A Question of Love (7 page)

‘What an awful shirt that man’s wearing…And she
really
should get her teeth fixed…It’s the Ngorongoro crater you
moron
! Ngorongoro!…The presenter’s a bit weird-looking, don’t you think…? No, no, it’s
not
a monkey house, you steaming great ignoramus—it’s a place where
bees
are kept!’ At times her exasperation with the contestants would almost lift her on to her feet. At other times she would roll her eyes at me before returning her gaze to the screen. ‘No, not the
Titanic
, you
idiot
—it was the
Lusitania
! How many properties are there on the Monopoly board? Forty! Oh. Twenty-two is it? Hmmm…’ Sometimes she’d try and hurry the contestants, as though she was the compere. ‘Come on, now…Come
on
…’ Then it came to Turn the Tables time. ‘My God,’ Cynthia gasped. ‘He’s going to ask
her
a question.
That’s
novel! I bet Anne Robinson wouldn’t like that!’ We watched as the leading contestant, Geoff, the poultry wholesaler, asked me, with a smug little smile, as though he was convinced I couldn’t possibly know the answer, ‘What is a quadrimum?’

‘A quadrimum?’ Cynthia repeated with an appalled expression. ‘I haven’t the
faintest
idea. Poor girl, she’ll
never
get that—how humiliating. I can’t bear to watch.’ She covered her face with her hands. We could hear the stage clock ticking as the five-second countdown began. ‘Quadrimum?’ Cynthia repeated quietly from behind oblonged fingers. ‘Fiendish. Absolutely
fiendish
…’

‘It’s the best or oldest wine,’ Cynthia and I heard me say. ‘It has to be at least four years old.’

‘That’s…correct,’ said Geoff with an expression that combined horror, surprise and naked disappointment—after all, he’d just lost two grand.

‘That
was good,’ Cynthia said. She looked at me, her eyes like satellite dishes. ‘I was
amazed
she knew it.’

‘It’s not that hard. It’s in any dictionary of difficult words—I used to make myself learn five new ones every day—andof course studying Classics helped. That word features in a beautiful poem by Horace.’ I made a mental note to re-read it. I glanced at the shelves—I knew I’d got it somewhere.

‘Even so, it’s impressive, I mean…’ She was looking at me again, and now her expression had changed. ‘I mean…’ She stared at me openly then turned her head back to the screen. By now the penny was rolling around in the gutter, tinkling loudly. ‘It’s
you…
‘ she breathed. ‘I didn’t…notice…I didn’t…realize…’ She’d clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘But it
is
you, isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘Of
course
—you’re called Laura.’ She looked at the TV. ‘And so is
she.
‘

‘That’s…right.’

Having looked mortified, Cynthia suddenly brightened, as if seeming to glimpse the possibilities of the situation. ‘Well…that’s
rather
good. I’ve got a celebrity neighbour. A real live television presenter!’ she concluded happily. ‘Now, tell me—
how
did that come about?’ As the closing credits on the show scrolled up the screen, I quickly explained how I’d got the job.

‘So you’ve had fame thrust upon you, then.’

‘Well I certainly didn’t go looking for it.’ I thought, sinkingly, of Nick. ‘Fame’s the
last
thing I want. And you?’ I went on. ‘You’re a…medium aren’t you?’ I poured her another glass of wine. ‘A spiritualist?’

‘Oh
no
.’ She looked appalled. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead at a séance, and I do
not
communicate with the deceased. Too creepy,’ she added with a shudder. ‘I did do a course in mediumship skills some time ago but I had a rather unpleasant experience with some ectoplasm.’

‘So what
do
you do then?’ I asked as I topped up my own glass.

‘I’m a psychic. I have the gift of clairvoyance and I use it to give people advice, or to help them achieve their goals. I can help with all sorts of matters—matrimonial crises, professional problems, family difficulties—I even help to find missing pets. Some people think of me as their spiritual guide, or even angel.’

‘Well—‘ I regard it as complete baloney but tried to think of something nice to say. ‘That sounds fascinating.’

‘It is, although,
confidentially…’
her brow had pleated with anxiety, ‘I could do with a few more clients. In fact it’s a bit of a worry. It’s
hard,
isn’t it—having to make one’s living,’ she added distractedly.

‘Well,’ I shrugged. ‘I’m…used to it.’

‘So if you know anyone who’s in need of a little clairvoyance…’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Have you put an ad in the local paper?’

