Jigs & Reels

by Joanne Harris

  But it was when Anne, Morwenna and Dizzy began a violent argument about a disparaging comment Dizzy had once supposedly made to Anne about the shape of Morwenna’s calves, Judith was apparently asleep, Isabella was explaining the finer points of sex magic to Jane (with the aid of diagrams drawn onto the tablecloth in biro), and Gloria was trying to demonstrate how to change a salt-cellar into a hamster, that I realized what had happened. This was not simply a case of good cheer gone slightly out of hand. Someone had magically spiked the mineral water.

  ‘It’s disgusting, that’s what it is,’ said Carole, who seemed the only one unaffected. ‘Cavorting about like a gaggle of goblins. I thought this was going to be a meeting of minds, an opportunity to share the experiences of twenty years’ travel on the Path of the Wise.’

  ‘Oh, put a sock in it, Carrie,’ said Anne, whose hair had come down in the course of the argument. ‘You always were a most frightful little bleater. No wonder you ended up in a commune full of sheep.’

  ‘Now look here,’ said Carole, losing much of her smug self-satisfaction. ‘Just because you were coven captain three years running—’

  ‘Girls, girls,’ said Dizzy. ‘Is this any way to behave?’

  ‘You can shut up as well,’ said Carole. ‘You and your media magic. And if you really believe that body job of yours looks anything other than grotesque—’

  ‘Body job!’ squeaked Dizzy, outraged. ‘I’ll have you know my body’s perfectly natural! I take care of myself! I work out!’

  ‘Come off it, darling,’ said Morwenna sweetly. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of nowadays. Lots of witches have a little cantrip or two set by for when things begin to sag.’

  ‘Well, it’d take a hell of a lot more than a cantrip to fix those fat calves of yours.’

  I tried to intervene. I could feel an accumulation of static in the air which raised the hairs on my arms and made my skin prickle. Powerful magic was building. And quickly. I wondered what exactly had been added to the drinks. A truth spell? Something worse?

  ‘I say—’ I began. But it was too late. They were engaged. Morwenna made a grab for Dizzy’s hair; Dizzy’s hand shot out at Morwenna, and ropes of magic were suddenly swarming and hissing over both of them. The two witches jumped apart like doused cats, their hair standing on end.

  ‘What did you do?’ snarled Dizzy, her poise gone completely.

  ‘Nothing!’ wailed Morwenna, shaking her numbed fingers. ‘What did you do?’

  I was just happy that the shield spell over our table was still holding. Beyond it, the other diners munched on, oblivious.

  ‘What larks,’ commented Jane happily, finishing her second piece of chocolate cake. ‘Just like the old days.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Judith with a hint of sarcasm. I’d almost forgotten about her; she had seemed half-asleep during most of the meal, and as far as I knew, had hardly spoken a word. She’d been no different twenty years before: a silent, unattractive young witch who was excused from sports for some medical reason; who never seemed to get any letters from home and spent every Yuletide holiday at school. I’d had to stay myself once; my parents had had to go to an occult conference in New Zealand and I was left at school feeling thoroughly miserable, in spite of the trunkful of presents they had sent me. All my friends had gone home for the holidays, and only Judith had remained. I’d already known she never went home for Yule, of course, but I’d never really thought about it before. Now I did. If she had been more approachable, and less devoted to her studies, we might have used the opportunity to become friends. But I quickly found out that Judith alone was as drab and monosyllabic as Judith in a crowd. She did not seek me out, seeming quite content to spend her days alone in the library, or in the herbarium or the observatory. All the same, she was the only company around, except for a few Masters and their familiars, and one night the two of us had shared the last of my Yule log and a bottle of elderberry wine. I’d almost forgotten about that until now; afterwards we had gone on with our studies as before, and the following year had been our last. I looked at her now. ‘What did you do after school, Judith?’ I asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Nothing much,’ she said. ‘I got married.’ I hoped my surprise didn’t show on my face. ‘He’s a psychonaut,’ went on Judith in her cool, quiet voice. ‘He lectures in Morphic Field Theory and the Chaoetheric Paradigm.’

  ‘Really?’ I barely knew the terms; those theories had been far beyond even our most advanced courses. ‘How about you?’

