by Jane Tara
Bettina “Batty” Shakespeare poured a soda water for her daughter Nell. “You sure you don’t want a real drink, love? You look a bit pale. Perhaps you’re low on iron. How about a Guinness?”
“No thanks, Mum.”
While Batty was certainly no alcoholic, she believed in the power of a pint and couldn’t understand how she’d ever given birth to a virtual teetotaler. Sure, Nell would occasionally partake in a small glass of red, but only if she was celebrating something. Come to think of it, she hadn’t had a glass of wine for some time.
“Fine, soda water it is,” Batty said.
She plunked the drink on the bar and watched as Nell reached for a coaster and placed it neatly underneath. Then she plucked a straw from the holder, straightened it, and put it in the glass. Finally, she leant over the bar slightly and took a small, dainty sip. Good Goddess, the child was borderline OCD at times.
Batty loved both her daughters. Not equally, as most mothers swore they did, because as far as Batty was concerned, loving people equally was codswallop. She loved them differently, for they themselves were so very different, and passionately, as only mothers do. But while she certainly didn’t have a favorite child, she did understand one better than the other.
Calypso was easy to figure out. She was a wild, free-spirited gypsy whose passion for life was contagious. Sure she had some issues, especially over the past couple of years, but that was understandable given what she’d been through. Even then, all her emotions, her pain and joy, could be easily read on her face. Her incredible green eyes told a million tales. Calypso was an open book and a bloody good read at that. Plus, she embraced who she was. She never struggled with her clairvoyance the way Nell always had. Like sixteen generations of Shakespeare women before her, Calypso was psychic and used it to benefit others.
Nell was different. She had the Shakespeare trademark green eyes and red hair, but they were downplayed by reading glasses and a short pixie haircut. In fact, Nell looked a lot like a pixie. There was something incredibly contained and mysterious about Batty’s youngest child. While Calypso was tall and willowy and raged through life, Nell was tiny with soft curves and a more introverted disposition. She was also obsessively neat and organized, responsible and polite.
Batty had no idea where she got it from.
She looked intently at her daughter, who was wearing a quirky little dress. Nell favored vintage clothes from the fifties and sixties. One only had to walk down Portobello Road to know how fashionable they were, yet the clothes didn’t give Nell a modern edge; she looked like she actually belonged in the same era as the dress. The clothes suited her because everything about Nell seemed a few decades behind. There was no brashness about her. Nell didn’t wear vintage because she was progressive, but rather because she was more at home in the past. She liked the past. It didn’t interfere with her life the way the future did, with the constant visions and predictions. She stayed up-to-date with technology, but the way she approached life was decidedly dated. There was something incredibly contained and mysterious about Batty’s youngest child.
“How’s the job hunt going?”
Nell’s pale face filled with concern. “Not great, but I’m sure I’ll find something soon.”
Batty knew her daughter would find work eventually, she wished she’d take some time off and have some fun, but that wasn’t Nell’s style. She pushed herself, and always had. She’d just completed a Masters in museum studies and her dream was to be a curator at a museum, which obviously had nothing to do with being a psychic. As far as Batty was aware, Nell was the first woman in the Shakespeare line to choose work that had nothing to do with the occult.
Batty, Calypso and Nell were part of a matrilineal line descending from William Shakespeare’s great aunt, Sylvie, who, with her bright red hair and extensive herbal knowledge, was always in demand to deliver babies and heal the sick. For four hundred years, the gifted Shakespeare women had worked their craft to the benefit of others. Now there were only a handful of them left: Batty and her girls, and their three cousins in New York: Gwendolyn, Lilia and Rowie. Gwendolyn and Lilia worked as psychics from their shop in Manhattan, while Rowie, who was Calypso’s age, had her own television show. The New York Shakespeares, like the sixteen generations of women before them, made a living from their gifts.
