Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People?

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘Maybe he’s a closet astrologer?’ Miracle suggests.

  ‘Or maybe he’s just a pervert?’ I add. Miracle laughs.

  ‘You are so funny, Sam.’

  ‘This is no laughing matter, Miracle!’ God, you hear of women being stalked all the time. Maybe I have my very own stalker!

  ‘Do you want me to phone the police?’

  I look out of the window again, but Clive is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he got bored of waiting for me and has buggered off.

  ‘No, it looks like he’s gone now. Right, where were we?’ I hurry back into the safety of my lounge and throw myself on the sofa.

  ‘Well, my sweetheart, I’ve got three callers lined up here asking for you, now stop bringing strange men home and get on with some work.’ Miracle laughs.

  ‘Hello and welcome to Mystic Answers. You’re through to Mystic Crystal and I will be your reader for tonight. How may I help you tonight?’ I say trying not to giggle.

  ‘Hi Crystal! It’s Amanda here.’ A familiar voice says quickly. Amanda is one of my regular callers and despite being a highly intelligent, 45 year old woman and a top London lawyer, she will not commit herself to anything or anyone unless she has a reading with me first.

  ‘Hi Amanda, how are you?’ I ask, pleased to hear from her again. Amanda is a nice person, if somewhat a bit too reliant on tarot readings. I’m sure it isn’t good for you to constantly rely on other people’s advice, but you can’t tell Amanda. She says she spends the majority of her time having to make decisions for clients, but when it comes to making decisions for herself, this is where she falls down spectacularly – as in the case of when she had to decide what to wear to a charity ball and decided on a stunning Donna Karan number with more frills than a tutu, only to stand on said frills, lose her footing and end up head first in the punch bowl. Now she refuses to make any kind of personal decision without contacting me first.

  ‘Well, you know me, as indecisive as ever, Hun.’ She says.

  I shuffle the cards as we speak. I have thankfully got the shuffling business down to a fine art now.

  ‘Okay, so what is it this time?’ I laugh.

  ‘Right, well, you know I’m thinking about going into partnership with Barratt?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Only I don’t trust him, Crystal. You always tell me to go with my instincts, and as you know, I’m useless at listening to my inner voice – that’s if I could find it even,’ Amanda laughs. ‘Anyway, I don’t know what to do. I need a partner to help me get the bigger clients and Barratt is a hot-shot lawyer, but…’

  ‘But it doesn’t feel right?’ I say.

  ‘Exactly, but I’m not sure why. Hence why I’m calling you – again.’ Amanda says.

  ‘Well, you know what I always say Amanda – trust that inner voice.’

  ‘Ah, but I can’t because every time I do, as we all know, I end up making the wrong decision.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see what the cards make of Mr Barratt then shall we?’ I say as I lay three cards out.

  The first card tells me all I really need to know about this man’s proposal of a partnership. The moon card is the first to be drawn and reminds me that it is a sign of deception. The following cards, all swords, confirm Amanda’s initial instincts.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ I say suddenly.

  ‘Oh. OK then.’ Amanda says.

  I hope I haven’t just lost her the opportunity of a lifetime here, but I get the strongest feeling that Amanda should have nothing to do with this man Barratt.

  ‘At the end of the day, the decision has to be yours Amanda, but the cards are confirming that you should be very wary of this man and his partnership offer. I sense nothing but trouble with him and he could bring you down with him.’

  ‘Right, well that’s fine by me,’ Amanda replies. I do wish people wouldn’t rely on my word so much. I just pray she doesn’t phone back next week and tell me that another lawyer went into partnership with this guy and is currently sailing around the world on a yacht bought out of their profits.

  Having taken another twelve calls consisting of a few more regulars; a few from women wanting men and men wanting women – sometimes I wonder whether I should start my own dating service instead – a few from people wanting to know if they are likely to win the lottery and one from a woman obsessed with death who wanted to know whether it was possible for me to have her ashes made into an egg-timer – yes, I know, utterly barking mad that one. I advised her to contact her local funeral director. I tell Miracle that I’m taking a break for five minutes.

