You're the One That I Don't Want

by Alexandra Potter

  She raises her eyebrows and now I feel my cheeks pinking up. I’d told her all about Adam at lunchtime. Well, it was more a case of me showing her our email exchange and, her being the loyal good friend that she is, dutifully and carefully analysing each word until she came to the conclusion ‘He likes you.’ Which was hardly ground-breaking, but still.

  ‘Look, I think we just need to get a grip here,’ I say, trying to remain calm. ‘My name’s Lucy. I’m from Manchester. I wear knickers from Marks and Spencer. I don’t do spells.’

  ‘It’s only a teeny-weeny one,’ cajoles Robyn.

  ‘Burying bones, lighting candles and chanting?’ Pressing my foot on the pedal bin, I chuck the cartons in the recycling. ‘No, I’m not doing it.’

  Robyn’s cheeks flush and she falls silent. For a few moments neither of us speak.

  ‘I picked up our laundry,’ I say eventually, to break the awkward atmosphere.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says mutely.

  Then it’s back to the awkward silence as I untie the plastic bag containing our laundry and begin unpacking it.

  ‘Lucy, I really think you should reconsider,’ she says after a moment. ‘Don’t dismiss the things you don’t understand.’

  ‘You didn’t say that when you were trying to do your taxes,’ I point out, piling the laundry up on the table. That’s funny, I don’t remember us having white towels with monograms.

  ‘That’s different,’ she replies touchily.

  ‘I don’t care.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not going out at the dead of night to bury a bone and do some ridiculous rhyme in order to get rid of my ex-boyfriend.’

  Hmm, I really don’t recognise these T-shirts either. Gosh, they do look rather large. I hold one up. ‘Is this yours?’

  Robyn shakes her head. ‘But you have to fight magic with magic,’ she argues.

  I roll my eyes. ‘OK, Dumbledore.’

  ‘I’m serious!’

  ‘I know.’ I nod. ‘That’s what worries me.’

  Hang on a minute, men’s shirts? And trousers? I frown.

  ‘I’m not the one who can’t break up with their soulmate,’ says Robyn tartly.

  ‘Look, I’m not doing a magic spell,’ I gasp. ‘So that’s that. Full stop.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re making a big mistake. There are greater forces than us out there, forces that we don’t understand . . .’

  I can hear Robyn talking, but it’s like white noise. A buzz in the background. I’ve tuned out. I’m not listening. Instead I’m staring at my laundry.

  Only it’s not my laundry.

  Astonishment mixes with confusion, mixes with resignation. I let out a loud groan.

  ‘It’s his.’

  ‘What?’ Breaking off from her speech, Robyn frowns in confusion. ‘What’s his?’

  I hold up a pair of pineapple boxer shorts and wave them at Robyn. ‘About that spell . . .’

  ‘Do you have any white candles?’

  Fast-forward to the next evening after work and I’m standing in the cluttered confines of Burt’s Hardware Store with my shopping list. The sane, rational part of me that pooh-poohs horoscopes and strides determinedly under ladders still can’t quite believe I’m going ahead with this, but the other part of me that dragged all of Nate’s laundry back to Fluff and Fold is desperate.

  Brenda, the assistant manager, couldn’t understand how there’d been a mix-up. ‘We have branches all over Manhattan, but I have no idea how this could have happened,’ she gasped in bewilderment. Apologising profusely, she poked the computer keyboard as if it was personally responsible. ‘Mr Kennedy is registered at an address over fifty blocks away!’

  I actually felt a bit sorry for Brenda, and for a moment I was almost tempted to offer her an explanation. I say almost, but I decided that one involving centuries-old legends, Italian bridges and soulmates would only complicate things. Better that I play the role of the dissatisfied customer than that of the lunatic.

  In the end it all got sorted out. If I had his clothes, then he must have mine. And sure enough, in the middle of Brenda jabbing at the computer, a text from Nate popped up on my mobile.

  Let me guess. You have my laundry.

  I text back.

  Let me guess. You have mine.

  ‘Here you go. Anything else?’

