You're Not the One (9781101558959) (32 page)

I look at her in alarm. “But I thought . . .” I'm not sure what I thought, to be honest. It's just that with the designer clothes, and the plastic surgery, and the Upper West Side address, I assumed . . .

“Appearances can be deceptive, Loozy,” she continues. “That's what my aunt Irena used to say.” She shakes her head. “The bank, they are thieves, they want to take everything from me—my apartment, the gallery . . .”

“
The gallery?
” I feel a flash of panic.

“I am terrible with money. I borrow this for that, and that for this.” She hunches her shoulders as she waves her hands around.

I stare at her, a cold, sinking dread washing over me. My first thought is for Magda. How terrible to think you might have to lose your home, and at her age. But I'd be fibbing if I said I'm not worried about what it will mean for me if she loses the gallery. And what about the gallery itself?

“This place can't close. It just can't!” I cry, before I can help myself.

Magda suddenly raises herself up to full height and, reaching for my hand, holds it aloft as if we're two protesters. “We will do our very best, Loozy,” she says in a rallying cry. “Our very best. We will not be beaten. We will not be afraid.”

“Um . . . hear, hear,” I offer.

“All is not lost yet. There is a new graffiti artist that is creating quite a stir. He lives on the Vineyard, but I think if we can meet with him, we might be able to show his work—”

“Oh, I think I read about him,” I say with a nod, remembering an article in
Vanity Fair
featuring artists to watch out for. “Isn't he supposed to be the next big thing—”

She cuts me off. “He
is
the big thing!” she cries. “He is incredible. Simply incredible! He will save us!” All fired up, she smacks her fingers against her lips.

Watching her getting her mojo back, becoming passionate again, I feel a swell of affection and relief. “Sounds good.” I smile. “Maybe everything will be all right.”

“Oh, it will be, it will be.” Her eyes flashing, she stands up, dusts off her shift dress, smooths down her hair, and takes a deep breath. “OK, enough of these tears. Irena would kill me. She'd say, ‘Magda, what are you doing, acting like a big baby?' She was my mother's twin sister, but she was more like a mother to me.”

Smiling, I go to turn away, when a thought strikes. “Did you say Irena was ninety-six?”

“Nearly ninety-seven,” says Magda proudly.

I pause, doing the math. “And you were born in 1965,” I say, remembering the code for the alarm. “So that means . . .” I frown. That can't be right. I must have got it wrong. “Your mum was fifty-two when she had you?”

Magda colors. “Um . . . yes, I know!” Clearing her throat, she pretends to look as surprised as I am. “The doctors were amazed! I was a miracle baby!”

A
s I walk home from work later that evening, I can't stop thinking about Magda. Despite her rallying cry and cheery optimism that the gallery will be saved and everything will be wonderful, I'm worried. Maybe it's the Manchester in me, the Northern pessimism instilled into me as a child that if things can go wrong, they bloody well will. Maybe it's the call I took from Con Edison, complaining that a payment is long overdue and informing me we have twenty-one days to settle the account or be cut off. Or maybe it's that sometimes during the day I'd catch Magda when she thought I wasn't looking, and despite her heavy-handed blusher she looked pale and frightened.

On my way home I stop to pick up laundry. After my huge clear-out at the weekend, I filled a large bin liner with crumpled clothes and dragged it, along with some of Robyn's stuff, to my local Fluff-n-Fold. I love Fluff-n-Fold. They're the New York version of our British launderettes, but they're so much more. It's a bit like comparing an Aston Martin to a Fiat Panda: They both do the job, but one does it with a super-fancy five-star service wash that includes fluffing, folding, ironing, and giving it that delicious freshly washed scent.

Which is pretty amazing, considering next door is a Chinese restaurant, I muse, picking up takeout for me and Robyn.

“Food's up,” I yell as I walk into the apartment. Slamming the door behind me, I'm hit by a sweet, pungent aroma. What's that smell? Following my nose, I wander into the kitchen to find it bathed in candlelight and Robyn sitting at the kitchen table, bent low over a large hardback book the size of a telephone directory. In her right hand is a bunch of burning sage, which she's waving above her head.

