Page 30 of A Wish For Jo
'What wasthatall about?'Jo fumbled with the door key as Aaliyah pulled out her compact mirror and checked her reflection.
'You mean me seeing Jamie, or that other man? Jinnie's squeeze, although what she's doing withhimis anyone's guess.'
Jo opened the door and waited as Aaliyah huffed about a microscopic pimple on her nose. 'I meant Sam. He's a lovely man, and the perfect match for Jinnie.'
If Aaliyah rolled her eyes any harder, they'd come loose from their sockets and skitter across the hallway like marbles. 'He's not who you think he is,' she said darkly. 'Trust me, Jo, I got a right old case of the willies when he stood there like butter wouldn't melt. Pah! There's something rotten in the state of Cranley, and I'm not talking about Janette's out-of-date eggs.'
Leaving Aaliyah to hunt out some spot cream — 'better deal with this blighter before it goes for facial domination' — Jo collapsed on the sofa. Poor Harvey. It had been going well. OK, there had been the odd sticky moment, but he'd opened up about Lindsey, which was a good thing. And there'd been a couple of occasions when Jo had felt their friendship creep up a notch. When they'd held hands; when he'd looked at her and blushed as she gave a primal groan at the tastiness of the curry. Jo didn't need a degree in psychology or psychotherapy to know what was going through Harvey's mind. Men! Easy to read, most of the time — except when the shutters came down and the print size required a magnifying glass.
'Jo! I can't find me Clearasil anywhere. Can you pop to Janette's and get some?'
'No, I bloody can't.'Two wishes down and one to go. Then it would all be over, normality resumed, and village life restored to its previous soporific state. 'Dab some toothpaste or perfume on it. That'll stop it in its tracks.'
There was no reply from upstairs. Jo imagined Aaliyah smearing Colgate over her nose and finishing with a spritz of Jo's beloved Miss Dior. She pummelled a deflated cushion and kicked off her shoes as thoughts swamped her brain.
Who is Sam?The mild-mannered owner of Out of the Attic Antiques and a quietly successful author, but what else? Jo frowned as she tried to recall what Jinnie had said some time before.Al Addin. Sam's middle and last names blended together. She'd pooh-poohed it, of course. What possible connection could Sam have with two genies? Yes, the lamps had ended up with him, but only by coincidence. If Jo had had to bet on anyone in Cranley possessing mystical powers, she'd put her money on Janette.Sheknew things about people before they knew themselves.
Massaging her aching toes, Jo picked up the TV remote and flicked through the channels. A trailer came up forAll Rise:the next season was starting soon. Kelvin's mahogany face filled the screen, his unfeasibly white teeth threatening snow blindness. 'Will our contestants make the audience swoon at their swirls, drool at their decorations and marvel at their marzipan manipulation? Or will their efforts be more flash in the pan than fantastico? Tune in next Saturday for the show that's got a nation lovin' their ovens!'
Jo switched off the TV. She'd won, but only in a land of make-believe. Then again, wasn't TV often a place where dreams or wishes came true? Was her success any less valid because no one knew about it?
Dragging herself into the kitchen for a much-needed cuppa, Jo halted at the ping of an incoming WhatsApp message. Her bag lay in the hallway, next to a stack of unopened post. Bills, of course, and a letter from Carole. Old-school, but Jo always enjoyed seeing the familiar pastel-pink envelope and her dear friend's scrawly handwriting.
Leaving the kettle to boil, she dithered between the phone message and the letter. One to read in a glance, the other to savour.
'Just heading out for a walk with Jamie.' Aaliyah peered over Jo's shoulder, reeking of Miss Dior with a hint of mint. 'He's finished work, so we thought we'd go hold hands and make plans.'
'Are you off your actual rocker?' Jo's blood pressure, usually well within safe limits, threatened to come to the boil in sync with the kettle. 'He's a human, and… Well, you're not. It's like pairing a piranha with a puppy.'
