Crystal Balls

‘Oh forget him, just take his money and treat him like any other customer,’ is Patty’s practical but harshly given advice.

‘Let’s talk about me instead,’ she adds.

I can’t help but smile. When did we stop?

‘I’ve decided where we’re going for my birthday.’ She pauses for dramatic effect.

‘The Chippendales, a karaoke or the Firemen’s Benevolent Ball?’ I ask.

‘Hmm, not bad suggestions, maybe next time. No, we’re going here.’ Patty pushes a leaflet towards me.

‘Cleo Castanello, Clairvoyant to the Stars. Which stars, then?’ It strikes me that most of the ‘stars’ I have ever seen grinning from black and white photographs on restaurant walls are now either disgraced, discredited or dead.

‘That’s not the point. I’m going to ask her about the Granny-Okes, whether we’ll find fame and fortune.’

‘And if not, you’ll give it up?’ I ask.

‘Of course not,’ replies Patty, ‘I’ll go to another clairvoyant. So are you up for it?’

How can I refuse? Literally, how can I? She wouldn’t let me; besides which, although like everyone else I do not believe in psychics, I’m curious as to what she’ll have to say about the travel club. Like Patty, if she says anything bad I’ll just dismiss her as a complete phoney.

On the way to visiting Cleo Castanello, the song ‘Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves’ is playing through my mind, so I have a very clear expectation as to what she’ll look like: dark curly hair and lots of rings on her fingers. When she opens the door, she looks nothing like that well-worn cliché.

She hosts ‘Clairvoyance Parties’ where a dozen of us (all women) gather in her living room and a stunning young woman, who could be her daughter, serves us glasses of bubbly and canapés. It is a beautifully tasteful room of creams and golds, the type you see in Homes & Gardens but if you try to recreate it yourself, just looks beige.

Patty is immediately reassured.

‘You don’t earn décor like this if you’re rubbish,’ she whispers.

Cleo looks head to toe a top businesswoman, a younger Martha Stewart: blonde cropped hair, fabulous bone structure and dark intelligent eyes that look right through you. Everyone will tell you not to give anything away to psychics, but this woman could probably get any detail she wanted out of me.

The session starts with her explaining that like many others she has a gift; she doesn’t know where it came from but from an early age she could just tell what was going to happen. The house, she says as she holds out her hands to her surroundings, is testament to that; she knew when the stock market would crash and got out just in time. An impressed murmur rumbles around the room and I decide to ask her about this week’s lottery numbers.

One by one, we go off for our individual consultations in her conservatory. As each person comes out they are surrounded by others asking, ‘What did she say? Was she any good?’ Most people seemed impressed.

Eventually, Patty is called and as is always the case when it’s someone you know, the consultation seems to last no time at all. I wait for Patty to reach me through the curious throng.

‘She sees the colour red or orange playing a VERY important role in my future,’ says Patty as if this is the most significant fact in the world now.

‘Red or orange what?’ I ask.

‘She couldn’t tell but she also sees my life full of music and laughter.’

I’m about to say that it all sounds a bit vague when my name is called.

Cleo examines my face for longer than is comfortable and then says, ‘You’ve had a difficult time of late but you’re starting to come through it.’

I nod and think that is probably a safe bet for many people who consult psychics and besides which my crow’s feet would give it away immediately.

‘I can see many good things coming your way’ – she holds both my hands – ‘but I’m afraid I can also see some sadness.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘It could be a misunderstanding or a difficult argument; even illness. It concerns a person that you’re close to but don’t always see eye to eye with.’

Mum springs to mind and a chill spreads through my body.

‘There’s also something back to the future about you; perhaps you’ll rekindle a friendship or return to something you used to enjoy? Whatever you face, you come out of it stronger and there is so much happiness at the end of the year.’

The words ‘sadness’ and ‘illness’ outweigh everything else she says so I leave the conservatory numb and head straight for Patty. I drag her out of that house so that the bad news will stay there and not follow me home. Just to be sure that the jinx is thrown off the trail we divert to a wine bar and after an unladylike gulp of Shiraz I tell Patty what she said about getting bad news.

‘I can’t cope with any more sadness,’ I tell her. ‘Haven’t I had enough?’

‘She said it might just be an argument,’ she tries to reassure me. ‘I dye my hair bright red, you tell me it’s awful and we have a blazing row about it; that way both of our fortunes come true.

‘Or you start getting maudlin on my birthday over something you don’t believe in anyway and I deck you one,’ she adds.

‘And how will I be happier after that?’ Despite myself, I laugh at her efforts.

‘Your nose breaks and we have to get it fixed; the surgeon turns out to be dark and swarthy. You gaze into each other’s eyes before the anaesthetic, fall in love and when you wake up you both live happily ever after,’ she says.

‘Deck me now,’ I laugh and the conversation naturally gets back to Patty’s reading.

‘There’s a karaoke bar in town called the Red Door. Do you think that’s what she meant?’