‘Fairy lights, bunting that I think looks mystical and glittery things,’ explains Miranda. ‘Readers who go to Rosie’s book signing table will be in for a real treat.’
The box makes me think of Cynthia’s garage.
Miranda pauses, turns around, and approaches the counter. ‘In Rosie’s book, there’s a chapter on love pouches and spells. There are also instructions on how to make them. Last night, I made Frank a special love pouch. Nelly, I am desperate. According to Rosie’s book, the aroma will seep into his brain and make him think about love.’
‘Doesn’t Frank have a lot of allergies? Did you check the ingredients of this pouch?’
She smiles. ‘He will be fine. I have put it under his side of the mattress.’
I find something to do underneath the counter in the hope Miranda will take a hint and go away.
‘It contains rosemary, flower petals and a lock of my hair. He can’t be allergic to my hair.’
‘Oh.’ I rustle some of our paper bags to give the impression I am busy.
‘That’s not all, Nelly,’ she gushes, the excitement lifting her voice a few octaves.
Miranda is gearing up to tell me something.
‘Last night I also cast a special love spell. I lit some cinnamon sticks, whispered our names into a jar of honey and rubbed wax on my…’
Sweet Jesus! I shoot up from behind the counter too quickly and bump my head. ‘Ouch – that hurt. Miranda, I don’t want to know.’
She giggles. ‘I will let you know if all these spells work, and you can try them on Oliver.’
I groan as she walks away with a hop and a skip.
To take my mind off my exhaustion and Miranda’s attempt at a love spell, I restack the new-fiction display table and serve a few customers.
I also perform a small miracle when a woman asks me to help her find ‘that book with the blue cover that was on TV last year.’ It takes me a while to find it, but to my frustration, she buys another book.
* * *
It’s the afternoon, and Rosie Flint’s book signing is in full swing. Miranda has kept me busy, so I haven’t been able to flick through Rosie’s book. I’m lingering near her table, listening to her explain to an eager reader about the healing powers of crushed lavender.
Rosie Flint looks like she’s spent too long in Cynthia’s garage. Her mass of brown hair has been sprayed with a glittery hairspray; her ears are struggling to hold her huge moon-shaped earrings and her cheeks are covered in stick-on hearts. I’m not judging her appearance. This woman could be my heroine. I can’t stop staring at her book’s sparkly purple cover. Inside that book could be a set of instructions on how to lift my curse. By tonight, I could be free from its shackles.
Once the signing queue dies down, I step forward to greet Rosie. I’m not going to admit to having a curse. Instead, I am going to pretend to be helping a troubled friend.
‘I have a friend,’ I say as Rosie looks at me and smiles. ‘She thinks she might be cursed.’
Rosie’s face lights up. ‘I love a good curse story – especially ones involving family mirrors. Has your friend seen unimaginable things in her family’s antique mirror?’
I wish my curse were as simple as gazing into an old mirror. My life would be a lot easier if all I had to worry about were what I saw in a mirror.
‘This friend’s curse is different,’ I explain. ‘She touches someone, and she sees how love ends.’
My eyes are glued to her face. I am waiting for some sign of recognition. I want her to tell me that she has researched this type of curse and has extensive knowledge about it.
Rosie blinks and tilts her head to one side. ‘This sounds fascinating.’
Is that all she has to say? My curse is not fascinating. Irritation simmers inside of me.
‘Tell me more,’ says Rosie.
‘My friend sees cheating love rats, lying scoundrels, fatal accidents, and tragic deaths of childhood sweethearts.’
Rosie takes out a hankie and dabs at her sweaty brow. ‘That sounds intense.’
