‘And Marjorie said she was so impressed with your presentation skills that she wondered whether you might like to come and do a talk to the ladies next week?’ Mum says excitedly.
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do, Mum, but things are pretty busy at the moment,’ I say as I push the cat litter tray under the couch.
The buzzer buzzes making me jump – as it always does – and there stands the most unusual man I have ever seen.
Clive is well over six foot tall and has absolutely no weight on him whatsoever – a lanky streak of whatsit comes to mind. Actually Clive bears an uncanny resemblance to Willy Wonka from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Clive’s face, which is almost skeletal, is framed by a pair of huge glasses, similar to those favoured by Timmy Mallett.
‘Hi, you must be Samantha.’ He extends a long arm towards me. Appearance is obviously not of great importance to Clive, who at a guess would be in his late 30’s. The sleeves on his tweed jacket, complete with obligatory suede patches, end just after his elbows and he looks as though he’s been shoe-horned into his brown slacks, which are very tight and short enough to show not only his yellow Simpsons socks but also his hairy shins.
‘And you must be Colin’s cousin, Clive.’ I say returning the handshake, ‘please, come in.’
Missy hisses at the extraordinarily tall stranger and runs into the kitchen to escape as I escort Clive into the lounge.
Clive sits himself down on edge of the sofa and immediately wrings his hands. He looks most uncomfortable. His eyes flicker around the room, rather than look me straight in the eye.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or something?’ I ask.
‘No. No thank you’ Clive fidgets in his seat and pushes his large glasses back up his nose.
I’ve already prepared my first session which involves working out when Clive first discovered that he had a fear of vegetables, which I soon discover we have to call ‘things’ because even the word ‘vegetable’ gives Clive a nervous twitch.
‘So do you think the reason you fear those ‘things’ could be because your mother walloped you around the head with a bunch of carrots when you were seven years old?’ I say as I take notes and try not to picture this traumatic scene between mother and son.
‘Yes I do. The damage she has caused…’ Clive hisses; hatred in his eyes.
‘But do you not see that it wasn’t the carrots fault and that maybe it was your mothers?’ I add.
‘Yes but…’
‘I mean, the carrots didn’t just jump up and hit you on the noggin, did they? The carrots didn’t all gang up on you and say “come on, let’s all beat Clive up.”’
This must be at the top of the list of the most bizarre conversations I have had to date – although the caller who asked me to contact his dead mother to find out whether she thought he should get circumcised or not comes pretty close to most bizarre conversations I’ve had in my life.
‘She was a very ill woman.’ Clive says in order to justify his mother’s desire to hit him around the head with an orange root vegetable.
‘I’m sure she was Clive, but can you not see, it was your mother who instigated this and not the carrots…um, I mean things?’
‘You just don’t understand!’ he shouts and suddenly jumps up and holds his head in his hands.
‘I think I do understand, Clive. You feel that it’s the ‘things’ fault, when in reality the ‘things’ just happened to be there at the time. Now, if your mother had hit you with, say, a newspaper, would you blame the newspaper and have a fear of them for the rest of your life?’
Clive continues to hold his head in his hands and just shrugs his shoulders like a child who has been asked how to spell Mississippi. I’m beginning to realise that there is more to his disturbance than just the simple fear of vegetables.
After fifty minutes of getting to the root – excuse the pun – of the problem, I decide that it’s going to take more than one session to get Clive to realise that vegetables are not out to get him, so I book him in for another session for the next four weeks. I think I’m going to have to get another professional involved on this one and make a note to contact Professor Summers in the morning.
I’m sure Clive would stay all night if I let him. It takes some persuading to get him out of the door. Having calmed him down into sitting back down by bribing him with a chocolate digestive, Clive began to settle down and once we get off the subject of vegetables, he opened up a little about his life.
Clive lives alone and confesses that he has never had a proper girlfriend, but does have girls as friends, he assures me, and the only reason he’s not married is because he is so shy. He works as a library assistant and spends a lot of his time reading.
