Ooh, look, I have an unread message in my inbox. My stomach flutters as I open it. It’s from Adam.
Call me.
Underneath he’s added his number. I stare at the message, as if trying to wring some more meaning from it, other than just he’s free this week and he wants me to call him. Oh, for God’s sake, Lucy, what are you like? He wants to see you! My stomach gives another nervous flutter. I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
Because you like him, whispers a voice in my head. And because this is the first guy you’ve ever really liked apart from Nate. Reminded of him, I slip my fingers into my pocket and finger the Strategy. I’m not sure when I’ll have an opportunity to put it properly into practice. Or even if it will work. Unlike my sister, I’m far from convinced she’s right. I don’t think it’s that simple. Right now, though, I don’t have any other options.
A shrill barking outside causes me to glance up from the computer screen, just in time to see the door open and Magda appear. Dressed in a fuchsia Jackie O-style shift dress and matching heels, she’s wearing a pair of sunglasses so large they almost look like welding goggles.
‘Morning,’ I say brightly, rushing over to help her. Under one arm she’s carrying Valentino and under the other a large package.
‘Ah, Loozy!’ she puffs, out of breath. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
Taking the package from her grasp, I follow dutifully as she stalks stiffly across the polished concrete floor of the gallery, taking minuscule fairy steps because her dress is so tight.
‘I’m so sorry I am late,’ she continues, redundantly patting her hair to make sure every strand is still hair-sprayed into place. ‘So sorry.’
‘Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry.’ I smile, then pause. ‘Where do you want me to put this?’ I gesture to the package.
‘Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t care.’ She sniffs dismissively, waving her diamond-encrusted hand around her like an air-freshener spray. Reaching a chair, she folds herself carefully into it. ‘Just as long as I don’t have to look at it.’
‘What is it?’ I ask, propping it up against the wall.
‘A painting. From my aunt Irena.’
‘Ooh, she gave you a painting?’ My curiosity is piqued and I peer at the package, wondering what the painting’s like.
‘If you can call it that,’ she says gloomily. ‘It was left to me in her will.’
‘Her will?’ I wheel round and look at Magda. I’d presumed she was wearing her sunglasses because she’d had more ‘enhancement’, but now I notice her face looks a bit red and blotchy, even underneath her layers of make-up. And she’s sniffling. ‘Gosh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea,’ I say hastily. ‘When did she . . .?’
‘At the weekend,’ she replies, tugging out a box of tissues from her tote and loudly blowing her nose.
‘Oh, no.’ I crouch down beside her and squeeze her hand supportively. ‘Was it sudden?’
‘Nothing is sudden when you’re ninety-six.’ She shrugs, her palms outstretched. ‘She had a good life.’
‘Are you OK?’ I ask with concern.
‘I make a living,’ she shrugs, and blows her nose again.
‘No, I mean about your aunt.’
‘Oh, yes, yes.’ She nods. ‘Everything is wonderful.’
I study her blotchy face, half hidden under her sunglasses, and feel a protective surge. ‘No, everything’s not wonderful,’ I suddenly hear myself saying, and feel a beat of surprise at my outspokenness.
As does Magda, who looks at me with a shocked expression.
For a moment I think she’s going to be angry and I swallow hard. ‘I mean, it’s not, is it?’ I say, trying to keep my voice from wavering.
There’s a pause and then she seems to collapse inwards, folding up like a fuchsia ironing board, with only her shoulder pads and beehive sticking out. I watch as they both start shaking and suddenly I realise she’s sobbing.
‘Oh gosh, Mrs Zuckerman . . .’
I watch her, feeling completely useless. I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to be polite and appropriate given that this is an employee-and-boss-type situation. After all, I can’t just give her a big hug and say, ‘There, there.’
Oh, sod being appropriate.
‘There, there,’ I soothe, diving to give her a big bear hug. I’d never realised how tiny she was, but it’s like hugging a child. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all going to be OK. She’s gone to a good place now.’
Abruptly Magda stops sobbing and looks up. She pushes her sunglasses on to her forehead and stares at me, aghast. ‘These tears are not for Irena.’
‘They’re not?’
