Call Me Kismet

by PJ Mayhem

  I know I’ve got a glint in my eye—and a glow—but it’s good to see that my grooming efforts have paid off. I’d pulled out all stops in case I don’t have time to go home before I go into PGGG for my yoghurt tonight.

  ‘Ha, you can’t cover it up that easily. Now you’ve upset me I’m going to take my coffee and leave.’

  ‘You’re killing me, Fiona!’ Jack calls after me as I walk out backwards, both of us smiling.

  The door of Jane’s studio is slightly ajar when I get there that evening.

  ‘Yoo hoo!’ I step inside.

  No sign of Jane. I sit my shopping bag among the creative chaos of charcoal, oils, brushes and paint canisters that covers the large table she uses as a desk. She’s probably out the back. I’m about to head out to see when I hear noises coming from the bathroom: low muttering, grunting. I should have called ahead.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Jane calls as I’m tiptoeing out.

  ‘It’s only me. I’ll go and we can catch up later.’

  ‘No, wait, I’m done in here, well, nearly.’ Jane gives a husky giggle—it isn’t meant for me. I step outside to give them some space.

  A few minutes later a flash of youthful handsomeness gives me a parting wave.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be somewhere picking something up yourself?’ Jane emerges from the bathroom red-faced. It isn’t a blush; Jane would feel no need. I envy her this. She stops in her tracks as she peeks at the contents of my shopping bag. ‘Oh dear, triple chocolate mud cake. This can’t be good.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘No one special—spectacular but not special. What’s going on, Kismet?’

  ‘You know my “See you Wednesday” comment?’ I say once we’re both plated up with cake—Jane a sliver, me a slab. Naturally I’ve told Jane every minute detail of my visit on the twenty-sixth.

  ‘How could I forget? It was brilliant.’

  ‘Thank you. I was feeling totally Mae West about it myself.’

  Jane nods. ‘Very.’

  ‘I can’t believe it! This morning, I’d done all my preparations to go in tonight—I was mantraed up, meditated, positively affirmed and had intention set like a mad thing to manifest the interaction with the fruitologist that was best for my highest good.’

  ‘What about your I-Ching and had you zhoozhed your zing?’

  I shoot Jane a ‘don’t mock me in my distress’ look, but smile anyway. ‘I’m off the I-Ching, it’s not doing it for me at the moment. And if my interaction with Jack was anything to go by, my zing was adequately zhoozhed, thank you very much. Anyway I was on my way down to the bus this morning and saw the fruitologist in the street. He deliberately—deliberately—turned away from me! Fuckwit! Sorry, Buddha.’

  I grab my fork to continue conducting my one member orchestra of outrage. ‘And we’re not talking some innocuous half-turn of the head but a “practically throw his neck out” type of manoeuvre. I was left in the street—my best smile falling from my face with a huge, humiliating thud.’

  ‘Prick,’ Jane spits.

  ‘How dare he, how very dare he think he can turn away from me? And even more how very dare he think he can reject me? Who does he think he is? And what was with the “hi” the other week? Why even bother “hi”-ing me and being so nice and smiley when I asked about the yoghurt if he was just going to carry on like that? I have enough “pleasant exchange and hi” people in my life! I’m the Queen of Hi! I say “hi” to people I’m not sure I even know if they look familiar, just in case I do know them and they think I’m ignoring them!’

  ‘Exactly. I second your fuckwit and raise you a effen C!’

  ‘Totally. And effen C is being nice!’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What was there to do? I breathed in all the pride I could summon, stood tall, flicked my hair and walked on by.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything?’

  ‘Like I’m going to beg him to notice me! The worst part is I’m now completely out of yoghurt—no way was I going to swallow my pride even for that.’

  ‘Fuckwit. He isn’t worth a sniff of you, Kiz—you should forget him immediately.’

  ‘Well, perhaps … but even you said we can’t fight fate.’

  Thank the Goddess for Amethyst. From the moment I step into her waiting room on Saturday morning I feel as though I’ve been wrapped in a cloak of comfort. Amethyst floats out like a butterfly and scoops me up in a hug, draping me in the silk wings of her kaftan sleeves. She places a feather-light kiss on my third eye then takes my hand and leads me to the treatment room.

