The Cinderella Reflex (8 page)

By the time she reached Rose Cottage Tess had cheered up immensely. The walk from her apartment had taken her along by the shore and up a cliff road she had never been on before. It afforded her a ridiculously beautiful view over the sea and the climb made her legs ache and her heart beat faster. With each lungful of air her thoughts cleared a little more and by the time she stood outside the cottage she had begun to put her work problems in perspective. She was young, she was healthy, and she had friends around the world. How had she allowed herself to get so wrapped up in Helene Harper and Ollie Andrews and their stupid mind games over the last six months?

The house itself was postcard pretty – whitewashed walls, an untidy thatched roof, a crooked wooden fence and the words
‘
Rose Cottage
’
painted onto a wooden sign in the middle of the garden. Underneath were the words:

Seventh Daughter of a Seventh Daughter!

Let Grandma Rosa foretell your future!

Tea leaves (cup of tea free!), Cards and Crystals.

Tess lifted the heavy brass doorknocker and hopped from one foot to the other until she heard a tinny voice over an intercom.

“Push the door and wait in the kitchen, dear! I’m just finishing a reading.”

Tess stepped tentatively into a small dark hallway. She could hear the rise and fall of voices coming from a room on the right-hand side – presumably that was where the readings went on. She walked to the end of the hall, pushed open the door there and stepped into a room flooded with sunlight.

A shabby floral sofa was angled to get a perfect view of the back garden, through white French windows, where fat red tulips sprang upwards in joyous clumps among the fading daffodils. Tess stared at it for a moment, overcome with nostalgia. The garden reminded her of her parents’ house in the country with its big rambling back garden.

She sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, shoving her satchel under the scratched oak coffee table. Something soft brushed against her leg and she looked down into the green eyes of a very black, very fat cat. Tess was delighted to have something to distract her and she felt herself relaxing slightly as she moved her fingers through the black fur.

She wondered what its owner would be like. Her own maternal grandmother had died before she was born, but she remembered her paternal grandmother, Nan Sheila, well. She had worn her steel-grey hair in a bun pinned back with silver clips and was never seen without her apron with the pots-and-pans pattern on it. She had baked bread and scones and cooked a dinner for her large family every day of her life. She would have laughed out loud if she’d known Tess was visiting a fortune teller. Tess could almost hear her now – ‘
A fool and her money are easily parted
’ – but she would have been smiling when she said it.

She smiled at the memory of her departed grandmother. Of course, she was right. Tess didn’t believe in fortune tellers – this visit was light relief from all her problems at work. She had spent the last few nights studying the agony-aunt columns of newspapers and magazines and as far as she could see the problems all boiled down to three basic dilemmas: dysfunctional families, unrequited love, and meeting and finding The One. But how could she turn that into a radio slot?

“That’s odd. Millie likes you – she never likes strangers.”

Tess turned in the direction of the voice and started at the sight of the woman strolling into the kitchen. Grandma Rosa looked to be in her seventies but any similarity between her and Nan Sheila ended there. Her hair was a strange shade of plum, with huge chunks of grey peeking through a very badly done home-dye. She was wearing denim jeans, a white frilly blouse – and were they Ugg boots? The only thing that looked remotely like Tess’s notions of what a fortune teller might wear was the enormous pair of silver rings dangling out of her ears.

Rosa caught her staring and looked down at her boots, one of which she tapped with the folded magazine she was carrying.

“What do you think?” she demanded. “Do the boots work?”

“Er … work for what?” Tess asked uncertainly.

“I’m aiming for a funkier, younger image. This is what young people wear, isn’t it? Uggs?”

Dear God, did the whole world want to look younger? Tess wondered wildly, thinking of Helene and her
Ten Years Younger
project.

“Young people wear Uggs, yes,” Tess said, nodding. “But er … why do you want a new image?”

“It’s to do with my career. I’m trying to diversify and
this
is part of it.” Rosa pointed vaguely towards her hair. “You’re a young person. What do you think?”

“You look … fine. But isn’t a fortune teller meant to look … well, old … and wise?”