By the time I finally ease him out of the door, Missy mews at me as if to say ‘bloody loony’ and I have to agree with her. Clive is a little odd, but then people who need therapy for their vegetable phobia have to be a little unusual, I guess.
With Matt back in London I’m actually terrified of logging on to the website he’s created for me, but I know I have to. He is busy monitoring it for me and constantly sends me messages.
Mystic-Crystal-Ball.com is not just alive and kicking, it’s positively doing the River Dance! The forum is buzzing with people discussing all sorts of mystical issues, we have already had 2000 members signed up, each paying £25 – that’s… quick calculation in my head… Oh my goodness… that’s fifty grand! Bloody Hell! I hope they don’t all want a reading at the same time! I’m going to have to phone Miracle and get her to get some of the girls in to answer this lot.
A few phones calls later, and I’ve managed to recruit fifteen girls to take on the majority of the calls, so I only have 200 readings to do myself. I’ve also managed to persuade Miracle to do tonight for me so that I can catch up on doing these readings, as well as the more mundane things such as my laundry and cleaning the flat. That’s the problem with having a job, you know, you don’t have time to do anything else!
By the time Sunday rolls round again and I’m due back in the radio studio, my flat is gleaming like a new pin, all my laundry is done and Missy has had some much needed ‘me time’ with her mum. Despite my working last night and waiting up until four o’clock for Valerie to call in, she didn’t, which I find odd. I hope she’s OK. She’s phoned every day at three o’clock in the morning since I’ve been working for Mystic Answers and last night was the first night that she didn’t call. I wonder if Miracle can trace the calls and give her a ring to check that she’s OK.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After another successful radio show with Annette, I have a meeting with the producers at the BBC to discuss doing my five mornings a week. I manage to persuade them to cut it down to four - I don’t think I can manage to do any more, and I don’t want to let Miracle down because she was the one who got me into this in the first place.
Just as I’m about to go and meet the reporter from The Daily Mirror there’s a knock at the door. I was hoping it would be Jack, but it isn’t. I really don’t want to call him first because it was his fault that we are no longer on speaking terms, but I really thought he would have called by now, if only to congratulate me on my TV appearance.
It’s Amy – and she’s in a bit of a state.
‘Can you spare five minutes?’ she says looking somewhat dishevelled and the worse for wear. A comfy, bright pink tracksuit with Barbie written in silver across her bum, has replaced the smart black trouser suits Amy usually favours. It doesn’t do her lovely figure justice.
‘Have you been drinking?’ I don’t know why I’m asking this because it’s obvious she has.
‘Can I come in?’ Amy slurs.
I check my watch.
‘I’m just about to go out, hun. I’ve got a meeting with a newspaper in twenty minutes but you’re more than welcome to stay with Missy until I get back.’
Amy looks disappointed.
‘I shouldn’t be long. Look, come in and make yourself at home. Get
a bath and some coffee down you and I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can,’ I say feeling, and sounding, really guilty for letting my friend down when she so obviously needs me right now.
Amy slumps onto the sofa and promptly falls asleep.
As I close the door and hurry down the stairs. I see Ms Morris coming the other way.
‘Hi, Ms Morris. Lovely day,’ I smile.
Ms Morris, who has replaced her anorak and is now wearing a new lambs wool coat, doesn’t even look at me and hurries on up to her flat with her head down. Rude cow-bag.
Just as I’m about to start the engine there’s a tap on the window.
‘Aghh!’ I shout as I suddenly come face to face with Clive who has his long nose pressed against my window. He smiles, pushes his glasses higher on his nose and starts waving enthusiastically. I wind the window down.
‘Clive. What are you doing here?’
‘I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d just pop in to see you,’ he says with a grin on his face.
‘Oh, I see, well, actually I’m just on my way out.’ And if I don’t get going I’m going to be late, I want to add, but don’t.