‘I have—and I’ve got a website—but the problem is that there are so
many
psychics in London. The market’s saturated—oh
hello
Hans!’ Her cat had just wandered in through the open door and was now winding itself in and out of her ankles, purring like a tiny Ferrari. ‘You don’t mind cats do you?’ she asked as it sprang on to her lap.

‘No. I like them.’

‘And she’s very sweet.’

‘She is. Erm…why do you call her Hans, if she’s female?’

‘Because I found her outside my old flat in Hans Place.’

‘Hans Place in Knightsbridge?’ She nodded. ‘That’s a nice address.’

‘Oh it was,’ she said regretfully. ‘It was
heaven.’

‘So what brings you here?’ I asked. ‘Ladbroke Grove’s a bit…different.’

‘I know. But, well…’ she sighed. ‘My circumstances changed. You see, my last flat didn’t belong to me.
Unfortunately
.’ She snapped a breadstick in half. ‘So, when that…arrangement…came to an end I decided I really
must
buy my own place. This was all I could afford, but it’s a nice flat.’

‘But how did you get into the psychic…business?’

‘Well, that’s quite a story actually…Do you want to hear?’ I didn’t—but I nodded politely. She sat back, and cradled her wine, gazing into the middle distance as she began her trip down Memory Lane. ‘It was all because of a seagull,’ she began. ‘A psychic seagull, to be precise.’ I looked at her. ‘It saved my life.’

‘Really?’

‘Without a doubt. You see, this time last year I was feeling very, very low—I’d reached…a major turning point in my life. So I went to stay with my sister in Dorset and one afternoon I went for a walk on the cliffs. And I must have been too near the edge, because I slipped and fell about twenty-five feet. And I was lying there, on the beach, trapped between two boulders, in great pain with a broken leg, quite unable to move—like
this
.’ She’d clapped her arms stiffly to her sides to help me visualise her predicament.

‘How awful.’

‘It was
terrifying
—not least because I knew the tide was coming in. I kept calling out, but the beach was deserted; and as I lay there, sincerely believing that I was going to
die,
a seagull came and hovered overhead. And it wouldn’t go away. So, in desperation, I shouted at it. I yelled, “For God’s sake, go and get
help
!” To my
very
great surprise, it flew off.’ She leaned forward, her large grey eyes widening. ‘But
this
is the incredible part. I learned afterwards that it had flown to my sister’s cottage, where it tapped on the kitchen window with its beak, and flapped its wings and made a
huge
noise. My sister tried to shoo it away, but it persisted, so she decided that it must be trying to tell her something. So she followed it outside, and on it flew; but it kept stopping and looking back at her to make sure that she was still following, then on it would fly again. When it alighted at the cliff edge, it looked over, and my sister looked over too and saw me lying there, and called the fire brigade.’ Cynthia sat back again, shaking her head in bewilderment. ‘Don’t you think that’s an incredible story?’

‘I…do.’

‘But it’s quite true. Here…’ She pushed the cat off her lap, then lifted up the hem of her rather smart silk dress. Through her stocking I saw a large scar above her left knee, the indented stitch marks like teeth on a zip. ‘And I kept thinking afterwards,
how
did that wild bird know that I was in distress? And how did it know the means to summon
help
? I decided that there could be only
one
explanation…’

‘Which was?’

‘That I had somehow been able to communicate with it psychically, which had enabled it to save my life. This made me realize that I had the precious gift of clairvoyance—a gift I mustn’t waste. So
that
is how I became a psychic,’ she concluded. ‘If you like, I’ll give you a reading by way of saying thank you for being so neighbourly.’ She put her hand on my left wrist. ‘I can do one based on the electrical vibrations your watch emits.’

‘Thanks.’ I withdrew my hand. ‘But I don’t believe in that sort of thing.’

‘You don’t?’ She seemed flabbergasted.

‘No.’ Her surprise annoyed me. ‘And I don’t believe in Father Christmas either, or the tooth fairy, or elves, or ghosts or little green men or the Loch Ness Monster, and I must say I have my doubts about
God.
I’m afraid I believe only in what can be proved. It’s facts that ignite me, not fantasy.’

Cynthia was shaking her head. ‘“But there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio”, etcetera etcetera…’

‘That may be true. But I tend to the belief that phenomena have natural, rather than miraculous, causes.’

She looked disappointed. ‘Well, that’s up to you. But are you
sure
you don’t want a reading?’