“That was the old way all right, but at the psychic club night all they ever talk about are the new ‘in’ things. Aura readings. Angel-card therapy. Coffee-cup readings.” Her mouth curled in derision. “Coffee readings? Seriously? And that last client who was in with me? That was Mrs O’Brien. She’s been coming to me for over twenty years for readings. I was the one who told her that Alfie, her late husband, would never come out of the hospital and that she should find a new direction for herself for when he’d gone. I told her that her son would go off to Australia and meet an Aussie girl and settle down there. All came true. But now! Now Mrs O’Brien thinks traditional fortune telling is over. Passé. And it’s all because of this!” She placed the magazine she was carrying on the table and indicated an article underscored with red biro.

Tess scanned it curiously. It was a New Age story about Cosmic Ordering – how you simply placed your order and waited for it to be delivered. There was a story about it in some magazine or book every other week as far as Tess could tell. She glanced up.

“So what does Cosmic Ordering have to do with Mrs O’Brien getting her fortune told?” she asked.

“Well, why does she need to pay me to find out what the future holds if she can just ask the cosmos for anything she wants? Make up her own future?” Rosa threw her eyes heavenwards. “No wonder my business is going down the tubes.”

“So this Mrs O’Brien – does she think Cosmic Ordering really works?”

“She says she
knows
it does. She doesn’t see how gullible that makes her. She can’t see it’s just another fad. As I said to her, ‘Mrs O’Brien, if Cosmic Ordering worked why would the vast majority of people spend their days beating their way through gridlocked traffic to spend ten hours a day at work when they could be asking the Universe for a new life somewhere warm and interesting?’ But she wouldn’t listen. Said she asked the Universe for a surprise and she won a hundred euro on a scratch card.”

“One hundred euro?” Tess protested.

“Well, that was just for her to test the theory, she says!”

Tess thought of what she’d ask for. For Ollie to disappear, for Helene to stop being a bully, for Jack McCabe not to take over the radio station and throw her out of her job. To be back in Bali. Or to have a different job altogether, a fantastic high-profile career so she could swan into the reunion Chris Conroy was organising with her head held high.

“But the point is,” Grandma Rosa rolled her big brown eyes dramatically again, “this is going to affect my living. That’s why I hired a webmaster to get me on the Net. Is that how you heard of me?”

“Er … yes, actually,” Tess replied.

“Well, it must be working then.” Rosa looked satisfied. “He’s going to set me up on Facebook and Twitter next. So,” she sank down into the sofa beside Tess and looked at her sharply, “what can I do for you now? Tarot, the crystal ball, tea leaves?”

“Well …” Tess began but stopped at the sound of the front door knocker banging again.

“Just give me a minute.” Grandma Rosa sprang off the sofa and marched out to answer the door. Moments later she returned with a man in tow.

“I have another client,” she announced cheerily. “That Net is a miracle. Now if you can both wait here while I go and clear the parlour of Mrs O’Brien’s aura, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Tess smiled uncertainly at the newcomer. He was tall and rangy-looking with very dark hair curling over his collar and a natural tan he hadn’t acquired in Ireland – not at this time of the year, anyway. He was dressed in faded blue denim jeans and a light cotton shirt. No jewellery. No wedding ring. Gay?

He raised his eyebrows and Tess flushed as she realised he knew she was checking him out.

“So – is she any good?” He jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen door.

“Haven’t a clue – I’ve never been here before. It’s your first time too then?”

“Yeah.” He gave a wry smile. “My sister says it’s cheaper than therapy. And more fun.”

Tess frowned. “I don’t think fortune telling is suitable for serious problems that require therapy
.
”

“Don’t look so worried – my problem isn’t that serious. I just need some advice about something I can’t make up my mind about. So, in the interests of being open to new experiences – here I am.”

He flopped down into an armchair. Tess thought it weird that a guy would go to a fortune teller. Still, if he had a problem …

Her eyes widened a fraction as her brain caught up with what he’d just said. Here was someone sitting in front of her who had a problem and was looking for advice about it. Exactly what she was looking for! She took a deep breath.

“So what sort of problem do you have then?”

