My final candidate is called Paula. She’s in her mid-thirties, single and a DIY enthusiast.
‘I love doing up old buildings,’ she gushes as I show her around the flat. ‘This place is perfect. Would the landlord mind if I stripped all the kitchen cupboards and repainted them?’
‘You could ask him.’
She grins. ‘I am getting excited already. This place has so much potential.’
We sit down for the interview, and like the others, she goes to sit on my chair first. ‘That’s my chair,’ I say, feeling agitated.
She smiles and runs her hand over the wooden arms. ‘I will do wonders with this tatty old chair.’
Her words are like stinging drips of hot fat on my skin. ‘It’s not a tatty old chair.’
She ignores me and carries on gazing at it. ‘When I have finished with this chair, it will look amazing.’
‘You’ll not be touching my chair.’
Paula sits down on it and screws up her face. ‘Oh, God, it’s saggy.’
Anger ripples through me. I’ve had enough of this. ‘Get out.’
‘What?’ She looks horrified.
‘Please leave. The interview is over.’
When she’s gone, I sit in my chair, and Lenny jumps onto my lap. I stroke him and try to ignore my financial worries. Picking up my phone, I open Facebook and click on Cynthia’s page. Perhaps I should consider working for her? I know the thought makes me uncomfortable, but this is a worrying situation. I could work after the bookshop has closed. She’s currently hosting a Facebook Live event for her followers, so I log in to it. She’s at her magic table, selecting tarot cards. ‘Pat from Huddersfield,’ she says, looking directly at the camera. ‘Someone is returning from your past.’
Behind her, two young children are arguing. She tries to explain to Pat from Huddersfield, who I assume is on Facebook Live, why the person is returning from the past, but is interrupted by a child’s scream.
‘Sorry about this,’ she says and turns around. ‘Lance – stop hitting your brother, and Vincent – stop kicking or I’ll put you in a field and feed you carrots.’
A teenage girl wanders into the magical garage holding a phone. ‘Mum, I’m trying to buy Drake tickets on your credit card, but it keeps getting declined.’
‘Cassandra!’ screams Cynthia, ‘I never said you could use my credit card, and right now I am on a bloody Facebook Live.’
‘Mum, I need Drake tickets,’ snaps Cassandra. ‘Your card has been declined seven times. I thought you were minted.’
I close Facebook. I can’t work for Cynthia. My curse, combined with that level of chaos, would make me lose my sanity.
After a deep breath, I open Instagram and check out Oliver’s profile. The only thing I know about him is that he’s a romance author and his father is Frank’s boss.
Scrolling through his Instagram grid, I notice it’s filled with pictures of bookcases, stacks of notebooks, jars of pencils, a cat curled up on various chairs, and selfies of him writing alone at café tables. It feels so… nice, which is a little unsettling.
There are no photos of any girlfriends, which contrasts with Sam’s Instagram grid, where his ex-girlfriend appeared in nearly every other picture. I asked Sam about this, and he said it would have been a hassle to delete all her photos, as they had been together for six years. Looking back now, I should have seen this giant red flag and listened to my curse.
Oliver might like to keep his personal life off social media, which is probably the case. Perhaps Sam isn’t a good comparison?
I go onto Google and look at a couple of his recent author interviews. His debut book topped the book charts, and his subsequent books have gone viral on TikTok. I look at Amazon – all his books have thousands of positive reviews.
After returning to Instagram, I stare at his profile picture. ‘You are my last resort, Oliver James.’
9
‘I’ve had a rethink.’ After taking in a deep breath, I squeeze my hands together. ‘About my flat.’
Miranda is busy telling me where she bought her leopard-print dress and its eye-watering price tag. It takes her brain a few seconds to process what I have just said. She stops talking, and her face lights up.
‘I do need a flatmate and…’ I’m struggling to push the words out.
