“I had this amazing reading with a fortune-teller. And she was like, ‘You’re about to meetthe one.’ And she described him, quite clearly. She said it was imminent. And then I’m locking up for her, because she went into labor. And while I was waiting for my taxi,boom, in he walked. And he was exactly as she described. Like, Ash, it was so clear. And he thought I was the fortune-teller. And so I told him his fortune. Obviously, I’m not trained or gifted or whatever. I’m not clairvoyant. I’m just Mara,” I say, ramming the point home.
“YouareMara,” he agrees, nodding. I like the way he says it, my name. With a long emphasis on the firsta.Maaara.
“And so, I just thought, I could tell him anything, you know? SoI said someone called Mara was his destiny and he’s coming here in August. In seven weeks. Seven weeks yesterday, in fact!”
“I have to say I can’t imagine you doing any of that,” he says, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe I did it either. What do you think?” I ask, turning myself on the stool to face him, our legs brushing together, and I rub at my knees awkwardly, as if trying to get rid of the lingering imprint.
“Sorry,” I say, pushing the stool back slightly.
“What, about the guy? Joe? You have faith that he’s going to come and find you.”
“I’m not... what?” This irritates me. “It’s notfaith.”
“Well, you believe it. You havefaithin it.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “I don’t expect people to get it. I can feel it inside me, that he’s going to come here. I know it with every fiber of myself. I believe I was supposed to tell him to come. You don’t think the universe has plans for you?”
He looks at me now, his eyes searching mine for a moment before he tears them away and looks back across the bar.
“If this Joe guy was meant to come into your life, then why not right then in that room? Why didn’t you just take the veil off and ask him out for a beer?”
“Because I’m not ready!” I say, exasperated. “Look at the state of me. Plus the fortune-teller was pretty clear I needed to fix up my life before it would all come together.”
Ash shakes his head from side to side and then scratches the back of his head. “I don’t think like you do about this stuff.”
“I get it, you went to Cambridge and did science and you believe in reason and you’re probably an atheist,” I say, “and life has no magic or soul or spirit or wonder.”
“I disagree with that assessment,” he says bluntly, but I’m on a slightly drunken roll now.
“And romantic love is just a series of hormones and brain chemicals, and we may as well just all do a test for it when we turn eighteen and find a match that way.”
“I don’t...” He frowns at this, and I feel his eyes down at my collarbone again. It makes me shift in my seat and tug at my top. “I definitely am notthatclinical.”
I felt the heat in his look that time. Or is it the vodka? Ash raises his hands as if he’s been caught out. “Look, it’s romantic and sweet that you believe Joe is coming here, and honestly, whatever you need to do. I get it. I really get it. Don’t listen to my cynical old ass.”
“You’re just saying that,” I say, leaning closer to him, looking him directly in the eye, my confidence growing with the vodka in my veins.
“You know better than anyone if there was a connection and what that might mean. You were there.” He looks down at his beer and nods to the bartender to get him another.
“I know it could all be wrong,” I say, shrugging, and for the first time I begin feeling uneasy. Could I be completely wrong? I’ve now told Charlie and Ash, and both of them have reacted—not with the dreamy excitement I’d hoped, but with unease. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
We sit for a moment in silence, and then I get that creeping realization that this visit to the pub has been all about me, and I’d better ask him some questions because humans are supposed to do that. But I’m also feeling the effects of the booze, my anxiety drinking now firmly affecting my vision and balance.
“Where did you get your haircut?” I ask, going for an easy conversation starter.
“Everyone under forty goes to Jackie or you end up with a purple wash and a perm,” he says.
“Ash?” I say, leaning into him now, partially for stability, his warm shoulder brushing mine. “I’m not some woo-woo weirdo witch or anything. I’m a bookkeeper. From Corbridge.”
Ash rolls his eyes to the ceiling and shakes his head. “You’re funny. Charming, really.”
“I’m charming?” I say, downing the last of my drink. I can hear myself slurring slightly.Must stop drinking.“Well, I hope so, because when Joe gets here and he sees me, he needs to find me charming too. And hot. Hair. Clothes. I really need new underwear also. Can you believe I bought my bra at M&S in 2011?” I am amused and slightly endeared to see Ash turning fire-engine red.
Ash shakes his head and puts a hand on the bar. “You know, you only need to be yourself. Otherwise, life will become really tiring really quickly.”
“It’s just a makeover. Don’tyouwant to improve your life?” This comes out with rather more of an accusatory tone than I intend.
