3 Evie

3

Cyrus splashes vinegar on his fish and chips. The smell catches in my throat, making me want to gag.

‘That's one way to ruin a meal,' I say.

‘Don't knock it until you try it.'

‘Pass.'

We look for somewhere to sit and eat, preferably in the shade, but the pier is crowded with randoms who stink of suntan lotion and range in colour from pink to parboiled. This is the hottest summer anyone can remember, and Cyrus says he's worried about climate change, but most of the people on the beach seem to welcome the planet getting warmer.

‘Did you notice that woman looking at you?' I ask. ‘In the café – she was trying to make eye contact.'

‘Was she?'

‘You never notice when women flirt with you.'

‘Maybe I notice, but I ignore them,' he says.

‘What was she wearing?'

‘Apricot-coloured shorts. A cream camisole. White sandals. Sunglasses perched on her forehead.'

‘You're an arsehole!'

He laughs. We finish our fish and chips and drop the bundles of greaseproof paper into a rubbish bin.

‘What would you like to do now?' he asks.

‘Ice cream,' I say, licking salt off my fingers and tucking my arm into his. ‘And then I get to choose.'

‘When is it my turn?' he asks.

‘Never. White male privilege is dead.'

We leave the pier and cross the esplanade to a gelato parlour with a brightly coloured sign advertising twenty-four flavours. I order a double scoop and insist Cyrus does the same so I can taste his choices.

‘This way,' I say, licking a creamy drip off my wrist. I lead him past an amusement arcade and a promenade of shops selling tacky souvenirs and blow-up beach toys. We stop outside a house that I noticed earlier, which has a red-painted door and dark curtains and a sign in the window.

Psychic Counselling – past lives, tarot, runes,

palmistry, numerology and intuitive healing.

It is not by chance that you have found this place.

You are here for a REASON and I am here to help.

‘You're not serious,' says Cyrus.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Palm reading. Fortune telling. Psychic healing. It's bunkum.'

‘Don't you believe in the spirit world?'

‘No.'

‘But you live in a haunted house.'

‘It's old, not possessed.' He looks back towards the beach. ‘These people are scam artists. They ask leading questions, fishing for information, reading body language and picking up on verbal clues.'

‘But that's what you do,' I say.

‘That's different. I'm a psychologist.'

‘Maybe you have a closed mind. My grandma was a psychic. She started seeing ghosts when she was little, and she could remove curses. She also saw auras. She'd look at someone and say, "You're blue" or "You're red".'

‘Genius,' he says.

‘Don't be a dick.'

‘Please don't waste your money. The future isn't written on your hand or floating in a crystal ball.'

‘It's my money,' I say, holding out my hand, wanting his wallet.

‘How does that work?'

‘I'll pay you back.'

I take a twenty-quid note and push open the door. A bell tinkles above my head and a woman appears. I expect her to be dressed like a gypsy, but she looks like she's been cleaning her oven.

‘Hello. My name is Madame Semanov, but you can call me Cindy. What's your name?' she asks.

‘Evie.'

She peels off pink rubber gloves and lights a cigarette, waving it like a magician's wand. ‘Are you here for a life reading or a spiritual reading?'

‘What's the difference?'

‘A life reading focuses on your personal journey, while the spiritual reading speaks to loved ones who have passed.'

‘The second one,' I say, not really understanding the distinction.

‘Right you are.' She fills her lungs with smoke and inclines her head to one side, screwing up one eye, as she studies me. ‘How old are you?'

‘Twenty-two.'

‘You look younger.'

‘I get that a lot.'

‘Are you studying?'

‘No.'

Waving the smoke away with her hand, she crushes out the cigarette and leads me through a heavy curtain into a dark room with a round table covered in a black cloth. I expect to see shelves full of crystals and tarot cards and crystal balls, but this looks like someone's cluttered sitting room. I can see a flat-screen TV partially hidden under a blanket.

‘Sit yourself down, petal,' says Cindy. ‘Who is the loved one you wish to contact?'

‘My mother.'

‘When did she pass?'

‘A while ago.'

Why should I help her?

Cindy closes her eyes and runs her hands over the tablecloth, as though drawing invisible symbols on the velvet. I hear a gurgling sound that could be her stomach rumbling, or something in her plumbing. She ignores the noise.

