The half-dressed girl on the calendar smirked down at me with mocking defiance. That wretched thing had annoyed me for ages. Only my late—no, my ex-husband could have hung such tasteless rubbish in the kitchen.
“Goodbye, darling,” I muttered. “You don’t suit the décor at all.” With a resigned swing of her lacquered shoe, the pin-up girl tumbled into the bin. The wall gleamed fresh and green once more, but I felt no lighter. This year had been a disaster from the start—first my husband left, and now my job was slipping away. The small firm where I worked had been on its last legs for ages. Paydays grew scarcer by the month. Why bother showing up? Exactly—no reason at all. So I stayed home, determined to clean.
The plan failed. Instead of scrubbing the stove with vigour, I idly flipped through a free newspaper, its pages crammed with adverts from charlatans peddling magical cures. Every variety of fraud was there—white witches, clairvoyants, hereditary fortune-tellers, healers, and seers. At the bottom, a certain ‘Viola the Mighty Psychic’ promised to bring back lost love, lift curses, and transform lives—all with a 100% guarantee. I had nothing better to do (unless counting the neglected cleaning), and curiosity had always been my undoing. Before I knew it, I dialled the number.
***
The building had no security—no intercoms, no codes, no doorman. A weary-looking bloke answered the door. Hearing why I’d come, he waved me inside with a limp hand.
“In there,” he grunted.
‘In there’ was a shabby little room where a middle-aged woman sat on a threadbare sofa, wrapped in a faded woollen shawl. She smiled tiredly.
“You called?” she said. “So, you want me to break a curse of spinsterhood?”
“Actually, I married straight out of university. Lasted nearly fifteen years.”
She squinted at me with small, pale-lashed eyes. Where were the fathomless black orbs that pierced mortal souls?
“Sorry, I mistook you for another client,” she muttered, then sneezed.
The same shabby man barged in. Ignoring me entirely, he announced, “Luce, there’s nothing to eat. Give us some money for the shop.”
Frowning, she heaved herself up, rummaged in a drawer, and handed him a few crumpled notes.
“Get a loaf, some pasta, and liver sausage.”
“What about beer?” he protested. “I’m not going otherwise.”
Lu Viola—if that was her name—sighed and gave him another note. He shuffled off.
Apologising again, she turned to me with forced cheer. “So, you want your husband back?”
Did I? Suddenly, it struck me how much my Jonathan resembled that scruffy man—though with better hair and fewer stains. Why on earth would I want him back?
“Actually, no,” I said. “But it would be nice if he realised what he’s lost and begged to return.”
“Very well,” she agreed at once. “Anything else?”
“I’d love a dream job—creative, prestigious, well-paid. If such things exist.”
“Not easy these days,” she sighed. “Since I was laid off, proper work’s been scarce.” Then, hastily adding, “But you’ll be fine.”
A phone buzzed in the hall, followed by muttering. The man reappeared, now in a garish green puffer jacket.
“School called. Your Billy glued his class register with superglue.”
“Billy’s as much yours as mine! You deal with it—I’m sick of the shame.”
We were alone again. She looked embarrassed.
“Kids,” she sighed. “The little one’s alright, but the older… You wouldn’t know a decent addiction counsellor, would you?”
“Afraid not.”
“Right then. What else d’you want?”
“Can you really do anything?” I asked, half-mocking.
She missed the sarcasm. “Guaranteed.”
“Then I’d like a kind, clever, handsome, wealthy man to fall madly in love with me. Preferably soon. That’s who I’ll marry.”
She mumbled something, folding three fingers down.
“And I’d like to look twenty-five again. Tops.”
A fourth finger curled. Seemed she spared no expense for me.
“Anything more?”
Imagination faltered. Then—
“A Siberian cat.”
Lu Viola clenched her fist, stared at the ceiling, and mouthed silent words. Was it a spell? More likely maths, because she promptly declared, “That’ll be eighty quid.”
“Won’t you lift a curse?” I asked.
She narrowed her eyes. “There is no curse. Just bad luck.”
“Which you’ll fix?”
“Which I’ll fix.” She sneezed once more.
Feeling like a philanthropist, I paid up and left. On the walk home, I scolded myself—money was tight, and this was pure foolishness.
Freezing and soaking from an icy puddle, I finally dragged myself inside. The lift ignored my calls, the lobby bulb was dead, and the post held nothing but bills. I treated myself to leftover coffee—only to ruin it with salt mistakenly poured from the sugar jar. Furious at everything—the salt, the weather, the useless psychic—I went to bed before more misery could strike.
***
Morning brought a phone call. Bleary, I slowly grasped it was from the company I’d longed to work for—and the owner himself was ringing. Personally. Far better than chirpy secretaries or clueless HR. His voice was velvet.
“Your CV was overlooked last spring, but we found it this morning. Could you pop in today?”
When? Right now, in my dressing gown! Instead, I graciously agreed to come after lunch. Hanging up, I dashed to the shower. Hair, suit, portfolio—all needed urgent sorting.
Another call interrupted.
“D’you mind if I drop by? Think I left some grey jeans there. And… maybe we rushed things.” No introduction needed—only Jonathan drawled words so slowly, as if reciting poetry.
“You took everything.”
“Did I? Well, we should talk. Good thing we never finalised the divorce. I’ve only just realised your worth. Fancy another try?”
“Not a chance,” I said cheerfully. “But take me to dinner next week. For old times’ sake.”
“McDonald’s do? I’m skint.”
“Perfect! We can discuss the divorce.”
How glorious to feel free—something I hadn’t understood just yesterday!
***
I floated home from the interview. Popping into a shop, I splurged on fancy anti-wrinkle cream—now affordable.
The shopgirl frowned. “This is too strong for you. You’ll get a rash!”
“How old d’you think I am?”
“Twenty-five, tops.”
Buoyant, I sailed onward—until a silver car screeched to a halt at the bus stop. The driver bent over a tiny shadow near the wheel.
“Poor mite. Can’t leave you here… Blast, my flat’s being renovated.”
“Let me take him,” I heard myself say. “No renovations at mine.”
I scooped up the kitten—so small, so light—then turned, but the man called, “I insist on driving you!”
Big cars are divine, like climbing into a carriage. The kitten purred in my lap, snug in my coat folds.
The man beside me? Best not to stare—too handsome by far. Polite duty done, he’d leave us at the door. But as the car stopped, he suddenly asked, “D’you believe in love at first sight?”
He seemed surprised himself. Glancing at the kitten, he stroked its ears.
“Look—lynx tufts. He’s part Siberian…”
