I imagine running from this eerie little room, free from this unusual and unconvincing little woman.
‘I’ve ascertained three things that might interest you. Not all from your palm. I get feelings about people. I’m never wrong.’
I might believe her had it not been for the ‘passionate lover’ remark.
‘Tell me,’ I beg, eyeing the closed door longingly. ‘An opportunity will arise at work.’
Huh. It could be an opportunity to go for a pee mid-show, which is a rare chance in itself.
‘Secondly, someone close to you will pass.’
My heart sinks. I only hope her predictions are as inaccurate as I suspect.
‘Thirdly, he’s called Patrick.’
‘The person that’s going to pass?’ I ask, despite claiming I’m a non-believer.
‘No, that was number two,’ she reminds me. ‘I don’t know the name of that person, but it’s definitely there. Try not to overthink it.’ She barely attempts to reassure me. Is this woman for real? No wonder Karen looked emotional.
I scrape my chair back and toss three crumpled fifty euro notes across the table.
‘Patrick’s the man you will marry. You will have a ring on that finger again – before the year is out,’ she declares with unquestionable certainty.
A hundred hairs prick on my neck. I pretend not to hear the word that she couldn’t possibly have known – again. The tell-tale tan band, long since faded.
‘Ready?’ I ask Karen. The two of us bolt from the drawing room together. I’ve never been happier to plonk my backside in Karen’s tatty passenger seat.
Neither of us utter a single word until we reach the motorway.
‘Karen O’Connor, I am telling you now, if you ever do that to me again, I’m going to have to seriously reconsider being your bridesmaid next year. Either that or I’ll tie you naked to a lamppost in Amsterdam at your hen party.’
‘I only hope she’s wrong. Or there will be no wedding for you to be a bridesmaid at!’ Karen’s practically hyperventilating. She winds the window down and gulps the cool evening air.
‘Of course she’s wrong.’
‘You probably thought the same though, before everything?’ She refers to the subject I deliberately evade.
‘That was different.’
Only later, when I’m lying in bed alone, does it occur to me that He Who We No Longer Discuss, is actually called Sean Fitzpatrick.
Coincidence, I remind myself.
