Karen places her shivering fingers round the rusty brass knocker and bangs loudly. The hollow sound of slow footsteps approaches and the door opens with a low groan. A lady in her late sixties stands expectantly before us. She’s frail, both hands crippled cruelly with arthritis, and she relies on a wooden stick for support. Her thinning hair is fastened at the back of her head in a tight grey knot. She wears a mustard coloured jumper and brown slacks cover her bowed legs.
‘You must be Karen.’ The formal tone of her voice reminds me of an old schoolmistress.
‘That’s me. And this Abby.’ Karen links her arm through mine, her bright eyes gleaming in nervous excitement.
‘Excuse the state of my hanging baskets.’ The woman raises her eyebrows at me, shooting a knowing look. ‘My arthritis has been shocking. It’s months since I could grasp the watering can properly.’
I shake my head, briefly perturbed, before dismissing her statement as a weird coincidence. We’re led into a large drawing room. A wooden dreamcatcher sways in front of a single-glazed bay window. Slatted, once white blinds are layered with dust.
‘Sit, please.’ The lady gestures to a worn leather couch. I realise I don’t know her name.
‘Sorry, I’m Esmerelda.’ She introduces herself to both of us but looks at me intently once again. Ok, this is creeping me out now.
‘Who wants to go first?’ Esmerelda breaks the silence, looking between us.
Thankfully, Karen jumps at the chance, still absurdly excited at the prospect of handing over a hundred and fifty quid for a ten-minute stab in the dark at her impending future. The enormous sapphire engagement ring on her finger states the obvious. I could offer more of an insight, and I’d happily do it for free.
‘Come.’ Esmerelda leads Karen through another doorway into a small study.
Half an hour passes, I know because I check my watch fifty times, wondering what on earth could take so long. Eventually, the study door opens. Karen emerges with tear-streaked cheeks.
‘Are you okay?’ Adrenaline surges within at the sight of my normally vivacious friend.
‘Be truthful with yourself.’ Esmerelda issues her parting advice, with a meaningful finality.
I hesitate in the doorway.
‘Don’t just stand there, dear, come in.’ Her patronising tone is one that only a woman of her age can get away with.
Inside the room, two mahogany armchairs face each other. Esmerelda places a small bottle of water on the table between us. I realise wryly, it’s the most expensive bottle of water I’ve probably ever had.
‘Sit.’
I do as I’m told, grateful there’s no crystal ball.
‘You’re sceptical.’ Her bony hands struggle to pull in the handles of her chair to draw her withering body closer to the table.
‘I’m not really into this stuff,’ I admit. ‘Would you prefer to leave it?’
I’m tempted to flee. But a newfound niggle of curiosity stirs in my stomach.
‘I’m here now.’
Esmerelda takes my hands in her cold decrepit fingers. She scrutinises and squeezes without uttering a single word. Does she do this to everyone, or is my future particularly worrying? My clammy palms stick to hers.
‘This is your heart line. It’s broken badly.’ She traces a curled-up finger over the curve of the first line across my palm.
What a cliché. Who hadn’t experienced some sort of heartbreak at the age of almost thirty?
‘The fact that it’s feathered at the end indicates that you are a very passionate lover.’ She smirks.
I’m unable to prevent the laughter that explodes from my lips. I knew this was a load of bollocks. I haven’t had a lover in four years. Not since Him.
‘Laugh now, but you’ll see.’ Her confidence is unwavering.
She’s wrong. There’s no way I’m letting anyone in again. My parents haven’t gotten over the shock of my last disaster. Besides, I don’t need anyone. My life is perfectly full. I rely pleasantly and reassuringly on only myself. There’s more chance of Donald Trump having a sex change and moving to Mexico than me taking a new lover. I bite my tongue out of politeness and allow her to do her thing.
The gentle ticking of a small antique clock above the grimy unlit fireplace is the only sound, bar my own ragged breathing. The water remains untouched in front of me, even though my mouth is as dry as the Sahara. It’s wine I need, not water.
