Chapter Five
I grab a full stack of Bedlam Creek books as Mrs Casablancas requested, climb the hall stairs and step out onto the expansive communal terrace that overlooks the rooftops of Bloomsbury and, in the distance, the smudged silver city skyline.
I breathe in the freshness of the grassed area and the rich, earthy scent of the small herb garden Mrs Casablancas planted up here last spring.
Looking up at the dusky lilac sky, I see the moon, as round and white as a plate.
My shoulders soften a touch. I love a full moon.
‘You look perfect,’ Mrs Casablancas declares, her head popping up from the skylight entrance to the roof like a meerkat.
She clambers up the steps, dragging a little suitcase behind her, resplendent in a red kaftan of her own.
‘Periwinkle is your exact perfect colour. I have a real eye for deciphering people’s exact perfect colour.
You should wear kaftans more often, Gertie. So chic with that elfin face of yours.’
Ah yes. The kaftan. As promised/threatened, Mrs Casablancas dropped it off a few hours ago, warning that it was a non-negotiable part of the event and then scurrying back off to her own apartment without another word.
It’s actually incredibly comfortable – a voluminous periwinkle linen dress with flowy bell sleeves that makes me look like someone who, well, does manifestation ceremonies on the reg.
‘Why the kaftans?’ I ask, as Mrs Casablancas opens her suitcase. ‘I mean, I like it, but … why?’
‘Dressing the part is a sign of respect to those we ask for help.’
‘And who exactly are we asking for help?’
‘Oh, there are lots of theories and possibilities! The universe, the ether, God, the magnificent creative goddesses of ancient times, Lady Diana up in Heaven, Buddha …’ Mrs Casablancas pulls a large forest-green paisley blanket out of the suitcase and flaps it out onto the modest square of grass.
She pats the blanket. ‘Sit down here. Do you have a preference on who we ask to assist us?’
I shake my head. ‘I get the feeling I should follow your lead …’
Mrs Casablancas nods. ‘Good idea. Shall we ask them all? Surely that will increase our chances of receiving the help we need.’
‘Like throwing spaghetti at the wall? Okay.’
Mrs Casablancas proceeds to pull three chunky pillar candles out of the case like some sort of celestial Mary Poppins. She then takes out a pad of lined A4 paper, two blue biro pens and … is that a tiara?
‘Put this on your head,’ she says, proudly handing me an ostentatious-looking headband covered in spikes.
‘A spiky tiara?’
‘They’re not spikes, they’re sunbeams,’ Mrs Casablancas chuckles, lighting the candles and placing them in the centre of the blanket. ‘It is giving Main Character Energy. We have to look the part to feel the part.’
‘And is … is all this necessary?’
‘Absolutely it is.’ Mrs Casablancas tuts, carefully putting on an even bigger sunbeam headdress of her own. Hers has little sapphires at the end of each spike. She peers up at the sky, her mouth twisting to the side. ‘Hmmm. I was wondering whether we might have a little golden shower …’
I almost choke on my own saliva. ‘A … a golden shower?’ I repeat, my eyes widening in horror. What the hell has she got planned for me up here? I glance desperately over towards the skylight door, calculating how many seconds it would take me to perform an emergency exit, should I be forced to.
‘Yes, a golden shower,’ Mrs Casablancas confidently confirms, narrowing her eyes at the single wispy cloud floating about the twilight sky. ‘You know, an unexpected summer storm.’
Ah.
I decide immediately that I will not be the one to reveal Mrs Casablancas terminological error to her – these past few weeks have been traumatic enough as it is.
‘Luckily the sky is clearing so we will be okay,’ she continues, gathering my stack of Bedlam Creek books into the centre of the circle. ‘The last thing we need right now is a golden shower!’
‘Absolutely agreed.’
Mrs Casablancas grins, dark eyes twinkling excitedly in the flickering light of the candles. ‘We are all set.’
