Sex, Spooks and Sauvignon (Adventures of an Accidental Medium Book 1)

by Tracy Whitwell

  ‘Bollocks.’

  That is not me. That is a voice in my head. These days it’s hard to tell what is the voice of paranoia and what is the voice of ‘another’. But this sounds suspiciously like ‘another’. One that starts to laugh.

  ‘You don’t just want to go for a drink and you shouldn’t do, either. Get back in the saddle, lass, and enjoy. You take things far too seriously.’

  I’m not sure about voices in my head taking the piss out of me.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Someone who wants you to have fun. Wear something that makes you feel happy, put a comb through your hair and get yourself out there. If you don’t at least kiss him, you’ll have me to answer to. Byeeee.’

  The voice has gone. Perhaps I made it up. But what it said was quite right. I am not auditioning to be Pat’s wife. I’m going to have a chat and exercise my flirt muscle. Good. I pick out a little black dress with red roses on it, team it with black leggings, shiny red flip flops with a wedge and a slash of lip-gloss.

  My hair is actually my favourite thing about myself. It’s a simple bob-type style and if I blow dry it with my round brush, or give it a little straighten with my ceramics, it goes shiny and behaves itself. It’s dark brown, but I’m sprouting the odd white hair now. It’s one of the only things I’m not worried about. You categorically cannot stop your hair going grey. And so far I’ve only got about three of the wriggly, albino buggers so I refuse to be bothered. That’s what hair dye is for. I’ll probably grow it really long when I’m older and be an eccentric Bohemian. I’ll wear lilac flowers in my white hair and chic long shirts with well-cut trousers and comfy but pretty shoes. (Old people have terrifying feet. If mine stay nice I’ll wear flip flops till I die.)

  I think about death and getting older more than anyone else I know. Every single day. I always have, since I was tiny. Every new wrinkle, no matter how small, every dry patch on my elbow or heel, every bit of me that’s less lean, sends me into a flurry of terrified conjecture. And it’s not just the physical stuff. I wonder how I’ll feel as my family peel away. I wonder how I’ll be when I’m effectively an orphan and have to grow up. When my friends and acquaintances become full stops. Will I have to stay here on this planet, becoming more and more alone, every new death like a grandfather clock clanging a funeral march in my heart? Or, perish the thought, will I be one of the first ones to go?

  It’s morbid, I know and I really wish I could forget about it. It’s part of why I sometimes get depressed (most actors are depressives, apparently). Wine helps. Music helps. Live gigs make me happy, as does dancing. But I have to learn to live my life without suddenly being brought up short in Tesco behind an ancient old biddy who’s struggling along, my eyes brimming with tears at the thought that my world is about to become a series of horrible losses and degenerations.

  Life has already started the process with the disappearance of some of my grandparents and Frank, lovely Frank, who should still be here. That’s probably why I’m so delighted by this latest development. A curveball. Completely inexplicable vibrations in my world. It’s occurred to me that I have accepted this ghostly stuff very easily; maybe because I need it more than most.

  I grab a red pashmina I picked up in Bangkok, which looks much more expensive than it was, and give myself a spray of Chanel. I look in the mirror. I look colourful and not too try-hard. That’ll do.

  I arrive at Purple Haze feeling pleasantly warmed up after a fifteen-minute stroll. I’ve not really looked at the place before, but they’ve made it nice. It has huge windows and Mediterranean blue paintwork and, to my delight, the window frames are rimmed with multi-coloured tube lighting, like Christmas. I brace myself for the inevitable sixty second shyness of entering a bar alone, which is ridiculous considering how many countries I have visited on my own. I walk in and glance around at the pleasant mosaic and harlequin tiled bar, with a funky cocktail counter and a little stage, presumably for live performances. Small ones. There’s a guitar and microphone stand already set up. We’re in for a treat later.

  Pat is at the bar. He turns as I walk in. I am exactly on time which is a fluke as I’m usually running late. He’s got on a linen shirt, sort of off-white. His hair is coming out of its binding and he’s grinning his head off, as is the barman. They must have been sharing a joke. He looks very happy and relaxed. I can’t help but smile back. He waves. I head up to the bar. He puts his hand on my back, kisses me on the cheek and gives me a cocktail list.

