“So she came over from beyond?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say to you?”
“She said she’d got a stair lift. It was a lie.”
“Well, perhaps she’s got one in Spirit?”
Colette considered. Renee had said there was no comfort she lacked. “I’m not really bothered about that aspect, about what she said, only that she picked the phone up. That she answered. At first that was what bothered me, about the stair lift—that she didn’t even say the truth—but then when I thought about it, her saying anything seemed to be the most surprising … . Well, you know.”
Colette’s voice died in her throat. She was not used to speaking her thoughts. Life with Gavin had discouraged her.
“Nothing like that’s ever happened to me before, but I think it proves I must have a gift. I’m a bit bored with my job and I wouldn’t mind a change. I wondered about this, you know? If there’s much money in it.”
Natasha laughed. “Well, if you think you could stand the pace. You have to train.”
“Oh do you? It’s not enough to be able to do it?”
“Look,” Natasha said, “I don’t want to sound hostile, but isn’t it possible that you’re being a bit naive? I mean you’ve got a good career now, I can see that. So why waste it? You’d need to build up your psychic skills. You can’t expect to start cold at your age.”
“I beg your pardon?” Colette said. “At my age?”
“I started at twelve,” Natasha said. “You’re not telling me you’re twelve, are you?” With one hand, she lazily shuffled her cards together. “Want me to see what I get?” She began to lay out a spread, her nails clicking on the back of each card. “Look, if you’re going to work with higher powers, it will happen. Nothing will stop it. But you’ll get the here-and-now sorted, if you’ll heed my advice.” She looked up. “Letter
Colette thought. “I don’t know anyone of that letter.” She thought,
“Someone coming into your life. Not yet. An older bloke. Not too keen on you at first, I must say.”
“But then?”
“All’s well that ends well,” Natasha said. “I suppose.”
She had walked away, disappointed; when she got back to her car, she had been ticketed. After that she had gone for crystal healing, and had some private Reiki sessions. She arranged to meet Gavin in a new bar called Peppermint Plaza. He arrived before her, and when she walked in he was sitting on a pale green leather-look banquette, a bottle of Mexican lager planted in front of him, leafing through
“Renee’s money not come through yet?” she asked. She slid into the seat opposite. “When it does, you could use some of it to buy me out of the flat.”
“If you think I’m giving up the chance of a decent car, then no way,” said Gavin. “If I don’t get the Porsche this is what I’m getting, I’m getting this Lancia.” He flopped the magazine down on the table. “There’s one here.” He turned the picture around obligingly so it was the right way up for her. “Recarro seats. Full spec. Seriously speedy.”
“Put it on the market then. The flat. If you can’t buy me out.”
“You said that. You said it before. I said, yes. I agree. So don’t go on about it. Okay?”
There was a silence. Colette looked around. “Quite nice here. Quiet.”
“Bit girly.”
“That’s probably why I like it. Being a girl.” Her knees touched his, under the table. She tried to pull her chair away, but it was bolted to the floor.
Gavin said, “I want fifty percent of the bills till the flat’s sold.”
“I’ll pay half the monthly service charge.” Colette pushed his magazine back across the table. “I won’t pay half the utilities.”
“What’s that, utilities?”
“Gas and electric. Why should I pay to keep you warm?”
“I’ll tell you what, you stuffed me with a huge sodding phone bill. You can pay that.”
“It’s your phone too.”
“Yeah, but I’m not on it all night, blah-bloody-blah to some bint I’ve sat next to all day and I’ll be seeing again the next morning. And it’s not me phoning premium-rate lines to what’s it called, bloody predictionists, bloody psychic lines at a quid a minute?”
“Actually, sex lines are premium rate too.”
“Oh well, you would know about that, wouldn’t you?” Gavin gathered up his car magazine, as if to shield it from her. “You’re not normal.”
She sighed. She couldn’t summon up the energy to say, “I beg your pardon, not normal, what do you mean?” Any abstraction, indirection, or allusion was wasted on Gavin, and in fact even the most straightforward form of communication—other than a poke in the eye—was a challenge to his attention span. There hadn’t, so far as she’d understood, been any dispute between them about what they did in the bedroom—it had seemed fairly straightforward stuff, though she was fairly ignorant and limited, she supposed, and Gavin, certainly, he was fairly ignorant and limited. But after the marriage is over, maybe that’s what men do; they decide it was the sex that was wrong, because it’s something they can communicate over a drink, something they
