Page 5 of A Wish For Jo
‘Jinnie had a genie?’ Jo didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her friend knew the true nature of the lamps, and had never said a thing. OK, Jo had bought them from Sam, but Jinnie must have spotted them on display in the café. A wee heads-up would have been nice. Such as ‘By the way, Jo, these are no ordinary lamps. They contain genies who’ll wreak havoc in your life if you unleash them.’
The burning question now was what to do about Aaliyah. Could Jo persuade her that no wishes were required, and she should squeeze her enviable body back into the lamp? Then Jo could offload the lamps somewhere — her wheelie bin sprung to mind — and get back to living a normal if somewhat dull existence.
‘Sorry, pet, not happening.’ Aaliyah gave Jo the kind of look normally reserved for a naughty child who’d scribbled on the walls. ‘I’m here now, and I’m not leaving till I’ve done my job. No rush, mind. I got hustled back into me lamp last time, so I’m ready to have some fun.’
So her new gal pal read minds, too? Jo vowed to keep all negative thoughts to herself. That might be easier said than done, given that Aaliyah had the knack of pushing her buttons. Speaking of which…
‘Reet. This is a food place and I’m clamming, so you can rustle me up something. That’ll do nicely.’ Aaliyah pointed at one of Jo’s legendary home-made sausage rolls. ‘Heated up, with a side of those wondrous orange beans you love so much here. They gave Dhassim terrible wind, like, but he always had a delicate constitution. I’m built of sterner stuff!’
Jo watched Aaliyah fiddle with her WIFI. The sound was muted, but the device displayed a sparkling burst of virtual fireworks.Does my future rely on this gizmo? What do I really want, anyway?Her needs were simple, if uninspiring: a quiet life, with her business ticking over until she retired. That was still some years away, but—
‘Are you going to stand there forever, musing on your existence, or will you fetch me some food?’
Jo snatched up a sausage roll, added a side of beans and slid the plate into the microwave. She pushed the relevant buttons and counted down with the illuminated clock.
CHAPTER6
Harvey cursedas the spinning wheel of doom halted his writing progress. His laptop was woefully outdated, but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to invest in a new one.
Forcing quit, he was relieved he'd only written a handful of sentences. He doubted his fledgling screenplay would ever see the light of day, but it kept him occupied. Little else did.
Seeking a caffeine fix to fire up his weary brain cells, Harvey went into the tiny kitchen. As he reached towards the cupboard housing his meagre supplies, he remembered he'd run out of his favourite ground coffee. He'd brought a packet with him when he fled his previous life, but had used the last of it the day before.
'Damn it!' Harvey could place an order on the internet, but brilliant as technology was these days, it hadn't reached sci-fi capabilities. That left him with two options. Pop to the corner shop cum post office, which offered an uninspiring selection of cheap instant varieties, or spruce himself up and head to A Bit of Crumpet.
The former he dismissed instantly, a wry smile crossing his face at the unintentional pun. He had no desire to chat with the busybody who ran the place. Her creased cleavage was always on display and her probing questions brought to mind the Spanish Inquisition. That left the latter. He recalled his curtness on his first visit and cringed. Maybe the owner would lace his drink with laxatives, or refuse to serve him.
'Do I go, Lindsey, or do I settle for a wee dram? The sun's over the yardarm somewhere in the world.' He had wandered back into the living room, his gaze alighting as always on the treasured photo.
Pull yourself together, my darling! Go for a coffee—give your poor old liver a break.
Harvey knew the words came from inside him. He didn't believe in ghosts, and the only thing that haunted him was a past he regretted with every fibre of his being. Not because he'd done anything wrong, but because he'd let the mud stick instead of defending himself.
Ten minutes later, Harvey stood outside the café. He'd combed his hair, put on a half-decent jumper and jeans, and sprayed on some ancient aftershave. He didn't know why — it was unlikely that the owner would get close enough for a sniff, and even more unlikely that she'd give a rat's arse about how he smelled if she did. But at least he didn't pong like the aforementioned rodent's rear end.
'Aaliyah, do I have to ask you again to wipe down the tables? Those school-run mums have left an awful mess: sugar sachets spilled everywhere and sticky fingers all over the condiments.'
Harvey sidled into the café, his heart rate increasing with every step. A young and very attractive woman was stomping around, squirting disinfectant spray with the ferocity of an ardent gardener annihilating plant-eating pests. The café owner stood with her hands on her hips, her expression that of a mum dealing with a belligerent toddler.
'Oh, you're back.' The boss lady switched on a fake smile, as well she might; he’d hardly presented the nice version of himself on his previous visit. Not that Harvey knew if the nice version existed any more — or if it ever had. Perhaps Lindsey was the only one who'd chipped away enough gruffness to uncover something worth pursuing.
'Yes. Hello. Need some coffee.' Good God in Govan (a favourite expression of his long-deceased Glaswegian grandfather), why had his manners completely deserted him? 'Please,' he added, a little too late.
The younger woman finished her vicious assault on the tables and swooped into the back room, oblivious to Harvey's presence.
'Black, no sugar?' The owner had a good memory, though it probably wasn't hard to recall the order of someone as miserable as him. Dark, and bitter. She amped up the smile, and Harvey's frozen heart cracked a fraction. Her smile reminded him of Lindsey, but no one could ever replace her. No one would touch him with a ten-foot barge pole, to be honest. And that was fine. He'd tasted love in its purest form. Anything else would be a feeble substitute—
'Are you up for introductions? I'm Jo.' She stuck out her right hand.
Harvey hesitated. When had he last made physical contact with anyone? It had probably been a nervous pat on the back from his agent when Harvey announced his 'sabbatical' from the acting world. 'Probably for the best,' Arthur Petch had said, his rheumy eyes looking everywhere but at Harvey's face. 'Give it time, son. I'll, erm, let you know if anything decent comes up, but in the meantime…'
Needless to say, Harvey had heard diddly squat from his agent of over twenty-five years. Arthur wouldn't want his reputation further tarnished by association with—
Jo withdrew her hand. 'Fine. I'm not contagious, you know.'
Harvey kicked himself for yet more rudeness, even though it had been unintentional. 'I'm Harvey. Harvey Quinn. And yes, black, no sugar. Please.' He attempted a smile by way of an apology, but his facial muscles were sorely out of smiling practice.
'Anything to eat? Not chocolate, mind, but I do have a very nice Bakewell tart, or a cheese and onion bake if you fancy something savoury.'