  With all that charm and grace I’d say she’s a Libran but I don’t know for sure. Whenever I’ve asked her birthday, she flutters her hands like little versions of her butterfly self and says, ‘So many lifetimes, so many birthdays.’

  I fill her in on Situation Singing Fruitologist, right up to the point of catching the quick shuffle of his sneakers back into the store as I passed this morning. I may have had my head down and only darted my eyes in using my peripheral glance technique but I know they were the Singing Fruitologist’s sneakers—I’ve spent so much time looking down when I go by I could write a paper on How to tell a Fruiterer by His Footwear. Not that I can tell Amethyst that.

  ‘Do you think the sausage dog could have been a coincidence, not really a sign at all? I mean, given everything, do you really think there’s any point?’ I squirm in the talking chair, feeling like a spiritual traitor.

  ‘Hmm’ is all Amethyst says. Then she closes her eyes and presses the tips of her fingers to her temples—a dead giveaway she’s receiving a message from her guides. I lean forward and wait for the revelation.

  ‘It is not my role to play matchmaker—I am a spiritual healer, an artist of energy not a walking, talking version of RSVP!’

  Buddha above.

  ‘Kismet,’ she continues, ‘in a world full of possible timings and sequences, do you really think that we can sweep Spirit and the Universe aside and put things down to mere coincidence? You have to learn to trust.’

  ‘I just don’t understand how it can be this hard if it’s meant to be.’

  ‘The greater plan of how things will work is not always obvious in the immediate. It’s not for us to judge. How often have you heard people say something makes sense in hindsight? You’re overanalysing it—have faith. Now, let’s get you up onto the table, your aura is a complete mess!’

  Amethyst magically weaves my chakras back into balance to rewire my energetic short circuit—I’d fused out my Sahasrara with my overactive mind and my Anahata with my fear.

  When she’s finished, she says, ‘I have something I need to share with you. I don’t get permission from the Universe to share this with just anyone, as it goes slightly against the manifestation theory.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper before continuing, ‘By focussing on something too much you can actually drive it away from you and, conversely, obsessively focussing on one thing can get in the road of other things that are meant for you—block them from coming to you.’

  Who would have thought destiny could be so complicated? Doris Day made it sound so much easier in ‘Que Sera, Sera’ but then again I don’t believe Doris Day was actually a qualified energetic and spiritual healer.

  ‘Blessed be.’ Amethyst farewells me with another kiss to my third eye once we’re done.

  I check my obsessive-overthinking-self in at the door on the way out and step into the rest of my life as Ms Totally Well-Balanced, Non-Obsessive, Middle-of-the-Road, who lives with grace, acceptance, balance and harmony.

  I feel so entirely Om Shanti that enlightenment must be imminent.

  6

  ‘I know, I know, sorry I’m late.’ I rush into my parents’ kitchen the next day and plonk the plate of brownies I’ve baked for dessert on the orange laminate bench. It’s that time of the month again—the Johnson family lunch.

  I go first to my mother, who proffers her cheek for me to peck, barely slowing her hands as they swish away at
the iceberg lettuce she’s washing. Catherine stops spooning olives into a serving dish and turns stiff as I rest my fingers on her shoulders and barely kiss her cheek. None of the adults in my family are very good with physical affection. I’m OK with women I feel comfortable with, like Jane and Amethyst, but it took work. Kids, on the other hand, are a different story.

  Sonja is sitting at the pine kitchen table chopping carrots with the same blunt knife her mother and I learnt our kitchen skills with. As I kneel beside her she puts the intergenerational knife down and wraps her arms around my neck.

  ‘Just as well you’re here, big girl,’ I say, layering kisses over her golden, baby-soft hair. ‘I’m so tired I couldn’t be trusted with that job today. I hardly slept a gazillionth of a wink last night.’

  ‘You should have tried medicating, Aunty Fee, you told me it helps you sleep,’ Sonja offers in her sweet, caring, Piscean way.

  ‘Oh honey, it’s meditating, and yes, usually it does help, you’re one hundred per cent right.’

