A half-naked pin-up girl stared down with a bold smirk on the calendar. That thing had irritated me for ages. Only my late—no, my ex-husband would’ve dared hang such tackiness in the kitchen.
“Goodbye, sweetheart. You don’t match the décor at all,” I muttered. “Sweetheart” dangled helplessly in her lipstick-red heels before diving into the bin. The wall gleamed pristine green again, but I didn’t feel any lighter. Truth be told, this year had been a disaster—started with a runaway husband and now teetered on unemployment. The tiny firm I worked for had been on life support for ages. Paychecks arrived later each month, if at all. Why bother going in? Exactly. Might as well stay home and attempt a deep clean.
The plan failed. Instead of scrubbing the stove, I sprawled on the sofa, flipping through a free rag where every fraudster peddled “magical solutions.” Psychics, clairvoyants, fortune-tellers, healers—you name it. At the very bottom, “Madame Violet,” a self-proclaimed “extra-powerful medium,” guaranteed to reunite lost loves, remove hexes, and transform lives—100% satisfaction assured. With nothing better to do (unless you counted avoiding chores), curiosity got the better of me. Before I knew it, I’d dialled her number.
***
The building had no intercom, no codes, no concierge. A weary man answered, gestured vaguely at hearing I was there for the ad, and waved me inside.
“In there.”
The room was shabby but tidy. A middle-aged woman sat on the sofa drowning in an oversized cardigan, a moth-eaten scarf around her neck. She offered a tired smile.
“Hello. You called? So, you want me to lift your ‘curse of spinsterhood’—”
“I was married straight out of uni. For fifteen years.”
Her small, pale-lashed eyes studied me. Where were the fathomless, all-seeing orbs from the ad?
“Apologies, mixed you up with another client.” She sneezed.
The same man barged in. “Liz, there’s no food. Give me cash for the shop.”
She scowled, rummaged in a drawer, and handed him wrinkled notes. “Bread, pasta, liver sausage.”
“What about beer?” he grumbled. “Not going otherwise.”
Liz—sorry, *Madame Violet*—sighed and added a few more lipstick-smeared pounds. He left. She turned back, saccharine-sweet.
“So, you want your husband back?”
Did I? Suddenly, I realised my ex, *Mark*, was just like her deadbeat bloke—only slightly less bald and a bit more presentable. Why would I want that back?
“Actually, no. But I *do* want him to regret leaving and beg to return.”
“Done,” she agreed instantly. “Anything else?”
“My dream job—creative, prestigious, well-paid. If that exists.”
“Oof, tough market. Got laid off years ago myself,” she admitted, then caught herself. “But *you’ll* be fine.”
A phone buzzed in the hall. The man reappeared, now in a hideous neon puffer jacket.
“School called. Your Billy glued his teacher’s register shut with superglue.”
“*Your* Billy. *You* deal with it. I’m done being the bad cop.”
Alone again, she looked embarrassed. “Kids. The younger’s alright, but the eldest… You don’t, uh, know any addiction specialists?”
“Afraid not.”
She straightened. “What else?”
“Can you *actually* do anything?” I smirked.
She missed the sarcasm. “100% guarantee.”
“Alright. Make a kind, brilliant, handsome, loaded man fall madly in love with me. ASAP.”
She muttered, folding three fingers down.
“And I want to look twenty-five again.”
A fourth lipstick-smeared finger curled. She was on a roll.
“Anything else?”
My imagination sputtered. “A Siberian cat?”
She clenched her fist, gazed ceiling-ward, and mouthed silent calculations (or spells?). “That’ll be £1,250.”
“No hex removal?”
She squinted. “No hex. Just bad luck.”
“So now I’ll be lucky?”
“Now you’ll be lucky.”
Feeling charitable, I paid and left, promptly scolding myself—every penny counted.
The journey home was misery: icy air, a flooded pavement, a broken lift, a burned-out bulb, and a mailbox stuffed with bills. I ruined my last coffee with sugar-jar salt (why was it there?). Fuming at salt, utilities, weather, and sham psychics, I flopped into bed before anything else could go wrong.
***
Morning brought a call. A groggy moment passed before I grasped it was *the* company—the one I’d dreamed of working for. The *owner* was calling. **Personally**. No chirpy HR drones. His voice was pure velvet.
“Your CV got buried last spring, but we just found it. When can you come in?”
*When?* Try *now*, in my floral dressing gown! I settled for “after lunch,” then sprinted to shower, iron a suit, and dig up my portfolio.
Another call interrupted—*him*.
“Mind if I drop by? Think I left my grey jeans. Maybe we rushed things.” No introduction needed. Only *Mark* drawled like a bored audiobook narrator.
“You took everything, *Mark*.”
“Did I? Huh. We should talk. Good thing we never finalised the divorce. I’ve only just realised your worth.”
“Not a chance. But take me to dinner next week. For old times’ sake.”
“McDonald’s? Skint right now.”
“Perfect. We’ll discuss the divorce.”
The freedom was *glorious*. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
***
I floated home post-interview, detouring for the pricey anti-wrinkle cream I’d coveted. Now I could splurge.
The saleswoman balked. “This is too strong for you! You’ll get a rash—then blame us! You don’t need this yet.”
“How old do I think it?”
“Twenty-five, tops.”
I sailed out, smug.
At the bus stop, a silver SUV screeched to a halt. The driver jumped out, crouching near a tiny shadow by the tyre.
“Poor mite, where’d you come from? Can’t leave you here. And I’ve got builders at home—”
“I’ll take him!” I blurted. “No renovations at mine.”
I scooped up the featherweight kitten and turned to leave, but—
“Least I can do is drive you.”
Oh, I *loved* big cars. Felt like a royal coach. The kitten purred on the buttery leather seat, kneading my coat.
I avoided staring at the driver—*too* handsome. Just a polite lift, then goodbye. But as we pulled up, he suddenly asked,
“Believe in love at first sight?”
He looked as shocked as I was. Then he stroked the kitten’s ears and murmured,
“Look at those tufts. Siberian, isn’t he?”
**Lesson learnt?** Life’s twists are far stranger—and kinder—than any psychic’s promises. Sometimes, all you need is to toss out the old to make room for the unexpected.