Batty herself juggled being mistress of the pub with psychic readings, which she scheduled three mornings a week in the back room. And Calypso’s travels were funded by her predictions and psychic healings. But Nell, who’d been born with the extra special gift of finding things that were lost, only ever used it to find stuff like Alf’s car keys and Calypso’s passport. Sometimes Batty wasn’t sure whether it was Nell’s gift that helped her to locate these items or her role as pillar of practical calm in an otherwise chaotic family.
Batty was immensely proud of her younger daughter, but nonetheless baffled by her. She lived alone in an immaculately kept studio apartment in Muswell Hill. Over the past few years she’d managed to study at university and volunteer at Highgate Cemetery. For money, she worked part time at a small museum and in the kitchen with Alf on weekends. She also had lunch once a week with Alf’s mother, the formidable Eleanor. Nell’s life was strictly regimented. She couldn’t be more different to Calypso if she tried.
Ah, Calypso! There she was. Batty watched her other daughter make her way across the room. Every head turned to watch her pass. She stopped, joked with a few regulars, flirted with one of the more handsome customers, and then danced up behind her sister and gave her a hug.
Nell turned and the two beamed at each other. They were as different as night and day but there was a deep bond between them.
“Find another job yet?”
“Not yet, Callie.”
“I don’t know why you don’t ask Percy for a full time job at the BMR.”
Nell sighed. She’d love to work full time at the British Museum of Romance, but she knew the small museum was under financial strain and didn’t want to pressure her boss – Percy had enough to worry about. She was just grateful for the hours she did get there. But Nell couldn’t explain all that to Calypso, who was used to grabbing opportunities with both hands, whether they were there for the taking or not. Nell pulled up a stool for her sister. “How was Amsterdam?”
Calypso sat and took the drink Batty handed her. Batty never had to ask if Calypso wanted one – Calypso had a healthy appreciation for alcohol. She’d been known to drink grown men under the table when challenged, but she rarely got drunk. As far as Calypso was concerned, alcohol could be medicinal, or it could be used to enhance a situation, but the minute you needed it to hide or anesthetize, you had a problem.
“Amsterdam was great,” she said. “Always is.”
“And Jaap?” Nell knew not to ask too much at once.
Calypso rolled her eyes. “That’s so over. Pity, because he’s great, but he started mooning all over me like a lovesick puppy.”
Batty and Nell nodded; they’d heard this all before.
“And then he started talking about how I could move to Amsterdam and open a bar there.”
“Oh dear,” said Batty.
Calypso raised an eyebrow for dramatic effect. “He even mentioned kids. Apparently twins run in his family.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other two women. No more needed to be said, really. No wonder the boy got the boot.
“What about you, Nell?” asked Calypso. “Ended the sex drought yet?”
Nell giggled and a red flush crept up her cheeks. “Oh no, Callie. I’m way too busy …”
“One should never be too busy for sex,” said Calypso and Batty simultaneously, which made all three women laugh.
Alf joined them and pinched his wife’s bottom. Thirty years of marriage and he still couldn’t get enough of her. “What are my three favorite redheads cackling about?”
“Sex.” Batty said with a wink.
“Sex is no laughing matter,” Alf said. “So
Father McNeil used to tell us at school.”
“Nell was just telling us she doesn’t have time for it,” Calypso said.
Alf nodded in mock earnestness. “That’s the way it should be. She’s my little girl and can wait until she’s married.” He turned to Calypso with a wink. “As for you, missy … there’s no hope. How’s that lad in Amsterdam?”
“Done and dusted.”
Alf refilled Calypso’s glass and slid it across the bar. “Don’t worry, the right chap will come along eventually.” A horrified flush rushed up Alf’s cheeks. He looked at Batty and Nell but they were equally mortified. “I’m sorry, love. That was thoughtless.”
Calypso gave her father’s arm a quick squeeze. “It’s okay, Dad. I know what you mean.”
Batty couldn’t help herself. She had to seize this opportunity. “You know, there will be another—”
“I doubt it.” Calypso refused to go there.
“Yes, but if you just gave these boys a chance, perhaps …” Batty trailed off when she saw the look in Calypso’s eyes. Would her daughter ever lose that haunted look?
