Chapter 8
Brigitte could have kicked herself. Saturday morning arrived and she still hadn’t heard from Mr Jamieson. Why hasn't he called to make the arrangements. Now I don’t know what to do. A couple of times it’d crossed her mind to phone him and ask what was happening. She’d picked up her mobile and then put it down again, not wanting to seem pushy. He's probably just too busy to get in touch. Shame, I think I would have enjoyed myself.
The pre-lunchtime hours in the shop were quiet which didn’t help. She had too much time to think or rather, too much time to be indecisive. There were only a few people passing by outside and they weren’t even interested enough to glance at the window display, let alone enter and buy something. She spent most of the morning doing unnecessary cleaning and tidying things that didn’t need tidying. Stewing in the back of her mind were the comments of the lawyer and the accountant. It was enough to give anyone a migraine.
Brigitte had her head buried deep in the alcove store cupboard, searching for something else to put straight, when the bell above the door tinkled. She emerged from the dark interior flushed and with her hair dishevelled. Shit. I can’t believe who's just walked in and is browsing the counter display. That night in the pub, he looked tall, but I didn't think he was that tall. He make the shop look like its been built in miniature. A stab of something close to jealousy twinged somewhere in her insides when he picked up one of her favourite pairs of earrings from the revolving stand. He held them up high and admired the turquoise blue stones as they glistened in the light. “Hello, Mr Jamieson.” She said, hoping her voice sounded normal.
“Are there you are, Brigitte. I was beginning to think you were hiding from me.” Not only is he a medium, he’s a bloody mind reader as well. He turned toward her, the earrings still in his hand. Her stomach did a silly sort of flip-flop when he smiled down at her.
“Nice little shop.” He looked around before he placed the jewellery back on its stand.
“Little being the operative word.” She smiled back at him. “How did you know where to find me?”
“It’s amazing what you can find out when you want to.” He winked at her. Brigitte went pink.
“I thought you might have forgotten all about me.” She said and sought refuge behind the counter.
“No, I wouldn’t be forgetting you.” It wasn’t a whisper, but it might have been. He held her gaze and she was completely glued to the spot. Her body relaxed with an inner calm so complete she might have just stepped off a massage table. It was the strangest of sensations and left her incapable of speech. A very quiet, “Oh,” was the only reply she could manage to squeeze out.
“Are they shirts in there?” He leaned forward and peered through the glass-fronted display.
“What?”
Somebody has switched my brain off.
“Shirts, Brigitte. Are they shirts in there?”
He pointed downwards. Brigitte followed his finger with her eyes and then nodded like a dumb blonde mannequin. Wake up, Brig, for god-sake. A Cabbage Patch doll would have managed a more interesting conversation.
“Excellent. Will you show me some? I could do with something new for the presentation tonight. Maybe white or a light blue, what do you think?” He looked at her with a cheeky twinkle in his eyes, “You know,” he winked again. “Something that’ll make me look like an up and coming medium. Have you got anything that fits the bill?”
Flustered, she pulled out some boxes and took the lid off one. Then laying it to one side, she spread open the tissue paper inside. “This is quite an elegant dress shirt. I’ve got it in quite a few different colours as well. It looks quite understated when it’s folded, but comes into its own when it’s on.”
Now I'm babbling. I could kicked myself.
He reached over and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. “It’s got a nice feel to it. I want to try it on and see how it looks. Have you got a changing room? ”
“No, there’s not enough space in here to have one fitted, but if you really want to try it, use the store cupboard. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s served the purpose and it’s quite private.”
“Okay. Can you take the pins out for me? I always end up missing one and get stabbed in the neck.”
Brigitte gave him a quick glance while he was busy slipping out of his jacket. It appeared to be just a casual, coincidental comment and not an underhand reference to her bad dream. With the last pin safely removed, she lifted the shirt from the box and gave it a shake to unfold it. “There, all ready for you.” Brigitte held it by the shoulder creases and handed it to him.
