general beigeness and her inoffensive manner, she was good at queue-jumping. She had sat modestly in the third row, her whippy body crouching inside her blouson jacket, her khaki-coloured hair pushed behind her ears. Alison had fingered her right away. The lucky opals flashed fire in her direction. “I’m getting a broken wedding ring. It’s this lady here in beige. Is it you, darling?”
Mutely, Colette held up her hand, the tight gold band intact. She had started wearing it again, she hardly knew why; maybe just to spite Natasha in Hove, to show that a man had warmed to her, at least once.
Impatience crossed Alison’s face: then her smile wiped the expression away. “I know you still wear his ring. Maybe he thinks of you; maybe you think of him?”
“Only with hatred,” Colette said.
Al said, “Whatever. But you’re on your own for now, darling.” Al had held out her arms to the audience. “I see images, I can’t help it. For a marriage, I see a ring. For a separation, a divorce, I see a ring that’s broken. The line of the break is the line of the crack in this young girl’s heart.”
There was a murmur of sympathy from the audience. Colette nodded soberly, acknowledging what was said. Natasha had said much the same, when she held the wedding ring, as if in tweezers, between those dodgy false nails of hers. But Natasha had been a spiteful little slag, and the woman on the platform seemed to have no spite in her; Natasha had implied she was too old for new experiences, but Alison spoke as if she had her life before her. She spoke as if her feelings and thoughts could be mended; she imagined popping into the dry cleaners and getting the broken zip replaced, the zip that joined her thought to her feelings and joined her up inside.
This was Colette’s introduction to the metaphorical side of life. She realized that she hadn’t comprehended half that the fortune-tellers had said to her. She might as well have stood in the street in Brondesbury ripping up tenners. When they told you something, you were supposed to look at it all ways up; you were supposed to hear it, understand it, feel all around its psychological dimensions. You weren’t supposed to fight it but to let the words sink into you. You shouldn’t query and quibble and try and beat the psychic out of her convictions; you should listen with your inner ear and you should accept it, exactly what she said, if the feeling it gave you checked in with your feeling inside. Alison was offering hope and hope was the feeling she wanted to have, hope of redemption from the bathroom bickering of the house share, from finding other women’s bras stuffed under a sofa cushion when she flopped down after work with the Evening Standard : and from the sound of her house-mates rutting at dawn.
“Listen,” Alison said. “What I want to say to you is, don’t shed tears. The fact is, you barely started with this man. He didn’t know what marriage was. He didn’t know how to make an equal relationship. He liked—gadgets, am I right? Hi-fi, cars, that stuff; that was what he related to.”
“Oh yes,” Colette chirped up. “But then wouldn’t it be true of most men?” She stopped herself. “Sorry,” she said.
“True of most men?” Al queried gently. “I’ll give you that. The point is, though, was it true of him? Was it true that at the great highlights of your life, he was thinking about sports seats and sound systems? But look, darling, there is a man for you. A man who will be in your life for years and years to come.” She frowned. “I want to say—oh, you know, for better or worse —but you’ve been married, chuck, so you know all that.”
Colette took a deep breath. “Does he have the initial M ?”
“Don’t prompt me, dear,” Al said. “He’s not in your life yet, but he’s coming into it.”
“So I don’t know him now?”
“Not yet.”
Oh, good, Colette thought; she had just done a quick mind scan of the men she
Mutely, Colette held up her hand, the tight gold band intact. She had started wearing it again, she hardly knew why; maybe just to spite Natasha in Hove, to show that a man had warmed to her, at least once.
Impatience crossed Alison’s face: then her smile wiped the expression away. “I know you still wear his ring. Maybe he thinks of you; maybe you think of him?”
“Only with hatred,” Colette said.
Al said, “Whatever. But you’re on your own for now, darling.” Al had held out her arms to the audience. “I see images, I can’t help it. For a marriage, I see a ring. For a separation, a divorce, I see a ring that’s broken. The line of the break is the line of the crack in this young girl’s heart.”
There was a murmur of sympathy from the audience. Colette nodded soberly, acknowledging what was said. Natasha had said much the same, when she held the wedding ring, as if in tweezers, between those dodgy false nails of hers. But Natasha had been a spiteful little slag, and the woman on the platform seemed to have no spite in her; Natasha had implied she was too old for new experiences, but Alison spoke as if she had her life before her. She spoke as if her feelings and thoughts could be mended; she imagined popping into the dry cleaners and getting the broken zip replaced, the zip that joined her thought to her feelings and joined her up inside.
This was Colette’s introduction to the metaphorical side of life. She realized that she hadn’t comprehended half that the fortune-tellers had said to her. She might as well have stood in the street in Brondesbury ripping up tenners. When they told you something, you were supposed to look at it all ways up; you were supposed to hear it, understand it, feel all around its psychological dimensions. You weren’t supposed to fight it but to let the words sink into you. You shouldn’t query and quibble and try and beat the psychic out of her convictions; you should listen with your inner ear and you should accept it, exactly what she said, if the feeling it gave you checked in with your feeling inside. Alison was offering hope and hope was the feeling she wanted to have, hope of redemption from the bathroom bickering of the house share, from finding other women’s bras stuffed under a sofa cushion when she flopped down after work with the Evening Standard : and from the sound of her house-mates rutting at dawn.
“Listen,” Alison said. “What I want to say to you is, don’t shed tears. The fact is, you barely started with this man. He didn’t know what marriage was. He didn’t know how to make an equal relationship. He liked—gadgets, am I right? Hi-fi, cars, that stuff; that was what he related to.”
“Oh yes,” Colette chirped up. “But then wouldn’t it be true of most men?” She stopped herself. “Sorry,” she said.
“True of most men?” Al queried gently. “I’ll give you that. The point is, though, was it true of him? Was it true that at the great highlights of your life, he was thinking about sports seats and sound systems? But look, darling, there is a man for you. A man who will be in your life for years and years to come.” She frowned. “I want to say—oh, you know, for better or worse —but you’ve been married, chuck, so you know all that.”
Colette took a deep breath. “Does he have the initial M ?”
“Don’t prompt me, dear,” Al said. “He’s not in your life yet, but he’s coming into it.”
“So I don’t know him now?”
“Not yet.”
Oh, good, Colette thought; she had just done a quick mind scan of the men she
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