The magic touch, p.1
The Magic Touch, page 1
The Magic Touch
Kelly Florentia
Copyright © Kelly Florentia 2021
The right of Kelly Florentia to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2016
This edition published by Stylo Books 2021
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
To Mum and Dad, with love.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Note from the author
Also by Kelly Florentia
Chapter One
Things aren’t always as they seem, are they? I mean, how often is an overheard comment misconstrued, a piece of hearsay taken completely out of context? And don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to curl up and die the moment you realised you’d just fired off a text message or email to the wrong person. I’m still blushing from the last time I did that.
Mishaps and mix-ups happen all the time. And I’ve got to hold on to that thought, especially after yesterday morning.
I push the image to the deepest corners of my mind as I dial Caroline’s number – she answers on the second ring.
‘Emma! Hi, I was just about to call you. Literally, the phone was in my hand,’ she squeals in her all-too-familiar cheery voice.
‘Well, they don’t call you psychic Caroline for nothing, do they?’ I say, and we both laugh.
Caroline, my partner Harry’s sister-in-law, is a professional palmist, and no, that’s not the reason I’m ringing her. Honestly. No disrespect to her, but I’m not sure I believe in all that hyped-up psychic stuff. Don’t get me wrong, Caroline is very good, very convincing. And she has given me some pretty accurate readings over the years, but as Harry keeps reminding me, she does know me well, and she’s incredibly good at reading people. So no, I’m not after a reading. I’m just returning her call from yesterday morning.
‘So, how’re things?’ Caroline asks.
‘Great,’ I say crisply. This is a complete lie. For one, I barely slept. How could I, with all those relentless thoughts tearing through my brain all night? I kept tossing and turning, my mind throwing thoughts back and forth, back and forth like a ping pong ball at a finals tournament.
Staring into Harry’s hostile back, I dozed off to the swishing sound of traffic and the dawn chorus; only to be startled awake after what felt like five minutes, by a loud, annoying shrill. I reached out, clumsily searching for the alarm clock in a haze, eyes heavy, mouth dry. I squinted at the clock until the numerals slowly came into focus – 7 a.m. I’d been asleep for two hours. I was alone. Harry had already gone without as much as a kiss goodbye.
‘And you?’ I ask politely. Caroline doesn’t need asking twice, she’s now gone into overdrive about her week’s plans. I jam the phone between my shoulder and jaw, squat, pick up the laundry basket, and run up the stairs with it. The pain in my knee as I’m halfway up reminding me of yesterday’s running injury.
In the bedroom, I grab the airer from behind the wicker chair. Perhaps I shouldn’t grumble. I’ve got a nice home, a kind, hardworking partner. So we don’t go out much and haven’t had a holiday in over three years, but that’s due to lack of finance, that’s all. And Harry’s heavy workload, of course; holding down two jobs is no mean feat.
Caroline is shrieking with laughter and I realise I’ve barely listened to a word she’s said: something about a new app, clairvoyance, and a weekend away with Mas in Brighton.
‘Emma, are you still there?’ Caroline asks, clearly miffed.
‘Yes,’ I manage, ‘it’s just my knee. Go on, I’m listening.’
‘Still aching from the dog action?’ she giggles. This is true, but how the hell does she know? I was running along the pavement yesterday when a boisterous Labrador bounded towards me and jumped onto my chest, before thrusting its snout between my legs. In shock, I took a few hasty steps back and twisted my knee. ‘I thought Harry sorted that out for you?’ Caroline pauses, taking a sip of something. ‘That’s what he told me yesterday. Are you still in pain, then?’ Ah, Harry filled her in while I was taking a shower. She and Harry have always got on well. I’d go as far as saying that I sometimes think she married the wrong brother.
‘A bit, yes,’ I explain, ‘but it’s starting to ease off. Harry thinks it might be an old injury.’
‘You’re so damned lucky, having a nurse on tap,’ she groans. ‘You really landed on your feet with Harry.’ See what I mean? ‘I know he hasn’t got the business acumen that Mas has, but I’m sure he more than makes up for it in other areas.’ She says the word ‘areas’ in a low, husky tone. I bet she’s winking down the phone as well. Caroline always carries out gestures, even when you can’t see her. ‘Goodness, Emma, he’s still so fit. Mas likes his moussakas and beer too much,’ she sighs. ‘Mind you, I’m one to talk. I almost broke the scales this morning.’ She roars with laughter.
Caroline likes her food – especially the syrupy Greek desserts that Harry’s mum often makes.
I glance at Harry’s weights stacked against the wall. She’s right about his fitness. At forty-five, he has the body and stamina of a man half his age. I’m sure a lot of it is down to all that cycling he does. But she’s got the active sex life thing all wrong. I can’t remember the last time we were intimate.
‘I can’t understand why you two still aren’t married,’ Caroline complains. ‘How long has it been now? Seven, eight years?’
‘Five,’ I say, dryly. It’ll actually be six in November, but I decide to spare her the details. I wish she’d give it a rest. In fact, I wish they all would. Why are people obsessed with me and Harry getting married, for goodness’ sake?
