My mother was so concerned to be here to support her friends. As I look around the table, it dawns on me everyone else’s husband is dead.
‘Thank you for coming,’ my mother whispers, as Beryl inserts a murder mystery dinner party game CD into the portable stereo set up on the table.
A man with a Vincent Price pitch and a dodgy French accent says, ‘Good evening, Mesdames and Messieurs. My name is Inspector Jacques LeClue, and I must offer apologies for the late start of your little soiree. I regret to inform you there has been a murder on these premises.’
I gulp my wine.
12
‘How was your weekend? All good with your parents?’ Faith and I are sitting on the red velvet sofa in our studio, brainstorming the second episode of Eat Me.
‘They’re great. They send their love.’
‘I love your parents, Gracie,’ Faith says. ’I hope I look half as good as your mum at her age.’
It’s true. My mother has aged well. Slender, as mentioned. And it’s from her I get my striking blue eyes. She’s an old lady now, but when she was younger, she had an air of Grace Kelly about her, which inspired my name.
Faith’s mother is younger than mine, and also attractive, but in a different way. Faith won the genetic lottery. Her DNA is the pinnacle of her family lineage. Appearance-wise, it could easily have gone the other way. She possesses a myriad of other qualities that would’ve seen her through, had she not been blessed with beauty. But still. Lucky Faith.
‘And you survived Beryl’s party?’
‘Barely. I was dressed like a perennial bridesmaid. The wine ran dry during the first course. And at the end of the evening, sweet old Angela fell asleep at the table and wet her pants.’
‘Oh my gosh.’
‘We put her to bed in Beryl’s spare room. It left me afraid of growing old, Faith.’
‘Your parents are fit as a fiddle, Gracie. You’ll be fine.’
After my mother cooked her unbeatable roast pork dinner for Sunday lunch, I’d struggled to keep up as we walked it off across Annie’s field, my parents daily ramble.
‘Daddy is a bit forgetful these days.’ I pause and wonder why I hesitate. ‘He got confused, forgot about Jordan and thought Harry was my boyfriend.’
‘Ha!’
It pinches when Faith doesn’t entertain the possibility of the notion. Not that Harry is my boyfriend. Obviously.
‘How are things with Jordan?’
I’d arrived home to an empty flat, a pig sty, nothing like the way I’d left it. Dirty dishes in the sink. Cartons of mostly-eaten Thai takeaway in the front room. The place stank of prawn toast. Curtains drawn. The duvet was tangled on the bed and there was a pile of wet towels on the bathroom floor. I’d no clue where Jordan was – presumably, something to do with work. Exhausted from my journey – Sunday train timetables are no traveller’s friend – I’d unpacked my overnight bag, tidied up, and hit the sack.
Jordan and I are like strangers passing in the night – except he’s taken to routinely falling asleep on the sofa.
By day, I’m inclined to end things. And distinctly less afraid Jordan might leave me first. Alone, in bed at night, fear and doubts creep in.
I don’t know what’s happened to us?
‘I got in last night, the flat was a tip, then Jordan rolled in half drunk and slept on the sofa,’ I reply to Faith.
‘Again?’
‘Again.’
‘What are you going to do, Gracie?’
‘I don’t know. But things can’t go on like this.’
‘No.’ Faith reaches out and squeezes my hand.
Tears mist my eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about this,’ I say. I fuss about in my bag, looking for some lip balm and reapply it. ‘Anyway… your date for the show this Wednesday, tell me, who is he?’
Faith cocks her head to one side and studies me before she carries on. ‘Well. I was having my regular scale and polish, and my new dentist is pretty cute. Ben the dentist. Fit, blonde, great teeth.’
‘He agreed to come on the show?’
‘He asked me,’ she says. ‘Between spitting and swallowing, I’d told him about it. He seemed perfect. Now, I’m worried he may be a bit dull? Especially compared to Toby.’ Faith’s eyes light up, as they do at every mention of Toby. ‘Even for a dentist, he’s obsessive about the correct technique of brushing one’s teeth. Gently applied. Not too much pressure. Two minutes to finish the job, every morning and every night. He banged on and on…’
It takes me a moment. I realise Faith’s talking about cleaning her teeth.
‘On and on? Every morning and every night? Does Ben the dentist recommend a circular or sonic vibration? Before or after your spitting and swallowing, Faith?’
