‘Put this on your head,’ she says, proudly handing me an ostentatious-looking headband covered in spikes.
‘A spiky tiara?’
‘They’re not spikes, they’re sunbeams,’ Mrs Casablancas chuckles, lighting the candles and placing them in the centre of the blanket. ‘It is giving Main Character Energy. We have to look the part to feel the part.’
‘And is … is all this necessary?’
‘Absolutely it is.’ Mrs Casablancas tuts, carefully putting on an even bigger sunbeam headdress of her own. Hers has little sapphires at the end of each spike. She peers up at the sky, her mouth twisting to the side. ‘Hmmm. I was wondering whether we might have a little golden shower …’
I almost choke on my own saliva. ‘A … a golden shower?’ I repeat, my eyes widening in horror. What the hell has she got planned for me up here? I glance desperately over towards the skylight door, calculating how many seconds it would take me to perform an emergency exit, should I be forced to.
‘Yes, a golden shower,’ Mrs Casablancas confidently confirms, narrowing her eyes at the single wispy cloud floating about the twilight sky. ‘You know, an unexpected summer storm.’
Ah.
I decide immediately that I will not be the one to reveal Mrs Casablancas terminological error to her – these past few weeks have been traumatic enough as it is.
‘Luckily the sky is clearing so we will be okay,’ she continues, gathering my stack of Bedlam Creek books into the centre of the circle. ‘The last thing we need right now is a golden shower!’
‘Absolutely agreed.’
Mrs Casablancas grins, dark eyes twinkling excitedly in the flickering light of the candles. ‘We are all set.’
Despite myself I feel a little flip of excitement in response.
Mrs Casablancas takes out her phone and presses play on a track called ‘Spa Music Track 1’. It’s very flute-y. I like it. She takes a deep breath and hands me one of the biros with a sense of great significance. ‘Gertie, honey, it is time. Let us begin the ceremony.’
*
The thing about manifestation ceremonies, it seems, is that they involve a lot of Mrs Casablancas explaining to me her top tips for being a creative in the world today. According to her I must ‘fully step into my power without apology’ and also ‘eat more fish because the fish oils have Omega 3 that will support my brain function’.
After her lecture she hands me a piece of paper.
‘Now you must write down exactly what you want. Write it explicitly, Gertie. You could write “I want to complete the final Bedlam Creek novel” or “I want to clear the creative blockages that are cursing me at this moment intime”. But I’m sure you can come up with something better – you are the professional writer after all. Once you’ve written your desire down, we will fold the papers and burn them into smoke on the candles. Then? We prepare to receive.’
If Mrs Casablancas has been kind enough to do this for me, however daft, the least I can do is try to get into it. I nod my agreement, pen poised over the paper.
I close my eyes. Okay then.
I want my writer’s block to go away.
I want to finish my final book.
I want to see my characters again.
I want Cassidy and Ethan to have their happily ever after.
I write my creative desires neatly onto the paper.
The music on Mrs Casablanca’s phone switches from ‘Spa Music Track 1’ to Al Green’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’. I gasp, my eyes flying back open. That’s Henry’s and my song! We declared it as such on our very first official date, when it started playing in the bar we’d gone to. A doleful smile plays around my lips as I remember Henry saying, ‘You know, Gertie, if I kiss you right now, then that means this song will be ours for ever.’ And me leaning closer to him in response.
I want Henry back.
I glance at Mrs Casablancas who is scribbling on her piece of paper, a secretive half-smile on her face.
Before Mrs Casablancas peeks over to see what I’m writing and tells me off, I scribbleI want Henry backonto the piece of paper, tagging it onto the list of other desires. Then, following Mrs Casablancas’s lead, I hold the paper over theflame of a candle, watching as it burns into wispy smoke, a scatter of silver ashes fluttering onto the cover of a Bedlam Creek book.
I want Henry back.