Nell was the only person who could really confronted the taboo subject – her rather reticent nature made it easier for Calypso to handle. Nell would simply slip questions and statements into the conversation as if she was talking about the weather. Calypso still didn’t like it, but she rarely ripped Nell’s head off as she would anyone else who broached the topic.
“You’ll love again, Callie. It’s inevitable.”
“Thank you, Oprah.” Calypso rolled her eyes. “And tell me, when exactly was your last date?”
Nell wiped an invisible mark off the bar. “I told you, I’m too busy.”
“The only boyfriend of yours we’ve ever met was that dullard from university.”
“Edmund wasn’t dull.”
“He collected bugs.”
“I found it fascinating,” Nell lied. But Calypso was right; Edmund had been as dull as dishwater. He crapped on about insect habitats and preservation equipment, and devoured his monthly entomology magazines like a teen would porn. Nell tried to tell herself that his passion was admirable, and not unlike the love she had for history, but there was something disturbing about sleeping at Edmund’s place, surrounded by dead bugs. And really, he had bored her senseless. Nell seemed to be a magnet for dull men. She knew she wasn’t Sienna Miller or Kate Moss or one of those other gorgeous, wild women, but surely that didn’t mean she should be subjected to a life of eternal boredom?
Batty reached out and patted Nell’s hand. “He was as riveting as watching paint dry. You need a man who brings you out of your shell a bit, but with whom you still feel secure.” She turned to Calypso. “And whether you realize it now or not, Nell is right. You will love again. And he’ll be special because he won’t try to compete with your past. He’ll never tie you down, cage you in, or try to change you. And he’d better have sturdy shoes because he’ll be chasing you all over the world.”
“If there’s one thing I know,” Calypso paused for a moment, and looked much older than her twenty-nine years, “… no guy like that exists.”
And that’s when all three Shakespeare women felt the Winds of Change whip through the door. A chime pealed softly through the room, even though they didn’t own one. Alf jumped about trying to catch the coasters, which were flying everywhere. The fire roared to life without being prodded. All the patrons grabbed their coats or their sweaters. The only people who remained still were Batty, Nell and Calypso, who were staring at the door. When she realised who had just entered, Calypso felt all the blood drain from her legs.
A lazy grin spread across his impossibly handsome face. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a drink for an old friend?”
Chapter Three
Stout is high in iron
Taran Dee had been making plans all the way from New York to London. By the time the plane landed, he knew he wouldn’t settle for anything less than a full apology and another chance.
Calypso would give him both. Not that she knew it yet.
Fate had thrown Taran and Calypso back together. And who was he to ignore Fate? She could be a right bitch if you ignored her. But go with her and life flowed. This trip was a perfect example. It was seamless synchronicity. He’d been thinking of Calypso for weeks – okay, he’d never stopped thinking about her – when the offer came to exhibit his work at the Gate. Not only was it a fantastic opportunity professionally, but it also meant relocating to London for a couple of months.
Calypso lived in London.
Fate.
“Is this room, okay? You can have one of the others. There are five, you know.”
Taran realized Simon Apsley was speaking to him. He glanced around the room. “It’s fine, Sime. I don’t care where I sleep.” He grinned at his old friend. “What the hell do you do with five bedrooms?”
“Admittedly, they’re not in use right now. But I hope to have a family one day.” Simon smiled, ever the optimist.
“Yeah, well, you’ve got to get laid to have kids.”
Simon chuckled and blushed simultaneously. Taran knew his history with women.
Simon and Taran had met at college in the States and remained friends since. Unlike his charismatic friend, Simon was introverted and self-conscious, especially around women. Women would completely ignore him until they discovered he was an Apsley, the youngest son of Charles Apsley to be exact. Simon’s great-grandfather founded Apsley Beer, one of the UK’s largest breweries. Simon, his father and his three older brothers were all on the board of directors, and his father retained a majority hold over the company.
