I groan.
‘Shut up,’ Cara instructs. ‘This is for your benefit too.’
I can feel some sort of cranky ritual coming on and I think I’ve had enough humiliation for one weekend, thank you very much.
‘You have met the man of your dreams – admittedly shortly after announcing that you’d never fall in love again – and have let him slip through your fingers because of a simple misunderstanding about the wearing of pesto sauce.’ Cara does overbearing very well. She continues without pause for breath: ‘I have met the man of my dreams and he’s currently being too dim to realise that I’m the woman of his dreams. We have to sort this out.’
‘Can’t we do it in a way that doesn’t involve candles?’ Cara sometimes has a very slender connection to real life and when it is at its worst it usually involves a lot of candles.
Hands on hips, she says: ‘Suggestions?’
I admit by a sullen silence that I have none.
‘Let’s get started then,’ she says with a superior smile.
Cara and I are sitting opposite each other. We are surrounded by a circle of red Waitrose dinner candles all flickering wildly in their saucers. Cara’s candle expenditure budget is truly phenomenal. There is probably some gnarled and rickety factory somewhere producing wax purely for Cara’s personal consumption. If she ever decides to come back down to this planet, there will be a lot of candlemakers heading towards the DHSS and signing on the following week. I am struggling between trying not to sulk and trying not to laugh. It could go either way at the moment.
‘We are going to practise the ancient art of Wicca,’ Cara tells me.
‘Nice,’ I say.
‘You’re not going to get silly, are you, Emily?’ she says with a warning note in her voice.
‘No,’ I say solemnly and burst out laughing.
‘Just get your sniggering over with now,’ my friend advises as she places our mobile phones in the centre of the room in between us.
‘He doesn’t know my number,’ I point out. Or my name. Both of which I think are fairly relevant.
‘The universe will bring him to you.’ Cara has an answer for everything.
‘What’s the bag of flour for?’ There is a two-kilo bag of Homepride Self-Raising flour on the floor between us too.
‘We’re going to sprinkle it over each other.’
‘You are not sprinkling flour over me!’ I object.
‘Emily.’ Cara sighs tightly. ‘Do you want to find this man or not?’
‘Yes,’ I say meekly. Flour it is then.
Cara settles herself and assumes a mystical-type expression.
‘I’m not hoovering it up,’ I say snippily and receive a glare as my reward.
Cara picks up her well-thumbed book of magic spells and flicks through the pages until she stops at a particular hex and smiles contentedly.
‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’ I don’t believe in this load of old bunkum, but I wouldn’t want Cara to conjure up something nasty with several heads and a spiteful nature in our living room.
‘Get the flour,’ Cara orders me.
Dutifully, I push the packet bearing Fred the Flour Grader towards my magical, mysterious, mystical, mad friend.
‘Why flour?’ I ask.
‘Because it means you’re accepting that you’re at one with nature,’ Cara says, but she doesn’t sound too certain.
I think it probably means that you’re accepting that you’re half-baked.
‘Does it have to be self-raising?’
‘No,’ Cara says darkly. ‘It’s all I had in the cupboard.’
It’s unusual because I can’t see the word ‘organic’ on it anywhere. ‘Do you think because it’s self-raising it will give the men of our dreams spontaneous erections?’
‘That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’
Cara picks up her magic wand and gives it a few tentative swishes through the air and then sharply taps the top of our mobile phones three times.
I fall on my back giggling. ‘You look like Sooty,’ I say, gasping for breath.
Cara treats me with the contempt I deserve, so I try to calm down and pay attention.
‘Now you have to say the magic words,’ Cara informs me.
‘Izzy, whizzy, let’s get busy!’ I offer and throw myself on the floor in a fit of laughter again. Calling on the universe is the best therapy I’ve had in ages.
‘You’re not taking this seriously, Emily,’ she warns.
Oh, she’s noticed. I sit upright again and copy Cara’s mystical pose. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. In this case I’m not so sure.
‘Pick up the phone,’ Cara says.
I pretend to be making a phone call.
‘What was this man’s name?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit reluctantly.