“Thank you. Where shall I go? Just through here?”
“Don’t worry; it’s not big enough to get lost in.” She laughed as he ducked his head and went through the arched entrance to the alcove. The muffled noises of him trying the shirt on, a shifting of fabric against fabric, was interrupted repeatedly by a soft, dry cough. She started to worry he was choking. “Are you okay in there, Mr Jamieson?” Maybe I should go and have a quick peek to see if he's alright.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He coughed again. It sounded as though he was clearing his throat or had asthma, but the store-cupboard was impeccable with not a speck of dust to be seen. She’d cleaned it three times during the week. “Brigitte,”
“Yes?” She looked up from under the counter where she’d been rummaging for an alternative design. He stood, in the entrance to the alcove, buttoning the shirt with his long elegant fingers. He’d started at the bottom and was gradually working his way up. She was mesmerized by the expanse of his exposed chest. He looked as though he’d had a recent operation. A livid, red scar cut across from his sternum and down the lower part of his rib cage.
“This used to be a house then?”
“Sorry?” Bit by bit his chest disappeared as he fastened the shirt front. It was more hypnotic than any one of her sessions with Paul. I really hope he didn't hear me sigh.
“Before it was a shop, it was a house?” He was busy undoing his belt. Turning, he looked in the wall mirror. “I think I’ll just see what it looks like tucked in.” he said, and unzipped his fly.
“Oh,” The sound resembled one she’d make if her knicker elastic pinged. Brigitte gave herself a mental slap before answering his question, “Yes, it was a house. But that was a long time ago well before they pedestrianized the village square and turned into what it is now.” He nodded.
“The old lady’s still here. She must have smoked an awful lot to give me a cough like that. She says the back part there used to be her kitchen.”
Dumbstruck, it took her a moment to answer. “Yes, it was. There were a set of plans of the building before and after it was renovated. They were with the paperwork when we bought the shop, I remember.”
He looked at her, raised an eyebrow and questioned, “We?”
“My ex-husband and me, we started the business together, before the divorce.” She made sure there was plenty of emphasis on divorce.
“Ah,” He turned back to the mirror. “So, what do you think then? Will I do?”
You'll do very nicely. She considered him for a moment. “The colour suits you. I’m not sure about it making you look like a medium though. What's a medium’s supposed to look like.”
“I think it’s perfect. What other colours have you got?” He ducked back into the recess to change.
“Okay, let’s see,” he said, laying the shirt on the counter. Brigitte picked it up to fold it. It was still warm from his body heat. “This is nice,” he set aside a smoky grey colour, “and this, and this.” He went through the pile, laying four aside. “Good. I’ll take these and...” He reached to take the ear-rings from the stand. “These as well and that should do me.”
Brigitte slipped the earrings into a small bag and the shirt boxes into a couple of larger ones. “There, I’ll put the jewellery in here,” she said, and put it in with the shirts, “that way you won’t lose it.”
“So, Brigitte,” he said as she
made out his bill and he paid. “Tonight at six? I’ll come and get you. Write your address on the back of the receipt. I’ve a feeling you’re going to enjoy the experience.”
“I’ll be honest, Mr Jamieson…”
“Call me Jack, please. There’s no reason to be so formal. I’ve an inkling we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other in the near future. What were you going to say?”
“Only that, just at the moment, I’m trying to keep an open mind, Jack.” His name sounded strange and stilted coming from her.
“Now isn’t that the best thing to do. Sit on the fence, as they say, and see what happens.” He grinned at her. “So tonight at six, then?” He said again and slipped the receipt into his wallet.
“Okay, tonight at six.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said and delved deep into his carrier bags. He fished out the small packet and was holding it toward her. “These are for you. They are your favourites, aren’t they?”
“How… How did you know that?”
He winked at her, leaned closer and whispered, “See you later.” The bell tinkled and he was gone. Brigitte looked down and checked her feet. It wouldn’t have surprised her to find herself floating on a cloud.