‘Well, anyway, we all think you’re bloody mad. You could still have a baby if you get your skates on.’
‘I don’t think so, Caroline.’ I laugh as I extend the clothes airer and lock it with my foot. ‘I’ll be taking the child up to bed on a stair lift.’
‘Don’t be so stupid. You’re not even forty. Besides, lots of women have babies in their forties nowadays. Look at all those celebrities. And anyway, you’re super fit with all that running you do; you’ll sail through a pregnancy.’
‘Caroline,’ I wipe my forehead, feeling a trickle of sweat rolling down my lower back. Despite the rain, it’s still twenty-seven degrees outside. But with September a week away I’m not complaining. We’ll be back to shovelling snow off our drive before long. ‘I know you mean well but…’
‘You don’t want to lose him, Emma,’ she interjects. My suspicious barometer goes from nought to a hundred in a matter of nanoseconds.
‘What do you mean?’ I can’t hide the alarm in my voice.
There’s a moment of silence, and then ‘Oh God, Emma, I hope I haven’t offended you.’ I’m too stunned to answer. ‘What I meant was… well… it’s just that neither of you are getting any younger, are you?’ I can almost feel the tension travelling down the phone.
‘Has Harry said anything?’ I ask accusingly. I know what this is about. It’s because of what happened at their barbecue on Saturday.
‘No!’
‘Caroline!’
‘OK, OK,’ she says in the manner of a criminal being interrogated by the police. ‘He just said something in passing, that’s all,’ she tuts, then sighs deeply. ‘It’s no biggie…’
‘What did he say, Caroline?’ My heart is rapidly picking up speed.
‘Just that he felt hurt that you turned him down again, that’s all.’ I knew it. ‘Em, he sounded quite upset.’
I take a deep breath and let out a long, loud sigh. Harry has asked me to marry him several times but I’ve never felt ready. Marriage is a big step, isn’t it? People change when they get married, and I should know. I close my eyes briefly as a dark, thorny memory cuts through me.
And besides, with things being a bit stale between us lately, asking me to marry him in front of his entire family after we’d both consumed copious glasses of champagne (we were celebrating his nephew’s place at Oxford) was neither romantic nor fitting.
‘He told you that, did he?’ I ask as I shake a wet shirt out furiously, phone cradled between my jaw and shoulder.
‘Yes, when I called yesterday. We just got chatting while you were in the shower and I asked him if you’d said yes yet and… look, I’m sorry, Em. Forget it. Are we still on for tonight?’ Caroline had suggested a girl’s night out on Saturday and I’d agreed.
‘Yeah, definitely.’ I exhale loudly. I could do with a night out. ‘I’m really looking forward to it, actually.’
‘Great. Ola’s up for it.’ This is music to my ears. I haven’t seen my lovely friend Ola since she got back from Marbella over a week ago. ‘And Vicky said she might join us, too. You remember Vicky, don’t you? The one with the young boy and twins?’
‘Yes, vaguely,’ I muse, hanging the last of Harry’s vests onto the packed rail. ‘She and her husband were at Mas’ fiftieth, weren’t they?’
‘Yes!’she trills enthusiastically. Why do people do that; get all excited if you remember a minor detail about their lives? ‘She hasn’t had a night out in ages, either, so I asked her along. I didn’t think you and Ola would mind.’
‘No, that’s fine, the more the merrier.’ I stare out at the traffic swishing along in the rain, pulling my hair into a ponytail with one hand and twisting it. My neck is damp, mainly from our heated conversation.
‘And I’m really sorry about… you know…’ Caroline falters, ‘Bringing up marriage and everything. I know it’s a sore point and it’s really none of my business… so…’
‘It’s OK, Caroline,’ I smile down the phone as I run down the stairs. ‘I know you’re only trying to help.’ I wonder if I should confide my findings to her. I’m aching to tell someone, but I’m not sure I can trust Caroline. She may tell Mas, and that’ll only make matters worse.
‘He really is a great catch, though, Em.’ Yes, he may be, but I’m not exactly a down and out, am I? ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with Mas, but he’s so different to Harry. Everyone says so. Harry’s the brains and Mas is the brawn,’ she laughs.
Actually, Harry’s the brains and the brawn. Mas just got lucky when he took over his parents’ restaurant. ‘And he’s always so bloody wrapped up in that business of his, he forgets I exist half the time. I keep telling him to slow down. He’s at that dangerous age, you know.’ True. Harry’s always saying that most of the cardiac cases he sees are fifty-somethings who don’t take care of themselves. Harry and I almost fainted when Mas announced that he was closing his restaurant for the night to celebrate his son’s success. On a Saturday, too – his busiest night of the week. ‘You’d think that after twenty years of marriage he’d remember our anniversary, wouldn’t you?’
‘Did he forget?’ I fill the watering can at the sink, a yellow and blue novelty one in the shape of Cyprus, that Harry’s mother bought me to remind me of her son’s roots, even though he was born and bred in North-West London. ‘He does work hard, doesn’t he, Caroline? Probably got a lot on his mind.’
