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

by Tracy Whitwell

  ‘Anyway, what happened in the bar, you Class-A fool?’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing, I’d just bought the champagne. I was going to call up to your room and try to force you to come back down again.’

  ‘Presumptuous!’

  ‘And that’s when I turned and saw Little Miss Sunshine, sitting outside on the lap of Little Mr Sunshine, her pre-pubescent co-star. Looks like she fancied a bit of younger meat this time.’

  This phrase tumbles me back onto the rug with Pat last night. I blink hard to get rid of the pictures that flood my mind. Boy, was he vigorous.

  ‘To avoid embarrassment I briskly made for the lift. I have no idea if she saw me, but I wasn’t hanging around to find out.’

  He laughs and as he does there is a furious hammering at my hotel room door. My back stiffens.

  ‘Oh lawks! I think I’ve been hunted down!’

  He makes to climb over the balcony. We are five floors up and he is pissed. I grab him and make him sit back down.

  ‘STAY!’

  The pounding continues relentlessly.

  I stand, and like a condemned witch to the ducking stool, I trudge warily towards the rattling door.

  The Pain of Being Alive

  I glance back at Rog’s owl eyes peeping fearfully over the back of his chair out on the balcony, before I steady myself and open the door. Ruth is in a sarong, tied halter style around her neck to make a slinky dress. (She’s one of those girls that doesn’t need a bra, the bitch.) It’s silk, it’s fuchsia and yellow and it shows off her bony shoulders and toned arms to perfection. Her golden hair is swept up and her tawny eyes would be enchanting, were it not for the crazed look and the flustered red nervous patches on both cheeks and her neck.

  The moment the door is moving she is hopping around, trying to see past me into the room. She attempts to barge past and, in a move that is entirely out of character for me, I grab her arm and push her. She almost falls backwards and grabs the door frame to steady herself.

  ‘Excuse me, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  I always lay on my accent thicker when I am angry and/or trying to sound hard. Her mouth opens and closes like a guppy. Then she lets out a cry.

  ‘ROG! ROGER I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, YOU BASTARD.’

  She has a soft Yorkshire burr. She is radiating energy; it’s coming off her like heat. She glares at me, bile and spittle flying. ‘Just you wait, you stupid old cow. You think you’re special because he came to you? Well, it won’t last. He’ll dump you and make you feel like shit. Anyway, what kind of slut bangs someone they just met on a job?’

  This girl is priceless. Plus, she pouts even when she’s apoplectic. I can’t help it; I begin to laugh at the absolute cheek of it.

  ‘What are you laughing at? Are you laughing at me?’

  She lifts her hand as if to hit me. Suddenly Roger is sweeping up from behind, just as I land a good kick to her left ankle. I am not a violent person and I’m only wearing flip flops, but she really shouldn’t make assumptions.

  ‘Woah! Woah there.’

  Roger grabs her arm as she dramatically falls sideways, after hopping about in agony. What a total cry-baby. I can hear approaching voices. I don’t want the management – or indeed anyone – being party to this fiasco so I drag them both inside and close the door. She slumps on the bed, cradling her ankle. I look at my foot – I’ve split my big toenail. Damn.

  Rog stands a little away, afraid she might attack I think. Her eyes dart viper-venom.

  ‘You prick.’

  ‘Now come on.’

  ‘You complete shit. We had something so amazing and you just dumped me out of nowhere. Wouldn’t answer my texts, wouldn’t speak to me.’

  ‘I’m married, Ruth. I have three kids.’

  ‘You weren’t thinking about them much in the back of my car, were you? And it doesn’t look like you’ve been thinking much about them tonight!’

  She glances towards the balcony and spies the empty champagne bottle.

  ‘Oh, lovely, a little romantic drinkie before the big deed, is it?’ She turns on me, her lip curling. ‘Well, just so you know, he’s not exactly as big in the pants department as he is in the mouth department.’

  ‘Oh, you know what? Can I just fucking clarify? Rog was in here hiding from a mentalist and wasn’t on a romantic mission. You might think he’s God’s gift, but some of us don’t get our rocks off shagging married men!’

  Her face contorts.

