Chapter 28
The woman was a worker if yesterday and today were anything to go by, thought Teddy, and everyone seemed to like her. It was
important to him that everyone fit in with each other in his restaurant, even though he knew it wasn’t likely she’d be here
long. He really couldn’t get his head around it all—a so-called expert in business matters with barely any memory of her life
before ending up here and being oddly reluctant to find out who she was and at the same time desperate to do so. There was
something he wasn’t seeing, he was sure of it, but for now he’d take it all at face value and wait for more to show itself.
“Sabrina, take a break,” he called, pouring out a coffee from the jug. “You want a piece of cheesecake with this?”
“No, no thanks, I’m okay,” she said, standing up from scrubbing the corners of the floor and straightening out her spine.
Teddy brought two cups over to the table, and despite her turning it down, he’d cut two pieces of cheesecake as well. His
specialty, black cherry, with a thud of clotted cream on the side.
“Eat it, it’s my recipe. Come on, sit. You got the job, you don’t have to impress me by flogging yourself to death,” he said.
There were just the two of them here; he could sound her out under the guise of being benevolent.
“Thank you,” Sabrina replied. She sat down at the table and picked up the fork. Black cherries—her favorite flavor. And at that moment it came to her that she also liked espresso coffee and cats and red lipstick. Why had all that just landed as one big lump in her head?
“You can use the computer in my office if you like, to try and find yourself,” he said, then realized how stupid that sounded
and tutted. “You know what I mean.”
She smiled at that. “Thank you. Your mum lent me her iPad and I’ve been looking,” she replied. Nothing had rung a bell, and
she couldn’t find her daughter on any social media either, which struck her as odd. “If I could just remember the name of
the place I worked, that would help. This cheesecake is really good, by the way.”
“I know it is,” said Teddy. “So you’re some sort of business adviser, then?”
“Yes, I help businesses that are failing and I advise new ones that want to start up, but mainly the former.”
Teddy noticed her lips, full and dark pink, and thought it must be their natural color.
“Someone must be missing you,” he said. “Family, work, friends, partner.”
“I’m starting to wonder if I’m an alien and they’ll find an abandoned spaceship in a bush somewhere.”
He smiled at that, involuntarily. She had a small blob of cheesecake on the edge of her mouth, and the cynic in him wondered
if she’d placed it there artfully to tempt him to lean across and wipe it away with his thumb.
“Mum tells me she’s taking you to see a psychic tonight.” He rolled his eyes. “Do you believe in all that nonsense?”
“It’s worth a try.”
“Don’t expect too much. I think Mum is hoping to hear from Dad. If he comes through, trust me, he’ll be singing. Dad thought
Pavarotti was an amateur.”
“I’ll look out for that.” She wiped her mouth with a serviette. He noticed how genteel her actions were, the way she ate and
picked up her cup.
He took a mouthful of his cheesecake and made a mental note to put a bit more lemon in it next time. He was always refining; there was always room for even a little improvement.
“Okay, so tell me,” he said then, preparing to test her, which was a bit bad of him but he couldn’t resist, “what would you
have me change in my restaurant?”
She knew he was testing her. How could she blame him?
“I’d have to study you in depth.”
Of course you would. Nice get-out.
“But from first impressions, yes, I’d suggest some... tweaks.”
“Really?” He hadn’t expected that. “Such as?”
“Well... the kitchen is only half open to the public; it’s neither one thing nor the other. They can see your torsos but
not your heads. Why not open it up more so people can see their food being prepared? It would work well here.”
“Go on, what else?”
“I don’t want to say in case—”
“I give you full permission.”
“Okay, I think your food is wonderful; people obviously love it.” A beat. “But your décor doesn’t scream at me that you are
authentically Italian. Also, an intimate ambience isn’t automatically made by putting tables too close together. You need
to rearrange the layout. You could add in three tables and still have more free space than you have now and improve the intimate
setting. Your light bulbs should be warm white, not bright white, and dimmable. Put real candles on the table. Don’t tell
your waiters to lower their volume; your customers seem to enjoy their theatrics. I notice table four has a wobbly leg, and
that’s so off-putting—”
“Whoa, whoa,” said Teddy, jumping in to stem her flow.
