanned skin, and beautiful face. Her complexion is just as dewy in brunette hair as in blonde. She wears a padded bra, an attempt to change her shape.
“You truly look good in anything, don’t you?” I say.
Brushing off my comment, she loops her arm in mine. “Okay, baby bee. Let’s go. It's time to dive deep undercover. Marilyn Monroe and Kimmie Double D, to the rescue!”
Freya is determined to take me out on the town and get me to a dance club for a girls’ night out without Callum knowing. She’s decided we’ve got to go undercover, disguising our identities so word doesn’t get back to him that she’s snuck me out.
“Here’s a trick I learned as a girl on the island.” Slipping her heels off, she carries them in one hand. “Less noisy.”
“Did you sneak out a lot?” I whisper.
“God, yeah. Didn’t you? Och, no, wait. You were a good girl, weren’t you? Good for your mum. That’s why she had so many less grays than mine. I’ll bet you were a dream to have around the house, a godsend helping with all those boys.”
“Thank you,” I say. I grip the back straps of my heels in the crook of my finger. “She called me her little helper.”
“Bless.” She holds the back door open for me, and we step out of the house and into the garden, the night air crisp and refreshing. My bare feet press into the soft, cool grass. We slip on our shoes.
Freya guides me down the street, her long legs striding purposefully. I walk behind her, my steps somewhat hesitant in my borrowed identity. The wig feels strange on my head, and the false lashes and bold lipstick make me feel almost like a different person. But I trust Freya—and even her alter ego, Kimmie Double D—to help me navigate this strange world.
I teeter on my high heels, tugging down the hem of my mini dress.
As we walk, I mimic Freya's confident gait and take in my surroundings. The streets are busy, even at this earlier hour of eight p.m. People in all sorts of attire pass us by, some dressed for a night out, others in casual clothes. A group of teenagers laugh loudly as they walk past us, their colorful sneakers squeaking on the pavement.
“Right, snacks first. You’ve got to have a full tummy to drink Cosmos.” Freya leads me to a nearby pub, the familiar scent of beer and fried food wafting onto the street. My stomach grumbles at the delicious smells, and I realize I haven't eaten since lunch.
We enter the dimly lit pub and find a table in the corner. There’s live music tonight, and a few men are playing a traditional ballad on their instruments. It’s one I recognize, a song often played at the Hobgoblin.
Freya orders for us as I survey the crowd. We sit, giggling at our costumes as we snack on cheese-covered fries and drink sparkling water in preparation for our long night out. We clear our table, and she gives me an excited grin. “Ready to dance? The girls from the law firm are meeting us there.”
“Yeah,” I say, pasting on a smile.
