properly since Martin had died and found herself being lulled by the rhythm and drifting onto another plane.
The minutes passed and Carla was shaken out of a light doze by the sound of a door opening and voices outside.
A nasal Leeds accent. ‘Now you remember what I said, lovey. Positive thinking.’
‘Yes, thank you. Thank you so much.’ A timid, relieved voice. A comforted one. That boded well. Carla couldn’t wait to get started.
Pat Morrison entered the room and beckoned Carla towards her.
‘Come on, lovey. We’ll get started. Bring your ball and your object of choice.’
Carla picked up her French Fanny lippy and squeezed some last minute vibes into her ball as she followed Pat down the hallway into a larger sitting room with a huge dusty pink sofa and thick
pile pink carpet. There were a lot of lit pink candles around the room – strawberry scented. Pat invited her to sit, and Carla obeyed. Pat dropped into a huge armchair opposite, also pink, a
bank of cushions in various shades of pink at her back propping her forwards.
‘Your object lovey, please.’ Pat held out her hand. She had huge curved talons painted pink, surprisingly enough. Carla handed over the lipstick.
Pat nodded sagely. ‘The lipstick. Your femininity is very important to you, isn’t it, lovey?’
‘Erm, yes, I suppose so,’ said Carla. She had no desire to start drinking pints or wearing Brut anyway.
‘You were drawn to this object because it signifies your womanhood,’ Pat told her in no uncertain terms. ‘You feel the need to accentuate your femininity because it has been
threatened.’
Pat Morrison noticed Carla’s back straighten to attention and she smiled. Yep, she had this one sussed. Not that she didn’t have some psychic ability, but how much exactly she was
unsure because she was a great expert at reading people – so much so that this talent alone would have made her appear like a mystic. Her dad had been a notorious conman, Velvet Vernon, a
genius charmer with a line in patter as smooth as whipped cream. He could have a woman’s wage from her purse and her knickers round her ankles after a minute in his presence. She had been her
father’s daughter, though she had never used her skills in the illicit way he did.
She was quite content to parade herself publicly as a professional psychic; it was easy, lucrative and legal. Most people who came to see her wanted someone quickly on hand because they were in
crisis. And that made them utterly transparent. Most of the time they did her work for her –
Can you see my mother in spirit, she’s got white hair and a limp? Is she sending me her
love? Has she met up with my dad and the dog?
Not that Pat wanted to exploit anyone mercilessly, like her father had done. Pat saw herself as an excellent giver of service and bringer of
smiles. The people who came to see her didn’t want an hour’s intense forecast of the rest of their lives, they wanted a quick fix, a fifteen-minute injection of hope that would get them
through the next few weeks. She had fitted thirty clients in on one day last week. At forty pounds a pop – cash mostly – Velvet Vernon would have been proud.
Pat could see that she was spot on with her lipstick deduction so she carried on down that path. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had knocked this woman’s confidence in herself.
‘A man has made you feel less than worthy.’ She sighed sympathetically as if she heard this so many times, which she had. Ninety per cent of the women who came to see her had a bloke
in the background who had stamped all over their hearts wearing pit boots. ‘But all is not lost,’ Pat went on. ‘The fact that you picked this item means you haven’t given
up. You are clinging on to your woman power.’
She said this with such gusto that Carla believed her for a split second before she remembered that she had absolutely no power at all – womanly or otherwise.
‘Trust in pink. It’s a lucky
The minutes passed and Carla was shaken out of a light doze by the sound of a door opening and voices outside.
A nasal Leeds accent. ‘Now you remember what I said, lovey. Positive thinking.’
‘Yes, thank you. Thank you so much.’ A timid, relieved voice. A comforted one. That boded well. Carla couldn’t wait to get started.
Pat Morrison entered the room and beckoned Carla towards her.
‘Come on, lovey. We’ll get started. Bring your ball and your object of choice.’
Carla picked up her French Fanny lippy and squeezed some last minute vibes into her ball as she followed Pat down the hallway into a larger sitting room with a huge dusty pink sofa and thick
pile pink carpet. There were a lot of lit pink candles around the room – strawberry scented. Pat invited her to sit, and Carla obeyed. Pat dropped into a huge armchair opposite, also pink, a
bank of cushions in various shades of pink at her back propping her forwards.
‘Your object lovey, please.’ Pat held out her hand. She had huge curved talons painted pink, surprisingly enough. Carla handed over the lipstick.
Pat nodded sagely. ‘The lipstick. Your femininity is very important to you, isn’t it, lovey?’
‘Erm, yes, I suppose so,’ said Carla. She had no desire to start drinking pints or wearing Brut anyway.
‘You were drawn to this object because it signifies your womanhood,’ Pat told her in no uncertain terms. ‘You feel the need to accentuate your femininity because it has been
threatened.’
Pat Morrison noticed Carla’s back straighten to attention and she smiled. Yep, she had this one sussed. Not that she didn’t have some psychic ability, but how much exactly she was
unsure because she was a great expert at reading people – so much so that this talent alone would have made her appear like a mystic. Her dad had been a notorious conman, Velvet Vernon, a
genius charmer with a line in patter as smooth as whipped cream. He could have a woman’s wage from her purse and her knickers round her ankles after a minute in his presence. She had been her
father’s daughter, though she had never used her skills in the illicit way he did.
She was quite content to parade herself publicly as a professional psychic; it was easy, lucrative and legal. Most people who came to see her wanted someone quickly on hand because they were in
crisis. And that made them utterly transparent. Most of the time they did her work for her –
Can you see my mother in spirit, she’s got white hair and a limp? Is she sending me her
love? Has she met up with my dad and the dog?
Not that Pat wanted to exploit anyone mercilessly, like her father had done. Pat saw herself as an excellent giver of service and bringer of
smiles. The people who came to see her didn’t want an hour’s intense forecast of the rest of their lives, they wanted a quick fix, a fifteen-minute injection of hope that would get them
through the next few weeks. She had fitted thirty clients in on one day last week. At forty pounds a pop – cash mostly – Velvet Vernon would have been proud.
Pat could see that she was spot on with her lipstick deduction so she carried on down that path. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had knocked this woman’s confidence in herself.
‘A man has made you feel less than worthy.’ She sighed sympathetically as if she heard this so many times, which she had. Ninety per cent of the women who came to see her had a bloke
in the background who had stamped all over their hearts wearing pit boots. ‘But all is not lost,’ Pat went on. ‘The fact that you picked this item means you haven’t given
up. You are clinging on to your woman power.’
She said this with such gusto that Carla believed her for a split second before she remembered that she had absolutely no power at all – womanly or otherwise.
‘Trust in pink. It’s a lucky
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