You're Not the One (9781101558959) (33 page)

“It's only a teeny-weeny one,” cajoles Robyn.

“Burying bones, lighting candles, and chanting?” Pressing my foot on the bin pedal, I chuck the cartons into the recycling. “No, I'm not doing it.”

Robyn's cheeks flush even brighter and she falls silent. For a few moments neither of us speaks.

“I picked up our laundry,” I say eventually, to break the awkward atmosphere.

“Thanks,” she says tersely.

Then it's back to the awkward silence as I untie the plastic bag containing our laundry and begin unpacking it.

“Lucy, I really think you should reconsider,” she says after a moment. “Don't dismiss the things you don't understand.”

“You didn't say that when you were trying to do your taxes,” I point out, piling the laundry up on the table. That's funny, I don't remember us having white towels with monograms.

“That's different,” she replies touchily.

“I don't care.” I shake my head. “I'm not going out at the dead of night to bury a bone and do some ridiculous rhyme in order to get rid of my ex-boyfriend.”

Hmm, I really don't recognize these T-shirts either. Gosh, they do look rather large. I hold one up. “Is this yours?”

Robyn shakes her head. “But you have to fight magic with magic,” she argues.

I roll my eyes. “OK, Dumbledore.”

“I'm serious!”

“I know.” I nod. “That's what worries me.”

Hang on a minute—men's shirts? And jeans? I frown.

“I'm not the one who can't break up with their soul mate,” says Robyn tartly.

“Look, I'm not doing a magic spell,” I gasp. “So that's that. Full stop.”

“Well, I think you're making a big mistake. There are greater forces than us out there, forces that we don't understand. . . .”

I can hear Robyn talking, but it's like white noise, a buzz in the background. I've tuned out. I'm not listening. Instead I'm staring at my laundry.

Only it's not my laundry
.

Astonishment mixes with confusion, mixes with resignation. I let out a loud groan. “It's his.”

“What?” Breaking off from her speech, Robyn frowns in confusion. “What's his?”

I hold up a pair of pineapple boxer shorts and wave them at Robyn. “About that spell . . .”

“Do you have any white candles?”

Fast-forward to the next evening after work and I'm standing in the cluttered confines of Burt's Hardware Store with my shopping list. The sane, rational part of me that pooh-poohs horoscopes and strides determinedly under ladders still can't quite believe I'm going ahead with this, but the part of me that dragged all of Nate's laundry back to Fluff-n-Fold is desperate.

Brenda, the assistant manager, couldn't understand how there'd been a mix-up. “We have branches all over Manhattan, but I have no idea how this could have happened,” she gasped in bewilderment. Apologizing profusely, she poked the computer keyboard as if it was personally responsible. “Mr. Kennedy is registered at an address over fifty blocks away!”

I actually felt a bit sorry for Brenda, and for a moment I was almost tempted to offer her an explanation. I say
almost
, but I decided that one involving centuries-old legends, Italian bridges, and soul mates would only complicate things. Better that I play the role of the dissatisfied customer than that of the lunatic.

In the end it all got sorted out. If I had his clothes, then he must have had mine. And sure enough, in the middle of Brenda jabbing at the computer, a text from Nate popped up on my mobile.

I texted back.

“Here you go. Anything else?”

I zone back to see Burt scampering back down the ladder, clutching a pack of candles. For a man who looks to be in his eighties, he's exceedingly agile.

I glance back at my list. Robyn provided the ham bone, garlic, and all the exotic-sounding herbs. I already had some string. Now I've got candles. Which leaves . . .

“Do you sell feathers?”

“Feathers?” he grunts brusquely. “What kind of feathers?”

“Black ones, preferably from a raven or a crow.”

Scraping his bristly chin with his fingernails, he peers at me mistrustfully. “Did you not read the sign? This is a hardware store, not a pet store.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, of course,” I stammer, and I hastily pay and leave the shop. How embarrassing. I sound like a total fruitloop.

I set off walking back to the apartment. Well, that's that, then. If I can't find the feathers, I won't be able to do the spell. Feeling a secret beat of relief at being let off the hook, I turn the corner, where I'm hit by an unexpected gust of warm summer wind. Litter blows all around me, a plastic bag gets whipped up and twirls like a ballerina, and then I notice something flutter past and fall in front of me on the pavement. I glance down.

Two feathers. Two black feathers.

I'm not superstitious, but that's what I'd call a sign.

At nine thirty I'm all packed and ready to go. Well, almost.

“Feathers?” asks Robyn. Armed with a list of everything I need, she's going through a final check to make sure I have everything.

I tug them out of my bag and wave them.

“Check.” Robyn solemnly ticks them off her list. She's taking it all super seriously. It's almost like a military operation: Operation Good Riddance.

“Red string?”

I do the same again.

“Check. Ham bone?”

I dig it out of my backpack. It's wrapped in his boxer shorts. I returned Nate's laundry, but those I kept. Partly because I needed an item of his clothing for the spell, but mostly because Nate has no business wearing those boxer shorts. Not with me, not with any girl. They have to go.

