Date with Destiny

Chapter One

The trouble with spending half your life with six psychic predictions hanging over your head is that your friends never let you forget about it.

‘You must be thinking about them!’ Myfanwy cries, struggling to be heard over the pumping music blasting out around us. ‘Surely you’re excited! Your birthday’s in a week! You’ve been waiting sixteen years for this!’

‘But it’s silly!’ I shout back. ‘And it’s not like they’re nice predictions anyway. I don’t want them to come true.’

She pouts. ‘Some of them are nice. And,’ she shrugs, ‘if it’s your destiny, babe, it’s your destiny.’

A woman beside us turns around. ‘Did you say my name?’

We regard her blankly for a few seconds. ‘Are you called Destiny?’ Myfanwy asks at last.

She nods.

‘Oh,’ I swallow awkwardly. ‘Sorry. We weren’t talking to you.’ She turns away and Myfanwy gives me a knowing look.

‘See, Ginny? Destiny is literally here on your doorstep. Are you going to ignore it?’

Destiny turns around again. ‘Seriously, did you want something?’

‘Um, no,’ I reply. ‘She did say your name again, but she’s still not talking to you.’ I glance desperately at Myfanwy. ‘She’s talking about, like, fate?’

Destiny frowns as Myfanwy inches closer. ‘But while you’re here, Destiny, don’t you think my friend here should be listening to signs from the universe?’

Destiny waves her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, I don’t believe in that woo-woo guff.’

My best friend looks put out. ‘But you’re literally called… OK, never mind. Don’t you think Ginny should at least be open to possibilities?’ She turns back to me, arms wide, imploring. ‘Go with destiny!’

Destiny frowns again. ‘Sorry, I probably can’t leave – though I’d love to.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m on a truly crappy hen do right now and the stripper won’t bugger off.’ We glance past her at a huge man in his fifties, jerking his middle-aged body towards our easily confused new pal, Destiny. Seeing our interest, he whips his top off, revealing a waxing strip-shaped rash across his chest. He leers, flicking his nipple piercing.

‘HEY, STRIPPER? PLEASE GET LOST!’ Destiny shouts at him, enunciating as clearly as she can. He continues to dance on the spot, awkwardly thrusting his hips like he’s channelling Channing Tatum. ‘Ugh,’ Destiny turns back to us. ‘This is the worst.’

‘We’re on the same shit hen do actually,’ Myfanwy grins. There’s so many of us, it’s hard to keep track.

Without warning, the stripper changes focus, now thrusting his hips towards Myfanwy and me as we exchange a look of pure horror.

‘Oh my god, I’m free,’ Destiny breathes out, before making a run for the loos, her final word reaching us on the sweat-wind: ‘Byeeeeeeee!’

The stripper moves closer, the heat of his body invading our personal space as he smiles an easy smile.

‘Another Celeste special,’ Myfanwy observes after a moment. ‘Who hires a stripper for a hen do anymore? Haven’t we progressed as a society?’ She shudders as I nod.

‘I think that’s probably why Celeste had to hire out most of this place – because the general public doesn’t want to be reminded of things we thought were fun and cool in the noughties.’

She shudders again. ‘The noughties were full of dirty secrets.’

We turn our backs on the desperately sad man. ‘God, Myfe,’ I breathe mostly to myself, wishing I was anywhere but here. ‘My life is going to be so much easier when everyone I know is dead.’ I regard the rest of the room with dark eyes.

Myfanwy tuts. ‘You just officially reached peak introvert.’ I glance over at her, feeling a pang of guilt at her wounded expression.

‘Not you,’ I say, reaching for her arm. It’s sticky from the last round of shots we all did – the one that mostly ended up over the group rather than in them. ‘Never you, Myfe.’ She beams as I continue, ‘I just meant this is genuinely the most horrendous hen do I’ve ever been on.’

‘A horren do?’ Myfanwy muses, fiddling with the sleeve on her slutty air-hostess outfit.

‘Who even was that Destiny woman? And who’re all these people? Who are those women over there?’ I squint into the distance, where a tight-knit group on the dance floor are grinding against each other, while thirsty glass-collectors and the DJ watch with wide eyes and wide mouths, facial hair wet with perspiration. ‘Do you know any of them?’

She swats at the stripper as he attempts to grind on her. ‘I think they’re women Celeste met through Instagram? They’re all called, like, Ariana and Kendall.’

I snort, not sure how seriously to take her. Myfanwy is super clever and very dry, while I’m pretty dumb and a bit wet. Sometimes her jokes are lost on me.