  I zone back to see Burt scampering back down the ladder, clutching a pack of candles. For a man who looks to be in his eighties, he’s exceedingly agile.

  I glance back at my list. Robyn provided the hambone, garlic and all the exotic-sounding herbs. I already had some string. Now I’ve got candles. Which leaves . . .

  ‘Do you sell feathers?’

  ‘Feathers?’ he grunts brusquely. ‘What kind of feathers?’

  ‘Black ones, preferably from a raven or a crow.’

  Scraping his bristly chin with his fingernails, he peers at me mistrustfully. ‘Did you not read the sign? This is a hardware store, not a pet store.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry, of course,’ I stammer, and I hastily pay and leave the shop. How embarrassing. I sound like a total fruit loop.

  I set off walking back to the apartment. Well, that’s that, then. If I can’t find the feathers, I won’t be able to do the spell. Feeling a secret beat of relief at being let off the hook, I turn the corner, where I’m hit by an unexpected gust of warm summer wind. Litter blows all around me, a plastic bag gets whipped up and twirls like a ballerina, and then I notice something flutter past and fall in front of me on the pavement. I glance down.

  Two feathers. Two black feathers.

  I’m not superstitious, but that’s what I’d call a sign.

  At nine thirty I’m all packed and ready to go. Well, almost.

  ‘Feathers?’ asks Robyn. Armed with a list of everything I need, she’s going through a final check to make sure I have everything.

  I tug them out of my bag and wave them.

  ‘Check.’ Robyn solemnly ticks them off her list. She’s taking it all super seriously. It’s almost like a military operation: Operation Good Riddance.

  ‘Red string?’

  I do the same again.

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Hambone?’

  I dig it out of my backpack. It’s wrapped in his boxer shorts. I’d returned Nate’s dry-cleaning, but those I’d kept. Partly because I needed an item of his clothing for the spell, but mostly because Nate has no business wearing those boxer shorts. Not with me. Not with any girl. They have to go. I’m thinking of it as a strike for all womankind. Like getting the vote, or equal rights: no woman after me will ever have to suffer the horror of the novelty pineapple boxer shorts.

  ‘Awesome!’ Having finished her checklist, Robyn beams broadly. ‘Well, good luck!’

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile uncertainly. Something tells me I’m going to need it.

  I’d wanted Robyn to come with me, but she couldn’t, as she was going to her reiki healing class. Plus she said that I had to do this alone, otherwise the spell wouldn’t work. ‘Magic demands that,’ she’d informed me.

  Magic, it seemed, demanded rather a lot.

  I leave the apartment and set off towards a tiny park a few streets away. Well, it’s not even a park, more a small triangle with a couple of benches, some flowerbeds and a patch of grass. In the daytime it’s usually filled with people sitting on the benches eating their lunch, or sprawled on the grass chatting, reading the paper or just delighted to be soaking up a tiny spot of nature amid the steel skyscrapers, the flowers bright splashes of colour against the grey concrete.

  But now, at night, it’s completely empty and in darkness. Not that anywhere in Manhattan every really gets dark, with all the city lights. It’s dark enough, though, I think, with a tremor of apprehension.

  I try the gate. It’s locked. I’m going to need to climb over.

  Not for the first time I question my sanity, but like my sister instructed, I have to keep my eye on the bigger picture. ‘Forget it’s the journey, not the destination,’ s
he’d barked. ‘It’s all about the destination! The journey is immaterial.’

  A couple stroll past and I drop to the ground and pretend to be tying my shoelace. It’s totally instinctive. I’m not even wearing shoelaces; I’m wearing slip-on ballet pumps. Gosh, I’m obviously a natural at this, I muse, feeling pretty impressed with myself. I stay crouched and wait until they’ve moved further ahead up the street. Then, taking a quick look around to make sure the coast is clear, I clamber over the gate.

  There’s a brief moment when I think I might get impaled and my sex life flashes before my eyes, but then I’m over and down the other side. I feel a flash of triumph. I’m in! Jittery with nerves and excitement, I quickly make my way over to the flowerbeds. OK, I need to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, then get out of here. Lighting my candle, I hold the flame to the piece of paper with Nate’s name and date of birth on it. It immediately catches alight. Much faster than I thought it would, in fact.