Chapter 9
There was a wonderful calm atmosphere in the small auditorium. Brigitte found a good hiding place, next to a column and right at the back, from where she could watch the action. The rest of the crowd had been milling around outside when they’d arrived. She’d felt ridiculously conspicuous turning up with Jack. It was obvious he was quite well known when people called over to greet him as they’d pulled to a stop in the car park. One or two had approached him to shake hands and slap him on the shoulder. With his attention distracted, Brigitte had snuck off into the building out of the way. The woman who had brushed past her as she went through the chrome-plated sliding doors, seemed intent on one thing and one thing only as she called out, “Jack. Jack darling, over here.” If she could have bounced up and down to get his attention she probably would have done, but it wasn’t necessary. When he heard her shout, Jack had turned towards her and peeling himself away from his admirers, went straight to her. “Anne. Lovely to see you. How the devil are you?” Brigitte heard him say, before the doors closed behind her.
The very attractive Anne, who for some strange reason Brigitte had taken an instant dislike to, was now standing centre stage.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” The microphone let out a feedback screech when she started to address the audience. Brigitte tried not to smile. “We’re glad you were able to join us here tonight. In a few moments the wonderful Mr Jack Jamieson, the clairvoyant medium, will be joining us here on stage.” She gushed, paused and then scanned her eyes, like radar, over the seated guests. “Who will be the lucky ones to be reunited with a loved one? We will soon see. If you are hoping it is you, then help us a little. Think of that person now and wish for them to be here with you. We will be having a small break halfway through the presentation and if you have any questions, please, feel free to approach us then.”
The only words that came into Brigitte’s mind were, simpering bitch, as Anne stood in the limelight and smiled down at the expectant gathering.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, without further adieu, please put your hands together and welcome… Mr Jack Jamieson.”
Jack, looking the epitome of elegance, walked onto the stage. He’d chosen to wear the plain black shirt from his new collection and with the cuffs partly rolled back, it contrasted well with the expensive gold watch hanging loosely on his wrist. He strode with confidence to centre stage and took his position under the main spotlight, waiting for the applause to stop. “Thank you.” He acknowledged the crowd as the clapping died down. “Good evening everyone. I won’t spend too long on idle chit-chat as there’s a bit of a queue waiting to come through.” The audience laughed. “But what I must do first of all is introduce you to Bob, my spirit guide or he won’t be passing me any messages. He’s a bit touchy that way and hates to be left out of things. He like us to remember he’s there, so if you will oblige and all say good evening Bob, we might be in for an interesting night.” An echo of, “Hello Bob.” filled the auditorium as everybody participated. “Good, now we can begin.”
Jack closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. Brigitte wondered if he was about to sneeze, then realised he’d adopted a pose of concentration.
“There’s a lady here with me,” he said and paced a few steps to the left across the polished floor boarding. “She’s got a bit of a bee in her bonnet about something. Goodness me she’s going on. The cat? She’s angry about the cat. What have you done with the cat? You promised to look after it. She’s rabbiting on like there’s no tomorrow. Bob, here’s a job for you, can you get her name? I need her name, Bob. Can you get a name for me?” He waited in silence for information from the other side. “Minnie? Is that it, Bob? The name’s Minnie. Does that mean anything to anyone? ” He stared out over the transfixed faces. A slight movement over to the left of him caught his eye and he went to the far edge of the stage. “Did I see you raise your hand?” He questioned a man. “If something rings a bell don’t be shy. Stand up so we can see you.” A gentleman in his late fifties rose to his feet looking flustered. “So,” Jack asked. “Is Minnie a family member who’s passed away?”
“No,” The man replied, his ruddy face bathed in perspiration. “Minnie’s me mother’s bloody cat.” Jack smiled. The man looked uncomfortable.
“Well, she wants to know what you’ve done with the cat.” Jack asked the man in all seriousness.