‘Um? Ohhhh.’ She honks with laughter. ‘Oh, Gracie, yes, we will have fun with this one!’
‘You will, Faith. I’m just cooking,’ I remind her, holier-than-thou and tongue firmly in cheek.
‘Of course you are, sweetie.’ She blows me a kiss.
Wednesday, Ben arrives on set in his dental lab coat. Faith is like an ingénue Bardot in an off-the-shoulder red number, her blonde hair piled high. My skinny blue jeans and crisp white shirt may not set any pulses racing, but they suit me just as well. Poppy’s ensemble of blue leotard over purple tights is outlandish, even for her, but delightfully so. Harry is here to cheer us on. I hadn’t expected an agent would come to each recording – but it’s a comfort. (Do all professional agents spend this much time with their clients? Is Harry like this with all of the women on his wall? How would he find the time?) In any event, between the enthusiasm from everyone, and because I survived the first show with (most of) my dignity intact, I’m on top of the world before we begin our second recording. Timothy, our illustrious CEO, sits in the chair next to Joanna, a bee to honey.
Cameras rolling, Ben bounces through the false door and obliges with suggestive play aplenty. He waves his whirring, electric toothbrush about, none of us mentioning the word ‘vibrator’. When choosing ingredients, he insists we slip him a sliver of the scientifically modified mega-hot chilli. Daring us to crank up the heat, he declares himself ‘hot to handle’. After he chases Faith around the bench, I don’t regret serving it up to him. Biting down bold as brass, within seconds, Ben’s face inflames to plum. He runs around the set, his mouth on fire. I stop him with an offer of a drink of milk and he douses with a whole half-litre. We send him to lay down on the sofa to recover and Faith prepares to cook. At the end of the show, Ben, a total sport, rejoins us and we share a laugh over the incident and polish off delicious (non-spiked) Mexican chicken tortillas. Joanna hails it another steamy success.
Harry, Faith and I are loitering in the corridor when Zelda whooshes by and offers Faith a free reading. With a chuckle, Harry leaves us to it. You girls have fun,’ he says, heading off to wherever he’s needed next. Excited to hear her future fortune, Faith asks me to accompany her.
Zelda’s studio is decorated like a gypsy’s lair on a full-moon night. Darkened windows. Pitch-black painted walls, ceiling and floor. Above, soft-yellow lights – stars, planets and the moon – emit an eerie glow. Her stage is shrouded by heavy red curtains and is gaudily decorated like an old-fashioned caravan.
Zelda guides Faith up the steps to the platform. Faith drags me along. I drop into the brown leather wing-chair. Faith sits cross-legged on the rug in front of me. Zelda faces her from her three-legged stool. We’re the only people in here.
Zelda reaches across her crystal ball that rests on a pedestal between them. She runs her bejewelled fingers over Faith’s cheekbones. ‘Such an interesting face.’
‘Thank you,’ Faith says.
‘So, this new show is bit rude? You bring the men,’ she looks at Faith, ‘and there is cooking?’ Zelda glances at me before turning back to face Faith. ‘But is rude, no?’
‘A little bit, Zelda.’ Faith laughs. ‘And yes, I’m the one with the dates.
‘Please, tell Zelda all abou
t this new eating show. Everybody talking. Big, big hit.’
I’m unsure whether our magnificent mystic, with her rich, Hungarian accent, her jingly-jangly jewellery, her flowy satin cape and her untameable black wig is channelling the ambitions of SC6 or if it’s part of her prophecy. I don’t suppose it matters. I doubt Faith is regarding Zelda as a divinely gifted oracle either. A reading from her is all about the entertainment – and, boy, does Zelda, put on a show. Cabinets filled with tinctures and herbs surround us and a short table supports a Ouija board, tarot cards and what appears to be a book of spells. A camera hangs from the ceiling above, positioned to zoom in. Sage incense burns in a metal thurible on the floor.
Lettered in fluorescent ink on the studio walls are proverbs and sayings. A broken watch is right two times a day. Do not mistake temptation for opportunity. Watch your thoughts, they become your destiny. No one is too old for fairy tales. Throughout the studio, paintings of the occult – witches, angels and goaty-looking half-men – are faintly lit. I peer into the darkness. Rows of empty spectator chairs are just visible in the gloom. Zelda locked the soundproof doors behind us on our entrance. Paranormally sceptic, I’m a bit afraid I’ll see a ghost.