Aaliyah snorted. 'Are you saying I'm like some killer fish? That's rich, coming from the woman who's always telling me to be nice. Anyway, we're just having fun. That'sdefinitelyin short supply around here.’ Aaliyah flounced out, slamming the door so hard that the windows rattled.
Jo took a calming camomile teabag from the caddy and dropped it into a mug. Waiting for it to infuse, she fetched her phone and opened the message.
Hi Jo. Sorry our evening came to an abrupt end. No idea what happened but I did enjoy our time together. Might not always have been obvious, but I did. If you fancy doing it again, just let me know. Maybe a wee trip to Edinburgh if you fancy. Less chance of interruption there! H x
Sealed with a kiss! Heavens, he'd be proposing next. Jo fanned herself with Carole’s letter, which she decided to put aside until bedtime. For now, she'd sip her tea and muse on the evening's events. Could Sam really have a connection with the lamps? If so, why had Aaliyah reacted so negatively? Was he a malignant force, manipulating his genies for his own nefarious ends? And where had that word come from?
Jo sat in the dark for a while. It soothed her, the absence of light allowing her mind to still itself. On the surface, her life remained as steady — as dull — as ever. But the ripples below, the ones others couldn't see, threatened to surge up and drown her. A genie housemate playing silly beggars with an innocent young man. A fellow Cranley resident who might or might not be some kind of mythological master. The memories of being with her parents again, and of winning something she could never share but would always treasure. And then, the man who'd snipped off a little piece of her heart and carried it home.
Tossing the dregs of her tea into the sink, Jo clutched the letter to her chest and switched on the hallway light for Aaliyah. She would read Carole’s wise and witty words later and try to tuck everything else away until the morning. Even a reply to Harvey. That could wait, too.
CHAPTER32
There was stillno reply from Jo. Harvey had looked at his phone a dozen times between sending the message and getting up the next morning. He'd checked it was fully charged and put it next to the bed, where he'd spent a restless night. When he did drift off to sleep, weird dreams plagued him. Lindsey, dressed as a devil, prodding him with a pitchfork and cackling maniacally. Jo, wearing only a skimpy apron, brandishing a whisk dripping in cake batter. And strangest of all, something about a lamp. Not an everyday table lamp, but the kind genies emerged from. In fact, a bit like the ones Jo had on display in the café.
‘You're losing your marbles, mate,' he muttered under his breath. 'Either that, or someone laced that curry with magic mushrooms.'
Three stand-a-spoon-up-in-it coffees later, Harvey's brain cells gave up yawning and sprang to life. He fired up his computer and opened the neglected screenplay. More abandoned than neglected: an unloved, one-eared mutt looking for a good home.
Harvey scrolled to the last sentences he'd written.And through the mist he trudged, his destination unknown. He travelled without hope, a nomad by nature and a pessimist to his core.'This isn't a bloody screenplay, it's a piece of navel-gazing shite.' He deleted the words, his finger crushing them with the key.
A wave of nausea hit him, a combination of said curry and excess caffeine combining to attack his stomach lining. He needed to eat.
He shuffled into the kitchen, trying to recall what awaited him. Ah, yes. Pop Tarts: another gem from Janette's cornucopia of culinary delights. 'See, you just bung 'em in the toaster and Bob's your uncle.' She'd insisted on selling him two packs: strawberry and chocolate chip flavours.
Harvey waited as the latter cooked — if that was the correct term — making little hissing noises. He downed a glass of water and checked his phone again. Zilch.
The tarts duly popped, he returned to the lounge. Instead of carrying on with the doomed screenplay, Harvey signed in to his internet bank account. It made for equally unpleasant reading. Far too many outgoings and very little coming in, just some residual royalties from previous acting roles and a couple of TV commercials he'd agreed to at the peak of his fame. Nothing to be proud of, but they'd paid well. If it was good enough for George Clooney…