I never really got on with Mas. I can’t stand his alpha male persona and he always complains that I’m outspoken, which I’m not. I just answer back, that’s all, whereas everyone else seems to be in awe of him. He’s never really liked me either, and makes no secret of it. He thinks that Harry’s too good for a thirty-nine year old divorcee like me, and always makes snide remarks about my hair – blaming my flame-coloured tresses every time I confront or challenge him. My part-time job at the restaurant is purely for Harry’s sake. As soon as I start bringing in my own money from my illustration business, I’ll never have to make a falafel again!
‘Business is booming, isn’t it?’ I ask distractedly as I check my mobile for any messages. None. I toss it onto the worktop then sprinkle some water into the window box. ‘Valentina and I had to make an extra batch of falafels last Thursday.’ Valentina, Harry and Mas’ auntie, is head chef at the restaurant and my boss. I’m the only other person who knows the secret recipe for her famous falafels. And I’ve been sworn to secrecy. ‘It’s our secret, Emma,’ she said, pressing a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t tell a soul, not even Haritos or Marios.’ She’s also one of the few people who address Harry and Mas by their full Greek names.
‘Yes, it’s doing really well. Thank God,’ Caroline says. ‘How else could we put Andreas and Demi through university? And we are really grateful to you and Harry. I’d never have a holiday if it weren’t for him. You know Mas doesn’t trust anyone else.’ Harry does the weekend shift just to make ends meet, but he also books time off work when Mas and Caroline go away. ‘You both know that, don’t you?’she says earnestly. ‘I know Mas isn’t very good with words.’ He basically takes advantage of Harry’s kind nature, often leaving him to run the restaurant while he goes off to run errands. But we’re both grateful for our part-time jobs. We couldn’t possibly survive without them. And Mas knows this only too well.
We end our conversation on the agreement that we’ll meet outside The King’s Head at 8.30.
I flick the kettle on and throw a teabag into a mug. That telephone call has got my mind ticking.
I lean against the kitchen sink, chin in hand, as the kettle starts to rumble. The exact spot where Harry and I stood cuddling yesterday after he’d spent forty-five minutes massaging and stretching the ligaments in my leg. Well, I say cuddling. I was actually all over him. I felt quite euphoric after I explained how I wasn’t quite ready for marriage yet, because he seemed to take it in his stride, looked relieved even. I actually thought it must’ve been the drink talking at the barbecue.
‘I know your family might not see it but I really do love you, Harry,’ I said, stroking his face, ‘… and it’s not a no, it’s just a not now.’
I went on to explain how much he meant to me. I haven’t told him that in, well, God knows how long. I told him how grateful I was for all the sacrifices he was making to help me get my business off the ground. That I realised my freelance salary and two days at the restaurant didn’t pay the bills – I’d apply for a proper job somewhere if this extra work was too much for him. I didn’t mind what kind of job it was, so long as it was full-time – anything, even stacking shelves in Tesco if need be. He laughed at my suggestion, tapping me lightly on the nose with his finger as if I were five years old, told me not to be so stupid, that he’d make sure I’d make it up to him when I became a famous artist.
I latched onto his back like an octopus, my arms tight around his trim, taught torso, feeling the leanness of his back and buttocks against my body as he filled the kettle at the sink. Then, taking in his familiar, comforting scent, I slid my fingers along the inside of his waistband, feeling the warmth of his skin. It was Sunday. I’d showered after my run. We could go back to bed, I thought. Rekindle the fire before it burns out completely.
‘Emma,’ he said softly, pulling my hand away, ‘… you know I’m on call.’
‘I can’t help it if you’re so irresistible,’ I said in a playful, disappointed tone. He looked over his shoulder at me then, a small, cheeky grin playing at his full lips, and I’m sure I saw a sweep of lust in his dark brown eyes, but then he turned his back on me and busied himself with the kettle. I knew in an instant that something wasn’t right.
I held onto him as he moved around the kitchen, as if I was a ball and chain around his ankle. I wondered then if I was. Did he see me as some heavy burden he yearned to be free of? Maybe that was the reason he was so aloof with me. Harry isn’t the type of man who’d deliberately hurt anyone. He’ll just bottle things up, brush them under the carpet until they’re forgotten. Or until I prise them out of him with twenty questions, which is what usually happens.
Of course, I know that Harry loves me. And he’s the love of my life. My soulmate. But the question that was bursting to topple from my lips was whether he was still in love with me, whether he still found me attractive, desirable, sexy.
I’d been putting off asking him for weeks, afraid of what the answer might be.
Was he bored with me? Did he think our relationship was going nowhere? Was turning down his recent marriage proposal the last straw? Did that kill something inside him? Was that it? Did he think we wanted different things now? That our relationship had run its course? Or did he just not fancy me anymore?
I took a deep breath, ready to confront him, prepared to face the consequences head on. I opened my mouth to speak, but his mobile phone started to vibrate on the black granite worktop before merging with Doctor Who’s theme tune (he’s a massive fan). He grabbed it urgently, saying that it might be important, might be the hospital. And the moment was gone.