  ‘A mentalist?’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s a teensy bit mental that you just pounded on the door of a stranger and tried to push your way in, screaming and shouting at a man who may or may not be there and that you haven’t seen in a year?’

  Her anger now seems to be melting into self-pity.

  ‘You told her? About us?’

  Rog rolls his eyes. ‘There was no “us”. We had a few jolly little bunk-ups at the end of a job. Why is that an “us”?’

  Well, I have to hand it to him, Rog has a way with words. He may as well have punched her. She begins to sob.

  ‘I’m not a… I’m not a bunk up… Men love me, they fall at my feet. Why? Why wouldn’t you answer me?’

  ‘I did bloody answer you. I told you it couldn’t happen. There was nothing else to say.’

  ‘And then you got that gangster agent to call me. You tried to destroy my career.’

  I am horribly tempted to point out that a fringe show and the odd advert is hardly a ‘career’ to break, but that would just be cruel. Roger is moving from one foot to the other. Obviously Ruth’s emotions are freaking him out. I am feeling more respect for his wife by the minute. She must really have to handle him like a big baby. I wonder if I should boot them both out of my room and let them fight it out in the corridor.

  ‘Help her, Tanz.’

  A bloody voice in my head.

  Why should I help her? She’s been curling her lip at me since she came to the door. She called me an old cow. Fuck her.

  ‘Speak to her. She needs you. We’ll help.’

  I don’t know who ‘we’ would be, but I can’t say no. It makes me feel very harumphy, though. I heave a tiny sigh then turn to Rog.

  ‘Can you do me a favour? I’d like a word with, erm, Ruth, on my own, please. Stay by the bar downstairs. I’ll call down if we need you for anything, OK?’

  I don’t take his mobile number as it might make things even stickier with Ruth. The relief on his face is farcical. I just hope he doesn’t kiss me – that will not help matters in the slightest. Ruth is confused and reluctant.

  ‘But Rog, I want to talk to yoooooouuu!’

  She is still snuffling and her beseeching tone is wrenchingly pathetic. Sometimes I truly wonder what made me want to be an actress. Am I as messed up as these people? Crikey, I hope not.

  Rog can’t get out of the room quickly enough. His wink is inappropriate, but that’s him all over. Ruth sits on the bed, cradling her ankle. I try to sneak a peek at it and through her fingers I spy blood. Ooops. I must have cracked her right on the bone. That’ll be how I ripped my nail, then. I go to my suitcase and produce the Zubrowka vodka I purchased from the duty-free on the way here. I then go to the mini bar and fish out my stash of apple juice. In the ice bucket I find a few solitary blocks floating in mostly melt-water. I put them in the flutes, pour generous measures of the vod and top them up with apple juice. I hand one to Ruth and she takes it. I hold mine aloft.

  ‘Here’s to your ankle.’

  ‘You kicked me.’

  ‘To be fair you were about to hit me and I hadn’t done anything.’

  She takes a tentative sip, then a swig. ‘What on earth is this?’

  ‘Bison Grass vodka with apple. It’s total heaven.’

  ‘It is, actually.’ Her amber peepers regard me over her considerably less full glass. ‘Were you really just sheltering him from me?’

  ‘’Fraid so. He’s not the bravest of blokes and I think you scare the sh
it out of him. I don’t know him from Adam.’

  ‘I loved him.’

  I remember falling helplessly in love with people I worked with when I first became an actress. I soon learned. She is downing her drink like it’s water. She seems to be fighting back tears. I grab her glass and top it up, then sit next to her.

  ‘Can you really love someone you shagged for a week?’

  ‘Yes. I can.’

  Peace and stillness. I feel it descending. I put down my drink and look at her. Suddenly I don’t see a pouty, slim, spoiled bitch with all the advantages I didn’t have. I ‘feel’ something else coming out of her and I see a person who is struggling.

  ‘There’s something wrong with your neck, isn’t there?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  I steady myself and let the words come. ‘Two years ago, maybe a little more, something… something happened to your neck and shoulder and your confidence was shot to pieces. Did you have a crash? You crashed the car. Your boyfriend was with you. You split up not long after.’

