He makes me jolt, and I spill hot tea over my thighs. ‘Ouch,’ I cry, putting down the mug and rising from my chair as the heat seeps through my jeans. Oliver rushes into the kitchen, grabs a tea towel and races over to me. ‘My fault,’ he says, handing it to me, ‘I made you jump.’
Silently, I agree with him about the spillage being his fault – he needs to do up the buttons on his shirts when he’s inside my flat.
As I wipe my jeans with the tea towel, my mind goes into freefall – why didn’t I see a vision? Has my curse disappeared? Excitement takes hold of me. My twenty-four-year-old curse might have gone, and I could be free.
He’s pointing to my bookshelves. ‘Do you mind if I have a little browse?’
‘You haven’t done so already?’
‘I’ve been so hungover. Anyway, I’m curious about what a fellow anti-romance person reads.’
He wanders over to the bookshelves. Reaching out, he points to one. ‘Norwegian Wood. Interesting but melancholic.’
‘My kind of read.’ I force myself sit back in my chair and sip my tea when all I want to do is get excited.
He points to another. ‘Atonement. Good but tragic.’
‘It’s realistic.’
I watch him point to another book. ‘The Bell Jar. It’s a classic but?—’
‘I enjoyed the symbolism of the mental confinement.’
He chuckles. ‘Nelly, we’re going to be great flatmates once I stop causing accidents.’
After he returns to the sofa, I watch him place the flannel over his head and lie back. ‘You need some books by a cool author I know.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Oliver James – you heard of him? He has terrible hangovers and needs some sympathy.’
‘Not when it is self-inflicted,’ I say, lightly.
‘Did I say anything whilst drunk?’
‘You wanted me to hug you.’
He groans. ‘This is embarrassing.’
‘You also were talking about how you hate someone called Rory.’
He falls silent, gazing up at the ceiling. I make a mental note of the name Rory.
My mind feels like a snow globe. When I didn’t see a vision earlier, it was like someone shook the snow globe. My mind is now full of hundreds of thoughts about my vanishing curse, which are like tiny snowflakes.
His phone buzzes. After glancing at the screen, he rises from the sofa. ‘Have a nice evening, Nelly.’
I watch him stagger out of the living room. He doesn’t look like he can handle another night of partying, but maybe this is how he is in London? Perhaps this is normal for him?
As the flat door slams, I leap up from my chair. I get up and go to my record player. It’s time to dance to Coldplay. My curse has gone. I turn up the volume and dance like crazy. Lenny gives me one of his judgy cat looks, but I don’t care. This is a historic day.
After I have danced out my excitement, I sit down and think about all the things I have tried over the years to get rid of my curse. The recent attempts were from J.K. Fielding’s writings and his advice on lifting curses. His book came with the bold promise, ‘Guaranteed Results.’ I should have been freed from my curse after his tenth herbal cleansing bath, burning fifteen sage sticks, and scattering a magic salt trail that made my flat look like a margarita cocktail rim. Instead, my curse remained, and I was left with an angry skin rash, a flat that stank for days, and no money. I had to spend a small fortune on skin creams to stop the itching and bathroom cleaning products, as my bath never fully recovered.
Lenny and I have a wonderful evening together. We sit and watch the busy street below, filled with evening restaurant-goers, groups of young people embarking on their night out, and tired workers enjoying a drink before heading home. ‘I’ll be out there soon,’ I say to Lenny. ‘Now that I’m curse-free, I can socialise like normal people.’
It takes me a long time to fall asleep as I am worked up. As part of my ‘curse has vanished’ celebration, I have put on my pink pyjamas, which are adorned with little grey cats. Lenny snuggles up to me as he loves my outfit. I finally drift off and dream about going to a Coldplay concert and standing in a packed music crowd without seeing any troubling visions. Just as my dream gets interesting – Chris Martin has spotted me in the crowd and by the look on his face, he likes what he sees – I am woken by the flat door slamming.
‘Not again,’ I wail, throwing back my duvet.