Brigitte struggled not to giggle.
“It went mad, always hissing and spitting, so I gave it away. I’d be sitting watching the Tele, all nice and quiet like, and it’d start. The last time it jumped straight on top of me and dug its claws in.” He ran his hand over his bald patch. “Took weeks for the scratches to heal up. Right in the middle of Coronation Street it was. So I gave it away…”
Jack held his hand up pausing the man’s speech mid-flow. “Your Mother says… oh is that right?” He nodded and appeared to be communicating with someone else. “She says she pops in every night. Never missed an episode and she’s got no intention of starting now. So go and get the cat back and it’ll just have to get used to her. What was that, love?” He cocked his head to one side, listening. “Oh, okay, I’ll tell him. She wants you to know, Fred… Fred that is your name I take it?”
A shocked expression crossed the man’s face.
“Yes, yes it is. Fred’s my name.”
“She misses you loads and… What was that again? Don’t forget to change your socks. Okay.” Jack raised his head to stare out over the audience and Brigitte wondered if he might be looking for where she was seated. She pressed harder against the pillar and slipped down a few inches in her seat. “You can sit down now, Fred, thank you, she’s gone. Did she always talk a lot?”
“Talk a lot?” muttered Fred. “She never bloody shut up.”
Jack had started to slow pace the stage again, when all of a sudden he did a strange sort of small hop, skip and a little jump. Then he began to dance, a smooth faultless waltz, gripping an imaginary partner. “Oh, you love to dance, do you? You’re very good at it. If you were still on this side I’d take you out myself and whirl you across the floor.” He seemed to be having an intimate conversation. “Professional ballroom dancer, were you really? I’m not surprised. Where? Blackpool? You used to do exhibitions.” He stopped and gave a half-bow toward the curtains. “Sorry ladies and gentleman. I got quite distracted there. There’s a beautiful blonde lady come through who used to be a dancer. Lived for her dancing, I should say, was only happy when she was on the floor. Does that mean something to somebody here tonight?”
A woman stood up three seats to the right of Brigitte. Jack caught her eye and gave her a small smile before he carried on. “Is that someone you knew?” He addressed the woman. She look
ed as though she would burst into tears.
“It’s my sister.”
“What a wonderful girl. I say girl because I get the impression she left this side quite young. Would that be right?”
The woman sniffed into a tissue. “She was twenty-three. She lived for her dancing.”
“Well she wants you to stop grieving for her. She’s happy. Dances all day, all day.” He cocked his head to one side and answered a silent question. “No, love, I can’t tango, but I can manage a quickstep. What was that again? She’s to give your dresses to Stephanie, all of them. She’s not to keep them. Okay, I’ll tell her and to take your trophies to the club. She’ll know what I mean will she? Does the name Stephanie ring a bell for you? ” He asked the quietly sobbing woman by Brigitte’s side.
“Yes, Steph was her best friend. They grew up together, went to the same ballroom dancing club.” She blew her nose on the handkerchief. “That’ll make Steph happy. The dresses cost a fortune to make.”
“Oh, she’s a one for sorting things out, this young lady is. You’re to tell her partner he’s to dance with Carol and they’ll have a good chance of winning the championship. She’ll be there, watching. He’s to dance with Carol. Okay?” Jack stooped down and offered his face to fresh air. “Now wasn’t that nice. She just gave me a kiss on the cheek to say thank you.”
Flipping heck, you’re not even safe from the competition even when they’re on the other side.
“Yes, Bob, you lead her off, she’d like that. Give her a little twirl. Lovely.”
Anne’s presence had suddenly reappeared back on the stage.
“Wonderful, Jack, marvellous. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think if Jack will permit me to interrupt, it’s time for the interval. The bar is open on the second floor if you’d like refreshments and we’ll begin again, in what? Let’s say, half an hour, if that’s okay with you, Jack?” He nodded his agreement and they left the stage together to a thunderous round of applause.