Despite myself I feel a little flip of excitement in response.
Mrs Casablancas takes out her phone and presses play on a track called ‘Spa Music Track 1’. It’s very flute-y. I like it. She takes a deep breath and hands me one of the biros with a sense of great significance. ‘Gertie, honey, it is time. Let us begin the ceremony.’
*
The thing about manifestation ceremonies, it seems, is that they involve a lot of Mrs Casablancas explaining to me her top tips for being a creative in the world today.
According to her I must ‘fully step into my power without apology’ and also ‘eat more fish because the fish oils have Omega 3 that will support my brain function’.
After her lecture she hands me a piece of paper.
‘Now you must write down exactly what you want. Write it explicitly, Gertie. You could write “I want to complete the final Bedlam Creek novel” or “I want to clear the creative blockages that are cursing me at this moment in time”. But I’m sure you can come up with something better – you are the professional writer after all.
Once you’ve written your desire down, we will fold the papers and burn them into smoke on the candles. Then? We prepare to receive.’
If Mrs Casablancas has been kind enough to do this for me, however daft, the least I can do is try to get into it. I nod my agreement, pen poised over the paper.
I close my eyes. Okay then.
I want my writer’s block to go away.
I want to finish my final book.
I want to see my characters again.
I want Cassidy and Ethan to have their happily ever after.
I write my creative desires neatly onto the paper.
The music on Mrs Casablanca’s phone switches from ‘Spa Music Track 1’ to Al Green’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’.
I gasp, my eyes flying back open. That’s Henry’s and my song!
We declared it as such on our very first official date, when it started playing in the bar we’d gone to.
A doleful smile plays around my lips as I remember Henry saying, ‘You know, Gertie, if I kiss you right now, then that means this song will be ours for ever.’ And me leaning closer to him in response.
I want Henry back.
I glance at Mrs Casablancas who is scribbling on her piece of paper, a secretive half-smile on her face.
Before Mrs Casablancas peeks over to see what I’m writing and tells me off, I scribble I want Henry back onto the piece of paper, tagging it onto the list of other desires.
Then, following Mrs Casablancas’s lead, I hold the paper over the flame of a candle, watching as it burns into wispy smoke, a scatter of silver ashes fluttering onto the cover of a Bedlam Creek book.
I want Henry back.
Mrs Casablancas peers up towards the darkening sky and raises her arms. When she speaks, her melodic voice echoes across the rooftops and I find myself worrying that the neighbours will hear and make a local noise complaint.
‘We call upon the universe, the ether, God, the magnificent goddesses of creativity, Lady Di and Buddha and also anyone or anything else out there who can help us manifest what we most need.’ She brings her hands together into a prayer position.
Awkwardly, I do the same. I sort of step outside my body and view the scenario from above.
It is not flattering. Is this who I am now? Is this what my life has come to?
‘Please accept our deepest gratitude in this sacred space, and help us to step into our full power.’ Mrs Casablancas throws me a pointed look.
‘What?’
‘Gertie, express your gratitude.’
‘Oh! Sorry. Yeah, um, thanks, all. Thanks, goddesses and, uh, Buddha!’ I say. ‘Nice one.’
‘Very good.’
When the papers are fully burnt to smoke, Mrs Casablancas brushes her hands off on her kaftan and excitedly asks me what I manifested.
‘Oh! I just wrote stuff about finishing my book,’ I lie, sweeping the ashes off my book cover.
Mrs Casablancas nods with satisfaction.
‘What did you manifest?’ I ask.
‘Uh, I asked for, um … an exciting, uh, creative opportunity to come my way.’
Mrs Casablancas avoids my gaze as she speaks, swiftly blows out the candles and, with a tuneless hum, starts packing up her suitcase.
I narrow my eyes. She is lying too!
I wonder briefly what she actually asked for and then chuckle to myself when I realise that it doesn’t really matter.
It’s not like any of this is actually real.