‘Hmm, not bad suggestions, maybe next time. No, we’re going here.’ Patty pushes a leaflet towards me.
‘Cleo Castanello, Clairvoyant to the Stars. Which stars, then?’ It strikes me that most of the ‘stars’ I have ever seen grinning from black and white photographs on restaurant walls are now either disgraced, discredited or dead.
‘That’s not the point. I’m going to ask her about the Granny-Okes, whether we’ll find fame and fortune.’
‘And if not, you’ll give it up?’ I ask.
‘Of course not,’ replies Patty, ‘I’ll go to another clairvoyant. So are you up for it?’
How can I refuse? Literally, how can I? She wouldn’t let me; besides which, although like everyone else I do not believe in psychics, I’m curious as to what she’ll have to say about the travel club. Like Patty, if she says anything bad I’ll just dismiss her as a complete phoney.
On the way to visiting Cleo Castanello, the song ‘Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves’ is playing through my mind, so I have a very clear expectation as to what she’ll look like: dark curly hair and lots of rings on her fingers. When she opens the door, she looks nothing like that well-worn cliché.
She hosts ‘Clairvoyance Parties’ where a dozen of us (all women) gather in her living room and a stunning young woman, who could be her daughter, serves us glasses of bubbly and canapés. It is a beautifully tasteful room of creams and golds, the type you see in Homes & Gardens but if you try to recreate it yourself, just looks beige.
Patty is immediately reassured.
‘You don’t earn décor like this if you’re rubbish,’ she whispers.
Cleo looks head to toe a top businesswoman, a younger Martha Stewart: blonde cropped hair, fabulous bone structure and dark intelligent eyes that look right through you. Everyone will tell you not to give anything away to psychics, but this woman could probably get any detail she wanted out of me.
The session starts with her explaining that like many others she has a gift; she doesn’t know where it came from but from an early age she could just tell what was going to happen. The house, she says as she holds out her hands to her surroundings, is testament to that; she knew when the stock market would crash and got out just in time. An impressed murmur rumbles around the room and I decide to ask her about this week’s lottery numbers.
One by one, we go off for our individual consultations in her conservatory. As each person comes out they are surrounded by others asking, ‘What did she say? Was she any good?’ Most people seemed impressed.
Eventually, Patty is called and as is always the case when it’s someone you know, the consultation seems to last no time at all. I wait for Patty to reach me through the curious throng.
‘She sees the colour red or orange playing a VERY important role in my future,’ says Patty as if this is the most significant fact in the world now.
‘Red or orange what?’ I ask.
‘She couldn’t tell but she also sees my life full of music and laughter.’
I’m about to say that it all sounds a bit vague when my name is called.
Cleo examines my face for longer than is comfortable and then says, ‘You’ve had a difficult time of late but you’re starting to come through it.’
I nod and think that is probably a safe bet for many people who consult psychics and besides which my crow’s feet would give it away immediately.
‘I can see many good things coming your way’ – she holds both my hands – ‘but I’m afraid I can also see some sadness.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘It could be a misunderstanding or a difficult argument; even illness. It concerns a person that you’re close to but don’t always see eye to eye with.’
Mum springs to mind and a chill spreads through my body.
‘There’s also something back to the future about you; perhaps you’ll rekindle a friendship or return to something you used to enjoy? Whatever you face, you come out of it stronger and there is so much happiness at the end of the year.’
The words ‘sadness’ and ‘illness’ outweigh everything else she says so I leave the conservatory numb and head straight for Patty. I drag her out of that house so that the bad news will stay there and not follow me home. Just to be sure that the jinx is thrown off the trail we divert to a wine bar and after an unladylike gulp of Shiraz I tell Patty what she said about getting bad news.
‘I can’t cope with any more sadness,’ I tell her. ‘Haven’t I had enough?’
‘She said it might just be an argument,’ she tries to reassure me. ‘I dye my hair bright red, you tell me it’s awful and we have a blazing row about it; that way both of our fortunes come true.
‘Or you start getting maudlin on my birthday over something you don’t believe in anyway and I deck you one,’ she adds.
‘And how will I be happier after that?’ Despite myself, I laugh at her efforts.
‘Your nose breaks and we have to get it fixed; the surgeon turns out to be dark and swarthy. You gaze into each other’s eyes before the anaesthetic, fall in love and when you wake up you both live happily ever after,’ she says.
‘Deck me now,’ I laugh and the conversation naturally gets back to Patty’s reading.
‘There’s a karaoke bar in town called the Red Door. Do you think that’s what she meant?’
Open for Business
Our launch article appears in the South Manchester Chronicle this weekend and we get quite a few enquiries, so I spend today trying to turn them into bookings.
I’ve also been invited to go and speak at the local WI to talk about travelling safely and our women-only trips. The travel club seems to work better when it’s explained in person, so I’ll have to try to get as many opportunities as I can to talk about it.
Mum thinks I’ve gone mad as I also keep calling to check that she’s OK and suggest trips out together; after my fifth call to her this morning, she blows:
‘Will you stop mithering me? I’m busy,’ she tells me.
