Poor Girl Claire had rung – again. I’d just finished a group session. I had a busy evening ahead and didn’t really have


the time to spare but the message on my answer-phone sounded urgent. It was raining by the time I got to her house. Poor Claire, the British weather did not do her any favours; her


skin kept its grey pallor come hail or shine. She suffered from hay fever and bronchitis. Consequently, she didn’t get out much. Over the years, she and I had become friends. We didn’t live in each other’s pockets but were close enough


for me to confide my romantic problems. She always listened intently – I think she found it fascinating. Claire made herbal tea. We carried our cups into the dining room and sat cross-legged on the rug; between


us a wooden table with elephant legs; Claire had a penchant for ugly furniture. She had a style all her own – there were spider plants in macramé hanging baskets, durries on the purple painted walls, oil burners and long flowery dresses were not my cup of tea, but the 1960’s effects gave her something to hide behind. In the summer, she wore shades.


“I’m thinking of dumping Gary,” I told her. Claire looked over the rim of her teacup in horror. “You’re breaking it off? But the wedding…you’ve ordered


your dress!” A slight blush rose in my cheeks. “That dress won’t go to waste. I’ve been seeing Adrian and well, he’s asked


me to marry him and you know what he’s like, doesn’t take no for an answer.” Claire disapproved, I could tell. She spooned extra sugar in her tea. “Will you ever settle down?” she said. More to herself than me. “Soon,” I said. She sighed. She seemed distracted today, which is probably why she rang and asked if I had an opening.


Usually I charge extra for one to one consultations, but Claire is one of my special cases. “‘I’m so grateful you could fit me in,” she said. “That’s okay, but I’m meeting Ade at eight so I’ll have to hurry you.” “I really don’t want to put you out,” she stammered. “I’m here now, we might as well get on with it.” I would have felt guilty leaving her. I took a box of Tarot cards from my bag. “Had any of your fabulous dinner parties lately?” I asked as


I opened it. “I’m having a big one next Friday,” she chirped. “Got some friends coming down from Scotland and we…” I let her talk while I shuffled. She was saying nothing new, just a variation on a theme: friends arriving from


miles away, food from a different country each time, the best wine, laughing until the early hours. Dreams are free or so they say. I would love to know what Claire would really be doing on Friday night – I’d call in, but Adrian will probably take me to the theatre. “Give them a quick shuffle,” I said and passed her the cards. “What do you want?” “‘The Celtic Cross please,” she said, smiling. Claire was one of those people who when they smiled you wished they hadn’t. Smiling made her left eye,


which was slightly larger than the right, turn off at an angle as if she were trying to see behind her. Quite unnerving in certain lights. She pushed the shuffled pack across the table and I laid out the spread. “I don’t expect to see a lot,” I said. “You only had a reading six weeks ago, not much could have changed.” I turned over the first two cards. As usual, here was Claire, in the middle of the layout, represented by the


Queen of Wands. This time, though, instead of the Two of Coins crossing it and pointing out her money worries, the Two of Cups had turned up.


26


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