‘Quite sure. Anyway,’ I went on, determined to change the subject, ‘what did you do before you became a psychic?’

‘I used to be an…actress.’

‘Really? What were you in?’

‘Oh, a number of films.’

‘Anything I might have seen?’

‘Well, this was a long time ago—in the late fifties, but I was very young, just out of school.’ From this I figured that she must be in her early sixties—at least ten years older than she looked. ‘I was a Rank Charm School starlet.’ Ah. That explained the Fenella Fielding-like voice. ‘They were only B movies but it was
thrilling
. I was shipwrecked five times, kidnapped twice, abducted by aliens four times and eaten alive by giant killer ants.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘It was a
marvellous
life.’

‘And what were you in after that?’

‘Oh, well, once I got to my late thirties my career seemed to…well…you know how it is with acting…’ She seemed reluctant to elaborate and I didn’t want to seem inquisitive. ‘Look, are you sure you don’t want me to give you a reading?’ she persisted. ‘I’d really
like
to because I find your aura rather fascinating. I can
see
it you know. Quite clearly.’ She sat back and looked at me appraisingly. ‘It’s green and yellow with a hint of lilac.
Do
let me.’

‘No. Thanks all the same. To be perfectly honest, Cynthia, I think all that stuff’s a load of bunkum.’

‘In which case there’s
no
problem,’ she declared triumphantly. ‘Because, if it
is
a “load of bunkum” then what harm could it
possibly
do you to have a reading, hmm?’

Defeated by her logic, I agreed.

She clasped my left wrist with her right hand and closed her eyes. Then she suddenly opened them again, and stared into the middle distance, her large, grey eyes narrowing as if she was trying to focus on something that kept bobbing below the horizon.

‘You’re going in a new direction,’ she announced. That’s
very
insightful, I thought cynically. ‘You’ve been unhappy.’ Yeah. Who hasn’t? ‘But your mood is lifting.’ Stunning percipience, I said to myself. ‘Romance is in the air.’ Her guesses were getting warmer. I thought happily of Luke. She closed her eyes, inhaled noisily—the end of her nose twitching like some woodland mammal—then she opened them again. ‘You’re taking control of your life,’ she declared. Like most professional women of my age. This really was tosh. I’d humoured her long enough. But now Cynthia closed her eyes again, as though she’d fallen into a deep, deep sleep. In the ensuing silence I found myself gazing at her eyelids, which were crepey with age, and frosted with silver eye shadow. I was aware of the tick of my carriage clock—a wedding present from my parents—on the mantelpiece. And I was just wondering how long Cynthia was going to stay like that and at what point it would be polite to wake her, when she suddenly re-opened her eyes, wide, and stared at me with an intensity which startled me.

‘You’ve lost someone,’ she said in a voice that was no longer husky and theatrical, but clear and penetrating. ‘Haven’t you? Someone’s missing from your life. Someone who was very important to you. But there was a…
tragedy
, and now he’s gone.’ I was aware of a strange, warm feeling, from my toes to my sternum, as though I’d been dipped in hot wax. ‘You’ve been bereft, Laura.’ She closed her eyes again, inhaling deeply. ‘Bereaved.’ Another silence descended which seemed to hum and throb. Then she opened her eyes. ‘Isn’t that right, Laura?’ I stared at her
. ‘Isn’t
it?’ I could hear myself breathe.

‘Yes. It is.’ I heard myself say.

‘I
knew
it!’ she exclaimed happily, evincing more delight at the apparent accuracy of her analysis than any concern for me. ‘I sensed it the
second
I laid eyes on you. I could
feel
it—’ she looked around the room, then shivered slightly—‘there’s a very high vibratory level in here. Anyway,’ she added. ‘Let’s carry on.’

‘I’d rather not,’ I protested. But still she kept hold of my hand. ‘Really, Cynthia.’ I tried to withdraw it. ‘I think we’ve done
enough
.’ She looked into the distance again, this time blinking rapidly. Then she clapped her left hand to her chest.

‘I can see him.’

‘You what?’

‘I can
see
him. Quite clearly.’ Now I felt not so much warm, as chilled. ‘He’s standing in a field…a field full of…’ she drew in her breath, her eyes widening in wonderment, ‘…
flowers
. Beautiful flowers. He’s
surrounded
by them. It’s a
marvellous
sight. But even though he has all these exquisite flowers around him, he’s looking mournful and sad.’