He let out a sigh. “It’s a very boring sort of problem, I’m afraid. It’s not a big love triangle or anything as interesting.”

“So.” Tess looked at him speculatively. “Let me guess then. Is it to do with a dysfunctional family?”

“Sort of.” He sounded impressed. “Hey, how did you know that?”

Hah, she thought triumphantly. All that swotting up on the agony columns had paid off already.

“I happen to have a particular interest in people with problems, that’s all,” she said, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Really? Why?” He steepled his fingers in front of him and watched her closely.

“Well, it’s just at the moment. I mean …” she hesitated – she hoped she wouldn’t sound slightly insane, “I’m actually looking for people with problems. So I can solve them.”

“Really?” He gave her a disbelieving look.

“Yes, really. It’s part of my job. Well,” she amended, “what will be my job – if I can make it work.” She took another deep breath. “
My
problem, you see, is that I don’t actually have any people to tell me what their problems are.”

“What sort of a job is that?” He looked baffled.

“It’s in a radio station. I’m a producer there at the moment. But I’m about to become … er … an agony aunt.”

He sat up straighter. “A radio agony aunt? So who do you work for?”

“Oh, it’s nowhere important,” she said dismissively. “The local radio station here – Atlantic 1FM. Do you listen to it?”

“I don’t live in Killty – I’m just in town on business.” He raised an eyebrow. “But how can I help you?”

“Well, I’ve never done anything like this before and I haven’t a clue how to kick it all off. It’s not that easy to get the right sort of callers – people who are fluent and who won’t dry up under the pressure of being on the radio. They don’t just ring in out of the blue. You have to go out and find them. My boss thinks I should make some stuff up to start it off, but I’m not sure if that’s exactly ethical.” Her voice trailed off. When she said it out loud like that, it sounded pretty precious. Maybe Helene was right. Maybe she should just make the stuff up and stop stressing so much about it?

“But you think it would be ethical for me to ring you?” He pushed long legs out in front of him and gave her a quizzical look.

“Well, of course it would be. You’re a real person with a real problem. You’ve just said so yourself. So it would be authentic and our listeners would get that straight away. It would be perfect to get me started off.”

He smiled. “So tell me a bit more about it then. Are you excited about this chance to go on-air?”

“Excited? No. Terrified more like. I’ve told Helene it’s probably going to flop. Helene’s my boss.”

“So how do you know it’s going to be a flop?”

Tess shrugged. She was beginning to regret starting up this conversation. She thought he’d just agree to do what she asked, or not. But he was giving her the third degree. “I suppose I don’t know for sure. But …”

“Look, I’d
like
to help,” he said. “But it does seem weird, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’d have to broadcast my problem on-air and have everyone hear it?”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about anybody recognising you, if you don’t live around here. It’s not as if Atlantic has a huge audience. Helene, my boss, says we’re haemorrhaging listeners! As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the only people who get to hear your problem are myself and Ollie, the presenter. And Helene and a few of the rest of the staff of course. And my parents – they always listen in on the internet. And my sister Verity – she lives in London.”

“So what else can you tell me about the station?”

“It’s tiny. But maybe for not much longer.”

“Why?”

Now he really was curious! Hah – she was reeling him in! But just in time she remembered Helene’s dire warnings about not spreading rumours and she pursed her lips.

“I can’t really say any more. Sorry.”

“Okay. So what if I want to help you out? How do we do it?”

Tess felt a wave of elation. He was interested! She sat back and breathed a long sigh of relief. “That would be fantastic! This is my plan. You tell me what your problem is, I go away and research all I can about it – see what a real professional might have to say about it. And then when you ring me on-air on Monday,” she added rapidly before he could change his mind, “I’ll have the answer all ready for you. The listeners will think you’ve just phoned in off the cuff and I’m just very clever at answering problems.” She made a face. “Sorry if I’m destroying the magic of radio for you.”

He leaned back in his chair, contemplating his scuffed, tan cowboy boots. “No, it’s all very interesting. But here’s something I don’t understand. You have a new slot on a tiny flop of a station with hardly any listeners – if nobody rings in, what’s the big deal? If there’s so few people listening in, who will even know?”