Mrs Casablancas peers up towards the darkening sky and raises her arms. When she speaks, her melodic voice echoes across the rooftops and I find myself worrying that the neighbours will hear and make a local noise complaint.
‘We call upon the universe, the ether, God, the magnificent goddesses of creativity, Lady Di and Buddha and also anyone or anything else out there who can help us manifest what we most need.’ She brings her hands together into a prayer position. Awkwardly, I do the same. I sort of step outside my body and view the scenario from above. It is not flattering. Is this who I am now? Is this what my life has come to?
‘Please accept our deepest gratitude in this sacred space, and help us to step into our full power.’ Mrs Casablancas throws me a pointed look.
‘What?’
‘Gertie, express your gratitude.’
‘Oh! Sorry. Yeah, um, thanks, all. Thanks, goddesses and, uh, Buddha!’ I say. ‘Nice one.’
‘Very good.’
When the papers are fully burnt to smoke, Mrs Casablancas brushes her hands off on her kaftan and excitedly asks me what I manifested.
‘Oh! I just wrote stuff about finishing my book,’ I lie, sweeping the ashes off my book cover.
Mrs Casablancas nods with satisfaction.
‘What didyoumanifest?’ I ask.
‘Uh, I asked for, um … an exciting, uh, creative opportunity to come my way.’
Mrs Casablancas avoids my gaze as she speaks, swiftly blows out the candles and, with a tuneless hum, starts packing up her suitcase.
I narrow my eyes. She is lying too!
I wonder briefly what sheactuallyasked for and then chuckle to myself when I realise that it doesn’t really matter.
It’s not like any of this is actually real.
CHAPTER SIX
Dear Gertie,
How’s the writing going? You don’t have to finish the whole book before sending, you know? I can read it chapter by chapter. Ready and waiting! Also are you absolutely sure you don’t want to do the panel at the London Romance Festival? Would be great for you to meet your readers IRL and I know they would love to meet you. Could be fun!
Bridget x
Five minutes later, I get another email from Bridget:
PS Sorry, I just realised it’s Josie’s birthday today. Sending love your way xx
As I reach the entrance of Islington and St Pancras cemetery the next morning my heart surges with hope that this year might be the year I actually make it to Josie’s grave to lay flowers – something I’ve attempted and failed to do multiple times since she died. Every year on her birthday, atChristmas and on the anniversary of her death, I go to the florist’s hut near my house for a bunch of chamomile (her favourite), drive to East Finchley, park and trudge up to the enormous cast-iron gates of the burial ground. At which point I have a quiet panic, promptly turn around and race straight back home, muttering an apology to Josie in my head and promising her that I’ll definitely,definitelymake it next time.
It’s a perfect day for it. Balmy and gentle, a few cautious clouds tempering the glare of the August sun, a wisp of a breeze making the tree leaves flutter as if they’re waving. But as soon as the cemetery gates come into view I know that today will be exactly the same as all the rest. Before my brain can even reason with itself, my body halts, stock-still on the gravel pathway, my feet unwilling and unable to move forward even an inch further. I bunch up the long sleeve of my shirt and use it to roughly wipe away the beads of sweat starting to prickle my forehead.
For fuck’s sake.
It’s not that I don’t want to see her. I do. Of course I do. I want to tell her all my shit and imagine the no-nonsense advice she’d give me. I want to relay a juicy argument I overheard between two guys in the queue at Pret and think about her ear-splitting snorty laugh and how good it felt to be the one who elicited it. Most of all, I want to apologise. For the argument we had the day she died. The grief counsellor I saw in the early days said that apologising out loud, at Jo’s headstone, would help with the guilt. And probably if I’d carried on seeing the counsellor I would have learned howto do that. But then I met Henry. And it seemed easier to just … feel better with him. Be distracted with him. And the thing is, when it comes to it, the grim reality of it, talking to Josie at agravestone? I physically can’t seem to do it. I simply don’t want to. The truth is, I’d rather just pretend she’s gone away for a little while, off on some mad adventure, sure to return at some point. The pretending, the constant diversion, is much easier on my already fragile heart. Josie was always the brave one of the two of us. And without her showing me how it works, being brave feels like a puzzle I can’t quite get the hang of.
I lay the bunch of chamomile at the ornate gates of the cemetery then sit cross-legged on the dusty ground against a nearby wall post. I pull my phone out of my bag, and with a trembling finger, press the FaceTime button. I don’t know why I do it because he’s not answered any of my calls since he left, but to my surprise and relief he answers this one.
His lovely face pops up on the screen and my heart immediately swells with longing.
‘Hiya, Hen.’ I give him an awkward little wave. He does one back.
God, I miss him. I missus. It aches. It physically fucking aches.