Zelda rearranges the folds of her cape and kisses the amulet around her neck. It’s deathly quiet. The lamp behind her casts grim shadows on the crevices of Zelda’s face.
‘Okay, so what happens, Zelda, is this,’ Faith says, breaking the spooky spell. ‘Each Wednesday, I bring a new man on set and Gracie teaches me to cook a meal for him. They’re not really dates. It’s all for show.’
‘Ah, I know this,’ Zelda says, with a wink. ‘Tell me, who are these dates?’
‘We had Toby the banker, a friend from work.’ Faith omits saying she had him before the show. ‘Today, we had Ben the dentist, my actual dentist.’ Whose toothbrush ran audibly out of batteries as he was kissing Faith goodbye and she decided not to pursue it. ‘Next week it’s DJ Bassdog, a friend of Poppy’s.’ Who Faith is looking forward to meeting, having been told he has piercings placed all over him, for ultimate pleasure.
‘What is bass dog?’ Zelda shrieks with laughter. ‘Is dog? Ah! Never mind. So, dates are not real. Okay, we begin.’
Closing her eyes, Zelda begins a rumbling chant. Ah-sha-ha-ba Sha-ba-sha-kala, she hums, over and over, raising her hands high above her head. AH-SHA-BA-KA-LA. At one point, she half-opens her eyelids and I observe her pupils have disappeared inside the back of her sockets. Faith looks at me nervously. She’s lucky there’s no mention of any storms of doom so far.
After a minute of such theatrics, Zelda announces in a booming voice, ‘The spirits have spoken!’
‘What did they say?’ Faith whispers excitedly.
‘My child, they speak of split hearts,’ Zelda foretells. ‘Jealousy. Guilt. Denial.’
‘Oh my,’ Faith mumbles.
‘This is just a bit of fun, Faith,’ I remind her, leaning closer.
Zelda is in full swing. She opens her eyes and rises from her stool to collect the metal ball of burning sage. Meandering around the caravan-stage, she swings it back and forth, chanting all the while.
When the air around us is thick with smoky incense, she sets aside her priestly contraption and takes to her stool.
‘A damaged heart, it heals stronger.’ Zelda glances at me. Her eyelids flutter as she takes Faith’s hands in hers. ‘I see good man. This man, I think, you know. Work man. Or, maybe, date.’ Leaning in, Zelda bores into her crystal ball. But, apparently, the ball’s not telling. ‘Sometimes, the spirits don’t talk too much.’ She shrugs. ‘But there is one man for you, not too long time. This, Zelda sees, for sure.’
Faith’s face had lit up earlier when she described her first date on the show, with Toby. Zelda the Magnificent: darn good reader of people.
‘I’m not sure I’m looking for just one man, Zelda,’ Faith laughs. ‘Can you check again?’
‘She has a few more dates before we wrap ten episodes,’ I add cheekily.
‘Ah. Yes. And is few more men,’ Zelda cackles. ‘The future is clear. Few more men first.’
‘Phew,’ Faith says. ‘That’s okay then.’
‘Okay. We finish now,’ Zelda declares. She raises her closed palms to the theatrical night sky. ‘We thank you, spirits, for your guidance. We wish you safe passage to the light.’
She flicks a switch and the room is bathed in brightness. The show is over.
‘Thank you, Zelda. That was wonderful,’ Faith says.
My eyes squint against the glare. When they focus, Zelda is staring at me solemnly.
‘Eye is calm in middle of storm,’ she says. ‘You must yet pass through other side. You have the stone?’
The pink quartz Zelda gifted to help me through her foreseen spiritual downpour. It took a trip to the Taxi Lost Property office in Baker Street to retrieve the black coat I’d left in the cab after Howard’s farewell. I haven’t checked the pockets. I’m unsure if the stone is in there.
‘It’s stone of love,’ Zelda says. ‘Love isn’t perfect, remember this, my dahling. But real love… you know it when you feel it.’
13
After the reading with Zelda, Faith and I go for coffee at a café around the corner. We rejoice how well our new show is shaping up and how great it is spending time together again. When I arrive home, on a high, the sight of Jordan pops my balloon.