‘Oh, very helpful!’
‘I christened him The Hunk.’
Cara looks at me with disdain. ‘Visualise him then,’ she says. The tone of her voice adds, ‘If you think you can manage that . . .’ ‘I’m going to visualise Adam too. Then I dust you with flour and you repeat these words.’
I press my lips together so that I don’t spoil it all by cracking up again. Cara really has the best of intentions. I close my eyes and put on my serious face.
‘Call me,’ she says earnestly. ‘Don’t be afraid. Call me . . .’
I risk opening one eye. ‘That’s an old Carpenters’ hit!’ I say.
Cara throws a handful of flour in my face. ‘It is not. Just say it.’
I cough the flour out of my mouth and blink it off my eyelashes. ‘It’s a Carpenters’ song,’ I insist. Cara looks murderous. ‘If it isn’t, they definitely did a cover version.’
I get another gobful of flour and a glare for my pains. ‘And this is the ancient art of Wicca?’ I splutter. ‘A mystical ritual passed down through generations? Singing old Carpenters’ hits while staring at my mobile phone?’
Cara’s jaw tightens. ‘You have no idea what the universe can do for you, do you?’
‘I have some idea what Vodaphone can do though and I don’t think it’s transmitting love spells through the ether.’ I fold my arms in a very unmagical posture. ‘If I’m reliant on bad 1970s pop tunes to find the man of my dreams then I might as well give up now.’
‘I have a lot more faith than you,’ Cara informs me loftily. She is a lot more barking mad than me, I think.
Cara raps her phone three more times and then snatches it up and puts it to her ear. She closes her eyes dreamily. ‘Call me,’ she intones and does her Karen Carpenter impression again. I sing the song in my head, mouthing the words to Cara’s rapt face. I enter into the spirit of the throwing-flour-in-the-face part quite enthusiastically. Cara splutters delicately.
She opens her eyes and a shower of graded grains flutters down from her fringe like powder snow. Cara sneezes.
‘That’s it, is it?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ Cara says. ‘All we have to do now is wait.’
Chapter Fifty-One
England were playing Germany. Always a grudge match. And only on Sky TV. England were sure to get a pasting. The last time they had beaten Germany, Adam was still in nappies. The thought did nothing to cheer him.
He had arranged to watch their big match demise on the large-screen television in the pub with Chris and Toff and, accordingly, had trudged painfully down to the Jiggery-Pokery that evening, still aching from this afternoon’s bike-ride with Josh. He didn’t think he was a natural father – he hated other people’s children, who were, without exception, snot-nosed brats. He did, however, adore his own offspring, so he couldn’t be that bad. And if it meant that he constantly felt his age in the pursuance of entertainment of said offspring, then that couldn’t be helped either.
On his arrival, Adam got the beers in. And the cashew nuts. Chris was already ensconced on a bar stool. And so was Toff. Not that Toff had the slightest interest in football. He just indulged them as a
male-bonding ritual and usually spent the entire match asking inane questions about football formations and trying to remember which teams were playing and what colour each of them wore. Toff would have made a great girl.
Chris was eyeing up two of the more dubious members of that species who were propping up the end of the bar, delicately swigging Archers from bottles, co-ordinated elegantly with alternate drags of their cigarettes. Chris licked his lips seductively in their direction and the girls giggled back. Adam and Toff exchanged a glance.
‘How long till kick-off?’ Chris asked.
‘Half an hour,’ Adam advised.
‘Go and get some good seats,’ Chris said. ‘I’m in here.’
They always had to get there early to get good seats. Otherwise you could spend the entire match looking at the back of someone’s head. This was clearly not a neighbourhood replete with satellite dishes or the type of people who’d be interested in pay-per-view footy matches. Toff couldn’t care less whether they had good seats or not.
‘Time for some totty teasing,’ Chris said and headed towards the two rather tarty women.
Adam and Toff watched his progress.
‘Hey,’ Chris said as he approached the girls. ‘After the football do you want to come back to my place for pizza and sex?’