  She is gaping. I feel bad for her. I feel warmth towards her.

  ‘Then you got the job. A long time later. It was your first proper gig since… your neck… Roger put a smile back on your face, didn’t he? And then he ran off. I’m so sorry. You wanted to die, didn’t you? Oh, you’re too young and beautiful to die. Please tell me you’d never do that now.’

  I sense her sadness acutely. My eyes are always welling up, but in this case I think it’s justified. She grabs my hand – in shock, I think.

  ‘I did have a car crash. I did. I was with my ex and he was being horrible to me and I lost concentration and crashed into a lamppost. He was OK, but I got whiplash and I hurt my shoulder. I couldn’t move properly for ages and I didn’t know if I would act again. When I got that shitty play I was over the moon. Then I met Roger and he was sooo funny. And… I know it’s horrible but, because he was older, I thought he’d adore me. I thought he’d help me stop feeling so sad. We were so connected when we… you know. I thought we had a future. I know he’s got a wife, but when he spoke to me it was as though I was the only person in the world. I could only assume he wasn’t happy in his marriage. Why else would he behave like he was single?’

  She stops to draw breath and glugs down another third of a flute of rocket fuel. She is a bit googly-eyed now.

  ‘How did you know about me? Are you… like, a witch?’

  ‘Nah. I can just feel when someone’s in pain.’ I push a straggly strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Can I tell you something, Ruth…?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘What happened with Roger, it was horrible for you. It’s understandable you were upset. But I promise you, if you hadn’t been in such a vulnerable place you wouldn’t have lost it so badly over him.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’

  ‘He’s a handsome, funny bloke, Ruth. But lots of creative blokes are attractive and charismatic. They play with it, like a cat plays with a mouse. It wouldn’t matter how gorgeous you were, how sexy, how great the shags were. He wasn’t looking for a relationship. He has one of those. He was having an adventure and he wanted to feel good about himself. He picked you because you were the best-looking girl there. If you really want a shot at happiness you have to resist these fellas who offer you the moon and hand you a pebble. When you get older you’ll recognise them a mile off.’

  ‘You’re so clever.’

  She’s ever so slightly slurring now.

  ‘Bitter experience, that’s all. Rog is not going to leave his wife, and if he did he would expect you to wash his underpants, be a step-mother to his kids and turn a blind eye to his cheating. You are worth a lot more than that. And you’re too young. Do you understand?’

  ‘Funny. I was just thinking tonight when I saw him, how much more knackered he looks than I remember.’

  I grin at her. ‘Believe me, that will only get worse. Roger will be selfish for the whole of his life and he will only get more knackered-looking.’

  She smiles, can’t help herself. I top her up again, much more apple juice than vodka this time. ‘I shouldn’t have called you an old cow. I’m sorry about that. You’re actually quite pretty, I just wanted to make you feel shit. That’s horrible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, don’t give yourself a hard time, I hated you on sight.’

  She really giggles now.

  ‘What happened to your co-star? The lovely boy with the quiff?’

  The giggling stops abruptly, as she remembers. ‘Oh God, poor Freddie. We were getting on so well then I spotted Rog and I just flipped.’

  ‘Right. Just a minute.’

  I pick up my room phone and call the bar. Within seconds I have Roger on the line. He sounds more pissed than before. He is horribly grateful. I ask if Freddie is with him. He says not. I bid him good night and tell him he is now free to wander off.

  Ruth is in the loo so misses the last exchange, which can only be good.

  ‘He must be in his room, Ruth. Do you know the number?’

  ‘612.’

  The phone hardly gets the chance to ring before he picks it up.

  ‘Hello Freddie, my name is Tanz and I’m in room 514. Could you possibly come and pick up Ruth? She would like to see you and thinks she might have upset you? She needed to speak to me urgently, but it’s all ironed out now and she’d like some company.’

  I’m surprised he doesn’t knock at the door the minute I put the phone down, he sounds so breathlessly eager. Already enraptured, obviously.

  When Ruth returns I give her some water from my bottle and tidy up her mascara.