  Judith gave a chilly smile. ‘I became a metamorphosist. A shaper, if you like. Specializing in body jobs for the karmically unconcerned.’

  ‘Goddess,’ breathed Carole, who had been listening. ‘You’re a Kaoist.’

  ‘Someone has to do it,’ said Judith. ‘And if people want to pay for my services rather than studying the arts for themselves—’

  ‘Pay with karma taken from their next lives!’

  Judith shrugged. ‘Who cares?’ she said. ‘If Dizzy wants to spend her next life as a radish, who am I to criticize?’ Everyone was staring at us now. Dizzy’s face was white. ‘You always looked down on me,’ said Judith in the same colourless voice. ‘I was always the coven joke.’

  ‘Judith—’ I said uncomfortably. It had occurred to me that with her resources it would be child’s play now for Judith to use her powers of metamorphosis to change us all into cockroaches, if she chose to do it. Now I understood who had helped me light the candle; my throat felt suddenly rather dry.

  ‘None of you have changed much since then,’ went on Judith calmly. ‘Gloria’s still a little sneak, Dizzy a silly attention-grabber, Anne a snob, Carole a talentless phoney. None of you are real witches at all.’ (Carole gave a squeak at this, but changed it hastily into a cough.) Judith turned to me. ‘Except for you,’ she told me with half a smile. ‘I haven’t forgotten that Yuletide when you shared your cake with me in the dorm. Fortunately, I can keep a secret,’ said Judith, looking at Dizzy, though I felt maybe she was speaking to me. ‘And I don’t believe in revenge.’

  She had stood up during this little speech, and I noticed for the first time how tall she was. I wondered, too, why I had thought she looked old; now she looked young, clear-skinned, almost beautiful. ‘Well,’ she said in a lighter tone, ‘I think that’s all I wanted to say. My husband said he’d call for me about now, and I don’t want to keep him waiting.’

  We watched her go in silence; for once, there were no whisperings between Gloria and Isabella, and even Carole had no comment to make. Then, when we were sure she had gone, we all ran to the window. We saw them then for a moment, the real witches, walking away hand-in-hand. The man was tall and fair-haired; for a second I thought I recognized Paul Wight, though there was no way of knowing for sure. He and Judith walked slowly down the street, and I wondered how it was possible for two people to look so free and calm and so sure of themselves and the future. I watched them into the distance, as around me the other witches slunk back one by one to the table and conversation slowly returned. I thought maybe the pavement shimmered a little in their wake, but I could not be certain of that, either.

  Hello, Goodbye

  For some reason, I have developed an unhealthy addiction to a number of the more shallow and brittle society magazines. I find the world they portray fascinating, sinister, often depressing, sometimes bleakly funny. This is not a true story. But perhaps it is only a matter of time.

  MY NAME IS Angela K. you might have heard of me; I’m a society columnist for Goodbye! magazine. I’m twenty-nine; attractive; talented – I have an impressive CV, a degree in media studies, a celebrity sister, rather famous in her day (the Face of Pluviôse cosmetics), perfect skin and fifteen thousand pounds’ worth of dental work. Oh yes, and my career is over. Over. Finished. Finita. Fini.

  It was last week, over champagne and canapés. The season’s most sensational Dernière – rumour had it that all the Immortals were going to be there, and I was thrilled to have the chance to cover it. Aft
er all, it’s what I joined the paper for: glamour, travel, gossip, and the exhilarating pageant of Society at its most dazzling. I knew that if I made a success of this there would be lots of other assignments; this kind of venue was very now, and Goodbye! magazine all set to be the leader in the field. I was the perfect choice: clever, well-connected, slim, blonde and nicely inconspicuous. I could be relied upon to observe, to set the tone, to keep it light, not to draw attention to myself. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing would.

  I chose my outfit carefully. It helps to have a fashion-model sister; you get to meet all kinds of designers, with lots of free samples and give-aways – not to mention the once-worn cast-offs from Sis, though it rankles to accept them, and I’ve had to stay so thin just to keep up with her.

  Basic black, of course – that goes without saying – with a touch of cerise (this season’s new black) in the accessories. Classic throughout; nothing too outrageous or revealing. After all, I’m here as a reporter.