‘I always see a reading as a spark of knowledge,' she says, ‘and proof that we are more than just our physical form. We exist before we are born and after we die.'

She opens one eye to see if I understand and then continues.

‘When I converse with a spirit, I sometimes download the wrong message, so if I start to ramble, or talk rubbish, you have to stop me.'

Already, I have a bad feeling about this. I can't tell if Cindy is lying because she believes what she's saying, but not completely.

‘Do you have a photograph of your mother?' she asks.

‘No.'

‘Anything at all that belonged to her?'

‘I have a button that came from her coat, but I didn't bring it with me.'

‘Is that all?'

‘Yes.'

She frowns. ‘What was your mother's name?'

‘Marcela.'

‘Does she ever visit you – in your dreams?'

‘She talks to me sometimes.'

‘What does she say?'

‘She tells me to keep going.'

‘Oh, that's very good advice. Your mother is very wise. What exactly would you like to ask Marcela?'

‘I want to remember.'

‘Remember what?'

‘How she died.'

‘You don't know?'

I shake my head.

Cindy reaches across the table and takes my hand. I want to pull it away because I don't like being touched, but she holds my hand firmly and strokes her finger over my palm.

‘When you walked in here, you weren't alone.'

‘Pardon?'

‘There was a lovely woman behind you. There is a connection to your name. Your mother or grandmother, perhaps.'

‘I'm named after my grandmother.'

She smiles. ‘Evelyn.'

‘No. Adina.'

‘I thought you said your name was Evie.'

‘It's complicated.'

‘Well, she's sitting behind you now.'

Well, that's bullshit, I think, but I still look over my shoulder, hoping to see my gjyshe in her white headscarf and her high-waisted floral skirt.

Cindy's eyes are closed, and she's rocking back and forth. From somewhere under the table, I hear a knocking sound.

‘Is that you, Marcela? Don't be afraid. Come into the light. You're welcome.' Cindy's eyes open. ‘She's here.'

‘You can see her?'

‘I can feel her presence. Was she a loud woman?'

‘No, not really.'

‘Well, she's loud now. She's talking my ear off.' She looks past me. ‘Slow down, Marcela, I can't hear what you're saying.'

My heart sinks. She's lying to me now. Cyrus was right.

Cindy is still talking. ‘Marcela wants you to know that she's happy in Heaven, but she misses you very much.'

‘Mama didn't believe in Heaven,' I say.

‘Well, she had a pleasant surprise.'

‘Is Agnesa with her?' I ask, disappointed rather than angry.

‘Who?'

‘My sister.'

‘Is she also dead?'

‘Yes.'

Cindy raises a thinly plucked eyebrow. ‘Oh, petal, that's so sad.' She pulls her hand away, shaking her head.

‘What's wrong?' I ask.

‘She's gone.'

‘But you can get her back.'

‘Let's talk about something else. I think there's a man in your life. A boyfriend. Someone special.'

‘What? No. I want to talk to Mama. Ask her about Agnesa. Ask her what happened.'

‘It's too late.'

‘Cyrus said you were a fake.'

Cindy looks wounded. ‘Who's Cyrus?'

‘You tell me. You're the psychic.'

She puffs up like a peacock. ‘My great-great-grandmother told the fortunes of Tsar Nicholas of Russia and the Princess Alexandra.'

‘More bullshit!'

‘And the Romanov children.'

‘I want my money back.'

Cindy ignores me. ‘I see sadness in you, Evie. A wave of sadness. If you don't learn to trust people, that wave will drown you.'

‘More lies.'

‘Marcela said you could be close-minded.'

‘She said no such thing.'

Cindy reaches under the table. Moments later, I hear a door open and the curtains behind me are pulled apart, throwing light across the table. A man in baggy knee-length shorts and a sweat-stained vest scratches his crotch.

‘Aw right, love?' he asks.

‘Yeah. This lass was just leaving,' says Cindy.

He steps closer. ‘Time's up, sunshine. Any luck, you'll make it home in time for Blue Peter.'

I want to tell him that I'm not a child. More importantly, I want to kick his arse. I want to swagger out of here with my chest out and my pride intact and twenty quid in my pocket.

As I reach the front door, his hand touches my backside. I spin around and try to slap his face, but he ducks and grins.

‘Feisty,' he says.

‘Pervert,' I reply, but inside I'm screaming, Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. Hateful girl. Loser.