Gigi tilted his head, and for once there was no teasing lightness about him. ‘If I erased those memories, Beth, I wouldn’t just take away the pain. I’d take the version of you who learned to stand up again. The tenderness, the grit, the wisdom. Pain shapes, even when it cuts.’
‘But it hurts too much,’ she whispered. ‘I thought spending time with Jinnie and Angela’s babies meant I’d healed, but the pain is still there.’
‘Then let it hurt for now,’ he replied. ‘You’ll heal, in time. Scars aren’t pretty, but they’re honest. If you wish it away, the ache will find another corner. You’d still feel hollow, and you wouldn’t know why.’
Beth studied him, blinking through a film of tears. ‘You sound as if you know what that’s like.’
Gigi smiled faintly. For a fleeting instant, she thought she glimpsed something ancient and broken in his gaze. Centuries ofbeing trapped, perhaps, of having his own regrets worn down by time.
‘Let’s just say I’ve seen what forgetting does,’ he said lightly. ‘Play with me instead. Give me a frenzy worth writing to the Federation about.’
Beth wiped her cheeks and stepped closer to the machine. The butterfly shimmered above her, its wings flexing at lightning speed. She placed her fingers on the buttons, feeling a faint vibration beneath them – the hum of Gigi’s world. ‘Same rules?’
‘Always,’ said Gigi, with a mock bow. ‘Score high, and a wish might wobble loose. Score low, and you buy me a metaphorical drink.’
‘You don’t drink. Do you?’
‘Details,’ he said, winking.
She launched the ball. A bright ping, and the world narrowed to flippers and rollovers, lights that chased and chimed. Gigi whooped as if he were every crowd she’d ever needed.
‘Woohoo, she’s got the touch!’ Gigi cried, his voice echoing around the pub basement. ‘You’re in the multiball zone!’
Beth laughed despite herself, the sound bubbling up like a forgotten melody. She’d always been good at pinball, but tonight something clicked. Her reflexes sharpened, her focus narrowed, and her sadness ebbed away.
The score climbed; Gigi’s face turned from amused to mildly alarmed. ‘Have you been unfaithful? Been playing behind my back?’
‘Shush,’ she said, her eyes locked on the flashing lights.
The last ball bounced wildly, defying gravity, before slipping between the flippers. The machine flared gold and emitted a triumphant trill.
‘New high score,’ Gigi announced, clapping his glittering hands. ‘Well, butter my baps and call me Bertrand.’
Beth leaned back, panting lightly, and grinned. ‘What do I win?’
‘You win,’ Gigi said, serious again, ‘the reminder that you’re still here. Still alive. Still capable of joy. That’s worth more than any wish.’
She smiled, a tear sneaking down her cheek. Not the old kind of tear, the heavy, despairing sort, but something gentler. ‘You’re not a bad therapist, for a magical entity.’
‘Oh, I charge by the minute,’ he quipped, twirling an invisible moustache. Then, more quietly: ‘You’ve got wishes left, Beth. Use them wisely. Wishing is easy. Living with the consequences isn’t.’
The lights dimmed as he spoke, the golden sheen of his form dissolving into the machine. It made a noise like a hiccup before settling into silence.
Beth stood there for a moment, the smell of old wood and dust grounding her. Her heart was steady now, her breath calm. She knew the grief hadn’t vanished, but something had shifted inside her. A tiny, crucial sliver of acceptance.
‘Two wishes,’ she murmured to herself, tracing a fingertip along the glass. ‘No pressure, then.’
Somewhere inside the machine, a faint, mischievous chuckle echoed back.
Beth smiled. She pulled out her phone and texted Diana.
I’m in. Bring spare pants in case of spooky accidents.
Upstairs, rain ticked at the window and the pub creaked contentedly in its old bones. Down here, in the dim glow of score reels and stubborn hope, Beth stood with wishes she didn’t quite trust and a steadier breath than she’d had in months.
She picked up the flour sack of coins, knotted it tight, and laughed as the butterfly fluttered past her nose.
‘All right,’ she said to the room, to herself, to the stubborn ache that was beginning to abate. ‘Let’s live with it.’
