Free Armani Angels by Cate Kendall

Mercedes had been forced to return to her Italian family, distraught. Of course she didn’t divulge the details of the break-up to her ever-indulgent papa. After wiping her tears, he insisted she work with her cousin, Carmel, the family’s greatest success story to date, to get her hairdressing apprenticeship. Carmel had successfully opened salon after salon in Melbourne’s outlying Eastern Suburbs and as good a stylist as she was, she was an even better businesswoman.
    Mercedes had no choice but to work in Carmel’s latest salon as an apprentice. When she’d finally succeeded at hairdressing (even discovering that she quite liked the trade, even though it was beneath her), her dad bought her a small, failing salon in Toorak. Mercedes’s father, Tony, like many of the Italian immigrants to Australia in the 1950s, had worked very hard since arriving. And although not what Mercedes would deem wealthy, he and his wife Francie, with their five children, had scrimped, saved and bought properties in Melbourne’s outlying suburbs very wisely. He may have been a hardworking plumber but he was also a smart property investor and he’d always had enough money to pamper his only daughter.
    Cleverly Tony put Mercedes into partnership with his brother’s business-savvy daughter, Carmel, who helped turn the business around and kept the salon in the black. Mercedes aimed high in attracting top-end clients who were prepared to pay big money for the illusion of a more prestigious service. Together the women quickly grew the salon into a million-dollar business and expanded into the retail space next door.
    But Mercedes was ruthless in her ambition. She wanted to be a part of the social scene, not just on the fringe. She wanted what Gemma had: crisp, brightly coloured invitations to the best events delivered by hand, begging her attendance. She wanted Gemma’s popularity and reputation. Sometimes she was so envious of Gemma’s life, she could taste it in the back of her throat.
    That night, back in her two-bedroom Anderson Street apartment, Mercedes stared at the full-length mirror. Little Donatella, the white ball of fluff, rolled playfully at her feet. Mercedes ignored her and glared at the figure glaring back at her. What to wear?
    She was glad she had texted Gemma who did in fact have a function on that night. A restaurant opening, Wild, in South Melbourne. Mercedes loved these occasions. Her poisonous thoughts from earlier were replaced with visions of canapés, champagne cocktails and potential suitors.
    She hadn’t been friends with Gemma for long. They’d only met three years ago when Gemma had rushed into Mercedes’s hair salon for an emergency style-ectomy. She’d had a red-carpet do on that night and her regular hairdresser had poodled her normally sleek brunette Pob (Posh Beckham bob). The poor thing had looked ridiculous, and Mercedes was thrilled that hers had been the salon that celebrity Gemma Bristol had chosen. She’d felt she’d won the lottery. In the same way designers need movie stars to wear their gowns for the resulting cachet, Coiffure by Mercedes’s reputation would stratosphere once the word got out who her new client was.
    She flicked through her formal wardrobe. Mercedes loved the European designer sales; she figured most of Melbourne wouldn’t know she was wearing last season. Black Versace top with gold trim and black jeans? Nope, not formal enough for the restaurant’s opening. Black leggings, strappy sandals, silver mesh Comme des Garçons off-the-shoulder top? She preferred pants to skirts as she was very proud of her long, lean legs and tight, gym-toned butt.
    But Gemma wasn’t going to be wearing pants. She only wore pants to the office. She wore skirts and dresses whenever she went out and always seemed so very elegant and well groomed. Mercedes often felt a bit slutty-looking next to her, even though she knew that Tramp