‘What time will you be back? I thought we could go for a drink later or something.’
‘I don’t know when I’ll be back and I’m going out tonight. Sorry.’ I lie.
‘Some other time then?’ Clive says looking disappointed in me. Oh dear, that’s two people I’ve disappointed in a matter of minutes.
‘Yep, I’ll see you next week for your appointment.’ I add, ‘Bye!’
‘Bye then,’ Clive says and stands and watches me as I drive off. Missy was right - bloody loony!
After a successful interview about psychic attack with a very nice reporter called Candy – no, I don’t think that’s her real name either – I discovered what was meant by psychic attack from Miracle, who had actually experienced this herself, when a malevolent spirit decided to turn her house upside down one night, causing untold damage. I had to ask if she was sure it was a spiteful spirit and not the result of a fight with her ex, and she assured me it was most certainly a spirit. Equipped with my new found knowledge and a bit of internet research, I managed to explain with authority to Candy how to protect yourself if you suspect you have a little gremlin in your house – all very Harry Potterish.
I get back to my flat within three hours and find Amy wrapped up in my fleecy dressing gown, slurping down a huge mug of coffee and watching an advert for Morning Latte.
‘Hey,’ she says as I flop down on the sofa next to her.
‘I have to say you look better than when I last saw you. Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I’ve lost my job, but other than that I’m fine,’ she says with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
‘Oh Amy, I’m so sorry. What are you going to do?’
‘What any other self-respecting fast-food area manager would do of course – I’m going to defect to their competitors.’
‘Really? Well, why not?’ I say. It’s good to see her again. It seems ages since we got together for a girly chat.
‘I’m joking, Sam,’ Amy says in all seriousness. ‘I wouldn’t work for them if you paid me.’ I want to point out that they would actually be paying her to work for them.
‘So what are you going to do then?’
Amy shrugs.
‘God knows. You need any help with your psychic thingy?’
‘Me?’
‘Well, you seem to be doing very well for yourself. They just showed you on the advert for that new morning programme. Nice make-up, by the way. Surely you must be doing all right? TV deals, newspapers wanting to interview you, this website of yours…’ Amy says.
‘I don’t think I’ll be recruiting staff at any time soon,’ I laugh. ‘Besides, I don’t think you’re really cut out for all this psychic stuff.’
‘What psychic stuff? All you do is make it up as you go along. You said as much yourself.’
‘Well, not always…’ I smile.
Despite her being one of my oldest friends, I daren’t tell Amy that for the past four months I have not only heard voices in my head, I’ve also managed to be almost entirely accurate in all my readings, and to be honest, when Amy is in one of her sceptical moods, no amount of explanation from me is going to change her mind.
‘So where’s the lovely Kenzie today then?’ I ask, praying that he hasn’t dumped her as well.
‘He’s still in France. Doing some photo stuff with his father, on a magazine or something,’ Amy sighs, ‘I hardly get to see him these days.’
‘Well, now you’ve got some time on your hands, why don’t you go and stay with him for a bit?’
‘Humm, maybe,’ She sighs again. ‘Have you heard anything from Jack?’
‘Nope.’ I say matter of factly, on the grounds that I will look as if I care that he’s dropped me, and all his friends, for some big nosed bimbo.
‘Nor me. I wonder if he’s OK. He’s not answering his mobile.’
‘He’s probably too busy with his new girlfriend to care about us. Have you met her? She’s a right cow.’ I add.
‘No I haven’t. You know what Jack’s like. He’ll come to his senses soon and want to go back out with his mates,’ Amy says, ‘come on let’s go out and get pissed.’
‘Aww Amy, I can’t. I’ve got to work tonight and be up early in the morning to go back to London. Any other night and I’d be happy to.’
‘Oh great!’ she huffs. ‘And what am I supposed to do with myself while you’re living it up in bloody London, baby-sit your stupid cat?’