  The ceremony took place at the fashionable time of three o’clock – and the crematorium was one of the most prestigious venues in London, with a newly refurbished Conran interior and a six-month waiting list for nonmembers. I turned up a little early, clutching my lavishly black-bordered invitation with eagerness and just a hint of nerves. Sis would have taken it all in her stride, of course; but then, Sis had had lots of practice. She was a complete party animal – I’d already counted three of her ex-lovers before I’d even reached the gates – and she knew absolutely everybody.

  Press arrive first, of course; there was already a crowd of photographers and TV cameras waiting behind the cordon. I recognized my arch-rival Amber D. from K.O. magazine and Piers from Crem; someone recognized me and there was a flash and crackle of cameras as I stepped onto the luxurious black carpet and handed my invitation to the two security men at the door.

  It was like a dream. This was the moment my entire life had been leading up to, and I entered the reception hall in a kind of daze. For once I was attending an A-list venue as myself, not as Sis’s gawky younger sister, and it felt terrific. For once in my life I’d stepped out of Sis’s shadow, and people were looking at me – men were looking at me – with interest and admiration. I knew I was looking good – the last diet had paid off, and I was back to a size six again, though I still needed to shed a couple of stone before I could fit into some of Sis’s latest clothes. My hair was sleek; my skin airbrushed to pale perfection (tans are so out nowadays), my nails (cerise, of course) buffed to a dazzling gleam. If Sis had been there I knew that everyone would have been looking at her – not because she’s so much better-looking, but because of that dress, that man, that scandal, that breakdown – but without her I too was an Immortal; I was free, I was available, a fantasy guest at a fantasy ball, and for a time I forgot myself entirely, gliding across the lobby in my glass slippers in search of my own version of that man . . .

  In the main reception hall, it was already busy. The bar at the far end of the hall was dispensing Black Russians (the retro-ironic drink of the season) and liquorice Kir; waiters passed by with Beluga and blinis, and B-list society girls lounged on the elegant furniture, sipping mineral water, smoking black Sobranies, and discussing the deceased.

  ‘Well, it can’t have been as quick as all that, darling, have you seen the waiting list for this place?’

  ‘Any goss on the COD?’

  ‘I heard it was some kind of an eating disorder—’

  ‘No! Starving or hurling?’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s an official sponsor or anything – what a bore, Tymon collects the badges, you know; he’s already got AIDS, coronary, breast cancer and terrorist-bombing—’

  ‘Still, look on the bright side; at last she’s managed that size nought she always wanted.’

  With an effort I pulled myself away from this fascinating conversation, reminding myself that I was a professional with a serious job to do. I pulled out my notebook (Smythson, black, crocodile) and began to jot down ideas.

  Black was the keynote for the celebrity funeral of the summer, with Prada and Ghost taking the lead again as more than 600 guests converged on the Black Cube Crematorium. I spotted delicious debs Lucie and Sebastopol Ritz-Carleton sharing a jug of Black Russians with teen heart-throb Jarry Golentz; Nicky H. looked in, then looked out again, and conceptualist duo Grundy and Nebb dazzled in matching cerise . . .

  Outside, I heard a sudden increase in the activity of cameras as a new influx of celebrities arrived.

  Our reporter spotted Rupert, looking gorgeous in a clever take on the classic evening jacket, Niles and Petrovka in Armani, the outrageous Piggy Lalique in top-to-toe Vivienne Westwood and author Salman Rushdie, with a glamorous lady on his arm, looking ultra-casual in one of Gaultier’s new ‘Intelligentsia’ T-shirts . . .

  It was like something out of one of the new ‘caskets ’n’ canapés’ novels – you’ll be familiar with the genre. Death is the new food – we like to read about it without actually having to do any of it ourselves. And of course we all loved Hugh Grant and Renée Zellweger in this year’s classic remake The Wrong Box . . . Even so, this was even more wonderful than I’d hoped. All these fabulous people – and the main cortège hadn’t even arrived! I stopped to take another blini – they really were very good – and kept on taking notes.

  Top chef Armando Pigalle astonished with a witty series of keynote canapés on the theme of Remembrance and Loss – including light-as-air rosemary soufflés, Beluga blinis, indigo sushi, pasta negra and Proustian madeleines with lime-blossom coulis . . .

