by Jane Tara
“Didn’t they like Paris?”
“Sure. Separately. They just hated each other, so being here with the two of them was like traveling with Tom and Jerry.”
“Do you get on with your mother?”
“Absolutely, as long as I do everything she asks.” Taran was quiet for a moment. “Actually, both my siblings are so good that it takes a lot of the pressure off me. Her expectations of me aren’t that high.”
“What about your grandmother?”
“We get on really well now … that she’s dead.”
Calypso laughed. “I have a feeling that would help me like my own grandmother more as well.”
They wound their way around the cobblestone streets, past the small galleries and cafes, eventually emerging at the Sacre Coeur.
“What a view.” Paris at night from the Sacre Coeur never failed to take her breath away. “Isn’t she magnificent?”
“Yes, she is,” said Taran, staring straight at Calypso. “You love to wander, don’t you, Callie?”
“I’d be lost without my travels.” She stared deep into his eyes. “But I think you understand that.”
“I do. I’m the same. It’s one of the many reasons I’m so drawn to you. I know that life with you would never be dull.”
He reached for her and pulled her in. Her arms wrapped around him and she felt herself melt into his body. The kiss set off fireworks in Calypso’s brain. The past vanished; the future was of no concern. Time slipped away while the kiss continued, uninterrupted.
Chapter Eleven
Catnip tea eases colic in children
Calypso stayed in Pierre’s boyfriend’s old apartment when she was in town. Adrien now lived with Pierre, but they kept the spacious studio in the rambling sandstone building for when friends and family came to visit.
Calypso led Taran through a large wooden door and a cobblestone courtyard. Montmartre’s busy streets were immediately silenced. Light from neighboring windows lit the courtyard’s wrought iron furniture, tubs of flowers and daisies sprouting between the uneven pavers with a soft glow. Unlike London, Paris was warm and spring was in full bloom.
Calypso took Taran’s hand and led him up a flight of stone steps. “Welcome to my Parisian home,” she announced as she flung open the door.
The apartment had sandstone walls, caramel-colored wooden floors and visible beams. There was a small eat-in kitchen, a bathroom and a large studio room, containing a queen-size bed – “What other size would a queen have?” said Adrien – a small sofa and a desk.
Calypso opened the French doors – wondering, as she always did, if they are called French doors in France – that opened onto a tiny terrace overflowing with flowerpots filled with lavender and roses. The perfume from both flowers immediately entered the apartment and settled in for the evening.
“This is great,” said Taran. “Do you ever stay in hotels when you travel?”
“Not very often,” said Calypso. “I have friends all over the place and they’re always willing to put me up for a night or two. I do a lot of work in exchange for a place to stay.”
“And you’re never a tourist?”
“I’m a traveler. If there’s a difference.”
“Paul Theroux said, ‘Tourists don’t know where they’ve been, travelers don’t know where they’re going.’”
“I like that.”
“I like you.”
“I like you too.”
“Is that why you keep running away from me?”
“I’m not in a position to get more involved.”
“You think I am?” said Taran. “Do we ignore it because it’s inconvenient, or simply seize it when it comes along?”
Calypso walked into the kitchen and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of wine. “This little number is from a vineyard right here in Montmartre. Unfortunately you can only buy the wine during the harvesting festival. Pierre got this for me last year.”
Taran watched as she poured him a glass. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Calypso handed him his wine. “I have no answer.”
Taran knew better than to push too far. Instead he said: “How long until you return to London?”
Calypso gave her famous shrug. “I’m not sure. I’ve got to be somewhere in three days.”
“Here in France?”
“No.”
She was as slippery as mercury. Taran realized he was going to have to start singing a very different tune. “Let’s spend the next three days together, and then you can head off to wherever. I don’t expect anything from you, Calypso. I’m really busy with this show coming up so I don’t have time for complications either.” Taran didn’t admit that he found her far from being a complication, or that without her, Finn would continue to block his calls, which was a serious complication.
“Three days. No pressure, no strings?”
“None.”
“We won’t talk about the future?”
“What future?”
She sipped her wine quietly and then nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
Taran grinned and took a sip of wine, and immediately spat it back into his glass. “Holy shit!”
Calypso burst into peals of laughter. “I know. Some years it’s good. This isn’t one of them. It’s bloody awful isn’t it?”
“Are you trying to poison me?”
“It’s the privilege of drinking this wine, rather than the drop itself.”
“Okay, I feel privileged, but do you have anything else?”
Calypso poured them both a vodka and soda and added a slice of lime to each glass. “This vodka comes from the Czech Republic. The brewery has been working continuously since the fifteen hundreds, and the vodka itself is based on an old witch’s recipe.” She handed it to him and then returned to the window.
“You have stories for every drink.”
“Every drink has a story.”
“Yes, I’ve had a few drinks with stories attached.” Taran laughed.
“That’s different. People demonize alcohol, but it’s not the booze that’s the issue, it’s the people who abuse it. Alcohol has been used medicinally for centuries.” Calypso took a sip of her vodka and turned to look out the window. “Personally I think there’s nothing better than a cold beer on a hot day, or a glass of good pinot after a long day. And nothing worse than the morning after too many of both.”
