Chapter 8
Tonight, I am interviewing three potential flatmates.
I haven’t told Miranda, as she will question me about why I’m not interviewing Oliver James.
Hopefully, by the end of the day, I will have found the perfect candidate, which will allow me to tell Miranda that Oliver James can walk around someone else’s flat in just his underpants, thinking about his next idea for a book.
Eva is on my mind. Like me, she’s a passionate reader, and we met through a book club Miranda used to run.
She worked in the clothes shop on the high street and would always make us all laugh by saying things like ‘The real issue in this book is that nobody owns a decent coat,’ and ‘If the protagonist had worn a pretty dress with pockets, she would have better handled that emotional climax.’ When we shared a flat, she would review books on social media in her free time.
She was known for her dramatic live book reviews and once loved a book so much that she burst into tears while talking about it, which I found impressive.
She was warm and funny, and we got on immediately.
The first time I accidentally brushed against Eva’s arm, I had a vision. It was of a man with spiky red hair in bed with a blonde woman. It startled me, but as she was single, I ignored it and joked about avoiding untrustworthy red-haired men. She laughed and agreed.
For the first six months, everything was good. Then, one day, I came home to find him – the man from my vision – sitting in my kitchen with his arms around her.
‘This is Karl,’ she gushed. He grinned and gave me a wave.
I smiled, but inside, panic bloomed. I wanted to say something and warn her.
All I could think about was what I’d seen and how Eva would get her heart broken by a two-timing, red-haired love rat.
I kept quiet until Eva’s estranged sister returned home from New Zealand; to my horror, she was the blonde woman in my vision.
One drunken night, I made the mistake of telling Eva about my curse and what I’d seen regarding the end of her love story.
Eva didn’t believe me and assumed I was trying to break up her relationship and turn her against her sister.
Shortly afterwards, she moved out, left the clothes shop and stopped reviewing books.
My big mouth and my curse ruined that friendship.
I take some deep breaths. There will not be another Eva. All I need to do is keep my distance and my mouth shut.
My first flatmate candidate is knocking at the door.
I take a deep breath and grab Lenny, which will make handshakes as tricky as possible.
I’m going to do my best to avoid physical contact.
This is an ambitious plan, given that I live in a flat, once built for servants, with small rooms and a narrow hallway, but I must try.
Also, holding Lenny means he won’t dash out of the door.
Last week, he discovered that the sweeping staircase outside my flat’s door eventually leads to the ground-floor hallway.
He also found that the large door at the end of the hallway leads to something exciting outside.
If the guy who lives in the first-floor flat hadn’t blocked Lenny with his mountain bike, he would have made a bid for freedom. I can’t let that happen.
Francesca is a glamorous woman in her late twenties, dressed in a designer pink tracksuit and sipping an iced coffee.
‘Hi,’ she coos.
I cast her an awkward smile. Taking a big step back, I let her in.
With a flick of her poker-straight black hair, she glides past me.
I watch as she struts up my hallway like it is a catwalk at a fashion show.
Her hips sashay from side to side. As she enters the living room, I direct her to the sofa.
She ignores me and flops onto my favourite chair by the window, as if she owns it. My agitation levels rise.
‘That’s my chair,’ I say, with a firm edge to my voice. ‘You can have the sofa.’
She sighs, gets up from my chair, and perches on the arm of the sofa. Can she be any more irritating?
I settle myself in my chair and take out my notebook. ‘Why are you looking for a flat?’ I ask.
‘Darren and I broke up,’ she says, inspecting her leopard-print nails. ‘I wanted an open relationship.’
‘Oh.’
She casts me a wry smile. ‘Why stick to one man when you can have several? I love dating and I am meeting so many new people.’
I let out a silent groan. I will struggle to cope with the constant flow of strangers in this flat if Francesca moves in.
She runs her hand through her long black hair. ‘I’m on social media a lot, so I do Insta Lives and TikToks. My followers are all night owls like me. I am hoping to go on TV soon.’
‘Oh – what sort of TV?’
‘It’s a new show called Naked Island.’
I gasp. ‘Naked what?’
With a flick of her hair, she giggles. ‘It’s where a group of hot people live on this luxurious island, but the twist is… no clothes are allowed. It’s filmed day and night. Oh, and if I’m successful, I won’t be wearing clothes in the daytime.’ She smiles. ‘I will need to practise.’
‘Interesting,’ I say, crossing out her name. The last thing I need when I walk through my flat door after a hard day at the bookshop is a naked Francesca wandering about.
After a few questions, I bring the interview to a close. ‘I’ll be in touch about the flat.’
Once Francesca has gone, I make myself a cup of coffee and confide in Lenny. ‘She needs to live by herself. I don’t think we would have made good flatmates.’
Steve is the next person on my list. He’s in his mid-thirties, wears a shiny grey suit, and is an amateur magician in his spare time. When I read his flat-sharing profile, I thought he sounded interesting, and he could show me a few magic tricks.
As soon as we are seated, he pulls out a pack of playing cards. ‘Pick a card, Nelly. Any card.’
His card trick is unconvincing and fails because he guesses my card incorrectly. An awkward silence follows. I remind myself that his one saving grace is that he redirected himself to the sofa when I warned him about my chair.