“You did ask,” said Sabrina, loading up her fork with more of her cheesecake.
Teddy looked over at the working area. He’d been thinking himself that they should either block it off completely or open it up for the reason she’d said, that it was neither one thing nor the other, but he couldn’t decide which way to go.
They ate in silence for a minute or so, and then Sabrina said, “I really hope I find something out tonight. Maybe a few details
will make everything else just fall into place. And trust me, if I were you, I would find it very hard to believe me too.”
“I’m sorry,” said Teddy. “My mother’s heart is too big for her body. She’s really helped some people, but not everyone has
been so kind to her in return. One time she didn’t realize her card had been cloned until the bank contacted her to check
if she was in Spain or not. Then she let someone stay just for a night but they took the TV from the flat and ran off with
it. After that last time, when her house was trashed, I told her that enough was enough.”
“It’s not things I’m after, Teddy; it’s memories—my own,” said Sabrina, hoping she sounded convincing. She did, but still,
where his mother was concerned, Teddy wouldn’t be letting his guard fully down yet.
“Do you think I look all right?” asked Sabrina later. She had a pair of black jeans on, her trainers, and a white T-shirt.
She’d bought some cheap mascara and lipstick from a bargain store in Shoresend which made the best of her light brown eyes
and full lips. She’d left her hair down for once, and it lent a softness to her face that the practical ponytail she wore
for work didn’t.
“You look more than all right.” And she did, thought Marielle. Why wasn’t someone doing everything they could to find this
woman? “We’ll get off in a minute, shall we?” She went over to the drawers in the dresser, opening one after the other.
“Have you lost something?” asked Sabrina.
“It’ll turn up,” replied Marielle, abandoning the search after noticing the time.
She couldn’t find her purse. It was always in her hand bag.
She’d had it with her on Friday to pay for the fish and chips, but when she came home, she remembered distinctly that she’d taken fifteen pounds out of it to pin on the noticeboard in readiness for the window cleaner’s due visit.
She hadn’t been out since, so it must be in the house somewhere.
She’d have a good look round later; she was sure she’d find it, but still, it was odd that it wasn’t where it always was.
Slattercove Theater was a building of faded grandeur and had kept all of its original features, though Sabrina thought that
people in the last century must have had smaller bums, because the red velvet seats were snug and legroom between rows was
sadly lacking. They had the two end seats in the middle section, six rows from the front, which had a good view of the stage.
Psychic Pat was obviously very popular, because when people began to pour in after the three-minute warning had been given
in the bar, there weren’t many empty seats.
The stage was set with a leather Chesterfield chair, a small wine table at the side with a glass and a jug of water on it,
and all along the back, large drop-down posters featuring pictures of a short, round woman in pink with vaguely recognizable
celebrities.
The lights dimmed, and a disembodied voice broke over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your mobile phones are switched off and in your bags as Slattercove Theater proudly
welcomes the world-renowned, the one and only... Psychic Pat.”
To tumultuous applause, a short round Weeble of a woman in a glittery pink caftan entered stage right. She was wearing a Madonna
mic so she could use both hands for gesticulating. Her nails were long as eagle talons and painted in a shade of fluorescent
pink that could be seen from Mars.
Pat used to work on one-to-ones, asking people to hold a crystal ball, press their essence into it so she could pick it up and work with it.
She’d always been very good at reading people, telling them generalizations that were open to much interpretation, until she’d had a bang on the head in a freak accident.
As if a door to real psychic abilities had been broken down in the process, she found that she really could tune into the spirit world and interact with those who no longer existed on the physical plane.
Her readings shifted from the “one size fits all” to the tailored, and her popularity ballooned as a result.
She no longer operated from her pink front room but in theaters all around the country where she was, more often than not, totally sold out.
“Welcome, loveys,” said Pat in a voice that was pure Vera Duckworth. If she ever made it to a Vegas stage, they’d need a translator
on hand. “Now the way I work is quite simple. Spirits are here, and they know you’re here because they follow you around,
so that’s nice, isn’t it? And if I come to you, they need to hear your voice so they know you’re interacting. No nods, no
mmm ’s, a nice clear voice. That all right, loveys? I said, IS THAT ALL RIGHT, LOVEYS?”
The audience returned a resounding and sibilant YESSS.