  Shit, where’s the poem? I mean chant. Shit.

  Frantically I dig around for another scrap of paper – and for a brief second there’s a panic that I’m burning the wrong piece of paper – fuck – but then I find it. Thank God. I take a deep breath. Heavens, I’m like a nervous wreck.

  ‘“Winds of the North, East, South and West . . .”’I begin rattling through it. Robyn told me I had to close my eyes and breathe in every word, but I race through it as quickly as I can. ‘“ . . . and let his mind be away from me.”’

  I watch as the piece of paper disintegrates into ash and is carried away into the night air.

  Brilliant. That bit’s done. Now I just have to bury the hambone. I feel myself relaxing. See, it wasn’t so hard, was it? All that worrying for nothing. In fact, this magic stuff is pretty easy-peasy, I reflect, grabbing the ladle – we didn’t have a trowel – and digging myself a hole.

  Quite literally.

  Because at that moment there’s suddenly a loud whooping siren and I’m bathed in a harsh light. I twirl round, blinking in the brightness.

  What the . . .?

  And then a voice booms from a megaphone, ‘Stay where you are and put your hands in the air. This is the New York Police Department.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  OK, don’t panic.

  One scary ride in a cop car wearing a pair of handcuffs later, and I’m sitting on a very hard plastic chair at a police station in the Ninth Precinct, being interviewed by a very hard-faced Officer McCrory.

  On second thoughts, maybe I should panic.

  ‘So let me get this straight . . .’ Clearing his throat, he looks down at his notes. ‘You trespassed on city property and lit a fire.’

  ‘A candle,’ I correct. ‘A white candle.’

  It’s important to be completely clear and stick to the facts, I tell myself calmly. Otherwise I could be mistakenly tried for a crime I didn’t commit. Like a robbery. Or a kidnapping. Or even a murder.

  I feel a clutch of alarm.

  Facts, Lucy. Remember, stick to the facts.

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘I needed to burn a piece of paper and say a chant.’

  ‘A chant?’ His eyebrows shoot up like two thick, hairy, grey caterpillars scuttling up his forehead.

  ‘Well, it was more a poem,’ I explain. ‘Gosh, what was it now . . .?’ I try racking my brain, but I’m so nervous it’s as if it’s been wiped clean like a computer disc and there’s nothing on it. ‘Um, something about winds . . .’

  ‘According to these notes, you were also caught attempting to bury a deceased animal.’

  ‘It was a hambone,’ I say quickly. ‘My roommate keeps them in the freezer for Simon and Jenny.’

  ‘Simon and Jenny?’

  ‘Her dogs. Two rescues. Very cute. Well, Simon is, but Jenny has a dreadful underbite. That doesn’t make her ugly, though. I mean, she might not win Crufts, but—’

  ‘Miss Hemmingway, can you please stick to the question?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry, of course,’ I apologise hastily. ‘Officer.’

  Shit. I’ve seen those cop shows. Robyn is always watching CSI, in between Oprah and The Secret DVD. If I’m not careful, Officer McCrory is going to throw me in a cell with lots of deranged lunatics and prostitutes called Roxy who chew gum and seem tough but who are really kind-hearted and have a sick kid at home and are just trying to make ends meet. Actually, no, that wasn’t CSI – that was an episode of Law and Order.

  ‘And you were doing all this in order to break up with your boyfriend?’

  I snap back. ‘Ex-boyfriend,’ I correct. ‘We’ve already broken up.’

  Frowning, Office McCrory puts down his pen, rocks back on his chair and, steepling his fingers, gives me a long, hard look.

  Fuck. This is not good.

  ‘Miss Hemmingway, you do realise that the New York Police Department has reason to believe you have violated the law on three points . . .’

  Really not good.

  ‘Trespassing . . . arson—’

  ‘Arson? But I only burned a bit of paper with my ex’s name on . . .’ I trail off.

