Free The Shoestring Club by Sarah Webb Page A

dressing people I suppose.’
    Bird tilts her head. ‘And it makes you happy, doesn’t it, darling? Seeing their faces light up when you’ve made them look stunning. Even idiotic creatures like that Sissy girl.’
    ‘Sometimes.’ I get the feeling this is leading somewhere.
    ‘I’ve got it!’ Bird says, clapping her hands together. ‘A stylist. Lots of the stylists who come into Shoestring look just as strange as you do. One of them has dreadlocks for goodness’ sake.’
    This is getting out of hand. ‘Bird you can’t just
be
a stylist. You have to have clients or work for a shop or something. And let’s face it, who’d hire me? I have zilch experience.’
    ‘You’ve been working in boutiques for years.’
    ‘As a sales assistant, not a stylist. Thanks, Bird, I know you’re only trying to help, but I’ll find something. Maybe I could work in a shoe shop for a change.’
    She takes my chin in her hand, her fingers thin and dotted with age spots.
    ‘You listen to me, Julia Schuster, and you listen good. Work in a shoe shop if it makes you happy. But I want you to be the best sales woman in Dublin, understand? Life is short, darling. One day you’ll wake up and look in the mirror and see nothing but wrinkles.’ She takes her hand away. ‘I don’t care what you do, just put your heart into it, girl. Stop coasting.’
    ‘I could always find myself a rich husband,’ I suggest, only half joking.
    ‘And what happens if he dies or leaves you? No, you must have your own career, Boolie. It’s vital. Now go and wash your hair again. Can’t have it stinking of sizzling pig, can we? And then we’ll work on your CV together.’
    Just before seven that evening I hear voices in the hall and Iris squealing. I peer out of my bedroom door. Dad’s throwing Iris up in the air and catching her and she’s shrieking with delight. I step out and stand watching them for a moment over the banisters. He used to do the same to me – he’s always been as strong as an ox from all the timber he lifts.
    I close my eyes and recall what he used to look like. The same thick curls as mine, his a little darker brown, tied back in a ponytail, tight goatee, pirate earrings in both ears. He still has the earrings, but his beard and hair are now silver – when Mum died it went grey practically overnight – and his skin is tanned and leathery from years working outdoors. He always refuses to wear sun cream. Whenever Bird or Pandora lecture him about skin cancer, he always says, ‘It’s in the lap of the gods anyway.’
    He puts Iris down and, sensing me, looks up.
    ‘Hey, Boolie,’ he says with a grin.
    I smile at him.
    ‘Hey, Dad.’
    ‘Hi, Auntie Jules.’ Iris beams up at me. ‘Don’t forget me.’
    ‘How could I forget you?’ I say. ‘Especially in that lovely outfit.’ She’s wearing a blue cotton sailor’s dress, teamed with a red cardigan and red ballet pumps and her long, straight brown hair is in two neat plaits. Pandora always has her beautifully turned out.
    ‘Come on down and tell us about your week, Boolie,’ Dad says. ‘I’ve missed all my girls. Including this wee scallywag here.’ He lunges towards Iris and starts to tickle her under both arms.
    ‘Stop, Grandpa Greg,’ Iris says through fits of giggles.
    He picks her up and throws her over one shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
    ‘I’m starving,’ he says. ‘Let’s eat. To the kitchen.’
    ‘I have to wash my hands, Grandpa,’ Iris insists. ‘I was out collecting honey with Bird. I’ve got germs.’ She waves her little palms in his face. She’s so like Pandora sometimes.
    He lets her down gently.
    ‘Off you go, pet.’
    She runs off and we’re left alone. I look at Dad. I know I have to tell him about Baroque but I’d really rather not.
    ‘What is it, Boolie? You look worried. Spit it out.’
    I sigh. He knows me backwards.
    ‘Rowie can’t afford to keep me on any more,’ I say, coming straight out with it. ‘The shop’s not doing