‘Well, this is the perfect solution. You get help with your rent and a bare, muscular chest to gaze at while you eat your cornflakes.’
‘I don’t want to gaze at a?—’
She interrupts me. ‘Nelly, you’re an attractive, single, young woman. I worry about you not dating. You also live like a hermit.’
‘I’m not interested in dating.’
‘When I was your age, I was wild. I had a string of fellas after me and a permanent dent in my mattress.’
She winks, and I die a little inside.
If there’s one thing I hate more, it’s listening to one of Miranda’s pep talks. When will she accept that I’m not like her?
‘If you’re worried about this chap being a weirdo or a potential serial killer with a doll collection, don’t be,’ Miranda says, tapping me on the arm.
There’s a flash of white light. When it clears, I see the same vision I’ve had for years: Frank pushing a pram and calling himself ‘Daddy’. I’ve never told her about my curse or what I see for her and Frank. Their future makes me uneasy. She’s always claimed that children were never on their radar. The future, apparently, disagrees. I shove the vision into the darkest depths of my mind and pop a boiled sweet into my mouth.
Miranda is looking over at the romance section. She’s pointing and speaking but I can’t hear her.
The sound of the bookshop comes rushing back to my ears. Miranda is mid-sentence. ‘…he’s the son of Frank’s boss and…’ She enjoys dramatic pauses. ‘His books are in this shop.’
‘Who are you talking about? Books? What do you mean?’
She draws an imaginary heart shape in the air with her fingers. ‘The guy who needs a room – he’s a romance author.’
‘Really?’
She nods. ‘Oliver James.’
Ugh – that name rings a bell. I glance at the new romance book display table Miranda set up last week. It’s currently dominated by Oliver James’s latest pastel-pink novel,Love Me Forever. The cover features a lovestruck couple gazing into each other’s eyes. His name is emblazoned across the top in swirly gold letters. I can’t walk past the table without rolling my eyes or physically flinching.
Romance authors like Oliver James spend their lives writing books that convince readers that love conquers all and that soulmates can be found in idyllic settings, such as florists or bakeries. They make me want to believe in love, but my curse always reminds me of the lies, the ghosting, the serial cheaters, the tragic accidents that take the good ones while they are cycling around town or those who can’t seem to forget their ex-partners.
Miranda tidies up the array of glittery pens, notebooks, and bookmarks by the till. ‘I only found out this the other day,’ she explains. ‘You’d think Frank would have told me sooner that his boss has a son who’s a bestselling romance author. Frank knows the bookshop has been struggling financially. Having direct access to the author everyone’s talking about right now would be a game-changer for me.’ She sighs. ‘Sometimes I wonder what goes on inside his head.’
‘Oliver James is moving here?’
Miranda nods. ‘He’s selling his flat in London and wants to rent a room for six months.’
‘Why would someone like Oliver James come here?’ I murmur.
She shakes her head. ‘I have no idea. You’d think Oliver would go live with his father, who, I might add, lives in Cornwall in a large, flashy house, and each week, a new bikini-clad woman sits in his hot tub. I’ve seen his Instagram photos. I bet Oliver’s late mother is rolling in her grave, watching her husband behave like a wealthy playboy. Oliver should head for Cornwall and join his father.’
This is a helpful reminder to me. Heartbreak still finds you in the afterlife.
‘Maybe Oliver doesn’t want to live with his father.’
Miranda ignores me and pulls out her phone. ‘I know I’m technically old enough to be Oliver’s aunt, but if he were interested in a fun, fifty-something woman with a lively personality, a pair of flexible hips, and a personal fashion stylist, I wouldn’t say no.’
‘Miranda, you have Frank!’ I exclaim.
She rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t think Frank knows I exist.’
I watch her take out her phone, scroll, then hold the screen in front of me. I find myself staring at a photo of Oliver James. He looks like he’s from a romance novel. My heart skips a beat. He is annoyingly handsome, with perfectly tousled hair and dark eyes that evoke thoughts of a rich, dark coffee.
‘Do you like what you see?’
I blink at him and then at Miranda.