  ‘Have some fun, Ruth. You don’t need to settle down. Shag everyone or shag no one, just don’t upset yourself. If it makes you feel better, I know two things. You have a big job coming in the next six months and you won’t look back.’

  She gasps. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. And the other thing. Your mum. She’s sorry. OK? She’s sorry. You’re all she cares about.’

  When the knock comes, I let Freddie in and offer him a Zubrowka and apple. He accepts it, his noble brow creasing at the sight of his lady-love, face like a collapsing balloon, as she sobs again.

  Luckily, this time Ruth’s tears are not crazy tears. And she’s wiping furiously at her eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Freddie, I shouldn’t have run off. Don’t look at me, I’m like a swollen lizard.’

  Freddie wipes her eyes. ‘You’re beautiful, Ruth, laughing or crying. Like an angel.’

  A bit frilly for me, but she’s pleased enough. Soon they leave, arm in arm and clutching the rest of my vodka. Hey-ho, it went to a good cause. Before she goes, Ruth writes my phone number on her arm. I don’t refuse her, as actually she’s quite sweet when she’s not trying to smash down my door.

  As she hugs me tight, I whisper in her ear. ‘Call me when you’re in London. We can talk about your mum.’

  She hugs me even harder, then they leave.

  I jump on my bed like a starfish and lie face down on the cool sheets. Thank CHRIST for that. I can now go to sleep. My phone is in my bag just beside my head. I check it to make sure it’s not running out of juice. I’ve hardly used it so it’s fine. There’s a text.

  You have destroyed me. I am a shell of a man… Same time next week? Pat.

  I fall asleep within two seconds.

  And once more I dream of bluebells, this time growing on a grave. The gravestone is blank where the name should be. It makes me sad, but it’s not scary.

  What is with these weird dreams?

  The Human Weasel

  I have to work at the shop three days running to make up for my day off. Today Martin is the reader. Martin is basically a small field animal or, actually, a weasel – he has a feral look in his eye and I think he might be holding down a maelstrom of evil resentments within his meek, veiny exterior. The people who trickle in for readings from him seem to be the most odd and damaged of our customers.

  I don’t
really know what I think of Martin. I have many gay friends; they usually love me. Milo says it’s because I’m more than a little tragic, the cheeky so and so. But Martin is so weird. I think he dislikes being gay. That must be awful, but how can you possibly be understanding towards the people you’re reading for if you hate yourself and everything you stand for? He doesn’t wear aftershave or scented deodorant, either. I’ve been close to him a couple of times and he smells a bit musty. What kind of self-respecting gay man doesn’t smell fabulous?

  On the subject of smelling nice, yesterday when I got back from the airport Inka had left me a lovely gift on the bed. When I go away for more than a day, Steve, my neighbour and the only ninety-year-old man I have ever met who introduces himself as ‘Steve’, keeps an eye out for Inka and lets her come into his house if she’s lonely. I don’t go away that much these days and, when I do, Inka has the cat flap and the cat feeder with three days’ worth of food. Steve provides extras. He used to be a chef in the army. He has a massive old tabby called Compo that Inka tolerates and they hang out in Steve’s yard while he potters with his begonias. Despite this, Inka has seen the need to lodge a complaint that I went away. Cat shit on my white duvet cover. Perfect. She’s such an emotional bitch.

  When Martin rolls in he’s an hour late and he eyeballs me suspiciously from a chair near the door as he consumes a limp-looking corned-beef sandwich and a packet of plain crisps. He’s drinking supermarket brand, full fat cola. No wonder he’s so sallow. He notices I have a sealed pack of tarot cards in front of me. This morning I took the plunge and bought the Medieval Scapinis, just as my terrifying, Spanish gypsy make-up artist instructed me to. I’m excited. The first sale of the day was mine, on my poor, overloaded credit card. Luckily I know wages are coming, so I’m allowed to treat myself.

  ‘What are you doing with those?’

  He’s very softly spoken. He told me a couple of weeks ago that he was born in Luton, though he doesn’t have much of an accent. I ask you, who would want to be born in Luton? His mam wants to be ashamed.

  ‘Oh. I just thought I’d get myself a deck, check them out. They’re such beautiful cards.’