shrugged as she put a rubber thimble on her middle finger. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She began to re-stitch the button. ‘So how’s it going then, Mags?’
Mags sank into a chair, evidently exhausted. ‘I’ve just had the most difficult client. For ages he refused to get started – he just wanted to talk; then he took forever about it, and afterwards he was tricky about paying because he wanted to pay by cheque and I said it’s cash or nothing, as I had made quite clear beforehand.’ She rearranged her breasts in an indignant manner. ‘When I said I’d call the Bill he produced the notes sharp enough. I couldn’t half do with a cup of something though, Val – I’m all in and it’s only half eleven.’
‘Put the kettle on then,’ said Val.
Mags disappeared into the kitchen, her nicotine rasp carrying down the passageway. ‘Then I had this other customer – he had this weird obsession with his mother – he’d even brought one of her dresses with him. Very demanding, he was. I did what I could for him, but he then had the cheek to say that he was “dissatisfied” with my “services”. Imagine!’
The probable nature of Maggie’s business was by now clear.
‘You poor sweetheart,’ said Val warmly as Mags reappeared with a packet of digestives. ‘Those punters of yours don’t half take it out of you.’
Mags gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You can say that again.’ She took out a biscuit, and bit on it. ‘Then to cap it all, I had that woman at number 29 – Sheila Whatsit.’ My eyes started from my head. ‘She was a right nuisance. Wanted to get in touch with her ex-husband. He’d dropped dead on the golf course last month. She said she felt so bad about how she’d treated him when they were married that she couldn’t sleep. So I get through to him, right …’ Mags sank into the chair. ‘And I begin passing on his messages to her, but within two minutes she’s furious with him about something and starts screaming and shrieking at him like a bagful of cats –’
‘I think I heard her through the wall,’ Val said evenly as she pulled the thread taut. ‘Sounded like quite a carryon.’
‘You’re telling me,’ agreed Mags as she flicked crumbs off her lap. ‘So I said, “Look, sweetheart, you really shouldn’t talk to dead people like that. It’s dis respectful.”’
‘So … you’re a medium?’ I said shyly.
‘A medium?’ Maggie looked at me so seriously that I thought I’d offended her. ‘No – I’m not a medium,’ she said. ‘I’m a large!’ At that she and Val hooted with laughter. ‘Sorry,’ Maggie snorted. ‘I can never resist that one.’ She wiped away a tear with a scarlet talon. ‘But to answer your question…’ She patted her banana yellow hair. ‘I am a medium – or clairvoyant – yes.’
My pulse was racing. ‘I’ve never met a medium before.’
‘Never?’
‘No. But…’
‘There you are, Phoebe – all done!’ Val snipped the end of the thread, deftly wound it round the shank five or six times, and quickly folded the coat back into the bag. ‘So when do you want to bring the other things over?’
‘Well – probably a week today as I have help in the shop on Mondays and Tuesdays. Will you be here if I come at the same time?’
‘I’m always here,’ Val replied wearily. ‘No rest for the wicked.’
I looked at Maggie. ‘So … I’m … just wondering …’ I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. ‘Someone very close to me died recently. I was very fond of … this person. I miss them …’ Maggie nodded sympathetically. ‘And … I’ve never ever done this before and in fact I’ve always been sceptical – but if I could just talk to them, if only for a few seconds, or hear something from them,’ I went on anxiously. ‘I’ve even looked up a few psychics in Yellow Pages – there’s this thing called “Dial-a-Medium”; and I actually selected one of them and called their number but then I couldn’t bring myself to speak because I felt so embarrassed but now that I’ve met you I feel I –’
‘Do you want a reading?’ Maggie interjected patiently. ‘Is that what you’re trying to tell me, sweetheart?’
I sighed with relief. ‘It is.’
She reached into her cleavage and pulled out first a packet of Silk Cut, then a little black diary. She slid the tiny pen out of its spine, licked her index finger and flicked over the pages. ‘So when shall I put you in for?’
‘Well … after I’ve dropped off the things I’m bringing Val?’
‘This time next week then?’ I nodded. ‘My terms are fifty quid cash, no refunds for a bad connection – and no dissing the deceased,’ Mags added as she scribbled away. ‘That’s my new rule. So …’ She tucked the diary back into her bosom then opened the pack of cigarettes. ‘That’s a private sitting at eleven a.m. next Tuesday. See you then, sweetheart,’ she said as I left.
As I drove back to Blackheath I tried to analyse my motives for going to a medium. I’d always regarded such activities with distaste. My grandparents had all died, but I’d never felt the slightest urge to try and contact any of them on ‘the other side’. But since Emma’s death I’d increasingly been aware of the desire, somehow, to reach her. Meeting Mags had made me feel that I could at least try.
But what did I hope to get out of the experience? I wondered as I approached Montpelier Vale. A message from Emma, presumably. Saying what? That she was … okay? How could she be? I reflected as I pulled up outside the shop. She’s probably floating around in the ether, bitterly pondering the fact that thanks to her so-called ‘best friend’ she was now never going to get married, have children, turn forty, go to Peru like she’d always wanted to do, let alone get the OBE for services to the fashion industry as we’d often drunkenly predicted. She would now never get to enjoy the prime of her life, or the peaceful retirement that should have followed it, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. That Emma had been deprived of all this was, I reflected bleakly, thanks to me – and to Guy. If only Emma had never met Guy, I wished as I parked …
‘It’s been an amazing morning,’ Annie said as I pushed on the door.
‘Has it?’
‘The Pierre Balmain evening gown has sold – subject to the cheque clearing, but I doubt there’ll be a problem.’
‘Fabulous,’ I breathed. That would help the cash flow.
‘And I’ve sold two of those fifties circle skirts. Plus you know the pale pink Madame Grès – the one you don’t want?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that woman who tried it on the other day came back –’
‘And?’
‘Bought it.’
‘Great.’ I clapped my hand to my chest in relief.
Annie looked at me with puzzlement. ‘Well, yes, it means you’ve taken over £2,000 and it’s still only lunchtime.’ I couldn’t tell Annie that my reaction to the sale of the dress had
