Getting Over Mr. Right (11 page)

On Sunday, Becky had invited me to lunch. Over the phone she sounded impressed when I told her that I had updated my image as my first step in getting over Michael. “Good for you,” she said. “Out with the old. I’m very proud of you.” In person, her reaction was rather different.

“For goodness’ sake,” said Becky. “What on earth have you done to yourself? You look just like Snooki.”

It wasn’t the reaction I had hoped for.

“I thought I might try being a brunette for a while.”

“But why? You have the kind of natural color that people would die for! This”—she waved her hands at my hair with a faint expression of disgust on her face—“is just horrible.”

“I thought it was okay.”

“Look, I know you probably want to have a new start. A new image. But the whole point of changing your hair after a
breakup is to look better than before, so that if the idiot who dumped you should bump into you on the street, he is instantly filled with remorse and regret.”

“Yes. But this is what Michael goes for now …”

Becky did a double take. “Say what?”

“His new girlfriend is a brunette.”

“So you dyed your hair to look like her?”

I nodded mutely.

“You absolute idiot.”

“Makes sense to me. He wants a brunette.”

“You think that’s the only difference?”

“It’s a start at leveling the playing field.”

“Why are you even bothering?”

“Wouldn’t you?” I asked. “If Henry left you.”

Becky shuddered. Even though her wedding invitations had been sent out, I could tell that she was superstitious about even saying such a thing. She changed the subject.

“Apart from anything else, this stupid new hair color is going to look absolutely terrible with the bridesmaid’s dress. Didn’t you even think about that?”

Obviously I hadn’t thought about that.

“For God’s sake, Ashleigh. What am I supposed to do? It’s too late to get the dress changed. You’ll have to have your hair dyed blond again. If that’s even possible. Or wear a wig.”

As a result of my image change, Sunday lunch looked set to be a trial. Every few minutes or so Becky would look up at my hair, frown, and shake her head. Henry tried to be kind. He told me I looked like one of the sisters from that Irish band The Corrs. Becky told him he was being ridiculous.

“She looks a fright. I can’t believe it. I’ve spent nearly four hundred pounds on that bridesmaid’s dress and now she’s gone and changed her hair color.”

“I am here,” I reminded her. “And I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ll get it sorted out. I swear.”

That seemed to mollify her, but by the time the roast was ready, I was starting to feel quite angry and thought that perhaps I would keep my hair brown just to spite her. It wasn’t as though I was ever going to look good in that bridesmaid’s dress in any case. What is it about sensible, fashionable women that makes them lose their fashion sense the moment they get an engagement ring on their finger? I foolishly suggested as much in what I thought was a joking tone. Becky spat her response, which was that she would cancel my floral headdress and buy me a brown-paper bag to wear at the wedding instead. “You can wear it next time you go stalking as well.”

I told her I didn’t feel hungry after that and left. Though the lunch had been intended to cheer me up, I left her house feeling much worse. And given how bad the last couple of weeks had been, that was really saying something.

The day was to get even worse. Skipping lunch with the happy couple left me with a rumble in my stomach and a lot of free time that only mischief could fill. The walk from Becky’s house took me past Helen and Kevin’s. How could I forget that they were going to be hosting a barbecue to celebrate their new arrival that very afternoon?

It was half past one when I got to the top of Helen and Kevin’s street. Even from a hundred meters away I could smell the scent of lighter fluid. Since I was still NFI (as in “not f*cking invited”), I couldn’t just waltz in, but I decided that there was no law against walking down their street (though an alternative route would have been easy enough to find). And there was no law against stopping to have a rest. Behind their neighbor’s hedge.

About ten minutes after I took up my vigil, Helen appeared
at the doorway. In her hand she held three silver heart-shaped balloons to welcome baby Alex. She had just finished tying the balloons to the gatepost when Michael’s red sports car pulled up at the curb and out he got, holding one more silver balloon (also heart-shaped). But where Helen’s balloons declared in pretty pink letters
IT’S A GIRL
, Michael’s bore
IT’S A BOY
in baby blue.

There was little time for me to savor Michael’s confusion and embarrassment, because even as he was handing over his gift, to Helen’s obvious confusion, Michael’s passenger was getting out of the car. With a shake of her hair, as though she were in a shampoo advert, Miss Well-Sprung stepped onto the pavement.

“You’ve brought a guest?” I heard Helen say. “But …”

“Didn’t Kevin tell you?”

“He didn’t, but …”

Michael held out his arm. Miss Well-Sprung slipped under it and snuggled into his side.

“I like your house,” said Miss Well-Sprung to Helen. “Very interesting color, your front door.”

Helen gave a little shimmy, as though praise for her front door from an interior designer were as good as being praised for the figure she hadn’t regained since the baby was born.

“Well, come on in,” said Helen. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I hated Helen then. Almost as much as I hated Miss Well-Sprung and Michael.

Oh, my feckless friend, my faithless boyfriend, and that slut. How my heart ached as I stumbled from my hiding place behind Helen’s neighbor’s hedge. I stumbled the rest of the way back to my flat. People with small children crossed the road to
avoid me with my face bright red from tears and the great honking noise of my sobs.

Once in the flat, further humiliation was to greet me. I got under the shower, desperate to wash the brown out of my hair now that I had seen Miss Well-Sprung again and knew that being a brunette would not help at all. But the ugly color would not wash out. So much for semi-permanent, though I stood beneath the shower for hours and hours, shampooing twenty-three times. I had been abandoned by my boyfriend, betrayed by my friends, and to cap it all, my hair, as Kylie had promised, was an ugly shade of browny orange.