  Catherine swivels around, hands on hips. ‘Don’t go putting any of your new age, hippitty-doo-daa ideas in her head, Fiona, she’s only seven.’

  I take a breath. I won’t correct Catherine’s ‘Fiona’ in front of Sonja, I don’t want to make her feel bad for calling me Aunty Fee. To her and her brother that’s who I will always be and I’m more than happy for it to stay that way.

  ‘Seriously, Catherine, meditation is scientifically proven. Psychologists use it to treat depression and PTSD these days.’

  Dad enters from the backyard, extinguishing the embers that are sparking between Catherine and me. Sammy is hot on his tail.

  ‘Hi guys. What have you been up to out there?’ I give Dad the Johnson greeting.

  ‘I’ve been teaching the young one here a bit about putting,’ Dad says proudly of Sammy, who squirms and wriggles under my hug. He’s a Gemini but the squirming has nothing to do with his star sign, it’s because he’s a ten-year-old boy. Only his grandmother can get away with hugs without resistance these days.

  ‘Don’t encourage your father to start up about the G subject, Fiona.’ Mum pats the tea towel she’s using to dry the lettuce with renewed vigour.

  ‘Where’s Brian?’ I ask, but I know what Catherine’s answer will be before she gives it. Even for a Virgo, he’s spending an exceptional amount of time at work lately.

  ‘Catherine, speaking of Brian’s work, didn’t you have something you wanted to mention to Fiona?’ Mum gives Dad a nudge, handing him a plate of marinated steak and sausages. ‘Sammy, you go out and help your grandfather with the barbecue. Sonja, you supervise the boys.’

  A nervous quiver starts in my gut and rises until the skin on my head feels stretched. There’s something brewing here and I don’t like the smell of it one little bit. The intergenerational knife isn’t the only thing that hasn’t changed in this place. Sure, Sammy’s and Sonja’s paintings now decorate the fridge where Catherine’s and mine used to hang but everything else is fundamentally the same, especially Mum and Catherine.

  ‘Is anything happening with that guy your psychic told you about, Fiona?’ Catherine asks with a smile or a sneer—sometimes it’s hard to tell.

  ‘It’s Kismet! K-I-S-M-E-T! Kismet!’ I snap now the children are out of earshot. ‘And she’s an energetic and spiritual healer. We’ve had some exchanges, nothing concrete quite yet.’ I try to sound confident.

  ‘Do you remember Grant from Brian’s work? You met him and his wife at that lunch Brian and I had last year. The senior statistician.’ Catherine always identifies people by their jobs.

  ‘Maybe vaguely.’ I attempt to cross reference the bevvy of bland couples that were at the lunch. I’ve virtually succeeded in wiping the whole torturously pleasant event from my memory.

  ‘He and his wife separated a few months ago and he remembered you—well, you and your brownies—from the lunch. He asked Brian if you were still single and if he could get your number.’

  ‘Oh no, what did Brian say?’ Having to withhold my spiritual exclamations around my family is really an added pressure I don’t need, although being remembered for my brownies does take the edge off a bit. I’m quite chuffed at being renowned for them.

  ‘Of course he said he’d ask me first. So can I?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell Brian to give him your number?’

  ‘Let me think about it.’ A statistician is so not me but I should get back on the straight and narrow in terms of entertaining other opportunities and not over-focussing on the fruitologist. Grant could be a good distraction and I think I might need one.

  Being Ms Middle-of-the-Road had all seemed well and good when I was high on the wave of my chakra cleansing, bathed in sunshine, taking in the beauty of Crystal Beach as I stood on Amethyst’s porch. To be honest, it was a bit of a relief initially; the whole obsession with Situation Singing Fruitologist was becoming exhausting, however the middle of the night sent Ms Middle-of-the-Road veering a little off course. ‘Just one last Fruitologist Fixation fix and I’ll kick off my Fruitologist Focus Rehab tomorrow,’ I’d promised myself after I’d had a light-bulb moment recollecting Amethyst’s RSVP comment.