  No sooner do I sneak back into the kitchen to put the kettle on than the phone rings again.

  ‘I thought I told you I was taking a break?’ I laugh into the receiver.

  ‘And I thought you told me you were out all night?’ A male voice snarls into the phone. Shit and bollocks, it’s Clive!

  ‘Ah, hello, Clive.’ I stutter. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m extremely pissed off as it happens. That’s how I am,’ Clive replies. Oh boy!

  ‘Look Clive, I’m working at the moment – from home.’ I add.

  ‘You’re a liar!’ Clive shouts.

  I double-check the kitchen window to make sure he’s not outside on the wall again.

  ‘You told me you were going out tonight, remember?’ Clive adds.

  ‘Yes, well work called and asked me to work the night shift…’ I say, feeling extremely pissed off by now. How dare he spy on me! ‘And in all honesty I don’t see that it has anything to do with you what I do with my evenings.’ I add.

  ‘It has everything to do with me!’ Clive snaps. ‘You are my therapist. I divulged a lot of secret and confidential information to you the other day and this is how you repay me!’

  ‘Excuse me? You are my client, Clive, not my keeper, and I really think that if you are going to keep up this behaviour I will have no choice but to terminate our sessions.’

  I have to say that despite having studied all the theory for dealing with difficult/barking mad clients, I am more than a little bit unnerved by Clive’s tantrum, not to mention the fact that he was spying on me.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Clive shouts.

  ‘Please don’t shout at me, Clive.’ I say, as calmly as I can manage.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just… you can’t just not see me.’ Clive’s voice falters.

  ‘Look, Clive, I really don’t think I will be able to help you. Perhaps I should refer you to another professional,’ I say. The fact of the matter is that Clive has made me feel quite vulnerable and I don’t need a stalker at this moment in my life, thank you very much.

  ‘But…’ Clive stutters.

  ‘And please don’t call me again. I will pass your number on to one of my colleagues.’ I put the phone down and heave a sigh of relief.

  Grrr to Clive and all the other stalkers out there!

  It’s times like this that I miss Jack – you know, those times when you need someone to chase the tarantula out of the bath, or as in my case, the weird, stalking lachnophobic. But I am not going to phone him. No, I am not! Despite desperately missing him and desperately wanting to hear what he’s getting up to, I am still bloody furious with him and no amount of stalkers is going to make me phone him up first. Grrr, to Jack and the entire male species in general!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Okay, so I am now getting the hand of this media business and have since become Miss-Media-Savvy-Pants thanks to my new agent, Larry Jones – yes, I know, me with an agent! I still have to pinch myself.

  Larry is a larger than life Yorkshire man and one of the most knowledgeable people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. He instinctively knows what’s a good deal and what’s not. Okay, so he takes twelve per cent of my income, which is currently going up and up, but he has the media management down to a fine art and has already managed to secure me a regular column on two major glossy magazines. Larry is now in talks with four publishers about rights to a book entitled something
along the lines of I Speak to Dead People.

  I don’t know how I managed to land myself an agent, or quite why Larry is so interested in me, but I’m thankful now that I returned his call because with all this work, I’m finding it incredibly hard to remember where I am supposed to be at any given time. Larry phones me, texts me and generally makes sure I am where I should be and with whom. He’s more like a personal assistant than an agent – I swear, every girl should have one.

  My week goes something like this at the moment: Monday to Thursday is spent working in London for Morning Latte and doing interviews, then I’m driven back to Bath on Thursday afternoon and spend Thursday, Friday and Saturday catching up with the website and working for Miracle. I’m going to seriously have to think about cutting down my hours with Miracle, but if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

  And for the first time in my life I have proper cash in my bank account. I don’t owe a penny to anyone and I can finally start to look at buying my own place instead of spending half my time cultivating the mushrooms that are currently growing behind the loo. And nowadays I get fan mail. I know! Me! Fan mail – now how cool is that? I Samantha Ball have fans!