I needed comfort badly, but I couldn’t call Becky, my so-called best friend. The last thing I needed was to hear
I told you so
. It was too late to call Mum and Dad. I could have called the Samaritans. I had called them once before, many years ago, when I first moved into the flat and thought I might be losing my job just as I signed a yearlong lease. But as I recalled that dark night, I also remembered that the Samaritans are trained to be wonderfully sympathetic but also utterly impartial. They don’t offer advice. And that was what I really needed, wasn’t it? Proper solid advice. I needed someone to tell me what to do. Better yet, I needed someone to tell me what was going to
happen
. It didn’t take much searching on the Internet before I found someone who promised to do exactly that. With my credit card in hand, I called Personal Psychics Connection.

“We have three psychics available to talk to you right now,” said the girl on the other end of the line. “There’s Julie, Erica, and Martha.”

“Which one is best?” I asked.

“Oh, I can’t say that!” the girl said, laughing. “A lot of it depends on whether the spirits you want to connect with are ready to communicate with you. But I can tell you the methods of seeing that they use if you like. Julie will base her reading on your horoscope …”

Boring, I thought. Horoscopes were too vague.

“Erica specializes in the runes …”

That didn’t sound especially specific, either.

“And Martha takes instructions directly from a spirit cat …”

“A spirit cat?”

“Yes,” said the telephone operator. “But don’t worry, the cat communicates in English.”

A spirit cat. It was, of course, the daftest thing I’d ever heard, but at that time of the night it seemed as though it was more likely to get me the results I wanted than crunching numbers or throwing tiles. It was good enough for me. “I’ll have Martha,” I said.

“All right, Ashleigh. I’ll just need your credit-card details and then I’ll ask her to give you a call.”

I read out the long number on the front of my MasterCard.

“Okay. It’s twenty-nine pounds ninety-five for the first twenty minutes, then one pound fifty a minute for every minute or fraction of a minute after that. Still want me to go ahead?”

I told her that I did. The figures she had quoted didn’t mean much to me right then. Having seen Michael and Miss Well-Sprung looking so very together, I thought I might actually die from the pain of it. I wanted answers. I wanted good news for the future and I would have paid just about anything to hear them. Even from a stranger and her spirit moggy.

“All right,” said the chirpy telephonist. “That’s gone through. Martha will call you back in the next ten minutes.”

I waited eagerly, with the phone receiver still in my hand. It rang at the seven-minute mark, just as I was about to call the switchboard back and make sure the girl had taken down the right number.

“Hello?” I said quickly.

“Ashleigh,” said my mother. “It’s your mother.”

“It’s eleven at night,” I pointed out. “You’re always asleep by eleven.”

“I know, dear, but I just had a feeling you wanted to talk.”

“Eh?”

“Call me a silly old woman, perhaps it’s a mother thing, I just thought, I’m going to call my little girl and remind her how much I love her.”

“Thanks, Mum,” I said. “That’s really great, but can I call you back? I’m waiting for someone else to call.”

“What? At this time of night?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s calling you now?”

“You did,” I suggested. “But, seriously, I’m sorry to shove you off the phone but I’m waiting for a very important call from Los Angeles.”

“About work?”

“A possible client,” I lied.

“In that case …” She put her hand over the receiver but I could still hear her very clearly as she yelled to my father, “She’s waiting for a call about work. From Los Angeles! That sounds exciting,” she said to me.

“It is. Okay, Mum. Thanks for calling. I have to clear the line for this really important call. But I love you, too.”

“All right, darling. You know that anytime you want to talk, we’re here for you, your dad and me. We may be silly old duffers …”

“I’m not!” Dad shouted.

“… but we’re your parents and we love you, and whatever we can do to make your life better, we will.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Then I put the phone down before Mum could start off another thread of conversation. I didn’t want or need motherly love right then. I needed that spirit cat! I felt compelled to hear its views and decided that this wish—to get my mother off the phone so that the psychic cat could talk to me—must be in some way
significant
. It meant that the cat must be picking up messages for me already.

As soon as I got rid of Mum, the phone rang again almost immediately. I stabbed the green
ACCEPT
button and prepared for the future to unfurl.

The phone was quiet, except for the sound of someone mouth-breathing.

“Hello,” I said, hoping this was the psychic and not just a plain psycho.

“Miaow,”
said the caller.

“Martha?” I asked.

“No.
Miaow
. I am Tiberius, the great spirit cat.
Miaow
. Rrrooowwwlll. But in my last earthly lifetime I was Princess Fifi, the Burmese cat belonging to Martha, yes. Purr. Purr.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Do not be afraid,” Martha as Tiberius intoned. “I have inhabited Martha’s mortal corporeal being in order to be able to speak with you today. What … 
miaow …
is your question?”

The question should have been, what on earth was I doing spending £29.95 to have a telephone conversation with a woman from South London who thought herself inhabited by the spirit of her dead pet? Instead I said, “I want to know what’s going to happen in my love life.”

“Miaow,”
said Martha. “Very well.” A pause. “Do you want to be more specific?” the psychic asked in her normal voice.

“I’d rather hear what you pick up in the other world,” I suggested. I didn’t want to give her any clues in case they influenced what she said. I’d heard that telephone psychics tried to pump people for information and adapted their readings accordingly.

“Okay.
Miaow …
I can tell at once that you have been wronged by a man.”

Spot on. I was hooked.

“Tell me his name.”

“Aren’t you getting it from the spirits?” I asked.

“They’re not always that forthcoming, but wait …” She miaowed again. “I am getting some letters. I’m getting an A. No, I’m getting an L. The letter N.”

“Did you say M?” I asked.

“Maybe that was it.”

“His name is Michael.”