‘Are you OK, Mum?’
My mum smacks her lips together and then reaches for a slither of tissue paper to pat her mouth.
‘Yes, love and very well done tonight. I really thought you were going to make a right show of yourself up there and you very nearly did…’ Gee thanks, Mum, ‘…but you came good in the end and fancy you getting all those names right. I was quite amazed. You really do have The Gift don’t you?’ My mum muses. ‘I still don’t know how you do it, I really don’t, but I’m very proud of you, Sammy.’
‘I know you and many other people don’t know what to believe about whether there is life after death and I’m not doing this to prove a point, Mum. I’m doing it to help people who are so overcome with grief that they can’t think straight. As you know, it wasn’t my first choice of career, but it helps people, Mum.’ I smile at the thought of all the people I have passed messages on to in the past months.
‘I really did hear Dad, you know.’ I say, knowing full well that up until now she has successfully evaded the subject of me talking to dead people, ‘and he really is happy for you and …Colin…I’m happy for you too, Mum.’ You have to be careful with my mum on subjects of a sensitive nature. She will put on this ‘I’m fine’ exterior but before long the bottom lip will wobble and the last thing I want to do is to make her cry.
I remember quite clearly at my dad’s funeral she played the part of hostess to exemplary standards – making sure that everyone was in the right car and that the funeral directors had remembered to take Dad’s favourite CD to the crematorium.
Mum made sure that there was enough room for everyone to sit down in the church by enlisting the help of the local Boy Scouts to bring additional chairs, and yet underneath the façade of the coping widow stood a woman who was heartbroken to the extent that she couldn’t see past the next day.
A week after my dad’s funeral, my mum broke down and cried and cried and cried until she could cry no more. Our roles were suddenly reversed with Me, Matt and Paul caring for her, making her dinner and trying to persuade her to get out of bed so that we could at least change the sheets.
‘Are you OK, Mum?’ I say watching her lip start to wobble in the mirror. Mum bites her lip and takes a deep breath.
‘He’s nothing like your dad, Sammy and I’m not trying to replace him. I could never try to replace your dad. He was the most wonderful man in the world,’ she says.
‘And he still is, Mum,’ I whisper. ‘He’s still around us all the time and he still loves you. He just wants to see you happy.’ I wrap my arms around her and as I do so her shoulders heave upwards and the floodgates open. And there we stay for the next 30 minutes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It feels as though I’ve been away for ages. In reality it’s actually only been two weeks. Thankfully things have died down in the newspapers and I received three apologies in writing and requests to tell my side of the story in all three newspapers, which I’ve declined. I’ve had enough of the media to last me a lifetime and they only sensationalise everything anyway, so why bother.
I gingerly walk up the staircase to Ms Morris’s flat and tap gently on her door. I don’t know why she always makes me feel so nervous, but she does.
‘Ah…hello Samantha, come in,’ Ms Morris gives me a nervous smile as she opens the door to let me in. I hand her a huge bouquet of flowers and a box of Roses – despite being covered with pretty wrapping paper you can always tell that it’s either going to be a box of Roses or Quality Street, by the give away shape. You would have thought one of them would have thought of a different shape by now, wouldn’t you?
‘These are for you…to say thank you…you know for supporting me…’ I stutter.
She smiles and for the first time I notice it’s a genuine smile.
‘It should be me thanking you, dear,’ she says as she walks me into her small kitchen and searches for a vase big enough for the flowers. ‘I had no idea you and Mystic Crystal were the same person. It was only when I saw that picture of you in the paper that it clicked. How silly am I?’ she chuckles.
Her flat is pristine and sparkles like a new pin. Beneath the blue anorak that I usually see Ms Morris in is a very tidy lady. Her long silver hair is pulled back into a neat bun and held in place with a multitude of brown hairpins. Her pink twin-set and knee-length pleated skirt complete the neatness of Ms Morris.
‘I didn’t realise you were Valerie either. We’ve been talking for all these months and I had no idea. I knew I recognised the voice, but I didn’t think for a moment it was you.’ I laugh. Ms Morris laughs too as she fills the vase with water and arranges the flowers in it.
