‘Because Cranley is boring, darling.’ Gigi sighed as though the very word induced ennui. ‘The perfect canvas. Genies were never meant to hog the spotlight. Stick us somewhere with glitz and glamour and we’d have punters queuing around the block for free iPhones and eternal youth. But Cranley? The most thrilling thing that happens here is a Bake Off at the church hall. You couldn’t get more beige if you spread the whole place on a digestive biscuit. Ideal for containing magical overflow without causing global panic.’
Beth chewed her lip. Beige Cranley. Yes, that rang depressingly true. But there was still one shiny, flashing, noisy elephant in the room.
She pointed at the pinball machine. ‘Then why, pray tell, are you stuffed inside this tacky contraption instead of a lamp? Isn’t that genie law? Oil lamps, mysterious smoke, belly dancing at the drop of a fez?’
Gigi puffed out his chest. ‘Tradition is such a bore. Do you know how cramped lamps are? You try folding yourself into a brass teapot for a few centuries. Crippling sciatica, darlin’. When the Federation of Benign Intelligent Beings offered upgrades, I jumped. Literally. My options were lava lamp, snow globeor pinball machine. And I thought, “Hey, who doesn’t love pinball?” Bright, noisy, addictive. Much like me.’
‘You chose this?’ Beth squawked. ‘You could’ve been in a lava lamp, swirling about seductively in neon pink, but no – you opted for this infernal bleeping monstrosity? And now I’m stuck wishing for things with the finesse of a toddler on a sugar high?’
‘Oh, don’t be melodramatic,’ said Gigi, though his pout deepened. ‘Pinball is culture. Retro chic. And besides, the Federation insisted I remain in constant proximity to humans. Lamps, snow globes, they get put away. Pinball machines? They live in pubs. Pubs mean chatter, ale, confessions, arguments – plenty of wish-fuel. I feed on intent, darlin’, not just words.’
‘But you’re notinthe pub! You’re in a dusty old basement surrounded by clutter. Or hadn’t you noticed?’
Gigi nodded, his jowls drooping. ‘Which is why I’m so grateful you dropped by. In fact, if you could arrange for me to take centre stage, I’d be made up to the max.’
Not happening.‘So you’re saying that every daft thought muttered into a pint glass might turn into … into whatever disaster you fancy?’
‘Not quite,’ said Gigi, smoothing his sleeve. ‘I’m selective. Or I used to be. That’s where this blasted WIFI gadget is cocking things up. It’s leaking wishes without my permission. Which is why you’ve had one-and-a-half granted already. Very sloppy business. Makes me look like a budget children’s entertainer.’
Beth clutched her head. Cranley, soporific little Cranley, a genie Holding Zone. Gigi, self-styled hipster of the magical world, trapped in a pinball machine. And now, dodgy wishes bleeding out and coming true, thanks to some malfunctioning genie tech.
‘I need a drink,’ she muttered.
Later that evening, after a decent number of hungry and thirsty customers, Beth perched on a stool nursing a white-wine spritzer. She caught Angela’s eye and waved her over.
‘You all right, Beth?’ Angela slid onto a stool, wiping her hands on a cloth that had seen better days. Like everyone else, she had no memory of the madness of the previous night. And although Beth itched to tell someone about Gigi, thoughts of Luke kept bubbling to the surface.
‘Not really,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s Luke.’
Angela raised her eyebrows. ‘As in estranged Luke?’
‘The very same. He rang me. Well, he asked me to call him. Apparently, he’s moving to some godforsaken island off the west coast. Wants to carve driftwood into art.’
Angela frowned. ‘Is he a carpenter? Ed can barely carve a Sunday roast without supervision.’
Beth gave a weak smile. ‘It’s his hobby. He’s an architect by profession but he’s always dabbled. He kept talking about salt spray and solitude and “finding his true self”. Like his true self has been hiding in a pile of wet sticks all this time.’
Angela sipped a lemonade and clinked her glass gently against Beth’s. ‘So what’s bothering you more? That he’ll vanish completely? Or that he’ll succeed?’
Beth stared into her fizzing drink. ‘Both. I haven’t told you why we split up, and I’m not ready to. Not yet.’
Angela gave Beth an encouraging smile. ‘You don’t have to. But when youare, I’ll be here.’
That kindness cracked something in Beth. The words came in a rush. Brittle at first, then unstoppable.
‘It was perfect for so long. Or it looked perfect. The house, the plans, the everything. Then it fell apart. I thought if I just stayed strong, maybe one day we’d fix it. But if he disappears to some island, that’s it. No more “maybe”. Just driftwood and silence. And I can’t tell if that’s a relief or a loss.’
Angela reached out, squeezed her hand. ‘Maybe you’ve carried him long enough. Let him drift, Beth. If he wants to play Robinson Crusoe with a chisel, that’s his business. You deserve something solid. Something that stays.’
Beth let out a fractured laugh. ‘That’s an interesting way of putting it.’
Angela smiled. ‘Trust me. Focus onyou. The bar. Your friends. Whatever it is you’ve got going on in that basement.’ Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp.
Beth froze, her cheeks warming. ‘What makes you say that?’
Angela just grinned. ‘Call it intuition. Around here, secrets don’t stay buried for long.’
Beth managed a weak smile. Maybe she was right. Maybe Cranley had its own strange rhythm – part gossip, part magic, part madness.