  ‘You look great.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now… I’m starting with a Brazilian mojito and I’m paying tonight. No arguments. What would you like?’

  I glance down and spot two of my favourite things – raspberries and vodka. ‘I’ll have a raspberry mint martini.’

  ‘Cool.’

  My concoction looks like a stabbed dinosaur. The green stuff is apparently peppermint liqueur. This place opens at six so it’s just us and a man in a tricorn hat so far. This is Crouch End so people in interesting apparel aren’t unusual. The barman is in a very expensive T-shirt and has carefully ruffled hair. North London contains a lot of people who try not to look like they’ve tried very hard when they patently have. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I have always lacked the knack of looking effortlessly expensive but cool. There’s too much of a geek fighting to get out.

  I am led to a big brown sofa near the window. We both sit, but not too close. When he kissed my cheek he smelled of washing powder and whatever that great cologne is he has. Amber and musk. I love smells. They remind me of people as much as songs do. Because my dad would give us a hug when he came home from the pub when we were really young, I’ve also always adored the smell of beer and cigarette smoke on a man’s breath, which must put me in a fan club of one.

  Our drinks are icy and clinky.

  ‘So, how have you been since I went all “I see dead people” on you?’

  He laughs into his mojito and has to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I have to say, you completely and utterly freaked me out.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘In a good way. I was really looking forward to carrying on the conversation. Until your snobby friend showed up.’

  ‘Snobby? She’s not snobby.’

  ‘Oh, she so is. She snapped her fingers at Marina the other week; she’s lucky they didn’t get broken off!’

  This doesn’t surprise me as much as it should. Elsa has a streak of Princess Margaret in her. She can be a bit grand. Her dad is a hotshot artist, big on praise but short on money. She grew up in Edinburgh in a nice house, but he spent more than he made on impressing people so they had to sell it. He treats her mother like shit and cheats on her constantly. Elsa hasn’t got a clue how to be normal. Her dad taught her that she was a cut above everyone else and she finds it very hard to see otherwise. Sometimes being her friend is a pain in the arse.

  ‘I so wanted to talk to you more. But in a way it was good because I went back to my sister’s instead and we talked about Dad and it was great. It’s lifted something that had been eating at me.’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It turns out I’m the one they’ve all been worried about, Mum included. They all seem to think I’m twelve.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Shut up! What about you? Did you sort her out? She was looking very sorry for herself.’

  ‘She’s fine now. There was an old lady ghost in her house. I went round with my friend Sheila the next night and we had a chat with her and she moved on.’

  He literally gawps. ‘You had a chat with a ghost and she moved on?’

  I nod.

  ‘I tell you, you’re certainly not a boring conversationalist. Last time I went for a drink with a girl she gave me her full manicure history. I tried to strangle myself to death with my scarf and she didn’t even notice. Do you want another drink? The first one seems to have evaporated.’

  ‘Ooops. So it has. Sor
ry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, mine’s done the same. Nerves.’

  I cannot imagine this lad being nervous, ever, so I roll my eyes and he giggles.

  ‘You’re not paying all night.’ I take out my purse with my ‘don’t mess with me’ look and he takes it straight off me and puts it back in my bag.

  ‘I got paid today. Plus, you did me a big favour the other night, you know? Please. Let me get a few in. Same again or new one?’

  ‘I think I want another one of these, even if it does look like a car crash on the moon. Thank you.’

  It occurs to me that I’m not the slightest bit jumpy now. He’s interested and interesting, this place is cool and I don’t have any fatal diseases that I know of. That is enough for anyone, isn’t it?

  When he gets back he listens with rapt attention to the whole saga of Sarah and her budgie and laughs his head off at the messy bathroom and the umbrella waving. When I finish he shakes his head.

  ‘You do know, don’t you, that there are many people you could tell this story to and they would immediately have you committed?’