One of the girls regarded him through her cigarette smoke. ‘We don’t like pizza.’
‘Even better.’ Chris rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I get you ladies a drink or do you just want the money?’
The girls laughed raucously.
Adam and Toff exchanged another glance. ‘Tell me he isn’t real,’ Adam said.
‘It’s his testosterone, old fruit,’ Toff said. ‘It’s on overdrive because he’s going to see David Beckham.’
‘Hey, Toff,’ Adam said, impressed. ‘You remembered a footballer’s name!’
‘Only because I did a photo shoot with him and Victoria last week.’
‘Oh,’ Adam said, impressed.
‘Charming couple,’ Toff informed him and they left Chris to his lascivious chat-up lines and went in search of good seats.
When they found them, Toff sipped his Campari and grapefruit with confidence while Adam looked self-consciously around him. A lot of tattooed people inhabited the Jig and they could easily take offence at a pale pink drink in a bloke’s hand.
‘What formation do you think they’ll play today?’ Toff asked. ‘A four-four-seven?’
‘Toff,’ Adam said patiently, ‘there are only ten players on the field. And a goalie. It’s a four-four-two. You know nothing about this.’
‘I’m interested though,’ Toff said. ‘Really, I am.’
‘I am not going through the offside rule with you again,’ Adam said firmly. ‘It’s a very painful process and you never remember it. Just admire their hairstyles or something. Enjoy your drink and the fact that you’re with friends.’
Toff cleared his throat. ‘Who are we playing?’
‘Germany,’ Adam said. ‘It’s an important match.’
‘And which ones are we?’
Adam sighed. ‘We’re the ones in the white shirts and blue shorts.’
‘Nice,’ Toff said. ‘It’s a very smart outfit.’
‘Strip,’ Adam corrected.
‘Who’s the one in the orange top with the nice shiny hair and the rather dated Mexican moustache?’
‘That’s David Seaman. He’s the goalkeeper,’ Adam explained. ‘He’s the man who tries to stop the ball going into the back of the net.’
‘Really, darling,’ Toff was affronted. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘You’re not a footballer either,’ Adam said with a smile.
Toff was about to open his mouth again.
‘Can we change the subject, Toff?’ Adam pleaded. ‘To something you’re a bit more au fait with?’
‘I know a lot about cricket,’ Toff offered.
Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Let’s talk about women then,’ Toff said.
‘I think Chris is the expert there,’ Adam mused, flicking a glance over to his friend who was making Michael Jackson-style pelvic thrusts towards his two giggling companions, accompanied by enthusiastic monkey noises. ‘I can only hope he’s telling them a joke,’ Adam said, ‘and not going through his mating ritual.’
‘Me too,’ Toff agreed. ‘It’s a very unpleasant sight.’
They both returned their attention to their drinks and the jostling that was going on to force another row of chairs in front of the designated front row.
‘Talking of mating rituals, how did you enjoy yourself last night?’ Toff asked.
‘Great, mate,’ Adam said. ‘Thanks for setting it up. I mean it. Really.’
‘Did all go swimmingly with lovely Jemima?’
Adam grimaced. ‘I don’t think she was my type. Or, more pertinently, I don’t think I was hers.’ Adam was pretty sure that his bank account was much lower down the evolutionary scale than she’d grown accustomed to.
‘You’re not going to see her again?’
Adam shook his head.
‘Don’t fall at the first fence, old bean,’ Toff tutted. ‘The girl of your dreams is out there waiting. We just have to find her.’
‘Actually . . .’ Adam examined the head on his pint, ‘you could help me there, Toff.’
Toff was patently surprised.
Adam avoided looking at him. ‘I saw someone last night at the wine bar.’ He plaited his fingers together. ‘She was lovely.’ He shrugged. ‘Really lovely. I tried to talk to her but made a complete bollocks of it.’
‘And?’ Toff said with a frown.
‘And I’ve no idea who she is,’ Adam admitted. ‘She raced out, jumped into a cab and sailed off into the wide blue yonder before I could stop her.’
‘Oh, how romantic,’ Toff mused.