‘Oy! Of course not.’ She frowns. Or at least tries to, but she’s had so many injections in her face that it barely moves. ‘Irena lived like royalty. She had servants, furs, diamonds.’ She waggles her knuckle-dusters at me. ‘Real diamonds, not like my fake ones!’
‘They’re fake?’ Now it’s my turn to look aghast.
Magda hiccups and lets out a pitiful sob. ‘Everything is fake – the diamonds, the Gucci, the Louis Vuitton . . .’ She thrusts her tote away from her as if she can’t bear to look at it. ‘I am broke, Loozy, broke!’
I look at her in alarm. ‘But I thought . . .’
I’m not sure what I thought, to be honest. It’s just that with the designer clothes, and the plastic surgery, and the Upper West Side address, I assumed . . .
‘Appearances can be deceptive, Loozy,’ she continues. ‘That’s what my aunt Irena used to say.’ She shakes her head. ‘The bank, they are thieves, they want to take everything from me, my apartment, the gallery . . .’
‘The gallery?’ I feel a flash of panic.
‘I am terrible with money. I borrow this for that, and that for this.’ She hunches her shoulders as she waves her hands around.
I stare at her, a cold, sinking dread washing over me. My first thought is for Magda. How terrible to think you might have to lose your home, and at her age. But I’d be fibbing if I didn’t say I was worried about what it would mean for me if she lost the gallery too. And what about the gallery itself?
‘This place can’t close. It just can’t!’ I cry, before I can help myself.
Magda suddenly raises herself up to full height and, reaching for my hand, holds it aloft like we’re two protestors. ‘We will do our very best, Loozy,’ she says in a rallying cry. ‘Our very best. We will not be beaten. We will not be afraid.’
‘Um . . . hear, hear,’ I offer.
‘All is not lost yet. There is a new up-and-coming artist. He lives on the Vineyard, but I think if we can meet with him, we might be able to show his work. He is incredible. Simply incredible! He will save us!’ All fired up, she smacks her fingers against her lips.
Watching her getting her mojo back, becoming passionate again, I feel a swell of affection and relief.
‘Sounds good.’ I smile. Maybe she’s right. Maybe everything will be all right.
‘Oh, it will be, it will be.’ Her eyes flashing, she stands up, dusts off her shift dress, smoothes down her hair and takes a deep breath. ‘OK, enough of these tears. Irena would kill me. She’d say, “Magda, what are you doing, acting like a big baby?” She was my mother’s twin sister, but she was more like a mother to me.’
Smiling, I go to turn away, when a thought strikes. ‘Did you say Irena was ninety-six?’
‘Nearly ninety-seven,’ says Magda proudly.
I pause, doing the maths. ‘And you were born in 1965,’ I say, remembering the code for the alarm. ‘So that means . . .’ I frown. That can’t be right. I must have got it wrong. ‘Your mum was fifty-one when she had you?’
Magda colours. ‘Um . . . yes, I know!’ Clearing her throat, she pretends to look as surprised as I am. ‘The doctors were amazed! I was a miracle baby!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
As I walk home from work later that evening, I can’t stop thinking about Magda. Despite her rallying cry and cheery optimism that the gallery will be saved and everythin
g will be wonderful, I’m worried.
Maybe it’s the Manchester in me. The Northern pessimism instilled into me as a child that if things can go wrong, they bloody well will. Maybe it’s the call I took from the Department of Water and Power, complaining that a payment was long overdue and we had twenty-one days to settle the account or be cut off. Or maybe it’s that sometimes during the day I’d catch Magda, when she thought I wasn’t looking, and despite her heavy-handed blusher she looked pale and frightened.
On my way home I stop to pick up laundry. After my huge clear-out at the weekend, I filled a large bin liner with crumpled clothes and, along with some of Robyn’s stuff, dragged it to my local Fluff and Fold. I love Fluff and Fold. They’re the New York version of our British launderettes, but they’re so much more. It’s a bit like comparing an Aston Martin to a Fiat Panda: they both do the job, but one does it with a super-fancy five-star service wash that includes fluffing, folding, ironing and giving it that delicious freshly washed scent.
Which is pretty amazing, considering next door is a Chinese restaurant, I muse, picking up a takeaway for me and Robyn.
