The Perfect Fit - A Psychic Romance, Laney's Past Life & Love (2 page)

It's not that I haven't had offers, but they're usually from guys not able to have a proper relationship or ones I just don't fancy. But then that is probably due to the fact that I'm talking to the wrong guys. I don't know, it all seems a lot of fuss and bother. I've spent a lot of time creating a place of peace for myself and it seems that a relationship threatens that somehow.

But it's not just my love life that's not working; my financial situation is pretty shot too. Although not yet in the desperate stakes. Having sold the property and businesses, infact having sold everything from that previous existence I've had a buffer. It was a good thing although maybe it has made me lazy or complacent.

I've had several failures in the finance department. I bought a truck for my brother, intending to do some properties up with him but we never agreed on the size of project and we somehow both lacked the commitment to actually make anything happen. I probably wasn't in the frame of mind to take any risks and ended up playing it too safe and that basically meant that nothing got done.

I opened a couple of small shops, the idea being to employ family members to run them, but that too fizzled out but not until I'd spent thousands fitting the shops out and stocking them. The location was too quiet and could not sustain much business; I eventually took the decision to stop the rot before it got any worse.

Then I got involved in the internet marketing world, hoping to help a friend get their book published and that seemed to suck hours, days and weeks of time as well as endless amounts of money. There was always another piece of software required, another site to build, another strategy to employ, all promising it was done by the touch of a button and yet the reality was many hours of work were required and
then
the touch of a button, which inevitably then led onto another button.

The friend with the book ultimately became more than a friend. Hours spent listening to his thoughts, recording them and typing them up ended up with me falling in love with a married man. He had a refreshing spiritual attitude to life.

I ended up renting a large house to accommodate him and his son, he'd said he and his wife were living separately under the same roof, she was seeing someone else. He said things were finishing anyway, and that it would all be very spiritually civilised. It transpired to not be quite so simple and certainly not civilised. The moment she realised he might actually be in love, she became more vicious and abusive, to him and his son.

Now I can see my naivety and it is pretty painful to observe. I was paying all the bills and funding his inability to function in the real world. His wonderful spiritual ideals did not translate across into daily life too well. Everything around him was chaos, his youth-like charm morphed into childlike inadequacy.  

Although I loved him dearly and still do in a way, I couldn't pretend that it was good for any of us. I could see it wouldn't work like that. I knew if it became too easy and comfortable for him, he would never want things to change and I could not afford to make supporting him a long term plan. I sat it out for two years, embroiled in a swarm of solicitors, arguments and accusations, appeasing him, his child and the neurotic ex.

I'd longed for a partner "just like me" unfortunately in him I got one. In that we had both been abused by our previous partners. We had learned to compromise in the vain pursuit of peace, a peace that never materialised. Apparently this is 'cosmic ordering'; ask for what you want with enough energy and the universe will deliver. The trouble is I've obviously got to be a lot more specific.

I'd spent a lot of time and money on therapy and counselling, he hadn't. Although I was advised that he would be toxic for me, I went ahead anyway.

I hoped that together we would be strong and but he still had habits that were hard to break. He couldn't stand strong, most of the time he spent down on his knees. He would agree to pretty much anything and anyone, particularly to the one who shouted the loudest and his ex knew every button and just how hard to press. To make it more bizarre, he was often in the position of advising other people on their relationships and I just couldn't live with the disparity anymore. It was a lie and I couldn't be part of that, not if that was going to be how our life together was going to be.

I decided to give notice on the four bedroom house and take a 3 bed several miles away, making a clean break. It was no good and it had to stop. Bless him, he agreed. He'd got used to being the additional user on my credit cards; I'd made it all too easy for him. I was paying for him to be with me. Once that thought struck me, it was over.

He loved me and I loved him but he needed to carve out a life and sort himself out before he could function in an adult relationship and I certainly did not want to see him as my third child, which was what it was beginning to feel like.

God, just thinking about it makes me exhausted. No wonder relationships are hardly the most appealing prospect. I like time on my own and know that if anything it is very necessary for me but I would like to feel the warmth of arms around me again. I want to feel love and be loved. To be close to someone, to share times and special moments, to laugh and live life again.  At the same time it has to be real and have depth.

My most recent house move had been more of a strain than the others. It left me feeling fractured and out of sorts. Both of the girls have left uni now and are starting jobs in different parts of the country. So for the first time ever I only have to think about me. I'm not so sure I like that too much and I'm not sure I'm very good at it.

Mixed in with all my mixed-upness is the realisation that they have both left home. I suppose I feel a bit superfluous now. I'm not sure I know what to do and how to be. Every time they leave after a visit, I have to distract myself as within seconds, I've watered up. Watching them leave doesn’t get any easier, it's probably worse, as when they were younger they were just off to school or friends, back for tea. Now I might not see them for weeks at a time.

So I've downsized to a nice two bed apartment, on the first floor. Apparently the building used to be a pub about fifteen years ago, which would explain the ridiculously high ceilings. A beautiful period property but I live in it, pretty much as a hotel, as if I'm visiting rather than living here. I haven't made it mine yet.

I've always needed to be in rural areas, having been brought up on a farm but over the past few years I've noticed I can easily live like a recluse. I even call myself a hermit; the last cottage I was in, I might go a couple of weeks without seeing anyone. Laughingly I'd refer to myself as the crazy, bearded artist in the woods and on finding a few stray chin hairs several months back I've now stopped saying that. I have learnt my lesson on that account, my dubious skill at cosmic ordering has certainly taught me to be careful about what I wish for.

Trying to make sure this move really was different I made the conscious decision to move to a place with people. Not being tied by work or commitments as such, I could pretty much go anywhere.
Where
was the problem; I figured maybe a town or city, at least the prospect of people and finding regular paid work would be better in town.  A big contributing factor in my decision to move was my father.