‘Is that Frank?’ I ask, noticing a small silver frame with a black and white photograph inside it of a young man in uniform on the windowsill.
Ms Morris smiles.
‘Yes that’s Frank. Handsome chap in his uniform, wasn’t he?’
I nod.
‘Well…’ I hesitate, not quite sure what to say to her now. I had imagined that now we knew so much about each other we would get on famously, but find I am at a complete loss for words. I want to ask her about her son in America and how she met Frank, but I still feel as though Ms Morris my landlady and Valerie my caller are two different people.
‘Do you think you will continue working for Mystic Answers?’ Ms Morris asks suddenly.
‘I think so.’ I smile. ‘And you are more than welcome to call me any time Ms…Valerie.’
She continues to arrange her flowers and although her back is to me, I’m sure there is a little smile on her face.
Being back in my own flat feels really strange – it’s so tidy. For the past two weeks I’ve been holed up at Jack’s place where the floor also acts as a waste-paper bin, a laundry basket and a wardrobe. Washing up only gets done if and when there are no clean plates from which to eat from and sheets are only washed if they don’t pass Jack’s sniff test. For someone who is so particular about his personal hygiene – Jack will not go out of the house without matching deodorant, aftershave and talc on - he sure is a slob when it comes to his home.
Missy jumps on the bed and snuggles down into my pillow as if to say ‘home sweet home, at long last, it’s like living with a pig at what’s-his-name – the bloke who throws cats in the air.’
Before I can say, ‘Honey I’m home!’ the phone starts ringing. It’s Jack.
‘You got back OK?’
‘Yeah, just got in. You all right?’ I say, flinging myself on to the sofa.
‘Yeah, just off to rehearsals with Dillon. You want to come along?’
‘Nah, you’re all right. I think I’d better log on to the website and see what’s been happening whilst I’ve been away.’
‘Cool, OK, see ya tonight?’
‘Yeah, that will be nice. Use my key to let yourself in. I may well have retired to my bed for ever more.’ I say thinking of the prospect of snuggling up under the duvet and never, ever coming out again. It’s a dangerous world out there and I’m surprised more people don’t take to their beds on a regular basis given how bad it is out there in the big wide world sometimes.
‘OK, loves ya!’ Jack says. He doesn’t realise quite how nice it is to hear him say that again.
‘Loves me too.’ I say and put the phone down.
Right, now to work. I log on to find the forum busier than ever with so many messages of support for me it’s amazing. People from all over the world, people I who have never met me have written all sorts of wonderful things about me, including a few names I recognise from the radio show. There’s Steve who was in the car crash with his friend; Michelle, the girl who wanted to know if she and her chap would ever get married. And oh, my goodness, there’s even a message from Verity Star herself to say how accurate I was about her ‘dear old friend’ Rita. Ha, I bet Rita is spinning in her grave at being described as dear and old in one sentence! I feel very humble indeed and a lump comes into my throat.
I ought to write a personal message
of thanks to these people. As I begin typing, my brother Paul pops up on my live talk messenger service. He’s up late. It must be around two o’clock in the morning over there.
‘Hi baby sis. How yer doing?’
‘Good and you?’
‘Good, got a new board today – real cool!’ He types. Lord knows how many surfboards he’s got now. I mean how many boards does one man need to go surfing? Does one surfboard even differ to another surfboard, I wonder? Is one really good at catching little waves but not so hot on the bigger buggers? I have no idea.
‘Did you get my message the other day about the photographer?’ he adds.
‘No, what message?’ I type.
‘About who took the photograph of you. I told Jack to tell you.’
‘No, he didn’t say anything. Did you find out who it was?’
‘Yes, it was a Scottish photographer by the name of…hang on, I’ve got it here…he goes under McIntyre, but his official name is, Lord Kenzie McIntyre. His father’s the famous Lord McIntyre - the chap who does all the Royal photographs. Apparently the son, Kenzie McIntyre, occasionally works with him as a freelancer for the glossies and tabloids. Not that he needs the money, mind you, he’s loaded.’