To think I used to come home to find my flatmates watching
The Office
.

Hearing me, she suddenly looks up, wild-eyed and with her hair all over the place. “I found a spell!”

Rewind a few weeks and I would have dropped my vegetable chow mein all over the kitchen tile in shock at such a statement, but I'm fast getting used to Robyn and her wacky ways. Saying that, a vision board is one thing, but this?

“
A spell?
” I repeat, for want of anything else to say.

Well, it was either that or, “Ooh, what is it?” and I'm not officially crazy
just
yet.

“Yes! In here!” she says triumphantly, holding up the book, which has a deep red velvet cover with the words “Spells and Charms” embossed across the front in gold lettering. “I borrowed it from my friend Wicker, who's part of this drumming circle I used to go to,” she continues in excitement. “Well, I had to do something. I know your sister thinks the Strategy will work, but I'm afraid it's not as simple as that when you're talking about the power of the universe.”

Dumping our laundry on the kitchen counter, I clear a space on the table for the takeout and begin unpacking the little red and white cartons of food.

“So I've been thinking, I don't want to disagree with Kate,” she says, disagreeing, “but when it comes to forces you don't understand, you need more than a document.” She wrinkles her nose sniffily. “We're not talking law now—we're talking legends!”

There's a pause and I realize this is my chance to say something, anything. Only, to be quite truthful, I haven't a clue what to say.

“It's called the Good-Riddance Spell and it's for getting rid of an unwanted suitor.” She looks at me, her eyes flashing. “Can you believe it?”

“No, I can't believe it,” I say, finding my tongue. “That's because it's
completely crazy
!” I waggle a napkin. “Honestly, Robyn,
magic spells
? What is this,
Harry Potter
? It's insane!”

Robyn raises her eyebrows. “I think it's a bit late for all that, don't you?” she says tetchily.

I open my mouth to reply, then fall silent. She has a point.

“So do you want to hear this spell or not?” she continues sulkily.

I sigh resignedly. “Go on.”

“OK, well, it's a banishing spell, and banishing spells are powerful, intricate ritual spells, designed to break or undo spells or curses.”

“Like the legend,” I point out. Well, let's not be scornful. I'm the one walking around with a four-page PowerPoint document in my pocket because I kissed my soul mate under some bridge and now I'm stuck with him.

“Exactly,” says Robyn, nodding. “They can also banish people away from you.” She thumps the table. “Perfect! A double whammy!”

“Perfect.” I say, playing along. After all, if legends can come true, maybe there
is
something in this magic-spell business. “Do we have any soy sauce?”

“In the cupboard on the right, middle shelf,” she instructs, turning back to her book. “It says here that all banishing rituals are carried out at night using special magical ingredients.”

“Speaking of ingredients, I got you vegetable chow mein and spring rolls. Is that OK?”

“Mmm, perfect.”

I pull up a stool and sit down next to her.

“Whereas candle magic is a strong yet gentle magic, banishing and binding spells pack a faster, more powerful punch.” Dipping her spring roll in chili sauce, she jabs it at an imaginary Nate like a spear. “A powerful punch—
atta girl!
” Flecks of sweet chili sauce go everywhere and I pass her a paper napkin.

“So this is what you need to do.” Taking a bite, she chews furiously, then clears her throat. “‘On a piece of parchment or recycled paper, write the name and date of birth of the person you are wishing away. Use black ink for this. Many gypsies also say that it is best to use one of the old dip pens and ink, rather than a modern ballpoint.' ” She breaks off. “Shoot, I don't have one. Do you?”

“Um . . . yeah, I think so.” I nod, munching on a mouthful of chow mein. “From when I used to do a lot of pen-and-ink drawings.”

“Great.” She pauses. “You did pen-and-ink drawings?” She looks intrigued. “Wow. Can I see them?”

“Oh, it was ages ago.” I shrug. “I'm not sure where they are.”

