The half-dressed girl smirked down from the calendar with a defiant glare. That wretched thing had annoyed me for ages. Only my late—well, ex-husband—could’ve hung such tacky nonsense in the kitchen.
“Goodbye, sweetheart. You don’t suit the decor at all.”
Sweetheart swayed her lacquered shoe in resignation before plunging into the bin. The wall gleamed anew in soft, untouched green, yet the weight in my chest remained. No, this year hadn’t gone well. It began with my other half bolting and now looked set to end with unemployment. The firm, long on its last legs, was nearing its inevitable end. Paydays had grown scarcer—so why bother showing up? Exactly. No point. Wisely staying home, I attempted a deep clean.
The attempt failed. Instead of scrubbing the stove with zeal, the negligent homemaker lost herself in a free local rag, where assorted frauds peddled magical services. The lot of them! White witches, clairvoyants, hereditary fortune-tellers, wise women, healers… At the very bottom, a certain “Violet, Master Psychic” promised to restore husbands, lift curses, and transform lives—all with a “100% guarantee.” With nothing better to do (unless counting the abandoned cleaning), curiosity—my finest trait—got the better of me. Before I knew it, I signed for tea—or rather, dialled.
***
The building had no intercoms, codes, or concierges. The door swung open to reveal a man thoroughly worn by life. Hearing I’d come about the ad, he waved me into a cramped flat.
“Through there…”
“Through there,” in a sparsely furnished room, sat a middle-aged woman swathed in something very, very homely. A threadbare knitted scarf coiled round her neck. She offered a tired smile.
“Hello—you called? You’d like me to break a celibacy curse…”
“I got married right out of uni and stayed that way for fifteen years.”
She blinked small eyes framed by pale lashes. Where were the fathomless, soul-piercing orbs of legend?
“My apologies—wrong client.”
She sneezed.
In barged the man from before, ignoring me entirely.
“Invite for tea more often, Luce. Cupboard’s bare. Fancy chippy run?”
She scowled, rummaged in a drawer, and slapped a few pound coins into his palm.
“Right. Bread, pasta, and liver sausage. No beer.”
“Oi, one pint—”
“Fine.” Another coin changed hands before he slouched off.
She turned back, sugar-sweet.
“Now, about reclaiming your husband—”
Did I want Simon back? It struck me then how much he resembled her man—just with less prominent balding and marginally better posture. Why would I want that treasure?
“Think I’ll pass.” A pause. “Though it’d be nice if he regretted leaving.”
“Consider it done” came the swift reply. “Anything else?”
“A dream job—creative, prestigious, well-paid. If such things exist.”
“Hard times, love. I got made redundant years back—still hunting.” She sighed. “But you? You’ll land on your feet.”
A phone buzzed in the hall. The man reappeared, now in an eye-searing green puffer jacket.
“School rang. Your Billy glued his maths book shut with superglue.”
“Your Billy, you mean! I’m done being the one they ring—”
Alone again, she flushed faintly.
“Kids, eh? The little one’s alright, but the eldest… You wouldn’t know a good rehab place, would you?”
“Afraid not.”
“Next request?”
“You can really do anything?”
She missed the sarcasm entirely.
“Guaranteed.”
“Right. Then have a kind, clever, handsome, loaded bloke fall head over heels for me. Sooner the better.”
Three fingers curled on her hand as she muttered.
“And I’d like to look twenty-five again.”
A fourth finger bent. Generous, this one.
“More?”
Inspiration waned. Unless—
“A Maine Coon cat.”
She clenched her fist, stared at the ceiling, lips moving soundlessly. Chanting? More likely tallying costs, as she announced:
“That’ll be two hundred quid.”
“No curses to lift?”
She squinted.
“No curses, pet. Just rotten luck.”
“Which’ll change now?”
“Oh yes.”
A final sneeze.
Feeling charitable, I forked over the cash and left. Halfway home, I cursed myself—money was tight, after all.
The walk was misery: icy puddles, a broken lift, a burnt-out bulb in the stairwell, and a postbox stuffed with bills. Coffee would’ve been a comfort, but fate intervened—someone had swapped the sugar for salt. I seethed at the salt, the council, the weather, the useless psychic, and collapsed into bed before fresh disasters struck.
***
Dawn brought a call. Sleep-fogged, it took moments to grasp: the firm I’d dreamed of working for—on the line—was the owner himself. No chirpy receptionists, no bumbling HR. His voice was pure velvet.
“Your CV from spring—buried under others—resurfaced this morning. When could you pop in?”
When? Now, in floral pyjamas! Out loud, I settled for “after lunch.” A flurry followed: shower, hair, ironing, portfolio-digging.
Another call interrupted.
“Mind if I drop by? Left my grey jeans, I think. Maybe we rushed things—” No introduction needed. That slow, musing drawl was purely Simon’s.
“You took everything, jeans included.”
“Did I? Suppose I… Well, let’s meet. Good thing we never finalised the divorce. Only now I’ve realised what I had.”
“Not a chance,” I chirped. “But take me to dinner next week. For old times’ sake.”
“McDonald’s do? Skint at the mo’.”
“Perfect! We’ll discuss the divorce.”
Suddenly, freedom felt glorious. Why hadn’t I seen it yesterday?
***
Wings couldn’t have carried me faster home post-interview. En route, I ducked into a shop for extravagant wrinkle cream—now affordable.
The assistant balked.
“This one’s too strong—you’ll break out! You don’t need it yet.”
“How old d’you think I am?”
“Twenty-five, tops.”
I floated out, barely touching pavement till the bus stop.
A sleek silver car braked hard. The driver hopped out, peering at a dark lump near the wheels.
“Poor mite—where’d you spring from? Can’t leave you here. And me with the builders in—”
My voice cut in:
“I’ll take him! No builders at mine.”
The kitten was featherlight in my arms. I turned to leave, but—
“Least I can do is drive you.”
Oh, how I love big cars! Like climbing into a carriage. The kitten purred as strong fingers stroked its back. My new pet seemed content.
I avoided staring at the driver—too handsome by half. Just a polite lift home, then goodbye. Yet as the car halted, he blurted:
“D’you believe in love at first sight?”
He looked as surprised as I felt. Glancing at the kitten, he added,
“Look—ear tufts! Proper Maine Coon, that…”