My heart misses a beat for a moment as I re-read what Paul has typed.
‘Are you sure?’ I type back.
‘Yeah, do you know him?’
‘You could say that… he’s Amy’s boyfriend.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
You cannot believe how livid I am. I am bloody fuming. I have been sitting in the same spot staring at a blank screen for nearly 45 minutes, going over and over the news Paul has told me, and I can only come up with one conclusion: that is that it was Amy who told her boyfriend to get a photo of me, and then either she or Kenzie went to the papers with the story that I was a fraud.
I’ve only met Kenzie once and he doesn’t know me well enough for me to confide anything in him, so logic dictates that it has to be Amy. And I did say to her at the beginning of all of this that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing and that I made most of it up, didn’t I? How could I have been so bloody stupid? And why didn’t I think of her before? Why, because she has been my best friend for the past 20 years. Amy and I have shared everything together – problems, shoes, clothes, beauty tips, even boyfriends on occasions – well, OK, it was only the once and that was because she didn’t want to hurt Mark by dumping him, so told him that I wanted to go out with him instead – and we were only 13 years old.
I simply can’t bring myself to believe that Amy did this. I mean, I know she was a bit sulky with me for going to the awards ceremony when she was having a career crisis, but would she really do that to me?
Picking up the phone I tap in Amy’s mobile number, clenching my fists to prevent me from screaming down the phone at her.
‘Hello flower!’ she trills.
‘Hiya!’ I say as happily as I can muster. Deep down I just feel sick at the thought that someone I could trust with my life has deliberately tried to destroy my entire career.
‘You’re back home then. How are things going?’ she coos in her sympathetic voice.
‘Yeah, they’re going well. Now all that mess has been sorted out.’ I say, sounding relieved. ‘I just wondered, if you’re not doing anything, whether you’d like to come over? It’s been ages since we had a good chat and I bet we’ve got loads of things to tell each other. With all this media business I haven’t had much time for my best friend,’ I add.
‘Um…yeah, ok, that will be great. I’ll be round in about half an hour.’
‘Cool, I’ll see you then.’ I say and calmly put the phone down.
I take a deep breath and mentally count to ten. I can’t believe that Amy could ever contemplate doing something like this to me. We’ve been friends for years. The only thing I don’t have is hard evidence that it was actually Amy who went to the newspapers. I mean, it’s not like I can phone the tabloids up and say, ‘Oh by the way, who was it that sold the story to you again?’
Ah-ha, but maybe I do. I pick up my address book and go through all the numbers until I come to the K’s. Karen from college…Kevin…Kevin? Who the hell is Kevin? Oh well, ah, Kenzie. I remember Amy giving me his mobile number when my mum asked if I knew of anyone who could do the photography for her and Colin’s book. Amy told me that Kenzie used to be a professional photographer. I tap the number into the phone and wait patiently for someone to answer.
‘Yep,’ a voice answers.
‘Oh, hello is that Kenzie?’
‘Yep,’ he answers – a man of many words, eh?
‘Oh, hi Kenzie, it’s Samantha here…Sam, Amy’s friend,’ I say, trying to sound cheerful and light-hearted.
‘Oh, um…yeah…all right?’ Kenzie says in his Scottish drawl which, despite initially thinking it sounded very sexy, now just irritates the hell out of me.
‘Yes, fine thanks. Look I’m sorry to bother you. I know that it was Amy who went to the papers with that story, but we’ve sorted things out now and are friends again,’ I say like an excited schoolgirl. ‘I just wanted to ask you if you still have a copy of that photograph of me? You know the one from the award ceremony? My mum loved it and I thought I would get a copy done for her birthday.’
‘Oh…um….yeah, about that Sam. I’m sorry and all that, but you know, a good news story is a good news story and Amy said that you wouldn’t be too upset by it….’ Kenzie says.
‘Upset? Me? God no. In fact you should see the publicity I got out of it,’ I say with gritted teeth. ‘No such thing as bad publicity!’ I trill.
