‘No!’

Oh dear, I didn’t think so, and I simply couldn’t bear to discuss unfaithful husbands.

‘He has found another love.’

To my horror, a tear zoomed down her cheek, then another and another.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

‘But still he sleeps in my house and eats my food and rings this whore on my phone bill!’

‘That’s really terrible.’

‘Yes, my sorrow is great. But I am strong!’

‘Good for you.’

Then she seemed to notice my hair for the first time in ages. ‘Your bangs are too long,’ she said mournfully.

‘Ah, no they’re fine!’

But it was too late. She was reaching for the scissors, then she was cutting and all the while tears filled her eyes, blinding her vision. Blinding her vision.

It only took two or three seconds for the terrible damage to be done. One second I had normal hair, the next my fringe was a pure diagonal, as if I was a New Romantic. At its shortest point it was less than an inch long. Appalled, I gazed into the mirror. Reza might as well have gone the whole hog and given me a Mohican. And what could I say? I could hardly berate her, a woman in her condition. (Not that I would anyway. Don’t we all know that it’s harder to be honest with hairdressers than it is to get a camel through the eye of a storm, or whatever it is.)

Feeling sick, I paid up. Then, my hand over my forehead, I hurried towards home. But as I passed the Goatee Boys’ house, Ethan opened a window and yelled, ‘Hey Maggie, your bangs look kinda weird.’

In no time, in a reprise of my last visit to Reza, the three lads were on the street examining me.

‘I think it’s cool,’ Luis said.

‘I don’t. I’m too old for novelty hair-dos. Have you any suggestions for fixing it?’

Luis studied me thoughtfully. ‘Yeah.’

‘Great. Tell me.’

‘Let it grow.’

At least the whooping noises from Emily’s room had stopped. They must have gone to sleep. The sky had clouded over and it was fearfully hot, so I turned the air-con up full, watched telly and willed my hair to grow. This was like a sign: I’d never impress Shay Delaney. It just wasn’t going to happen.

Around five, Emily emerged in her robe and wandered about yawning and smoking, then saw me and stumbled in fright. ‘What happened to your HAIR?’

‘Reza.’

‘Why did you go back after the last time?’

‘Because I’m a fucking eejit,’ I said disconsolately. ‘Is there anything you can do?’

She tried to pick up the shortest bit of the fringe. ‘’Hmmm,’ she said speculatively. ‘Let’s see. I’ll get some stuff.’

Minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom with a ton of gear for taming unruly hair – gels, wax and spray – and rummaged through them. ‘I think we’ll need warp factor ten. Class A. The hard stuff.’ She showed me a tin of wax. ‘They use this on horses, you know.’

While she was coaxing the lard-like horse wax through my butchered fringe, the phone rang and she said urgently, ‘Don’t answer. Let the machine get it. It’ll be Larry the Savage, getting me to rewrite more of that fucking script and I’ll lose my reason.’

We listened, but it was a hang-up. ‘Another one,’ frowned Emily. ‘There’s been a fair few over the last day or so. Don’t tell me I’ve got a stalker, on top of all my other troubles. There now, how’s that?’

I looked in the mirror. She’d done a very good job of sweeping the fringe over to one side and making it look almost normal.

‘Great. Thanks.’

‘You’ll need a lot of wax and hairspray to keep it in place, but it should work. And don’t go back to that woman again.’

‘No, I won’t. Sorry. Thanks.’

The dinner that evening was in some outdoor place in Topanga Canyon, and the cast of characters were me, Emily, Helen, Anna, Mum and Dad – proudly sporting his brand new clicked-back-into-place neck. (‘I thought it was a gun shot but instead it was my own neck!’)

We had all squashed into Emily’s jeep and the restaurant, when we got there, was beautiful. Lanterns were strung through the trees, a rushing sound indicated a stream nearby, and it was mercifully cooler than it had been on lower ground.

No sign of Shay. We were herded into the bar to wait for him and I nervously went to the bathroom to check my fringe, but I shouldn’t have gone because when I came out Emily and Dad were squaring up to each other and the atmosphere was tense.

‘Mr Walsh,’ Emily said, ‘I really don’t want us to fall out over this.’

My heart sank. What was happening?

‘I have my pride,’ Dad said.

‘Let me make this very plain,’ said Emily. ‘I will buy the first round. I live here, you are the guests, it’s appropriate that I buy the first round.’

Sulkily Dad said, ‘And what about the second?’

‘One of you can get it.’

‘Which one?’

‘I don’t know. You can fight it out amongst yourselves.’

But as it happened, the first round was bought by Shay, who strolled in, blond and hunky, suavely flicked some sort of gold card at the bartender, then smilingly said hello to us all in turn.

‘Hi, Maggie, you look beautiful. And so do you, Emily. And there’s Claire. Oh, sorry, Mrs Walsh, I thought for a minute you were Claire.’ Then he moved on to Helen, who was more beautiful than the lot of us put together, but she bared her teeth in a silent snarl and all his words disappeared. He never got to Anna. Instead Dad locked him into a conversation, proudly boasting about how loud his neck fixing had been. (‘I thought a gun had gone off, so I did.’)

After our drinks, we were led to a table beneath the stars and surrounded by rustling, fragrant trees. Our waiter was the usual full-on experience.

‘Where you guys FROM?’ he shrieked.

‘Ireland.’

‘Iowa? NEAT.’

‘No – oh never mind.’

Then we had the performance about that day’s specials. Vegan this, lactose-friendly that and zero per cent the other. The waiter addressed most of it to Shay, who made murmury, approving noises until the guy went away and then said, ‘God, it’d wear you out. Why does it always have to be so complicated? But that’s LA, I suppose’