‘I’m hardly living it up Amy. I’m working. And no Missy is going to stay with my mum, but thanks for the offer.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ she says in her stroppy teenager voice. ‘Oh well, I know when I’m not wanted.’ She adds and promptly huffs out of the door.
I don’t like to tell her that she has just marched off looking like a bag lady in my dressing gown and my slippers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Fancy another one in a minute?’ Miracle asks.
‘Oh go on then.’ I laugh. This is the fifteenth call I’ve taken this evening. Since my introduction to the world of TV and radio, Miracle has kindly put my rates up on the grounds that it has increased her business tenfold since she started throwing in things like ‘as seen on Morning Latte’ and ‘International Renowned Psychic’ into her advertising.
And what’s more, I am actually enjoying this job now. I know I initially said that it was just a stop-gap, until I could get to use my degree, but if I’m honest, I am much more confident about this job than I was when I first started, and many of my callers have become regulars and phone me on a fortnightly if not weekly basis. It’s like I have a little club now and callers know which nights I work and will only call on those nights – I’ve even got a couple of people who actually pre-book their readings with me. I’ve done a fair amount of unusual jobs in the past, but this one tops them all and I’m surprised to say, I actually like this one.
‘Let me just grab a glass of water,’ I say as I make my way into the kitchen. With more experience under my belt, I decided to invest in one of those cordless phones so that I can now walk around and talk – I can even take a pee whilst I’m on the phone if I so wish, although I don’t just in case someone calls and wonders, is she having a pee?
‘So, how’s it all going with Max?’ I ask as I reach for a cold bottle of water from the fridge.
‘Oh he is lovely, Sam….’ Miracle coos. Anyone would think she was a teenager with a huge crush, not a 57 year-old divorced psychic. I’m really pleased it’s all working out for her and, although I don’t let on, I have a good feeling about this relationship.
I laugh as Miracle tells me about her recent date with Max to the London Eye and how he wined and dined her afterwards at The Ivy of all places – I thought you had to be a celebrity to get in that place? Or maybe Max is a celebrity, disguised as an estate agent.
Dusk has claimed t
he light outside I notice as I pull at the cord on the kitchen blind…Oh, shit! Is that who I think it is?
‘Are you still there, Sam?’ I hear Miracle say.
‘Yes… um, can you hang on a minute, hun?’ I mutter, as I press my head against the window pane. There sitting on the low wall that surrounds the house is Colin’s cousin, Clive. He has a small set of binoculars with him, similar to the ones you take to the opera, and is….oh, shit! I duck down besides the sink unit and shuffle on my bum over to the door where the light switch is and I flick the light off.
‘Sam?’ Miracle asks, concerned.
‘Yes, sorry, still here.’ I puff.
‘Are you OK? You sound a bit distracted.’ Miracle asks with concern.
‘Yes, fine. You know that chap Clive I told you about? The one I’m treating for the vegetable phobia? Odd chap with the short trousers and strange socks?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘He’s only sitting outside my flat as we speak,’ I say as I peep over the sink unit, ‘and with a pair of binoculars in his hands.’ I add.
‘What’s he doing that for?’ Miracle asks.
‘Well how should I know? You’re the psychic here. Although actually I think he’s got a tiny bit of a crush on me. He was outside the house earlier today, asking me if I wanted to go for a drink with him this evening. I had to make up the excuse that I was already going out.’
‘Well, you’re always moaning that you can’t find Mr Right.’ Miracle laughs. ‘Maybe he’s The One!’
‘Oh, stop it! He’s just strange. I only agreed to see him in the first place because my mother is….’ Actually I’m not altogether sure what she’s doing with Colin the Carrot Man… ‘co-writing a book with his cousin, Colin.’ I add. ‘Oh crikes, he’s looking right up here.’ I drop down to the floor again and crawl, sniper-style along the cold kitchen floor.
Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People? Page 16
