ABBY
I’ve never been to a fortune teller before. I am a realist. Not for a single second do I believe a ‘gifted’ stranger has the power to divulge my fate, how many children I’ll have, or if there’s a man out there that I’d be mad enough to consider marrying. When my best friend Karen pleaded with me to go with her, I had ten days to formulate any number of wild and weird excuses, yet, I failed to come up with even one.
As the familiar Georgian buildings of Dublin City blur in my periphery, Karen negotiates four lanes of Monday evening traffic. Her erratic driving is something I’ve become dangerously accustomed to over the course of our four-year friendship. I wonder for the millionth time how this lunatic next to me assumed the role of my best friend. The simplest explanation is that she advertised for a flatmate and I applied. The long-winded version entails serious bonding over copious amounts of tears and wine.
‘She’s supposed to be the best in the country, although she’d want to be, for a hundred and fifty euro.’ She performs a last-minute lane change, forcing a neighbouring yellow Nissan to brake hard and beep furiously.
‘I’m in the wrong profession.’ I tut at her words, not her driving and blow a stray strand of hair from my face. My roots are in dire need of attention, but I’d rather spend my Saturday mornings at the park run than in a sweltering salon sipping watery coffee.
I flick on the ancient radio to accompany us, locating Ireland Today 97.5 FM, the station that employs me. Miraculously, I landed myself a job as a national radio presenter. My show’s called Ask Abby. It airs on weekdays from eleven a.m. until two p.m. Though I detest the phrase ‘agony aunt’, that’s precisely what I am. If it weren’t so ironic, it might be funny.
To me, it’s still hilarious that people seek my advice, considering my track record. Not that I advertise the teeny tiny insignificant fact that when it comes to love, I am beyond hopeless. On paper, I’m the perfect candidate for the position, with a master’s in journalism and a second degree in psychotherapy. The fact that I needed the psychotherapy qualification to primarily counsel myself is a very private matter. One which, funnily enough, I never discuss on the radio.
Sally’s Soul Show is currently on air. The problem with Sally is that she has no soul. She sold it to the sea witch somewhere along the line. Thank God for the music.
‘I listened to your show on Friday.’ Genuine enthusiasm affects Karen’s tone.
‘What did you think?’
‘Savage,’ she declares, taking a sideways glance at me. I worry when she takes her eyes from the road. Her black blue bob, complete with a scarlet headband, flicks back to the centre, to my relief. I’m not ready to die today. If we did die en route, would the fortune teller ring Karen to see why we hadn’t arrived? Or would she already know what had happened?
‘I couldn’t get over that woman who phoned in to confess her undying love for her next-door neighbour. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she wasn’t already married to his brother!’ Karen reminds me.
A flashback of a brash forty-year-old woman with a strong Donegal accent springs vividly to mind.
I think I managed to talk her out of it, though no amount of hand muffling over the handset would have disguised that voice.
‘And then that gay guy who explained how difficult it was to find a partner in Mayo nearly broke my heart.’
‘I know. Some of the rural counties aren’t as forward- thinking as the city. It must be hard,’ I sympathise.
‘The cities aren’t even that forward-thinking, to be honest.’
‘You never know who might have been listening.’ I hold a lot of hope when it comes to other people’s love lives.
‘You set for Friday?’ Karen asks.
We’re booked into Carton House, a five-star hotel in County Kildare, boasting one of the best spas in Ireland. I can practically taste the cocktails already.
‘Yep. Looking forward to a night away. Who else is coming?’
‘Kerry and Emma.’
Kerry and Emma are Karen’s old school friends. Though I didn’t join the clique until much later, they welcomed me with open arms, adopting me into their circle.
‘Where the hell is this place, by the way?’ It felt like we’d been in the car for hours already.
‘Only about another forty minutes away, if you trust Google Maps,’ she replies.
‘Forty minutes? These are hours of my life that I’ll never get back.’
‘Ha! Let’s be honest, Abs, it’s not like you’ve got a lot to rush home to on a Monday night,’ she teases.
‘Thanks for reminding me.’ It’s the truth. I live alone, I eat alone and I always go to bed alone, and I’m happy that way.
Google Maps is uncannily accurate. Forty minutes later, we arrive outside a crumbling cottage in the arse end of nowhere. The sky rages red against the Wicklow mountains. There’s zero sign of life. I’m not superstitious, but a chilling shudder rattles along the length of my spine. I’d rather be anywhere else in the world right now.
Sparse scatterings of gravel crunch sharply under my flat leather boots as we follow the pathway towards the paint peeled front door. Withering baskets of purple pansies, dying a slow, painful death, swing lifelessly in the evening breeze. How can a woman, who can apparently predict the future, not predict that her plants will die if she fails to water them?