I utter a wounded ‘sorry’ and she softens as much as she ever does.
‘Are you poorly? Or has something happened? I thought you’d be busy with the new business.’
‘I am, Mum. I just wanted to check that you’re OK and you know that if you ever need me, I’m never too busy,’ I say.
‘I know that, girl. Now go and make tons of money.’
‘So you can boast about me at the Caravan Club?’ I ask.
‘Oh I already do that,’ she tells me. ‘No, so you can fly me first class somewhere. I hear they give you lovely free toiletries on first class.’
Satisfied that she’s not hiding some illness or dark secret, I decide to put the prediction behind me, except the part about rekindling old friendships. I haven’t told anyone about that but I wonder if she was talking about Alan?
Warm and fuzzy from knowing Mum is OK, I decide that sometime this year, I’m going to buy her that first-class flight and she can nick as many of the freebies as she likes.
Towards the end of the day, just as I’m packing my leaflets ready to go to the WI, I notice Charlie standing open-mouthed staring at the door.
‘Don’t look now but a giant tomato just walked in,’ he says.
I follow his line of vision to Patty dressed head to toe in red with swathes of orange scarves.
‘What on earth...?’ I venture.
‘If a renowned clairvoyant has said that these are my lucky colours then I want to attract luck every minute of the day,’ she explains.
Charlie and I just look at each other then nod, accepting this logical explanation.
‘And you think the more red or orange you wear the more luck you get? Is that how it works?’ asks Charlie, very bravely in my opinion.
Patty bristles a little but then chuckles at her reflection in the window.
‘I might have overdone it a tad today, it’s every red thing I have in the wardrobe.’
I explain that I’m off to do a talk and she offers to come with m
e for moral support. I’d never usually say no to any type of support but I’m concerned that she might scare off the customers in that get-up.
‘Could you at least lose the scarves?’ I ask.
She sighs at me but starts unravelling the yards of fabric adorning her outfit before declaring, ‘Oh you people, you’re just too conservative. Mind you, that lot was bloody warm.’
Somehow I was expecting to walk into a sedate crowd quietly chatting to each other. Instead the energy and noise erased any nerves I had and I felt instantly at home.
Throughout the night there is so much laughter and bonhomie. First of all, there’s wine (Patty and I are signing up next week), then plans to do a midnight walk for breast cancer and finally, after a tasting of some home-made pastries, I’m on.
I’m well versed in this speech by now; the Mercury Travel Club is my baby so I know I speak with passion and I do believe that people will have a great time if they join up.
‘For me,’ I tell them, ‘it’s about having a brilliant time, making good friends locally and perhaps learning a little along the way.
‘For example, it would be easy to run a champagne trip to the Champagne region but did you know champagne was drunk in 1966 at Formula 1 in Le Mans? It’s a stunningly beautiful French town that has something for everyone. So that’s where we go to celebrate everyone’s favourite bubbly; it’s not all about grapes and pressing, which can be quite dull if we’re honest. For all of our trips, we’ve thought of something a little bit different and of course, when you get back, there’ll be a little gift waiting for you to help keep the memory alive.’
There is an appreciative murmur (although I suspect that this group are nice to everyone who comes along – unless you’re Tony Blair).
It’s time for questions, which are generally quite easy to answer.
‘How do we know that you’re not going to go bankrupt?’ asks one lady.
‘My partner Charlie has run the agency safely for over ten years and of course we’re ABTA covered,’ I respond.
‘And you can trust her; after all, she’s a karaoke singer,’ comes a voice from the back. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
It’s meant to be funny I think, but most people are confused and it knocks me off my stride. I strain to see the speaker at the back of the room. It’s Amanda.
In that second, it feels as if I’m on the school stage and I’ve wet myself in front of everyone. I feel the throbbing pulse in my neck spreading colour all across my face. I don’t know what to do.
Cool as anything, Patty turns to her and holds out a decimated plate of flaky pastry.
‘Here, try this,’ she says. ‘I hear you enjoy other women’s leftovers.’
Ouch. I am so glad she came with me. Amanda skulks out and takes all the attention with her. I get off the scary stage and the chairwoman leads a round of applause for my talk.
‘Well ladies, I’m certainly going to book up for this, it sounds fantastic,’ she says.
I am pretty certain that the last thing a husband-stealer should do at a WI meeting is insult the ex-wife, so inadvertently Amanda did me a favour. I know I got a bit of a sympathy vote tonight but if it gets the business off the ground I’m happy to take it.
I feel victorious.
Empty Rooms
Come morning, I’ve been focusing on ideas for drumming up business, as my victory at the WI has inspired a hitherto unknown desire for world domination. This carries me through to lunchtime when a perky voice on the phone brings me back down to earth.
‘I have some good news for you,’ the voice promises, ‘we have a firm offer on your house.’
An offer, above the asking price with no chain to worry about is every seller’s dream, but this is it. Our family home will be gone. I haven’t been back to it this year but it’s always been there in the background: strong red brick waiting for us if we change our mind. I can’t quite believe it will belong to someone else very soon.
The estate agent tells me she’ll send the paperwork to both Alan and myself and suggests that I start arranging the clearance to ‘ensure a quick sale’.
