Duckworth with a sinus problem. ‘Come in, lovey, I’m just with a client at the
moment.’ She waddled down the hallway, her kaftan-clad girth rocking from side to side like a fishing boat in a force ten crosswind. She opened a door to the left which led into a small
sitting room smelling strongly of berry pot-pourri and gestured that Carla take the dark pink-upholstered chair in the corner. From a dish on an oval coffee table at its side, Pat picked up a
crystal sphere the size of a tennis ball and handed it to Carla.
‘I want you to hold this in your hand for five minutes whilst I leave you here,’ she instructed. ‘The ball will absorb your energies which I will read and interpret.
That’s how I work. Now you just take this – that’s it – and I’ll be back for you. And whilst you’re waiting, look through these and pick the one you are most
drawn to. Okay?’ She took a square plastic tub from the top of a display cabinet and put it on Carla’s lap.
Carla nodded obediently. Pat wobbled off and shut the door behind her and Carla rolled the ball around in her hand, letting her eyes take in her surroundings. There were two framed pictures on
the wall: one of Pat as a younger woman standing next to an old lady wearing a veil, in front of a tent with a large Petulengro sign behind them. The other featured Pat holding her crystal ball and
sporting that bright pink lipstick. Carla wondered what the shade was called. Boiled crab? There were small bowls of cherry-pink pot pourri everywhere and a huge one on the display cabinet which
housed a variety of topical items within its ornate glass doors: a rabbit’s foot, models of black cats, crystals, sets of tarot cards, horseshoes, more photos in frames of Pat posing with
people.
Carla poked around in the tub with her right hand whilst holding on to the ball in her left. There were lots of different items: a brooch with the word ‘Mother’ on it, a pipe, a
packet of needles, a souvenir pen from Blegthorpe-on-Sea, a ring, a small brass cat, a military medal, an enamel red heart, a lipstick. Carla plucked out that one, took off the top and twisted it
out. It was the very same shade of pink that Pat wore. She turned it upside down to read the name on the bottom:
French Fanny.
Blimey, are French ones really that pink, thought Carla with a sudden inner giggle. She squinted to read it again. The letters were slightly worn, hence the mistake.
French Fancy
. She
covered her mouth to stop the laughter frothing up inside her from escaping. The harder she suppressed it, the more it bubbled up.
French Fanny.
It was too funny. The censoring silence of
the room wasn’t helping. She had a sudden vision of being sixteen and having a fit of giggles in her Maths GCSE when the exam invigilator sneezed and let out a giant fart at the same time.
She’d thought she was going to burst from keeping that laugh in, it was seeping out of her eyes in tear form, so desperate was it to find its way to the outside. Just like now.
This was the first time the corners of her mouth had turned up since ages before Martin died, she suddenly realised. She chose the lipstick as her object, then her brain went into reverse
thrust.
Am I only picking this because I was drawn in by the colour and the comical reading error?
she asked herself. She needed to think carefully – after all, the object she chose
could have important repercussions. She dug into the tub again and examined the scraps of jewellery and charms but there was nothing that had captured her attention as much as the French Fanny
lipstick.
She sat happily passing some vibes to her ball, zoning out in the process. Trying to empty her mind was impossible. She gave it her best shot, though it would have been easier to build a
life-size model of the Taj Mahal in matchsticks. Blindfold. She closed her eyes and let the mellow sound of the clock on the wall fill her head.
Tick-tick, tick-tock, tick-tock.
She
hadn’t slept
moment.’ She waddled down the hallway, her kaftan-clad girth rocking from side to side like a fishing boat in a force ten crosswind. She opened a door to the left which led into a small
sitting room smelling strongly of berry pot-pourri and gestured that Carla take the dark pink-upholstered chair in the corner. From a dish on an oval coffee table at its side, Pat picked up a
crystal sphere the size of a tennis ball and handed it to Carla.
‘I want you to hold this in your hand for five minutes whilst I leave you here,’ she instructed. ‘The ball will absorb your energies which I will read and interpret.
That’s how I work. Now you just take this – that’s it – and I’ll be back for you. And whilst you’re waiting, look through these and pick the one you are most
drawn to. Okay?’ She took a square plastic tub from the top of a display cabinet and put it on Carla’s lap.
Carla nodded obediently. Pat wobbled off and shut the door behind her and Carla rolled the ball around in her hand, letting her eyes take in her surroundings. There were two framed pictures on
the wall: one of Pat as a younger woman standing next to an old lady wearing a veil, in front of a tent with a large Petulengro sign behind them. The other featured Pat holding her crystal ball and
sporting that bright pink lipstick. Carla wondered what the shade was called. Boiled crab? There were small bowls of cherry-pink pot pourri everywhere and a huge one on the display cabinet which
housed a variety of topical items within its ornate glass doors: a rabbit’s foot, models of black cats, crystals, sets of tarot cards, horseshoes, more photos in frames of Pat posing with
people.
Carla poked around in the tub with her right hand whilst holding on to the ball in her left. There were lots of different items: a brooch with the word ‘Mother’ on it, a pipe, a
packet of needles, a souvenir pen from Blegthorpe-on-Sea, a ring, a small brass cat, a military medal, an enamel red heart, a lipstick. Carla plucked out that one, took off the top and twisted it
out. It was the very same shade of pink that Pat wore. She turned it upside down to read the name on the bottom:
French Fanny.
Blimey, are French ones really that pink, thought Carla with a sudden inner giggle. She squinted to read it again. The letters were slightly worn, hence the mistake.
French Fancy
. She
covered her mouth to stop the laughter frothing up inside her from escaping. The harder she suppressed it, the more it bubbled up.
French Fanny.
It was too funny. The censoring silence of
the room wasn’t helping. She had a sudden vision of being sixteen and having a fit of giggles in her Maths GCSE when the exam invigilator sneezed and let out a giant fart at the same time.
She’d thought she was going to burst from keeping that laugh in, it was seeping out of her eyes in tear form, so desperate was it to find its way to the outside. Just like now.
This was the first time the corners of her mouth had turned up since ages before Martin died, she suddenly realised. She chose the lipstick as her object, then her brain went into reverse
thrust.
Am I only picking this because I was drawn in by the colour and the comical reading error?
she asked herself. She needed to think carefully – after all, the object she chose
could have important repercussions. She dug into the tub again and examined the scraps of jewellery and charms but there was nothing that had captured her attention as much as the French Fanny
lipstick.
She sat happily passing some vibes to her ball, zoning out in the process. Trying to empty her mind was impossible. She gave it her best shot, though it would have been easier to build a
life-size model of the Taj Mahal in matchsticks. Blindfold. She closed her eyes and let the mellow sound of the clock on the wall fill her head.
Tick-tick, tick-tock, tick-tock.
She
hadn’t slept
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