Simon was loaded, but that wasn’t what defined him, not to his handful of good friends like Taran. They saw his kindness, his loyalty, his clumsy humor and his generosity of spirit. Like tonight, for instance, when he insisted on picking Taran up at the airport. He could have sent a car and driver, but he didn’t. Then again, Taran could’ve caught a cab, but Simon wouldn’t hear of it. Simon picked Taran up, because that’s what friends do. At least, that’s what Simon did. He was old fashioned in his approach to friendship. As a result, he had Taran’s complete respect.
Although Taran and Simon appeared to be very different, they were in fact alike in many ways. They shared similar values and the same sardonic sense of humor. They both came from wealthy families with domineering mothers. They were both outcasts all through school, although for different reasons – Simon because he had no success with women, Taran because had too much. But mostly, they were both loyal to their true friends, and always to each other.
Simon also loved the way Taran took the piss out of him.
“So these five bedrooms? Ever been laid in any of them?”
“No,” Simon admitted with a grin. “Knowing my luck and your track record, you’ll be the one to christen them all before I even get a chance.”
“Before you get a chance?” Taran howled in mock disbelief. “You’ve lived here for a year already. These rooms are lucky I came to visit. The walls will finally have something to talk about.”
“I knew letting you stay was a bad idea.”
“Oh bullshit, you’ve been begging me to stay because you know being my wingman is the only chance you’ve got to meet women.”
They laughed.
“Ain’t that the truth? Shall we start tonight?”
Taran shuffled uncomfortably. “I can’t. I have an … ah … appointment.”
“Good god, you’re on English soil for an hour and you already have a date.”
“What can I say? I’m irresistible.”
Simon wasn’t fooled. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you? The one you told me about?”
“Guilty as charged,” Taran admitted. “I figure it’s best to get it over and done with. Get her out of my system.”
“Excellent idea.” Simon’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “You haven’t seen her for a year. If she’s not out of your system yet, then you’re in big trouble, mate.”
*
“The King and Mistress pub in Highgate please.” Taran remembered where she’d said her parents’ pub was. He remembered everything about her, which was unusual for him. Most women came and went from his thoughts quite easily.
“Right you are.” The driver pulled out into the traffic and Taran stared out the window. He loved this part of London, and was looking forward to exploring it more. He turned his head to watch a stunning blond pass. Primrose Hill was filled with actors and models. Taran felt a surge of excitement at the thought of a new stomping ground, but then he remembered that he was on a mission to win Calypso back and his old ways of partying and womanizing weren’t part of the plan.
He felt a twinge of regret, but it didn’t last for long.
They drove through Camden Town toward Highgate and Taran soaked in the sights. English history never ceased to amaze him. Being a born and bred New Yorker, Taran had a healthy attachment to the future and what he intended to make of it. But being an artist, he was also a sucker for the past, and nowhere did it more beautifully than Europe. And as far as Taran was concerned, London was gateway to it all.
“In London for business or pleasure?” the driver asked.
Taran grinned. “Both.”
“Which one tonight?”
“Hopefully the latter.”
“Been to the King and Mistress before?”
“No, but I’ve heard plenty about it.” It was true. Calypso had charmed him with tales about her unique childhood home.
“There’s a famous little bar in the cellar. Calypso’s Cauldron. The young lass who runs it is supposedly a witch.”
“Is that a fact?” Taran failed to add that he was from a long line of witches himself. “I’ll check it out.” And ask her why she left without saying goodbye.
Taran thought about the time he’d spent with Calypso in New York. He was man enough to admit that he’d fallen hook, line and sinker for the stunning redhead. His mistake was he told her so. Isn’t that what women wanted? He’d been accused of being emotionally unavailable more times than he could remember (by many woman he couldn’t remember), but he refused to fake it or lie. All that changed with Calypso. Taran was elated to meet a woman he could be honest with without receiving a sharp slap in return. He actually liked Calypso – a lot. So he told her. He wasn’t proposing marriage. Hell no! Marriage was like Seniors Week at Club Med: the last resort. He was simply suggesting they get to know each other better.