‘Food’s up,’ I yell, as I walk into the apartment. Slamming the door behind me, I’m hit by a sweet, pungent aroma. What’s that smell? Following my nose, I wander into the kitchen to find it bathed in candlelight and Robyn sitting at the kitchen table, bent low over a large hardback book, the size of a telephone directory. In her right hand is a bunch of burning sage, which she’s waving above her head.
To think I used to come home to find my flatmates watching Coronation Street.
Hearing me, she suddenly looks up, wild-eyed and with her hair all over the place.
‘I’ve found a spell!’
Rewind a few weeks and I would have dropped my vegetable chow mein all over the kitchen lino in shock at such a statement, but now I’m fast beginning to get used to Robyn and her wacky ways. Saying that, a vision board is one thing, but this?
‘A spell?’ I repeat, for want of anything else to say.
Well, it was either that or, ‘Ooh, what is it?’ and I’m not officially crazy just yet.
‘Yes! In here!’ she says triumphantly, holding up the book, which has a deep red velvet cover and has the words ‘Spells and Charms’ embossed across the front in gold lettering. ‘I borrowed it from my friend Wicker, who’s part of this drumming circle I used to go to,’ she continues in excitement. ‘Well, I had to do something. I know your sister thinks the Strategy will work, but I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that when you’re talking about the power of the universe.’
Dumping my laundry on the side, I clear a space on the table for the takeaway and begin unpacking the little red and white cartons of food.
‘So I’ve been thinking, I don’t want to disagree with Kate,’ she says, disagreeing, ‘but when it comes to forces you don’t understand, you need more than a document.’ She wrinkles her nose sniffily. ‘We’re not talking law now – we’re talking legends!’
There’s a pause and I realise this is my chance to say something. Anything. Only, to be quite truthful, I haven’t a clue what to say.
‘It’s called “the Good-Riddance Spell” and it’s for getting rid of an unwanted suitor.’ She looks at me, her eyes flashing. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘No, I can’t believe it,’ I say, finding my tongue. ‘That’s because it’s completely crazy!’ I waggle a napkin. ‘Honestly, Robyn, magic spells? What is this, Harry Potter? It’s insane!’
Robyn raises her eyebrows. ‘I think it’s a bit late for all that, don’t you?’ she says tetchily.
I open my mouth to reply, then fall silent. She has a point.
‘So do you want to hear this spell or not?’ she continues sulkily.
I sigh resignedly. ‘Go on.’
‘OK, well, it’s a banishing spell, and banishing spells are powerful, intricate ritual spells, designed to break or undo spells or curses.’
‘Like the legend,’ I point out. Well, let’s not be scornful. I’m the one walking around with a four-page, twenty-five-point document in my pocket because I kissed my soulmate under some bridge and now I’m stuck with him.
‘Exactly,’ says Robyn. ‘They can also banish people away from you.’ She thumps the table. ‘Perfect! A double whammy!’
‘Perfect.’ I nod, playing along. ‘Do we have any soy sauce?’
After all, if legends can come true, maybe there is something in this magic-spell business.
‘In the cupboard on the right, middle shelf,’ she instructs, turning back to her book. ‘It says here that all banishing rituals are carried out at night using special magical ingredients . . .’
‘Speaking of ingredients, I got you vegetable chow mein and spring rolls. Is that OK?’
‘Mmm, perfect.’ She nods.
I pull up a stool and sit down next to her.
‘Whereas candle magic is a strong yet gentle magic, banishing and binding spells pack a faster, more powerful punch.’ Dipping her spring roll in chilli sauce, she jabs it at an imaginary Nate like a spear. ‘A powerful punch, atta girl!’
Flecks of sweet chilli sauce go everywhere and I pass her a paper napkin.
‘So this is what you need to do . . .’ Taking a bite, she chews furiously, then clears her throat. ‘“On a piece of parchment or recycled paper, write the name and date of birth of the person you are wishing ‘away’. Use black ink for this. Many gypsies also say that it is best to use one of the old ‘dip’ pens and ink, rather than a modern ballpoint.”’ She breaks off. ‘Shoot, I don’t have one. Do you?’
‘Um . . . yeah, I think so.’ I nod, munching on a mouthful of chow mein, ‘from when I used to do a lot of pen-and-ink drawings.’