  ‘Yup. Including Mam. Even though it’s in her blood she still thinks it’s dangerous nonsense. When anything like that happens to her, she pretends it hasn’t, apparently. And that’s my own mother. Other people might think I’m trying to be one of those lot…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, those mediums on the telly, telling people what they need to hear to feel better. And those ones who are suddenly overtaken by murderous ghosts on camera. They look like mentalists. Vaudeville acts. I don’t even know what it is that I’m doing. I’m channelling something, but I don’t like the word psychic and I’m not sure what the right word should be.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, you’re very good at it. My sister will probably accost you in the shop soon. She’s absolutely gagging to hear if Dad’s got anything to say to her. I told her to leave you alone, but I’m not sure I can stop her. She loves all of that stuff.’

  This scares me. I hope she comes in on one of my days off. ‘So, how are the travel plans going?’

  His eyes light up. ‘Not long now.’

  Turns out he’s starting his trip in Thailand, one of my favourite places in the world. I feel a stab of jealousy, as I miss it with all of my heart, but simply can’t afford to go back right now. In an attempt to smother my envy, I tell him beaches and islands to visit and the best huts to stay in. After Thailand he’s going to Australia, then he’ll ‘work backwards’, whatever that means. He really is an intrepid little soul. He pats my knee, moving in a little closer.

  ‘And what about you, jumping on a plane tomorrow to go to work like you’re Kate Adie or something?’

  ‘Hardly! I’m off to shoot an awful advert. The money’s a bloody godsend, though, and I’m going to be in a nice hotel for a night so I’m quite excited. There’s a lovely pool there so I can have a swim and a sauna.’

  ‘You do know, now you’ve sold it to me like that it’s going to be a fucking nightmare, don’t you?’

  He’s made me laugh again. He has the same bleak sense of superstition that I have. Geordies are remarkably superstitious. My mam once said we had Irish in our blood. It would make sense.

  ‘Well, I will be dancing around in fake snow in a warm place, pretending it’s chilly, which might be weird but I doubt you could call it a “fucking nightmare”. What might be more of a nightmare is remembering the crazy dance I did at the audition and replicating it in high heels and a dress in snow made of polystyrene or whatever.’

  ‘Jeez. I would pay to see that!’ He looks to the bar and nods then looks back at me. ‘I just did something a bit James Bond. He just asked if we wanted another and I nodded yes without asking you. Sorry, am I a presumptuous wanker?’

  ‘Not if you’re paying.’

  ‘Good. Oh look.’

  I follow his eyes to the tiny stage. The man in the tricorn hat, who I admire greatly for the selection of highwaymen frock coats that he wears to do his shopping in Budgens, is working on his laptop a table away. Pat is out of his seat and heading for the stage. I’m a music fan, but I really don’t want to be serenaded on the guitar. There’s something a bit pre-planned about gestures like that. But he doesn’t pick up the guitar. He goes to the mic stand and takes up a – what is it? Next thing I know, I’m hearing the harmonica solo from ‘Isn’t She Lovely?’. Stevie bloody Wonder. And he’s awesome. I’m a bit embarrassed, but also totally impressed. It doesn’t last very long, but it’s fantastic. Mr Tricorn smiles mysteriously to himself, then gets on with his computer business. Pat puts the harmonica back where he found it and runs up to the bar to get the drinks.

  I watch him as he approaches the table once more. He is basically a big, beautiful kid. Everything he does has energy. I am not eyeing him up as a potential boyfriend, I don’t want one of those, but I like how much fun he is. He didn’t get up there to show off, he got up there because he felt like it. As he places the cocktails down I am full of admiration for him.

  ‘You are very talented.’

  ‘My uncle taught me the harmonica. I’ve got a couple of them. Did I look like a massive eejit up there?’

  Before I have time to think too hard, I bend forward and kiss him on the lips.

  ‘No you did not. You looked great.’