‘Oh cool. Anyway, yeah I’ll get a copy made up for you and give it to Amy. No charge,’ Kenzie says.
No sodding charge? No sodding charge? The pair of you try to screw up my career, my reputation and my whole life between you and you’re giving me a free sodding photo? I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead I say, ‘OK, that’s great. Thanks Kenzie. See you again soon.’ And put the phone down. Let the games begin!
I feel like the villain in a James Bond movie and if Missy wasn’t currently reclining on my bed for her morning nap I might be tempted to force her to sit on me and let me stroke her, with a menacing look on my face … Ah, Mr Bond… I suddenly feel like saying in a broken English Accent. Now I have some concrete evidence that it was Amy who went to the papers I can really go to town on her.
Amy takes no time in taking up my offer of coffee and a chat and is soon on the doorstep ringing the bell to my flat. My mind races with all the evil things I could do to her like put arsenic in her coffee; slash the tyres on her BMW coupe; gouge her eyes out with a nail file…
‘Hi,’ I say as brightly as I can as I open the door. As usual Amy is looking tall, blonde and gorgeous and breezes in with her Balenciaga handbag swinging off her tanned arm. The thing is with Amy is that she will never, ever, be seen in last seasons fashions. In fact she is so up on the fashion industry, she is often two steps ahead of them. Amy won’t let the mere fact that a new design doesn’t suit her get in the way of being the first to have the very latest in the fashion stakes. Me, I’m more of a New Look girl – if it’s cheap and practical, I’ll buy it.
‘Hi you!’ Amy gushes with a ‘Mwah, Mwah,’ air kiss aimed at each cheek. I used to think this behaviour was quite endearing, but since her endeavour to ruin my life, I now find it nothing more than bloody annoying. In fact, I now find everything about Amy bloody annoying. From the way she flings herself down and puts her feet up on my sofa to the way she constantly flicks her long hair extensions over her shoulder when she is talking to me.
‘So, what’s been happening since I’ve been away?’ she says all wide-eyed and eager as if she doesn’t know.
Humm, well, where shall I start…I manage to find a job I am really good at, I get my own radio slot and then I’m asked to appear live on day-time TV, where I’m a huge success, until I attend an awards ceremony where my best friend’s shit of a boyfriend takes a photo of me and my
best friend decides to make a few quid by ringing up the newspapers and telling the whole world that I’m a fake and then uses that money to go to Spain… Is what I desperately want to say.
‘Oh, you know,’ I shrug, ‘nothing much really. Been busy with work and things. How about you? Did you have a nice time at your mums?’ I enquire as I pass an arsenic-free cup of coffee to her.
‘Yes, it was nice to catch up with her again.’
‘I thought you couldn’t stand your mum?’
‘Well, I needed a break, you know, after the shock of losing my job…’ Amy says, giving me one of those feel-sorry-for-me looks.
‘So how is your mum?’ I ask.
Amy’s mum, Lorraine is a slighter older and a more surgically enhanced version of Amy. In human years she’s probably about 50, but she’s had so many nips and tucks that she could easily pass for Amy’s little sister. Lorraine has always put Lorraine first, ever since Amy was a small child. She would willingly dump her on anyone who would have her so that she could grab another session on the sun bed or go off on 18-30 holidays on her own.
‘Oh, you know, much the same,’ Amy says looking down at her perfectly manicured nails, ‘I have a new father though! He’s a surgeon.’
‘I thought Derek was a surgeon?’ Derek was Lorraine’s fifth husband and Amy’s fifth father/uncle or whatever Amy calls them. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Oh you know my mother! Why have one surgeon when you can have two? She got caught with her knickers down with this new one. Derek divorced her and now she’s with William, the new one, but she’s also seeing Martin, a cosmetic surgeon from Spain,’ Amy explains.
Blimey! No wonder Lorraine looks like a Barbie doll. Once she’s had one job done she goes and finds herself a new surgeon/husband and gets an even better deal.
‘How’s yours?’ Amy says.
Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People? Page 24