  Another wave of excitement from outside buffeted the black-hung windows and I understood that the cortège was arriving. Everyone moved to the doors to watch; cameras flashed, and I stood on a marble table by the window with my notebook in hand to see what was going on outside.

  In spite of recent predictions, headgear remained a prominent feature, with Phillip and Cozmo leading the way as usual. This season small is beautiful, with witty numbers from the new ‘Demise’ collection. Our reporter spotted Isabella behind a super-sculptural ‘Memento Mori’ cashmere piece with real bone accessories, and Helena wore a fun vintage hat from Mourningtown.

  Hats aside, there wasn’t much to see; I craned my neck for fifteen minutes while the casket was manoeuvred into position behind a screen (in order not to jeopardize the News of the World’ s picture exclusive), and bouncers kept the remaining photographers off-limits. Then the cortège backtracked 100 yards to give the Channel 55 cameras a view of the procession from both sides; mascara was re-applied for the close-ups, then it was the turn of the celebrity portraits.

  The new generation caskets are slick, modern and very, very sexy. The deceased chose a flamboyant open-topped Louis Vuitton model in this season’s hot new colour – cerise – flowers from Wild at Heart and live music from top bands Brat and Spleen . . .

  There was a moan from the crowd. Everyone knows the real Immortals always come some distance behind the cortège – there’s usually a casting director or two somewhere in the crowd, and it never hurts to shed a couple of tears, though some people always overdo it and make a fool of themselves. To try to combat this, I’d heard that all eulogies were to be kept down to two minutes apiece (we all remember Skinny McNalty’s six-minute embarrassment at the Saatchi memorial last year), and the technicians in charge of the lights and the sound system were under strict instructions to enforce the time limit.

  It might take another hour for all the guests to negotiate the black carpet. Individual shots are obligatory on these occasions, and there can be a lot of cattiness between celebrities when photographers rush away en masse on spotting a more interesting guest, so I helped myself to another cocktail and watched from the window as the celebrities filtered through one by one.

  The celebrity Dernière is a wonderful opportunity for fantasy dressing-up. Our reporter counted avant-garde outfits from Alexander McQueen, Galliano and Jean-Paul Gaultier; fun funeral fetishwear from Virgin on th
e Ridiculous and key pieces from Tracey Emin’s stylish new couture collection.

  A slight scuffle occurred at the door as a couple attempted to gain entry without invitation cards; but the bouncers were onto them at once. I saw them briefly: an elderly pair, hatless and too old for the funky style they’d adopted (that cardigan-and-pearls look only retains its ironic dowdiness before the age of twenty-one, and black works best with a perfect complexion and some cheeky accessories), looking bewildered and angry, behind a forgettable starlet in angel-hair chiffon and vertiginous heels. I could just hear the security man, a mobile in each hand, explaining that no one was allowed to enter without an official invitation and ID – security had been stepped up in the wake of a scandal wherein the casket of a minor Royal had been revealed to contain four illicit grave-crashers. The old lady nodded tearfully, clinging to the old gentleman’s hand, and the two moved off the carpet – flashguns shooting all the way – and into the area cordoned off for the convenience of the general public.

  Security was predictably tight, confirms our reporter, with even the deceased submitting to the obligatory searches . . . Quite right too, I thought. The public’s role was to stay well behind the cordon and gape in admiration as the Immortals glided past. This was what they wanted: glamour, reassurance, dreams. The funeral industry had been quick to cash in on this new market, offering affordable high-street copies of the fantasy caskets pictured in Rattler or Crem, and a recent survey had shown Goodbye! magazine that some of the more fashion-conscious of our readers were already on waiting lists for the newest caskets (with Chanel’s quilted Ozymandias model pre-booked until 2015).

  I could see the monogrammed casket clearly now, with its sunroof open to facilitate access. Behind it, the old couple still lingered, getting in the way of the News of the World photographers. A blonde PR girl was hovering around them, a mobile clamped to her ear. I heard her voice above the crowd – So sorry, darling, I’ll see what I can do – then everything was submerged under a new wave of sound as the deceased was ushered into the building.