Chapter Forty-Five
While my faith in love may have been temporarily shaken when Henry left, the situation I currently find myself in proves that my status as a true believer is still very much intact.
Once the sun has dipped below the horizon, and the moon has risen, casting us in its soft silvery glow, I take a good look at the group of people I have assembled on the rooftop of my apartment.
Mrs Casablancas, Marisol Keats, Bridget and Aled the Librarian.
Every one of them is wearing a Mrs Casablancas kaftan, cobbled together over the space of twenty-four hours using only bed linen, old curtains and elastic, and aided by lots and lots of tea.
Marisol is wearing a Mrs Casablancas hat made of raven feathers which she declares to be ‘almost unbearably chic’, while Aled is wearing the slightly bewildered look of someone who thinks their friend is totally unhinged but wants to be supportive nevertheless.
I, at the front of the group, am wearing the gold and sapphire headdress that Mrs Casablancas wore on the night of the first manifestation ceremony.
Apart from Mrs Casablancas and Bridget, no one else knows about River, about what happened last year.
They don’t know that the real reason I have assembled them on the roof is because Aled’s library book about creative manifestation says the more energy that can be generated in a manifestation ceremony – the more love – the likelier it is that the universe will grant what you need.
To a soundtrack of ‘Spa Music Track 1’, I light five candles and pass out the papers and pens. I inhale deeply, the scent of freshly struck matches and damp herbs lacing the air.
‘So we’ll write down what we want, burn it and then we can go to the pub?’ Marisol asks, swigging from the bottle of fizz she insisted we bring up here.
‘Yep,’ I reply. ‘I swear it will only take ten minutes.’
‘I know what I’m going to write down,’ Aled says, with a boyish smile.
‘Me too,’ Mrs Casablancas says.
‘Great. Write it down. Everyone write their desires down. Be explicit.’
Marisol sniggers, and I throw her a stern look.
‘Ignore it, Bridget!’ I say, as her phone beeps from inside her back pocket.
‘I’m in an auction!’ she grumbles.
‘Ten minutes!’
She tuts and shoves the phone back in her pocket, where it continues to beep furiously.
I write down my desire in capital letters, clear and plain.
Come back, River Oakley. Come back to this world. Come back to me.
As the rest of them scribble their manifestations, Mrs Casablancas peers towards the sky.
‘We call upon the universe, the magnificent creative goddesses, the ether, God, Buddha and Lady Diana to assist us in our manifestation ceremony tonight.’
Marisol starts to giggle. Which sets Aled off.
‘Be serious!’ I say. ‘This is important!’
‘You have to believe,’ Mrs Casablancas scolds them. ‘Or it won’t work!’
They try their best to arrange their faces into more serious expressions, like schoolkids who’ve just been told off by a teacher.
Amidst stifled giggles, phone beeps and the sound of someone blasting Carole King out of their bedroom window, the five of us kneel down and hold our manifestations over the candles. We watch as they curl into ash.
Immediately the sky starts to rumble.
‘What the fuck?’ Marisol scrambles up to her feet.
‘Golden shower!’ Mrs Casablancas cries out, eyes wide.
‘What?’ Bridget yelps. ‘A golden shower? That’s what you manifested? Ew, Mrs Casablancas.’
And then the rain starts to absolutely chuck it down, immediately muting the flames of the candles.
‘Leg it!’ Aled yells as the rest of them start making a dash for the skylight back to the apartment.
‘No! Wait!’ I call out. ‘We didn’t express our gratitude!’
But they don’t hear me. One by one they disappear down the stairs. Mrs Casablancas, the last one to leave, turns around. ‘You need me to stay?’ she shouts over the rain.
‘No!’ I yell back. ‘It’s fine. I’m good on my own for this part. Meet you all in the pub?’
Eyes twinkling, Mrs Casablancas lifts her hand in a fingers-crossed motion and heads down the stairs and out of sight.
I take a deep breath, the rain now soaking me through, my hair clinging to my head, the periwinkle kaftan practically see-through.
I look up at the sky, mostly having to close my eyes because the raindrops are splattering my eyeballs.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘Please accept my …’
The sky flickers once, from a distance. And then again, a little closer.
It’s happening.
This is it. I look upwards to see pewter clouds rushing across the sky. Something is definitely happening.
With another dazzling flash of light and an outrageous boom of thunder, I run for cover beneath the gazebo at the far end of the rooftop, heart surging with hope.
‘Please, please, please,’ I whisper over and over, squeezing my eyes shut, fists clenched. ‘Please bring him back.’
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the storm halts.
I open my eyes, scan the vicinity. Then I run across the rooftops, not caring as I splash through the puddles that have formed in just thirty seconds of insane rainfall, the rainwater soaking my socks.
But I don’t see him. Not on the roof, not on the street below.
Leaving behind all the paraphernalia, I race back downstairs to my flat, pushing open the door, breath held in my throat.
But he’s not there.