“Awesome!” Having finished her checklist, Robyn beams broadly. “Well, good luck!”

“Thanks.” I smile uncertainly. Something tells me I'm going to need it.

I wanted Robyn to come with me, but she can't, as she's going to her reiki healing class. Plus she said that I have to do this alone, otherwise the spell won't work. “Magic demands that,” she informed me.

Magic, it seems, demands rather a lot.

I leave the apartment and set off toward a tiny park a few streets away. Well, it's not even a park, more a small triangle with a couple of benches, some flower beds, and a patch of grass. In the daytime it's usually filled with people sitting on the benches eating their lunch, or sprawled on the grass chatting, reading the paper, or just delighted to be soaking up a tiny spot of nature amid the steel skyscrapers, the flowers bright splashes of color against the gray concrete.

But now, at night, it's completely empty and in darkness. Not that anywhere in Manhattan every really gets dark, with all the city lights. It's dark enough, though, I think, with a tremor of apprehension.

I try the gate. It's locked. I'm going to need to climb over.

Not for the first time I question my sanity, but like my sister instructed, I have to keep my eye on the bigger picture. “Forget ‘It's the journey, not the destination,'” she barked. “It's
all
about the destination ! The journey is immaterial.”

A couple strolls past and I drop to the ground and pretend to be tying my shoelace. It's totally instinctive—I'm not even
wearing
shoelaces; I'm wearing slip-on ballet flats. Gosh, I'm obviously a natural at this, I muse, feeling pretty impressed with myself. I stay crouched and wait until they've moved farther ahead up the street. Then, taking a quick look around to make sure the coast is clear, I clamber over the gate.

There's a brief moment when I think I might get impaled and my sex life flashes before my eyes, but then I'm over and down the other side. I feel a flash of triumph. I'm in! Jittery with nerves and excitement, I quickly make my way over to the flower beds. OK, I need to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, then get out of here. Lighting my candle, I hold the flame to the piece of paper with Nate's name and date of birth on it. It immediately catches alight and starts burning much quicker than I thought it would, in fact.

Shit, where's the poem? I mean chant. Shit.

Frantically I dig around for another scrap of paper. For a brief second there's a panic that I'm burning the wrong piece of paper—fuck—but then I find it. Thank God. I take a deep breath. Heavens, I'm a nervous wreck.

“‘Winds of the North, East, South, and West . . .'” I begin rattling through it. Robyn told me I have to close my eyes and breathe in every word, but I race through it as quickly as I can. “‘And let his mind be away from me.'”

I watch as the piece of paper disintegrates into ash and is carried away into the night air.

Brilliant. That bit's done. Now I just have to bury the ham bone. I feel myself relaxing. See, it wasn't so hard, was it? All that worrying for nothing. In fact, this magic stuff is pretty easy-peasy, I reflect, grabbing the ladle—we didn't have a trowel—and digging myself a hole, quite literally. Because at that moment there's suddenly a loud whooping siren and I'm bathed in a harsh light. I twirl round, blinking in the brightness.

And then a voice booms from a megaphone, “Stay where you are and put your hands in the air. This is the New York Police Department.”

O
K, don't panic.

One scary ride in a cop car and a pair of handcuffs later I'm sitting on a very hard plastic chair at a police station in the Ninth Precinct, being interviewed by a very hard-faced Officer McCrory.

On second thought, maybe I should panic.

“So let me get this straight.” Clearing his throat, he looks down at his notes. “You trespassed on city property and lit a fire.”

“A candle,” I correct. “A white candle.” It's important to be completely clear and stick to the facts, I tell myself calmly. Otherwise I could be mistakenly tried for a crime I didn't commit. Like a robbery. Or a kidnapping.
Or even a murder
. I feel a clutch of alarm.

Facts, Lucy. Remember, stick to the facts.

“And why was that?”

“I needed to burn a piece of paper and say a chant.”

“
A chant?
” His eyebrows shoot up like two thick, hairy gray caterpillars scuttling up his forehead.

“Well, it was more a poem,” I explain. “Gosh, what was it now . . . ?” I try racking my brain, but I'm so nervous it's as if it's been wiped clean like a computer disc and there's nothing on it. “Um, something about winds . . .”

“According to these notes, you were also caught attempting to bury a deceased animal.”

“It was a ham bone,” I say quickly. “My roommate keeps them in the freezer for Simon and Jenny.”

“Simon and Jenny?”

“Her dogs. Two rescues. Very cute. Well, Simon is, but Jenny has a dreadful underbite. That doesn't make her ugly, though. I mean, she might not win Crufts, but—”

“Miss Hemmingway, can you please stick to the question?”

“Oh, yes, sorry, of course,” I apologize hastily. “Officer.”

Shit. I've seen those cop shows. Robyn is always watching
CSI
, in between
Oprah
and
The Secret
DVD. If I'm not careful, Officer McCrory is going to throw me in a cell with lots of deranged lunatics and a prostitute called Roxy who chews gum and seems tough but who's really kindhearted and has a sick kid at home and is just trying to make ends meet. Actually, no, that wasn't
CSI
—I think that was an episode of
Law & Order
.