‘Great.’ She nods, then pauses. ‘You did pen-and-ink drawings?’ She looks intrigued. ‘Wow. Can I see them?’
‘Oh, it was ages ago.’ I shrug. ‘I’m not sure where they are.’
‘Huh.’ She studies me hard for a moment, as if about to say something, then appears to think better of it and turns back to her spell book.
‘OK, where was I . . .? Oh, yeah . . .“Let the ink dry – don’t blot it. Then wrap a piece of his clothing round a hambone.”’
I stop eating and pull a face. ‘Eugh! Yuck.’
‘Oh, that’s easy. I have them in the freezer,’ she says matter-of-factly.
I look at her in astonishment. ‘I thought you were a vegetarian.’
‘They’re for the dogs,’ she says, getting up and pulling open the freezer door. A little cloud of dry ice appears, and rummaging around, she pulls out a large frozen bone, wrapped in a plastic bag. Jenny and Simon start yapping frantically, thinking they are going to get a treat, but she shoos them away with a ‘It’s not for you. It’s for Lucy, to get rid of the love of her life.’
They bark and start salivating. Memories of stories of people being found in their apartments half eaten by their German shepherds suddenly spring to mind. I make a mental note to keep my bedroom door firmly closed tonight.
‘“Put the hambone in a plastic bag with two black feathers, ravens or crows preferably, add a pinch of one or more of the magical herbs – ash-tree leaves, clover, lovage, lilac, garlic – then take the paper with his name on it, fold it three times and pop that in too. Then tie the end tightly with red string.”’ She looks across at me and frowns. ‘Are you making a list of all these ingredients?’ she says crossly.
‘Um . . .’ Having been totally absorbed in eating the most delicious spring roll, I sheepishly grab a pen and a piece of paper.
‘“Then take the bundle outside to a patch of earth, untie it and remove the piece of paper. Light a white candle and burn the piece of paper in its flame while thinking of the name of the person running away from you and saying . . .”’ She pauses and affects a serious voice. ‘“‘Winds of the North, East, South and West, carry these affections to where they’ll be best. Let his heart be open and free, and let his mind be away from me.’”’
; ‘And that’s it?’ Scribbling furiously, I glance up.
‘No, then you have to bury the hambone.’
‘Gosh, it’s quite complicated, isn’t it?’ I groan. ‘Maybe the restraining order might have been easier.’
‘Oh, and you have to do this at exactly ten o’clock at night.’
‘Why ten o’clock?’
‘Because that’s what the spell says,’ she responds matter-of-factly. Scooping up a mouthful of chow mein with her chopsticks, she chews thoughtfully. ‘There’s one other thing.’
I throw her a strangled look.
‘This spell must be performed during a waning moon.’
There’s a pause as we both glance out of the open window. Mostly all we see is the brick wall with the graffiti, but there’s a tiny sliver of a gap. Through it a crescent-shaped moon glows back at us.
‘It’s waning!’ exclaims Robyn excitedly.
Panic stabs. I suddenly have an awful feeling I’m really going to go through with this.
‘Have you finished?’ Changing the subject, I go to clear away our cartons and chopsticks.
Robyn eyes me. ‘Tomorrow night,’ she says decisively.
‘What about tomorrow night?’ I say, trying to play dumb.
‘That’s when you need to do the spell!’ she gasps, as if it’s perfectly obvious that’s what I should be doing on a Tuesday night in Manhattan.
I look at her for a moment and it’s suddenly like sanity comes flying in through the window and wallops me on the side of the head. ‘I’m not doing it tomorrow night! Or the next night! Or any night!’ I cry, shaking my head as if shaking the sense back into it. ‘I’m not doing any of this hocus-pocus nonsense.’
‘It’s not hocus-pocus,’ says Robyn, looking offended.
‘Whatever,’ I gasp, then take a deep breath. ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘But if you don’t get rid of Nate, you’re never going to make room in your love cup for anyone else,’ she tries to reason.
‘My love cup?’
‘It’s how they describe it in the book I’m reading,’ she says defensively, her cheeks pinking up. ‘It has to be empty before it can be filled up again by anyone else. Like, for example, Adam.’