Taran lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” He made his way to the window and pressed his body to hers from behind.
Calypso didn’t move. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” he whispered, “but not for food.”
He took the drink from her and placed it on the table. His hands began to roam her body. Her skin was like satin. He pulled at the flimsy straps on her dress and the whole garment fell to the floor. She wore nothing but white lace pants underneath. She moaned as his fingers slipped into them. Christ, she was wet. She shivered and he felt like he was about to detonate.
She grabbed at his pants and steered him toward her, begging. He pulled her hand away and pressed her up against the wall near the window, unzipping himself and sliding into her from behind. His hands locked her arms into place against the wall. She cried out and her fingers clawed at the sandstone. He thrust into her, again, again, controlled, fluid movements, and then just as she was about to come, he stopped.
“No Taran, please …”
“You want more? So do I. Give me three days.” His voice was ragged. He drove into her again – and stopped.
“Don’t stop, Taran, please,” she whimpered.
He lifted her hips slightly and plunged deeper. “Three days, Calypso. That’s all I ask.”
Calypso cried out as her whole body gave into him. “Three days …”
Taran felt himself lift off. What was it she said? Did she agree to three days? He couldn’t hold back a second longer. They exploded together, pressed tightly against a four hundred-year-old sandstone wall, adding to the stories it could tell
.
Later, as she slept soundly, wrapped in his arms, Taran marveled at how good it felt. He had her. Three days would become four. He was sure of it.
But when Taran woke the next morning, the bed beside him was empty.
Chapter Twelve
Drink marigold tea to solve love problems
Batty pulled a pint of beer for Harry and then put her hand out for the money.
“Are you alright, Batty?”
“I’m just waiting for you to give me the money.”
“But I asked for a beer. You’ve poured me a pint of Coke.”
Batty stared at the glass and realized she had indeed filled it with cola. “Bugger.” She grabbed a new glass and filled it with beer. “Sorry about that. My head’s in the clouds today.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Sure … fine, just a tad tired, that’s all.” But it wasn’t all. She wasn’t tired; she was worried, and hurt – and quite confused.
Being part of a powerful matrilineal line of clairvoyants meant others would always see her as an eccentric. And she was. But Batty was also quite practical and, at heart, a traditionalist. The King and Mistress prospered because of her prudent approach to business. It was one thing to be attached to the pub emotionally – it had been in her family for generations and she adored the place – but it still needed to make money. She was aware that other pubs were forsaking their traditional décor for more modern fittings, but after careful consideration she’d decided that the pub’s character was its major drawcard, so swapping the worn wood for chrome would be a mistake. The King and Mistress had a history of hauntings, and a reputation for magic and mystery that drew people in. So she’d renovated to highlight the history, rather than erase it. The wood and slate shone. Cracked tiles and stained-glass panels had been replaced. The rooms upstairs had been completely renovated because while people loved history, they didn’t want to sleep with dust mites. But downstairs tradition ruled. The various bars were filled with a mix of modern, antique replicas and lovingly restored antique furniture. Under her management the hotel had been rewired, allowing for bright daytime lighting, which dimmed as night fell. Small plaques were placed in each room, celebrating the many famous characters that had drunk too much, loved too many within the classic old tavern walls.
Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde regularly slept in this corner.
Dickens drank too much here.
Dylan Thomas dropped by once. He still hasn’t paid for this window he smashed.
It had become a very different pub to the one Batty grew up in without losing any of its charm. Batty’s shrewd head for business made sure every single aspect of the hotel was running smoothly and making money. So yes, to an outsider Batty might appear to be quite flakey, but to those who knew her, she was the strong glue that bound the business together.
And her family.
It wasn’t just the King and Mistress that was a success because of Batty, but also her marriage. She’d been married for nearly thirty years to a man she worshipped and adored. She’d known from the first moment she’d clapped eyes on Alf Patterson that he was the one and only man for her. She remembered the moment she first saw him like it was yesterday. The memory still made her weak at the knees. She’d been serving customers behind the bar when she turned and looked straight into the big blue eyes of a huge, ginger-topped man. They both blushed and grinned, mutual attraction mingled with confusion. They knew they’d never met before, yet every cell in their bodies sang that they had.
“What would you like?” Batty had asked.
Alf had looked surprised at the forwardness of her question. “I ah … you …”
“I meant to drink.” Batty giggled.
“Oh right.” Alf’s face was the same shade of red as his hair. “Sorry … a pint, please.”
Batty poured him a pint, occasionally glancing at him as she did. She’d never seen such a handsome man. Sure, he was no Cary Grant, but then Batty had never been attracted to that type of man anyway. This lad in front of her, with his strapping shoulders, broad chest and twinkling eyes, was the type of man she wanted to wake up to … forever.
She slid the beer across the bar. “There’s your drink.” She leant toward him slightly and whispered, “I’m also available if you’d like.”
Alf’s whole life had changed that night. He’d walked into the pub with a group of friends and ended up staying with Batty, to the amusement of his three rather conservative pals. They’d congratulated him on scoring for the night, but he later admitted to Batty that he’d known he’d scored for life. They were married a month later – much to his mother’s horror.