  He obviously doesn’t need any more encouragement, as he puts his glass down, takes my face in both of his hands and kisses me for rather longer than I kissed him. The fact that he’s so at ease about everything is very refreshing. The fact I have been longing to get it on with someone for ages immediately wreaks havoc on my body. I want him to push me down on this sofa right this minute and crush me into the cushions. He certainly knows how to kiss. The confidence of youth.

  I wish I didn’t keep thinking about his age – he’s only eight years younger than me – but the stress of my last relationship and the intermittent worry about money has taken the sheen off my once devil-may-care attitude. Also, ever since I turned thirty-five I’ve felt different, like I crossed a line into new territory. My friends with kids tell me that I will feel as though I’ve gone up a generation if/when I have a child. I will feel older and I will feel tired. Another reason I don’t want one. My own mother told me not to have a child unless I really, really have to. It’s one of the only progressive opinions she has ever voiced. In most other ways she’s like a maidservant from 1764 who just accidentally wandered into the future and is still slightly shell-shocked by what’s going on.

  Every time I come up for air from kissing Pat I want to kiss him again. The teenage joy of snogging someone passionately and not having to think or talk is a heady one. Eventually it’s him that stops, heaves a huge theatrical sigh and picks up his drink.

  ‘Is it me, or did it someone switch the heating up very high?’

  ‘No. I think it’s quite cool in here.’

  ‘So that’s what it’s like kissing a witch.’ He reaches forward, gives me another peck and grins. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  He looks at his hands for a minute. Oh. That must be him being serious or shy or something. When he looks at me, his eyes are more bold than shy.

  ‘I’m going away soon.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We met under very extraordinary circumstances.’

  ‘I know. I was there.’

  ‘I don’t want to insult you or anything…’

  ‘Go on.’

  What the bloody hell is he going to say?

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘I live with my cat. I am a cat lady.’

  ‘Makes sense, I’ll bet it’s a black cat.’

  ‘OK, so Inka happens to be black. What of it?’

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

  I snicker. The word boyfriend sounds so old-fashioned in his accent. ‘No. I wouldn’t have kissed you if I did.’

  ‘Very commendable. And a great relief.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ I’m
now knocking back my third cocktail, I have just shared a hot-as-jalapeño kiss with this vision before me and I love a bit of badinage.

  ‘Tanz, I’m well aware you are a good person, I don’t think you’re a pushover, or a girl of ill repute, but I was wondering if you’d take me home? Like soon. Like after this drink? I can get us some vodka or something on the way. I’m not always so pushy, but life is literally too fucking short and you are literally too tasty.’

  Another time I would be self-righteously furious at being asked less than an hour into a date to take someone home like a hooker. I have a definite chronology for how I do things and what he’s hinting at is at least a month in. Or it was last time I dated. But these circumstances are extraordinary. He has taken my breath away in as much as I’m now scared to death while being speechless with desire. He’s laid his cards on the table and it’s up to me. Any doubt either way is eradicated when he kisses me softly then puts his forehead to mine.

  ‘Please don’t be insulted. Say no if I’ve made you uncomfortable.’

  I pick up my martini and drain it, then offer him a small wink.

  ‘There’s an off-licence two doors away. I like Zubrowka.’

  I drape my pashmina and lead him out. The vodka is purchased within three minutes. Like Providence herself is following our every move, a cab with a yellow light shows up and is immediately hailed by Pat.

  ‘It’s only a fifteen-minute walk!’

  ‘Which means it’s an even shorter drive. Good.’

  The journey passes in a blink as we kiss like sixteen-year-olds all the way home. The time between his request at Purple Haze and me fumbling my key into the wonky front door lock is at most twelve minutes.

  I take him to the living room and leave him with my iPod while I run to the loo. I am actually quivering. For a second or two I want to climb out of the window and run off. What the hell am I playing at?

  ‘Good girl.’

  It’s the voice. There, then gone. Like permission. Maybe I really am imagining it. Who cares?

  I grab two glasses and orange juice ‘from concentrate’ out of my fridge and go to the living room, where Pat has lit my reading lamp and put on some nice background tunes from a collection on my iPod called ‘Kick back and breathe it out’.