  There have been times in my life when I really should have kept my mouth shut. Like, for example, the time when I was eighteen and got hideously drunk on Scrumpy cider and told Jamie Robinson, who I’d been on three dates with, that I was madly in love with him and wanted to have his babies. Suffice to say, there was no fourth date.

  Then there was the time Mum bought me a yellow mohair jumper, the reasoning being that my favourite colour is yellow. Which is true, except yellow is my favourite colour because I think of sunflowers and sunshine, not big, fat, furry mohair jumpers that make me look like I’m seasick.

  It was OK, though, because she told me that she would return it if I didn’t like it. She wouldn’t be hurt or offended. So I said it was a lovely thought but would she mind returning it?

  Mum promptly burst into tears.

  And now this is one of those times, I muse, looking at Officer McCrory with a beat of apprehension. If I say anything, I will deeply regret it. I need to keep my big mouth so firmly shut a can-opener couldn’t prise it open.

  ‘And resisting arrest,’ he finishes gravely.

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ I cry, before I can stop myself. ‘Look, I know how that must appear, but I was climbing over the railings to get towards you, not run away from you.’

  ‘Miss Hemmingway,’ he says sternly.

  ‘Officer McCrory.’ I sit bolt upright. This is it. He’s going to charge me.

  ‘I need to say something.’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ I blurt. Well, what the hell. It’s too late now. I know I’m going down.

  ‘You do?’

  I vacuum my throat nervously, then launch straight in. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.’

  For a moment there’s complete silence and he just stares at me blankly. Then, shaking his head, he lets out a low whistle. ‘Jeez,’ he says finally.

  ‘My roommate is a huge fan of CSI,’ I explain, my voice trembling fearfully. ‘I know the score.’

  Visions of me being carted off to the cells swim before my eyes. Flashes of my parents’ shocked reactions, Kate campaigning as a lawyer to free me . . . I can see the newspaper headlines now:

  BRITISH GIRL JAILED IN AMERICA –

  LIFE SENTENCE FOR TRYING TO BREAK UP WITH THE ONE

  ‘She thought she’d found her soulmate,’ says former roommate Robyn Weisenberg, ‘but then she couldn’t get rid of him. The universe wouldn’t let her. It’s a tragedy.’

  Still, I suppose that’s one way of having closure with Nate. A life sentence.

  ‘So, do you have any questions?’

  I zone back to see Officer McCrory looking at me expectantly.
>
  My mouth goes dry. ‘Do I get a phone call?’ I stammer. My eyes are beginning to sting with tears and I feel slightly dizzy. ‘Before I’m . . .’ I can barely get the words out. ‘Before I’m taken down.’

  ‘Down?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Miss Hemmingway, did you not hear me? You’re free to go.’

  I stare at him in shock. ‘Free?’

  ‘I’m letting you go with just a warning.’ He nods, shuffling his notes.

  It takes a second to register and then . . .

  ‘Oh my God, thank you!’ I gasp in astonishment. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ Overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, I jump out of my chair and before I know it I’m flinging my arms round his stout blue-uniformed figure. Taken aback, Officer McCrory stiffens and stands statue-still, his arms out like a scarecrow.

  ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I was just . . .’ Suddenly aware that I’m bear-hugging a police officer in the NYPD, I jump back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just so emotional.’ I feel my eyes start prickling.

  ‘I understand. I know how hard it can be to break up with someone,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘My wife left me less than a year ago.’ Reaching over to his desk, he grabs a box of tissues and holds it out to me.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I reply, taking one.

  ‘Ran off with my best friend. But she’s still in here.’ He bangs his chest with a meaty palm, his eyes glistening, and reaches for a tissue for himself. ‘It’s like she’s everywhere I go.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I say wryly.

  Sniffing, he blows his nose loudly. ‘I just want to forget about her.’

  ‘Me too.’ I nod wistfully, thinking about Nate. ‘Forget about him, I mean.’

  Officer McCrory and I meet each other’s gaze in solidarity. Then, remembering himself, he stuffs his tissue in his pocket and says gruffly, ‘Is there anyone you can call to come pick you up?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. I’ll catch a cab.’