Briefly I consider dawdling for as long as possible to put the buyers off, but what good would that do?
It’s over; it’s actually over.
When Alan first told me about the affair, I felt as if I was falling from a great height even though I was sitting on the sofa. That nauseous sensation of free fall returns now and when I land, something I love and care for, a solid symbol of our family history, will be gone.
It takes me another couple of days but I eventually build the courage to face it; dressed in scrubs and armed with plastic bags I arrive at the house. My plan is to sort and throw out anything that won’t be coming with me. I’ve managed to kid myself this will be just like any other spring clean (well I haven’t, but that’s what I keep saying and hoping I’ll start believing it).
As I park in the drive I see Alan has been keeping the garden tidy; I wonder whether this is because of the sale or because he misses having a garden in his new flat. I hope it’s the latter.
I’ve never attached a great deal of significance to ‘things’. I know some people hold on to every painting their child has ever drawn or they press every rose they’ve ever been given, but I’m not that sort of a person. I could lose everything but the photographs and it wouldn’t spoil the memories. This feels different; previously when I threw out an anniversary card or glitter-bombed advent calendar I felt reassured that another would take its place the following year. The constant was always the family home where they’d be displayed for that brief moment. No more.
I unlock the door and push against the weight of the junk mail still addressed to Mr and Mrs Hargreaves. Seeing the name doesn’t faze me – it is junk after all.
It’s the smell that breaks me; although fused with the mustiness of the empty house, it’s unmistakably us. I stand in the hallway and breathe in the aroma of family: wellies and waxed jackets fighting with the plug-in air fresheners I scattered during the sale.
I walk into the living room where, even now, the sofas have retained the unmistakable dents where each of us sat. I sit down in my dent and pick up a cushion; I hold it close and wonder how we got to this. How it is that one minute, all of this is a safe, familiar haven and the next it’s just another property to be cleared out as soon as possible? It feels like a death and I suppose it is the death of a marriage. Sad is such a tiny word but when you truly feel it, it’s the biggest, blackest void you’ve ever known.
There are no photographs left on display, so this could be anyone’s house, unless of course it’s yours. Then you know you bothered keeping the really tatty footstool because it’s the perfect height, and that the scratch in the floorboards was the result of the oversized Christmas tree Zoe begged for; she proudly brought all her friends round just to see it.
I brace myself and go upstairs. The emotions start pulsing through me with each step climbed, I’m getting so breathless I might as well be climbing Everest. The spare room and scene of the crime fills me with disgust and disbelief while our bedroom drives a surge of anger as I remember the irritating habits I used to put up with, the snoring and teeth grinding. I always used to say that snoring was a sign of a person you love sleeping peacefully and therefore I didn’t mind it. No wonder he was sleeping peacefully, he was bloody exhausted. Bastard.
It isn’t until I open the door to Zoe’s room that the tears start; the second I walk in I’m back in the room of a little girl safe in her home with a mummy and daddy.
I know she’s left home and I know that we’re both still here for her, but she’s right, it’s not the same. Every event from now on – her wedding, the birth of her children, their birthdays – they’ll all be a negotiation with new partners and that woman will be in our family photos. You can’t just waltz in and steal someone’s family.
I slump down on the bed and eventually I get so angry, the tears dry up. I feel like screaming but then hear
the door open. At that moment, precisely the wrong people walk in.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ says Amanda. ‘I wouldn’t want another woman in my house, you shouldn’t have asked me.’
I rush to the top of the stairs grabbing a slipper on my way.
‘No you fucking shouldn’t. Get out of this house – both of you,’ I roar and throw the slipper full force at the door. It bounces off Alan’s head, so I’m very relieved I didn’t pick up the vase. It has the desired effect; they scarper.
It has the right effect on me too; I sit at the top of the stairs and calm down. This was my house, I made it a home with my efforts and those facts remain. Zoe would have left home anyway and perhaps we would have downsized. We’re just not doing it together.
I may have rationalised what has happened but I can’t take any more of this place. I stuff a couple of Zoe’s teddy bears into a bag and walk out, knowing that as I lock the door, it is the last time I will visit this house.
I don’t want anything, so Alan can take it or dump it, I don’t care.
As I walk down the drive, Alan leaps out of his car where he’s been waiting for me.
‘I’m sorry Angie, I didn’t think,’ he says.
‘You never bloody do, that’s half your problem. And it’s a bit late for apologies don’t you think,’ I spit out as I barge past him, getting into my car and slamming the door.
‘Is it?’ I’m sure I hear him say through the screeching of my reverse departure.
My mother has other plans and decides she’ll sort out the house. I tell her I’m just going to leave it all behind and I might as well be saying that I’ll be letting a free sample go untasted; she’s horrified.
‘You can’t let her go rummaging through your valuables, taking what she fancies. She’s done enough of that,’ she says.
I can’t imagine Amanda helping herself to anything but I couldn’t bear the thought of either of them commenting on my life, a life they ruined for me.
‘I’d rather the Cats Protection League took it all,’ says Mum.
The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny! Page 11