I start to interview him. ‘You’re a magician in your spare time. What do you do for a living?’
‘Accountant,’ he says. ‘I wish I could cast some magic over some of my clients’ figures.’
‘What do you do in the evenings?’
He scratches his bald head. ‘Practise magic tricks.’
I think about the disappointing card trick in the hallway. Maybe he needs to practise cards more.
‘Do you do magic shows?’
He nods. ‘Yes, I have a weekly show.’ I watch as he pulls out a gold coin. ‘Watch this coin disappear.’
His trick doesn’t work, and I guess which hand he has the coin in. We both find interesting things to look at on my wooden floor to avoid eye contact.
‘My assistant has left, and I have a vacancy if you’re interested,’ he says after a lengthy silence. ‘You would help me behind the scenes and allow me to saw you in half.’
‘No thanks, Steve.’ The words shoot out of my mouth. Considering his dreadful tricks, I wouldn’t want him coming anywhere near me with a saw.
I ask him whether he likes cats. ‘I do,’ he says, giving Lenny a stroke.
‘I need to make you aware that I work with a live dove. She lives at my mother’s house; however, there are occasions when I get home from a show, and I’m too tired to trek over there, so I stick the dove in the bathroom overnight. Does your cat like birds?’
‘He watches them out of the window. He’s an indoor cat so I don’t know whether he would know how to hunt.’
I cross out his name. The last thing I need when I’m desperate for a wee in the small hours is for a mad dove to be flapping around my head while Lenny makes unsuccessful attempts to catch it, knocking over everything in the process.
Steve shrugs and brings out his cards for the second time. ‘Pick a card.’
After another disastrous card trick, where he attempts to slide my card into his suit sleeve but fails, causing it to fall to the floor, he then asks if I want a coin trick, which I decline. He subsequently tells me our flat share wouldn’t work and leaves.
My final candidate is called Paula. She’s in her mid-thirties, single and a DIY enthusiast.
‘I love doing up old buildings,’ she gushes as I show her around the flat. ‘This place is perfect. Would the landlord mind if I stripped all the kitchen cupboards and repainted them?’
‘You could ask him.’
She grins. ‘I am getting excited already. This place has so much potential.’
We sit down for the interview, and like the others, she goes to sit on my chair first. ‘That’s my chair,’ I say, feeling agitated.
She smiles and runs her hand over the wooden arms. ‘I will do wonders with this tatty old chair.’
Her words are like stinging drips of hot fat on my skin. ‘It’s not a tatty old chair.’
She ignores me and carries on gazing at it. ‘When I have finished with this chair, it will look amazing.’
‘You’ll not be touching my chair.’
Paula sits down on it and screws up her face. ‘Oh, God, it’s saggy.’
Anger ripples through me. I’ve had enough of this. ‘Get out.’
‘What?’ She looks horrified.
‘Please leave. The interview is over.’
When she’s gone, I sit in my chair, and Lenny jumps onto my lap.
I stroke him and try to ignore my financial worries.
Picking up my phone, I open Facebook and click on Cynthia’s page.
Perhaps I should consider working for her?
I know the thought makes me uncomfortable, but this is a worrying situation.
I could work after the bookshop has closed.
She’s currently hosting a Facebook Live event for her followers, so I log in to it.
She’s at her magic table, selecting tarot cards.
‘Pat from Huddersfield,’ she says, looking directly at the camera. ‘Someone is returning from your past.’
Behind her, two young children are arguing. She tries to explain to Pat from Huddersfield, who I assume is on Facebook Live, why the person is returning from the past, but is interrupted by a child’s scream.
‘Sorry about this,’ she says and turns around. ‘Lance – stop hitting your brother, and Vincent – stop kicking or I’ll put you in a field and feed you carrots.’
A teenage girl wanders into the magical garage holding a phone. ‘Mum, I’m trying to buy Drake tickets on your credit card, but it keeps getting declined.’
‘Cassandra!’ screams Cynthia, ‘I never said you could use my credit card, and right now I am on a bloody Facebook Live.’
‘Mum, I need Drake tickets,’ snaps Cassandra. ‘Your card has been declined seven times. I thought you were minted.’
I close Facebook. I can’t work for Cynthia. My curse, combined with that level of chaos, would make me lose my sanity.
After a deep breath, I open Instagram and check out Oliver’s profile. The only thing I know about him is that he’s a romance author and his father is Frank’s boss.
Scrolling through his Instagram grid, I notice it’s filled with pictures of bookcases, stacks of notebooks, jars of pencils, a cat curled up on various chairs, and selfies of him writing alone at café tables. It feels so… nice, which is a little unsettling.
There are no photos of any girlfriends, which contrasts with Sam’s Instagram grid, where his ex-girlfriend appeared in nearly every other picture.
I asked Sam about this, and he said it would have been a hassle to delete all her photos, as they had been together for six years.
Looking back now, I should have seen this giant red flag and listened to my curse.
Oliver might like to keep his personal life off social media, which is probably the case. Perhaps Sam isn’t a good comparison?
I go onto Google and look at a couple of his recent author interviews. His debut book topped the book charts, and his subsequent books have gone viral on TikTok. I look at – all his books have thousands of positive reviews.
After returning to Instagram, I stare at his profile picture. ‘You are my last resort, Oliver James.’