‘HEY STRIPPER!’ Myfanwy shouts as he attempts another grind. ‘LOOK!’ She points over at the group of Kendalls and his eyes light up. He pants his thanks, flinging himself – and his waxing rash – in their direction.

‘Poor Kendalls,’ I murmur as Myfanwy leads us to a pair of tatty sofas in the corner. Collapsing in a heap, I glance towards the bar where Sonali, Toni and Diane are doing pink tequila shots. At least we know those three.

‘Ugh, I’m so uncomfortable,’ Myfanwy whines, pulling at her too-small skirt, digging into waist flesh. ‘This costume is at least two sizes too small.’ She sighs and I try not to smile.

Myfanwy is a few months into a new relationship with Sonali. She’s completely head over heels, madly in love, and, as tends to happen, love has brought with it many cosy nights in – accompanied by many a takeaway. She’s now a stone or so heavier than she was pre-relationship, a fact Celeste passive–aggressively chose to ignore when handing out the weekend’s costumes.

But – stupid outfit aside – the extra layer of fat really suits Myfanwy. Actually, both the weight and the happiness suit her.

‘I’m soooo sweaty!’ My sister Toni lands beside us with a heavy thud. She’s all legs and the air-hostess skirt is more of a fabric belt on her.

Sonali and Diane are two seconds behind her, sheeny and manic-eyed.

‘Are you two being boring?’ Sonali flops down beside Myfanwy, kissing her cheek tenderly. It’s still a bit strange seeing them be so openly affectionate. I met them both back at university when I was eighteen. We were all purely friends for so long and it wasn’t until a few months ago that they both admitted how they felt and started dating.

Myfanwy grins at her. ‘We’re hiding from strippers and Celeste.’ She pauses. ‘Plus, my legs are killing me after the indoor wall-climbing earlier.’

‘Yeah, who thought that was a good idea right after cocktail making?’ Diane asks dryly, pointedly scanning the room for the culprit. Celeste is over with the Kendalls, wild-armed, gesticulating as she shouts at the stripper. I laugh, immediately feeling bad because I know how much time and effort all this unnecessary nonsense required to organize.

‘I can’t believe she made us zipwire as well.’ Sonali rolls her eyes as Toni leans forward, examining bruised shins.

‘Maybe we should go zipwiring again for your birthday next week,’ Myfanwy guffaws, her Welsh accent at its strongest when she’s drunk.

I shudder. ‘Please no!’ I beg. ‘Can my birthday present be that I’m allowed to stay at home and go to bed really early with a packet of biscuits?’

‘Nope,’ Sonali grins.

‘I can’t believe it’s your thirty-second birthday,’ Toni says in an awed voice, staring at me with huge eyes.

My little sister is a hundred years younger than me – by which I mean nine years. She’s a whole different generation, and I know in her eyes I am ancient. Wizened with age. Close to death. That I must’ve done and seen and learned everything by now.

I don’t know how to explain to her that the older you get, the younger and more inexperienced you feel.

Myfanwy regards me with a level of seriousness before saying quietly, ‘Thirty-two. At last.’

She’s talking about the predictions again.

Diane gasps, ‘Oh my god, of course!’

‘Thirty-two,’ Sonali repeats reverentially as she and Diane regard each other. ‘It feels like we’ve all been waiting for you to reach this age for, like, ever.’ She pulls out her tiny tub of Vaseline.

I swallow hard. ‘Nothing will happen,’ I comment, uncertainty clear in my voice.

Toni looks between all of us now, eyes even wider with confusion. ‘What are you guys talking about? Is this another in-joke? I feel left out.’

Diane strokes her arm reassuringly. ‘We’re talking about Ginny’s six predictions,’ she reminds her gently as Myfanwy takes over, bouncing in her seat.

‘You know this story! How Ginny went to a funfair when she was sixteen and this fortune teller accosted her by the candy floss? She told Gin that in sixteen years she would have three huge losses and three huge gains.’ She turns to me accusatorily. ‘She’s turning thirty-two at long last, and Ginny claims she hasn’t been obsessing about it.’

‘Definitely not as much as you.’ I try to sound amused instead of freaked. ‘But like I said – like I’ve said a thousand times – it was probably all rubbish anyway.’

‘I’d completely forgotten!’ Toni breathes out. ‘The fortune teller and her six predictions!’

‘It’s silly.’ I force an eye roll, trying to swallow.

I don’t want to talk about this, I really don’t. Because even though I don’t really believe in any of that stuff – psychics, mediums, ghosts, astrology – these six predictions have… haunted me. For half my life they’ve hung over everything I’ve done; every decision I’ve made.