  ‘So what are you planning to wear then?’ My mother quizzes me down the phone. Normally my mother has never bothered to question what I choose to swathe my body in, knowing full well that since the age of about 14 I would never listen anyway, but on this occasion and seeing as I’m am going to be on the TV, she sees it as her mission to make sure that I don’t go out of the house looking like an unmade bed – or wearing too much eyeliner. The occasion in question being the Day Time Television Awards! I know, I can’t quite believe it myself either.

  Larry phoned half an hour ago to say that Morning Latte had been nominated for Best New Magazine Programme and the whole team has been invited to attend the awards – including me. This means that I, along with all the rest of the crew, will be sitting looking important in the middle of the TV awards, while listening to people like a Paris Hilton look-a-like announce who the winner is.

  Of course, as a professional psychic you would think that I would have been given some inside information about this from someone up there, but no such luck, so I guess will be looking equally shocked and surprised as everyone else there.

  ‘Well, Suze is going for a posh-goth look,’ I say to my mother, who naturally tut-tuts at the prospect of ex-rocker, Suze dressing most inappropriately for the Day Time TV Awards, ‘and most of the other people there will probably be dressed in long ball gown type dresses, I would imagine.’ I muse.

  Larry has suggested that I do a mystical thing at the after-show party, and before you can say abracadabra, has spoken to the organisers and arranged for me to give readings to the stars at £50 a head! He certainly has balls, if not the crystal kind.

  ‘Well, you don’t want to get anything off the peg, Sammy. I mean what a disaster, bumping into someone from Sevenoaks wearing the same frock!’ My mother is outraged.

  ‘Hollyoaks, Mum.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Hollyoaks.’

  ‘What is love?’

  ‘Oh never mind. So what do you suggest then?’ I sigh.

  ‘Well, it just so happens one of Colin’s relatives is a wedding dress maker…’ My mother says.

  ‘Mum, I’m not getting married, I’m going to a TV award dinner and besides the last time I was introduced to one of Colin’s relatives I managed to land myself a stalker, remember?’ I say, shuddering as the thought of Clive enters my head.

  ‘Yes, that was quite unfortunate, but Colin assures me he won’t bother you again, dear. And anyway, you really shouldn’t put yourself in that position, Sammy,’ my mum warns.

  ‘Me? Aghhhh! Mum, I did no such thing!’

  ‘Yes, well, you just think hard in future who you invite back to that flat of yours. Now, anyway, Colin’s step-sister’s sister makes wedding gowns, but I’m sure if we ask her she will make something exclusively for your night out.’ We? Since when did my mother and Colin become a “We”? Oh well, I listen to her rabbit on for another forty minutes and realise that I have not only given her all my measurements, I’ve also committed myself to allowing someone I don’t even know to design and make a frock for me for Saturday night! Oh no, what have I done?

  ‘You’ve been speaking to my mother, I say to Amy who is currently on the phone to me for the fifth time today.

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s fair. You’re going to this bloody TV awards thing and I’m left at home baby-sitting the bloody puppy!’ she whines again.

  ‘Look, it’s not up to me. Anyway, I thought you loved the new puppy Kenzie bought for you?’

  ‘Well I did, that’s before he shat in my shoes and handbag!’

  ‘Who, Kenzie?’

  ‘No, Brian!’ Amy screams. I did tell her Brian was not really a suitable name for a dog and that he would only get teased in the park by dogs with more suitable names such as Fido and Tyson, but would she listen? No. Amy insisted that her adorable Andrex look-a-like puppy was going to be christened Brian, after Brian May from Queen – I know, you figure it out.

  ‘Well I can’t help it, hun,’ I say, trying to sympathise with Amy.

  In an in-depth conversation with my mother, Amy discovered that I had been invited to the TV awards and ever since she has been badgering me to take her with me. I can’t take her because…well, actually I daren’t take her – Amy, alcohol and star-spotting could make for a very messy combination indeed.

  ‘Anyway how’s the job-hunting going?’ I say trying to get her to change the subject, and get off the phone so that I can have a bath.

  ‘Huh, like you bloody care! Brian, get off that! Crap, if you must know, but I‘ve just applied for a managers job with Ann Summers, so fingers crossed,’ she says, sounding a little brighter.