There had never been another man for Batty. Not even in thought. She was one hundred percent faithful … and because she was quite conventional about such things, expected him to be as well. It had never even crossed her mind that Alf could be unfaithful … until recently, as a number of things had come to her attention and began to add up.
There was the letter she’d walked in on him reading. He’d shoved it in his pocket and quickly left the room. And then the mysterious appointments he had. He’d always told her exactly where he was off to, but lately he simply “had an appointment” and would disappear for hours. They hadn’t made love for at least a month, which may not seem that odd to many after thirty years together, but their marriage had always been a passionate one. He’d also lost weight, and if that wasn’t a sign that there was someone else, then what was? Batty liked a bit of beef on her man, but whoever this other hussy was, well, she obviously liked her men a bit thinner.
Finally there was this morning. Batty couldn’t bear to think about it. She walked into the bathroom while Alf was naked and he’d actually grabbed a towel and covered himself. It was like he didn’t want her to see him naked, which was ridiculous. His body was as familiar as her own. They were virtually one person. At least that’s what she’d always thought: that he loved her just as passionately as she loved him.
Surely she wasn’t wrong. Not about that.
But all the signs added up. He seemed preoccupied, nervous, as though he was hiding something. What other conclusion could she come to? It was frustrating not knowing for sure. As a psychic, Batty had easy access to most answers, but she’d never been able to read her man. That was usually considered a blessing in her clan. But now – what she’d give to simply tune into him and know, just know, what the dirty old bugger was up to.
Batty glanced at the clock on the wall and realized she’d better pull herself together. Her monster-in-law, as she called Alf’s mother, was due any minute and she was like a shark – one sniff of blood in the water and she’d attack. Eleanor had never really accepted Batty, and Batty had long since given up caring. But one snide swipe from Eleanor today, one caustic remark, would be enough to send Batty over the edge.
“Morning, Mum.”
Nell gave her a peck on the cheek. Nell always simply appeared and disappeared. There was no grand entrance or exit like there was with Calypso. Not that Calypso ever meant to make an entrance or exit, it was just she was the type of person who filled a room when she entered it and left it feeling rather empty when she was gone. But Nell was more like a wisp of scented air. She’d drift in and the place was all the nicer for her being there, but only the truly observant missed her when she left.
“Are you okay, Mum? You look a bit pale.”
Batty decided to blame her appearance on the pair of ghosts who lived in a front room and often quarreled. It had been one of their dreadful arguments that led to their death in 1894, when a neighbor, sick of their shouting, shot them both. “The lovers were fighting last night so I didn’t get much sleep.”
Nell nodded. “Why is it that our ghosts have no manners? Enid threw a bread roll at me in the kitchen the other night. She can be such a moody cow.”
Batty laughed. She felt better already. Nell was a small ray of sunshine. Her appeal might not be immediately noticeable, but once discovered, you cou
ld bask in her warmth for hours.
“Is Gran here yet?”
Batty shook her head. “No. Could you be a pet and get her table ready?” Alf’s mother didn’t like to linger in the pub. She came once a week, to “support” her son – like he needed it – and had lunch in the restaurant. Nell sat with her while Alf and Batty took turns watching the bar and listening to Eleanor criticize everything from the government to the price of chicken to Nell’s clothes.
Batty slipped out the back and ran a comb through her hair. Not that it helped. Unruly was a polite way to describe her curls. She occasionally considered getting it cut, but Alf always talked her out of it. He loved her mop of red, as he called it. Batty pinched her cheeks, quickly gave her lips a coat of lipstick and decided that if he was having an affair, the first thing to go was her hair. Followed quickly by him.
Chapter Thirteen
A shot of rum and lime juice will ward off a cold
Eleanor Patterson paid the taxi driver and walked toward the pub. Her steps always felt slightly heavy as she did. You’d think after three decades she’d be used to the life her son chose for himself – but she wasn’t. She’d never get used to it. His defection to this weirdness had, in her humble opinion (and she was his mother after all) not only destroyed his life, but also all her own dreams. Eleanor had spent her entire life planning her son’s future, starting well before he was conceived. What she hadn’t planned on was his fateful meeting with Bettina Shakespeare, an umpteenth-generation psychic and owner of a rather strange pub in Highgate.
It was by no means an obvious match. They were so different in every way. While Alf’s family tree could be traced back to the fifteenth century to some minor English nobility and a prominent archbishop (not that one mentioned that nowadays), Bettina Shakespeare’s bloodline included circus owners, several herbal women who had been burned at the stake, and a series of eccentric publicans. Alf attended reputable schools and went to church every Sunday, while Batty was raised in a pub by her Pagan mother and grandparents and their assorted crystal balls and eccentric friends. Alf followed his mother’s advice and went to university to study law. Batty followed her mother’s advice and lived on a commune in India straight out of school. Alf came from a good, upstanding family. Batty came from the Addams family. Admittedly, there were whispers that she was actually the illegitimate daughter of an earl, but in Eleanor’s eyes, the illegitimacy aspect of that made her son’s fate even worse.