I picture the fortune teller woman now; the way she flung herself at me through the crowds, her large hair framed by the Ferris wheel. ‘YOU!’ she shouted at me, before launching into a confusing monologue about my future. The whole thing frightened the life out of teen-me and I wanted to pack it away in some mind-box forever.

But I met Myfanwy two years later, and she never let me.

She really believes in all that stuff. She’s one of the smartest people I know: a science teacher with two degrees! From two universities! But in her spare time she visits psychics, faith healers, regression therapists, obsesses over her horoscopes, follows the movement of the moon, and attends Reiki classes.

‘What were the six predictions again?’ Toni comes closer, excited now. She hasn’t heard me talk about this in years.

Myfanwy opens her mouth to answer and I cut her off. ‘It doesn’t matter because it’s just a load of nonsense,’ I insist, trying to add a note of finality to the conversation.

Myfe shrugs. ‘Well, there’s really only one that matters. There are five of medium importance and one you can’t just ignore, Ginny.’

I picture myself at sixteen, standing in front of the fortune teller. Huge hair aside, she looked like anyone; not like the fortune tellers you picture in old movies. There was no head scarf, no big hoop earrings, no eye patch, no hook hand…

Actually, I might be getting mixed up with pirates.

Either way, I remember watching her face as she finished the reading; how she held my eyes as she gave me the last of the six predictions.

Myfanwy echoes her words now, holding my gaze in the same exact way.

‘In sixteen years, you will meet your soulmate.’

The six of us are silent for a moment before Myfanwy glances up, her face falling. ‘Uh-oh, incoming,’ she hisses as a staggering drunk with a full-sized sick stain down the front of her air-hostess costume flops towards us from the dance floor.

‘Where are your earrings, Ginny?’ Celeste demands, zeroing in on me. She’s too close to my face, her breath hot with the smell of vomit.

‘Er…’ I instinctively grab for my naked lobes as she moves in even closer.

‘Where are they?’ She’s angry now and I frantically try to recall the point of the day when I removed the oversized aeroplane-themed jewellery.

‘Oh,’ the memory returns, ‘God, sorry! The bloke made me take them off for the zipwire. I couldn’t get my helmet on over them. They’re in my coat pocket.’

Celeste’s fury dissipates instantly and she plants a wet kiss on my cheek before wrapping me up in a stinky cuddle. I hold my breath. ‘It’s OK, I forgive you,’ she slurs into my ear. ‘Just go get them because your outfit looks silly without them.’

‘Help,’ I mouth at Myfanwy, trying not to gag into the tight hug.

‘You all right, Celeste?’ Myfanwy asks in her slowest, most condescending tone. Still holding onto me, Celeste turns her head to peer at Myfanwy, confusion across her face.

‘Myfanwy?’ she asks, squinting harder now. ‘What are you doing here?’

Myfanwy snorts and gestures at her costume. She looks to me. I bite my lip, trying to extract myself from between Celeste’s boobs. ‘I mean,’ she adds slowly, ‘I am the bride’s best friend.’

Celeste snorts. ‘I’m her best friend,’ she retorts, turning to square up to Myfanwy.

‘Nope,’ Myfanwy answers.

Celeste spins back to me. Her eyes are wet as she grips me tight around my shoulders.

‘Ginny, I am your best friend, aren’t I, darling? I know I’m your mother, but we can be parent–daughter and best friends, can’t we?’

‘Um…’ I am trapped, panic-glancing between Celeste and Myfanwy. My mother doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘You have enjoyed yourself on your hen do, haven’t you, darling, Ginny?’ Her eyes – blinking and wide – search mine, and I swallow hard as she continues, ‘I know you said you didn’t want a hen do and you specifically said you didn’t want any of this, but you didn’t mean it, did you? I know you didn’t mean it. And you’ve had a wonderful time with all your lovely friends, haven’t you?’

I don’t even falter, trying not to glance around at all the strangers she’s invited. ‘Best time ever, Mum! I’m very grateful. It’s all been so much… fun.’ Behind Celeste, I spot Myfanwy covering her mouth, suppressing amusement or irritation. Probably both. I carry on regardless, well aware of my lines. ‘It’s been the best weekend of my life, Mum, thank you so much.’

Celeste nods, satisfied. ‘I can’t believe you’re getting married in a few weeks,’ she says now and I meet Myfanwy’s eyes again. I can tell she’s thinking about the predictions again – one in particular.

Because what’s a person meant to do when they’re destined to meet their soulmate at the age of thirty-two – but they’re also getting married in a month?