‘Well, not really.’ Adam took a mouthful of his pint. ‘It would have been a lot more romantic if I’d got her phone number.’
‘Oh, of course, dear boy.’
‘That’s where you can help,’ Adam said. ‘You knew a lot of people there last night. Maybe one of them could tell you who she was.’
‘It’s certainly worth a try,’ Toff said. ‘I’ll give Paul behind the bar a ring first thing tomorrow. What was she like?’
‘Gorgeous,’ Adam said. ‘Utterly gorgeous. In a sweet and vulnerable sort of way.’
‘Could you be a bit more specific? Short, tall? Fat, thin? Dark, blonde?’
‘Tallish,’ Adam said. ‘Well, not too tall, not too short. And thinish. But not too thin. Full-figured.’ Adam held his hands out in front of him. And then put them out a bit further. Toff looked impressed. ‘And she was dark, but not very dark. Sort of dark blondey, chestnuty. And her hair was short, but not too short. Sort of short, long.’
Toff pressed his lips together and concentrated.
‘Do you know who she is?’ Adam knew he sounded too hopeful.
‘Yes,’ Toff said. ‘She’s a short, tall, fat, thin, dark blonde with hair of indeterminate length.’
‘Yes.’ Adam nodded eagerly.
‘What was she wearing?’ Toff asked.
‘A pink thing,’ Adam supplied. ‘Sort of reddy-pink. Purplish. What colour’s cerise?’
‘Pink,’ Toff said.
‘Pink.’ Adam nodded contentedly. ‘It was pink. Pinky-purple.’
‘Reddy-pink?’ Toff prompted.
‘Yeah,’ Adam agreed with a sigh. ‘She looked great.’
‘I’m sure we’ll have absolutely no trouble tracking her down,’ Toff assured him. ‘Leave it to Uncle Sebastian, old boy.’
‘Yeah,’ Adam said. He punched his friend’s arm in appreciation. ‘You’re a real mate, Toff.’
Toff shrugged. ‘Are you going to come up to the studio this week?’
Adam nodded. ‘I’m working tomorrow, but probably on Tuesday night.’ He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before kick-off. ‘Which reminds me – I’d better p
hone Cara. She called last night while we were out, but didn’t leave a message. It was probably something to do with work.’
Chris returned and took the seat next to Adam. He waved a beer mat in front of Adam’s nose that had two phone numbers scribbled on the corner. He pointed at the women he had just left. ‘Those clothes are going to look wonderful in a pile on my bedroom floor,’ he said with a smile.
Adam really hoped that Toff would be able to trace the woman-in-the-wine-bar, otherwise he could be forced into going out on pulling missions with Chris – and he didn’t think that his constitution was strong enough for that. What’s more, he preferred his women with more brain cells than they had legs, which was a requirement that didn’t seem to trouble his friend.
‘Are you extraordinarily jealous, Adam?’ Chris asked.
‘Yes, Chris,’ Adam said flatly and punched Cara’s number into his mobile. The only thing that would cheer him up now would be Germany losing 5–1. Fat chance! It was going to be a long and miserable night.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Cara has just gone upstairs to wash the flour out of her dreadlocks. Which in my book means they are technically not dreadlocks, but just very tight ringlets. She has decided to do this because, apart from being enveloped in a cloud of white powder every time she moved, she felt that her ‘I’m not being called’ energy was interfering with the ‘I want to be called’ psychic cry we had put out into deep space. Something like that anyway.
Despite mercilessly taking the mickey out of my dear friend Cara, I actually enjoyed communing with nature or whoever it was we communed with. It was a great laugh – which I suspect is not the desired result, but it has certainly lifted my spirits. I feel all floaty and light and it’s a long time since I felt anything but very pissed off.
The mobile phones are still sitting on the floor in our circle of spent magical Waitrose dinner candles and, I’m sure you’ll not be surprised by this, they have not rung once.
Cara’s mobile phone rings. ‘Oh fucking hell,’ I say, all my eloquence having disappeared in shock along with my floatiness.
A Compromising Position Page 21