“Huh.” She studies me hard for a moment, as if about to say something, then appears to think better of it and turns back to her spell book.“OK, where was I? Oh, yeah . . . ‘Let the ink dry—don't blot it. Then wrap a piece of his clothing around a ham bone.' ”

I stop eating and pull a face. “Eugh! Yuck.”

“Oh, that's easy. I have them in the freezer,” she says matter-of-factly.

I look at her in astonishment. “I thought you were a vegetarian.”

“They're for the dogs,” she says, getting up and pulling open the freezer door. A little cloud of vapor appears, and rummaging around, she pulls out a large frozen bone wrapped in a plastic bag. Jenny and Simon start yapping frantically, thinking they are going to get a treat, but she shoos them away with “It's not for you. It's for Lucy, to get rid of the love of her life.”

They bark and start drooling. Memories of stories of people being found in their apartments half-eaten by their German shepherds suddenly spring to mind. I make a mental note to keep my bedroom door firmly closed tonight.

“ ‘ Put the ham bone in a bag with nine black feathers, raven or crow preferably, add a pinch of one or more of the magical herbs—ash-tree leaves, clover, lovage, lilac, garlic—then take the paper with the person's name on it, fold it three times, and add that too. Then tie the end tightly with red string.' ” She looks across at me and frowns. “Are you making a list of all these ingredients?” she says crossly.

“Um . . .” Having been totally absorbed in eating the most delicious spring roll, I sheepishly grab a pen and a piece of paper.

“‘Then take the bundle outside to a patch of earth, untie it, and remove the piece of paper. Light a white candle and burn the piece of paper in its flame while thinking of the person running away from you. Then say this chant. . .'” She pauses and affects a serious voice. “ ‘ Winds of the North, East, South, and West, carry these affections to where they'll be best. Let his heart be open and free, and let his mind be away from me.' ”

“And that's it?” Scribbling furiously, I glance up.

“No, then you have to bury the ham bone.”

“Gosh, it's quite complicated, isn't it?” I groan. “Maybe the restraining order might have been easier.”

“Oh, and you have to do this at exactly ten o'clock at night.”

“Why ten o'clock?”

“Because that's what the spell says,” she responds matter-of-factly. Scooping up a mouthful of chow mein with her chopsticks, she chews thoughtfully. “There's one other thing.”

I throw her a strangled look.

“This spell must be performed during a waning moon.”

There's a pause as we both glance out the open window. Mostly all we see is the brick wall with the graffiti, but there's a tiny sliver of a gap. Through it a crescent-shaped moon glows back at us.

“It's waning!” exclaims Robyn excitedly.

Panic stabs. I suddenly have an awful feeling I'm really going to go through with this.

“Have you finished?” Changing the subject, I go to clear away our cartons and chopsticks.

Robyn eyes me. “Tomorrow night,” she says decisively.

“What about tomorrow night?” I say, trying to play dumb.

“That's when you need to do the spell!” she gasps, as if it's perfectly obvious that's what I should be doing on a Tuesday night in Manhattan.

I look at her for a moment and it's suddenly as if sanity comes flying in through the window and wallops me on the side of the head. “I'm not doing it tomorrow night! Or the next night! Or any night!” I cry, shaking my head as if shaking the sense back into it. “I'm not doing any of this hocus-pocus nonsense.”

“It's not hocus-pocus,” says Robyn, looking offended.

“Whatever,” I gasp, then take a deep breath. “I'm not doing it.”

“But if you don't get rid of Nate, you're never going to make room in your love cup for anyone else,” she tries to reason.

“My love cup?”

“It's how they describe it in the book I'm reading,” she says defensively, color rising in her cheeks. “It has to be empty before it can be filled up again by anyone else. Like, for example, Adam.”

She raises her eyebrows and now I feel
my
cheeks getting red. I told her all about Adam at lunchtime. Well, it was more a case of me showing her our e-mail exchange and her being the loyal good friend that she is, dutifully and carefully analyzing each word until she came to the conclusion “He likes you.” Which was hardly earth-shattering, but still.

“Look, I think we just need to get a grip here,” I say, trying to remain calm. “My name's Lucy. I'm from Manchester. I wear knickers from Marks and Spencer. I don't
do
spells.”