‘Jordan, you’re home early?’
It’s 6 p.m., so not early, as such. But early for him.
‘Yeah, um, I worked from home a bit. How was your day?’
‘Fun. We’re getting the hang of the new show.’ Wine glasses teeter in the drying rack. ‘Have you been drinking wine?’ Jordan will sometimes crack open a beer the moment he walks into the flat. But wine?
‘Taste testing. We’re pitching for a French vineyard.’
‘Ah.’ Two empty bottles sit by the bin. I’m guessing Robert’s been here, and I presume he washed the glasses. ‘Any good?’
‘Not bad, actually.’
My apprehension dissolves. Jordan’s merry.
‘Jordan, while I’ve got you, I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s the deal for this ball?’ I take the flyer from the refrigerator and scan the details, a reminder. The Sweetheart’s Valentine’s Day Ball, sponsored by Baker & Staines, is next week. The Jimmy Choo heels (and I) survived my drunken antics the other evening, but I haven’t yet bought a new black dress. To be honest, I’ve been too busy to have thought about it much at all.
Jordan glances over. ‘It’s not really a ball.’
The flyer says otherwise.
‘It’s a work thing, a promotions event,’ he goes on. ‘No one is bringing their partner.’
‘Oh. Right.’
In fairness, Jordan never invited me. I’d found the flyer on the kitchen table and assumed I’d be going. Not unreasonably, I might add, given it is to be held on Valentine’s Day and we are, officially, a couple. I’d stuck the invitation under a magnet on the refrigerator. Jordan hasn’t mentioned it.
‘I know it’s Valentine’s Day,’ he says, ‘but we didn’t go out last year.’
Again, technically correct. Last year, I’d cooked at home, filet mignon, and we had sex all over the flat. We definitely didn’t go out.
I pass Jordan the flyer and he slips it inside his backpack. Out of sight, out of mind? He stands beside the table, eyeing the stairs.
‘Jordan, we need to talk.’
‘Grace, it’s no big deal. I have to work, okay. I can’t deal with this right now.’
Without giving me the chance to explain that Valentine’s Day is the least of things we need to talk about, Jordan scuttles off to the basement. Our communication is awful. But this takes the biscuit. Upset – nay, angry – about his silly ball, his stupid underpants and that Jordan refuses to talk to me about anything important, I lock myself in the bedroom and call Faith to vent.
‘Do you really think it’s a work thing?’ she asks me.
‘I don’t know, Faith.’
‘And if it is, why can’t you go? What sort of work makes their staff ditch their partner on Valentine’s Day?’
I sigh into the mouthpiece, not as upset as I could be. Indeed, with Faith on the offensive, I feel, remarkably, defensive about Jordan’s actions. Or about my decision to perpetually put up with them. At this point, with the demands of his job, I must assume the not-really-a-ball is a work event. And there is always the chance Jordan will surprise me with a romantic gesture when he gets in after.
‘I never go out on Valentine’s Day,’ Faith adds. ‘I was thinking the other day, I haven’t had a boyfriend since university. Remember Carl?’
‘Now married with three children Carl, whose heart you shattered when you refused his engagement ring.’
‘Yes. I haven’t dated anyone for longer than a few weeks since Carl. That was over ten years ago.’
‘It’s not for lack of offers, Faith.’
‘Mmm. It’s a bit for lack of good offers. Not everyone I want to sleep with is interesting. Or kind. Or wants to see me for more than a few weeks. Anyway, Valentine’s Day. It’s next Thursday, right? Want to sod it off and come to my place and order pizza?’
‘Oh, darling, you’re kind. We’ll see. But thank you.’
‘Well, ball or no ball, at least you bought new shoes.’
‘There is that,’ I agree.
After I hang up, I go to the hallways cupboard and check if Zelda’s rose quartz is in my black coat pocket. It is – again, so oddly warm to the touch. I hold it inside my palm.
I’m not as low as when Zelda gave it to me. I didn’t lose my job and the new show is promising. Things could be better at home, but I’m having fun with Faith and, with Poppy’s help, I look better than ever – if this is the eye of the storm, I’ll take it. I don’t believe in magic crystals, yet I clasp the stone to my chest, wishing it will all come true, and soon: I want to feel loved again. I want to push on through the other side.
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