In his seventies, he spends most of his days alone; him and his chickens on a wild patch of land. He does have a home to go to but prefers to spend his days outside and alone; catching the odd fifty winks in a filthy shed, away from the world.

I looked at him and could see that if I was not careful that could just as easily be me in a few years time. If I keep shunning the world, it will shun me. I might replace the chickens with canvases to paint and books to write, my filthy shed might be a pretty three bedroom cottage but other than that he and I were very much the same.

Hence here I am in town. Instead of living like a hermit on my own, I'm living like one with people around. You see, nothing ultimately changes.

I did consider city life but it has never really appealed. There are too many people and everyone seems in such a rush. I did make a mammoth road trip with my daughter to suss out a few areas. I thought maybe Bath or Oxford, but after two solid days of feeling overwhelmed and lost, I settled here; an ancient coastal town in Dorset big enough to have stuff going on but small enough to not freak me out. It's quite well 'to do' as granddad would say and is popular with tourists and day trippers. The ham stone walls and the architecture remind me of France, somewhere I've always had a soft spot for.

Apparently I've spent many previous lives there in France. Since my divorce I've been to some spiritually inspired workshops and tried lots of alternative therapies. Some time ago I had several regression sessions exploring past lives. I think I was secretly hoping I'd come up with answers about my life, and a better understanding about what was going on in this one. And after each one, I kind of did but it doesn't seem to last. Here I am, still lost and still alone.

God I feel a bit sad for writing this, but it's true and although it is sad, I don't feel morose or depressed. It's just a sad realisation of that is how I honestly feel. A little numb to life, wishing things were different that I could experience love but without the faintest idea of how to go about it. I've done stuff other people have tried and has worked for them but it's not the same for me. Right up to this point I haven't done anything for me. I am numb to my own heart, my own wants and needs. I don't get too fazed by life but I don't get excited by it either. At some point I opted for dull mediocrity and safety, hoping no one will notice me. But to feel love, the way I want to feel it, someone has got to notice and just the thought of that alone makes me wobbly. It feels scary. What's scary? Trusting someone on that level, sharing myself with them, the good, the bad and the indifferent. It's hard to imagine that there is someone out there for me, someone who might be the perfect fit.

Although I can write for hours in my journal, I often don't come up with answers, it's just a good way for me to unleash what's swimming around in my head. It doesn't always make sense, sometimes like now, it is just bleating and moaning but occasionally there is the odd good idea. Whatever it is, it's good for me because when I put my pencil down and close the pages, I feel like I've accomplished something. I don't have to go back and check, it's not for anybody else's eyes, just mine, a place to vent. I can't always verbalise it well but it all comes out and then I feel able to get on with the rest of the day.

I like writing, always have done, that and reading. I was born a book worm and am making up for not reading much during my married years. Actually that was part of my motivation for moving here. I was hoping to purge the book from me. I've felt for years there was one inside. They reckon we all have one inside of us. Well with no garden, no ties, no commitments and no distractions, (no love) and about four months before I have to get a normal job, it seemed like this would be the perfect opportunity for me to give it a go. The only trouble is I have no idea about plot, title or characters. I desperately need inspiration.

Deciding I have bleated enough in my journal, I slide it under my rucksack on the chair. I give my pencil a few turns in the sharpener and get ready to open my notebook and see if I can't start some kind of flow for my novel.

Pressing back into the chair, I close my eyes; the sun feels good on my face. It's really pleasantly warm out here and I can hear people leaving the cafe. Keeping my eyes shut I try and let my mind settle, no wonder I found meditating so difficult, how do people ever shut their minds up? Mine seems to always have something to say, prattling away merrily like a kettle that never runs out of steam. Well, there is one thing that shuts it up, but it has been a long time since I've had the luxury of enjoying that kind of deeply satisfied peace. Mmmm the kind that arrives lying in strong arms, bathed blissfully in the waves of post sex exhaustion.

"Hi - are you ready to order?"

I jump, brought back to the here and now with a bang. Aware I'd been smiling away to myself and a bit worried that I'd actually said mmmm out loud. Talk about embarrassed at where my thoughts had been. I look up to see a face I don't recognise. A drop dead gorgeously handsome face and eyes that smile all by themselves.

"Um.. yeh.. sorry... I'd like a mocha please. A large one."

"Sure. No problem."

Well, how fickle am I? Only a few minutes ago I'd written down that I rarely felt attracted to people and here was I contradicting that. Mind you the good looking types never seem to show much interest in me. There again that could be more to do with my super sized V sign rather than anything else.

I've been coming here quite a lot over the past few weeks and I've never seen this waiter before. He's older than the usual university student on study leave. Cath hadn't mentioned she was looking for anyone new but then why should she? I'm already thinking far too much. He is just a nice looking guy, no a gorgeous guy.

"There you go." He carefully places the mug down.

"Looks like you're busy." Nodding at my books.

"Yeh."

He flashes a smile and I smile back. His eyes are stunning, for a second I think I must know him, he sort of seems familiar and yet I've not seen him before. He turns and goes back inside. Reaching out for the steaming mug, I shift my position a little. Resting my feet on the chair opposite and blowing the froth on the top of the mug, I start to ponder about what to write. Maybe I should have a go at a romance, which might usher in some of the real stuff for me. Write it how I'd like it to be, making sure to try and get my cosmic ordering right this time.

It's funny, when I write in my journal, I can write for pages at a time without any problem at all. I'd been encouraged to start keeping a journal by my counsellor during the divorce. Although I'd been unhappily married, it had still been a confusingly emotional time and writing was supposed to help and to be fair, it had. But now when I try and think about making something up, I'm stuck. I don't know where to start or who to start with.