  ‘Well at least if you get that job you’ll get lots of sexy freebies,’ I laugh. ‘Something will turn up and I do care, Amy. I just can’t take you to this ‘do. It will probably be crap anyway.’ I say, trying to ease the guilt I feel.

  ‘Humm, is that what your crystal ball tells you, is it?’ Amy laughs.

  ‘Maybe. Look, have you heard anything from Jack yet?’ I can’t help but worry and wonder why he hasn’t been in touch.’

  ‘Nope. Nothing.’ Amy says, ‘Well I’d better let you get on with mingling with the rich and famous, I suppose.’

  As Amy rings off, I’m not sure quite how to take that last comment. I know Amy is down right now, but there isn’t a great deal I can do about it. I feel relieved that I can finally take a bath, but at the same time just a shade guilty. She’s having a bad time, while for me, professionally speaking, things couldn’t be better. Once the ceremony is behind me, I’ll devote myself to cheering her up, I decide. Maybe enlist Jack too – when he finally deigns to call me.

  I have to say that Cilla, Colin’s step-sister’s sister has surpassed my initial trepidation about my dress for the TV awards – I wonder why all Colin’s family are named with the initial C? I’m sure there is some good reason. Anyway, the dress is made out of a deep burgundy silk – strapless with a tight bodice to ensure nothing pops out at any inappropriate moment, and the full-length skirt makes my legs look as though they go on for miles. This woman certainly knows her stuff and I have to say I do look truly amazing in it. My hair has been curled into cute ringlets. The make-up artist has gone a bit overboard on the dark eye shadow, in order to make me appear even more mysterious than usual, but I have to say the whole look has exceeded my expectations.

  I’ve had messages of good luck from everyone at the radio station, including Liam, which surprised me considering I haven’t had time to see him all week. The two people I haven’t heard from is Amy and Jack – surprise, surprise – and I have to say, I’m a little hurt that the two people who I considered to be my best friends have not bothered to wish me luck. Oh well.

  The Grand Hotel in which we – me, Suze, Billy and the res
t of the Morning Latte crew - are ushered in to, is absolutely massive. There are cameras everywhere you look and it reminds me a bit of Big Brother. There is no getting away with a quick nose-pick here. The entire nation could be watching you as you try a sneaky bat-in-the-cave moment.

  I sit with my hands in my lap as though I were back at school. It’s an uncomfortable feeling to think that the whole of the UK could be watching me right now, so I just sit there and laugh when everyone else laughs at the warm-up comedy act, even though I don’t get the half the jokes. I feel like I shouldn’t really be here. It should be Miracle, not me. It was Miracle who should have taken the radio job at Town FM and if she had she would have been asked to work for Morning Latte and in turn be sitting here to hear the announcements.

  I’m desperately trying not to look star-struck and in awe of all the other people in the room. There are stars from my childhood sitting in the same room as me. All the old ones from Blue Peter are sitting at one huge table and I keep watching to see if they will whip out a shoe box and some double-sided sticky tape and produce a miniature hotel for Barbie and Ken. They don’t.

  There is a table dedicated to breakfast time newsreaders; a table for a bunch of children’s TV presenters. I can tell that they’re children’s TV presenters by the way they are all dressed – they are all wearing very brightly coloured clothes and one of them who I vaguely recognise is actually wearing a pair of orange dungarees. You’d have thought, it being after 9pm and a grown-up event, that they would leave the bright coloured costumes at home, wouldn’t you?

  Suze and radioactive Billy know everyone and I mean everyone! They wave at one table of presenters and then another, turn to each other and bitch about them – oh the world of celebrity.

  ‘She’s had them done again.’ Billy whispers as Suze waves to a surgically implanted woman who looks as though she is about to fall out of the two strips of material she calls a dress.

  ‘Humm and she’s had her cheeks chiselled by the looks of it.’ Suze whispers back. Cheeks chiselled? How on earth do you have your cheeks chiselled? However, it sounds very painful. I wouldn’t want my cheeks or anything else for that matter chiselled, thank you very much.