  I’d searched page after page of online dating sites and apps for slightly less attractive than the real thing Kevin Costner doppelgangers to see if I could find the fruitologist. At 2am I was still trawling through the endless pages of the profiles of men between thirty-five (he could just be wearing badly for his age) and fifty (or particularly well) that live within twenty kilometres of Putney. One page after the next brought a fresh wave of relief. At least he wasn’t putting himself out there for the entire world to see. I wasn’t sure how I’d cope if I’d discovered the fruitologist was on a dating site yet had turned away from me in the street.

  ‘So, can we give Grant your number?’ Catherine does little to hide the exasperation in her voice, or any part of her, as she bangs cutlery down on the bench, bringing me back to her question.

  ‘Sure, why not.’ The words are out before I realise what I’m saying and, Buddha help me, my mother is witness to them.

  7

  Day four of Ms Middle-of-the-Road and the rewards are already materialising. First, on my way to work, I transitioned from walking with extreme dignity to a hair-flicking flounce when the fruitologist looked at me as I passed. Love, light and perfect harmony deserted me. I’m sure I projected a ‘Screw you, you don’t get to ignore me again, sweetheart!’ vibe, which wouldn’t be surprising as that’s exactly what I was feeling.

  It’s as though by reclaiming my power I’ve created the energetic shift I need for my life to move forward, because when I arrive home Wednesday evening and check my email, I find a message from the Office of the Australian Consulate in Shanghai. I have a phone interview for a job as the Executive Assistant to the Consulate General next Wednesday. With all this Situation Singing Fruitologist business going on I’d forgotten I even applied for it.

  Amethyst must have had a spiritual connection malfunction, a simple case of spirit guide crossed wires. China has always been my destiny, she’s even said I have a future life there. And the timing of the interview so soon after the fruitologist’s rejection can’t be overlooked. If I’m going to have a destined relationship surely it has to be with someone there.

  Six years ago when I began studying Mandarin it was like coming home. I’d decided I wanted to learn a language and Mandarin made perfect sense as I was seeing a Chinese guy at the time. I was fascinated by the stories he’d tell, the myths and customs, and hearing about that world. We all have a ‘soul place’ and as inexplicable as it is, China is mine.

  The next morning, sitting at my desk, I’m the portrait of composure and quiet positivity, surprisingly contained. I haven’t even phoned Jane to squeal excitedly about the interview. It feels too big. Besides Jane hasn’t called me. I suspect that has to do with the guy from the other night. This happens sometimes: ‘spectacular’ can have Jane MIA for up to a fortnigh
t. But two weeks with a man is her limit.

  ‘Fiona, we’ve changed our minds.’ Broomstick’s arrival crushes my composure and positivity. She seems quite excited about whatever it is that ‘we’ve’ changed our minds about. Her lips aren’t quite as pursed, like she’s been sucking on a tube of superglue, as they usually are. ‘We’re not going to use the Education Compliance Consultant after all. You and I are more than capable of taking care of it. I’ve found a workshop next Thursday to bring us up to speed on the latest requirements. Book that, cancel the compliance consultant, then come into my office and we’ll start making a plan.’

  Deep breath—I just need to focus on Shanghai.

  In Broomstick’s office, I start making my own plan of what I’ll have on my New Life in Shanghai vision board, then abruptly wonder why Grant hasn’t called. Anything to escape being fully present with Broomstick. Maybe Grant doesn’t want to appear too keen. Not that I even care. A statistician—he’s bound to be a Virgo. That sort of nit-picking is so not something I need. Still, a girl doesn’t like to be shelved by a lonely separatee.

  Out of the torture chamber, Broomstick’s plans outlined on my notepad, my mobile beeps with a message. It’ll be Grant—I’ve manifested him into action with the power of my mind. I’ll look at it in two minutes, I don’t want to appear desperate.

  Then I remember what the whole boredom of the Broomstick meeting has made me forget: I don’t need to care about Grant or any of it. I’m about to embark on my new life as a successful globe-trotting woman of international high-calibre executive support. I pick up my mobile.

  OK, not Grant but Amethyst. I had just been thinking of her too, sort of.

  Darling Kismet. Apologies if my RSVP comment seemed a little harsh the other day. My energies were grating against the cosmic forces. It came to me in a meditation that your gentle soul needed an apology for that.

  Much love until next time. A xxx