Page 40 of The Cocktail Bar
Chapter Twenty-One
ALICE
She was appalled with herself for letting it slip out like that, the zesty cocktail and heady wine only speeding up the lightning bolt of a prophecy. And yet she had reached the stage where she could no longer keep such a secret from River, the man she was desperately trying not to fall in love with.
She wasn’t really one for The Royals, despite her very privileged upbringing, but there was something so tragically Wills and Kate about the pair of them. And his return to Heather’s to give her some space – space Alice hadn’t even requested; space she had no desire for – felt about as wrong as the future king and his wife’s infamous temporary separation. Just about the only thing keeping her going right now was the sweet realisation that they did reunite, quickly coming to their senses, and in time she hoped she and River would back each other into inevitability’s corner too, a destination with no escape.
The past week had been a roller coaster of emotion, as clichéd andX-Factorjourneyed as it was to admit it.
“Shit.” River had finally spoken after she’d told him Lennie strongly suspected he was his son, a ‘confidence’ he’d revealed to her too many weeks ago now, after Heather had slung the crockery and biscuits at him and they’d scarpered back to the RV and then pegged it to London, before flying back to L.A. “Shit… that explains everything,” he’d continued.
Alice had never been through these kinds of dramas growing up. Life had been a continuous flow of ease and abundance, birthright and immunity, an incessant collection of money and passing ‘Go’. Old Kent Road struggle,EastEnders-like strife, they simply hadn’t existed in her bubble. Now, for the very first time, she was beginning to see the world that had been masked to her. Sure, there was nothing to like about it. And yet the chaos of it, the grapple for something better, the paths and the obstacles to be overcome, all of these things shone brightly like the stars. How much more fulfilling a life when there was something to fight for, when you didn’t have it all served up on a platinum plate.
Little did she know that he’d come back to sit by her side, thatPortisheadwould change toMassive Attack, and that the fast-paced African-inspired vibrations ofAngelwould mutate into the indecipherable, ethereal lilt ofTeardrop. Both had instinctively turned to the other, thirsty for some tenderness, edging closer, ever closer, until her body’s tingles merged with his, lips upon lips, skin on skin, arms nowhere and everywhere all at once, taking in every piece of each other in a frenzy.
He pulled away first, just as the moment was coming to its natural end, courtesy of the song releasing them, changing tempo again to something with the potential to take them in a very different direction. But there was no awkwardness. Nobody blushed or ran off to confession with a priest. It was exactly what it was, two people, the music their vehicle for an outpouring. They slept on opposite couches that night, and he drove her back to the campsite the next morning, chatting, laughing, just good friends, not a question to answer.
No rush, she reminded herself as she stole that kiss from her memory again.
Que sera, sera.
So much wisdom in those Spanish words. Every time she meditated – and she was making a point of doing so regularly lately, through the splashes of indigo as she came closer to perfect alignment with that ever sought after third eye chakra, a mysterious voice, the voice of a woman, would whisper over and over in Spanish, the kind of Spanish accentuation that came only from Latin America, that:Que sera, sera.
And then Alice would hunt for the finer detail, trying to match that kiss up with the snog that they’d shared in Blake’s tent all those years ago, but this felt too shiny and new, too wondrous to compare with what would have undoubtedly been a wrangle with a washing machine. At least that’s how she remembered most of those juvenile brushes.
When she backtracked to Georgina’s recent overnight stay, a place she didn’t plan to reside in for very long at all in her head, she couldn’t help but pick up on the tension between them. She’d minded her own business, of course, as River and Georgina had propped themselves up at the small kitchen worktop eating Sweet and Sour Pork, trying to disguise her revulsion at the thought of the poor animal who’d been slaughtered, as well as her revulsion at Georgina for pretending she didn’t exist, as she took her sushi from the fridge and went to eat it outside in the deckchair with her Kindle – once again – for company.
She missedhiscompany, who was she kidding? The weekend was a drag, Aunt Sheba – and it was hilarious to think of the pleasure she derived from referring to her as her Aunt, too – couldn’t have been more welcoming though, checking up on her several times a day, inviting her into the main house for dinner so she wouldn’t have to eat alone. And wasn’t that a blessing in disguise? She had to laugh at the two very different images she’d been broadcasting to River: Alice the Michelin starred chef, with her Feta Bake Fantastique, and more accurately, Alice the Flaming Disaster in the Kitchen, unable to scramble even an egg without almost setting the place alight. For the former she had craftily purchased from Zara’s bakery.
One night the inevitable did happen. Sheba had proffered a reading of her cards and Alice had found she was unable to resist:
“I’m not going to do your tarot reading though, Alice. Oh no… we’ll use the angel cards instead – did you know I created this set myself?”
Sheba’s smile had been full of pride as she’d pulled a small satin drawstring bag from the sideboard behind her and opened it, gently tipping the pack of cards into her palm. The top illustration was exquisite, causing even Alice to feel a brief twinge of jealousy that River had always been surrounded by such creativity, as opposed to the horsey, empirical world of her own family.
“For that is the way I perceive you.” Sheba went on to study her face with the kind of intent one reserved for reading an exam notice board, and then smiled kindly. “Far be it from me to suggest it, but just like an angel, you my dear, were put on River’s path for good reason.”
“Golly no,” Alice protested. “We’ve been friends since we were knee high to grasshoppers. There’s nothing likely to go on romantically between your nephew and me, not now, not ever. And I’m hardly the goodie-two-shoes you make me out to be either.”
She laughed nervously as Sheba laid down a pale lemon square of silk on the table, and added to that a cherubic looking figurine, presumably some part of the ritual as well as a useful anchor. Such a fuss for something Alice wasn’t even sure she believed in, but no harm in going along with it now. She could certainly use the guidance.
“Beg to differ.”
Sheba finally settled herself into her chair, lowered her head, and raised her eyes to make it clear she wasn’t buying the blatant lie. She formed an excellent double chin as she began to shuffle the deck of cards.
“Aren’t you meant to be impartial if you’re cutting my cards?”
“Technically yes, but you’re the one choosing them, with the help of your angels, of course. They’ll always have you pick out what you need to have reaffirmed. No danger of me brainwashing you, don’t worry.”
“So they’re surrounding me… right now?”
“Always, Alice, always.” Sheba closed her eyes, drew in a breath, held it some seconds and then exhaled, opening her eyes again to look endearingly into Alice’s. “Okay, so, have a question ready in your head… no need to divulge it to me, and then take the card you feel most drawn to. We’ll repeat this three times as a kind of past, present, future spread.”
Alice’s heart began to race excitedly, her fingers felt an inexplicable magnetic pull drawing them dead centre of the fanned out pack, and she carefully pulled a card out and lay it face up on the table, without even taking a prior peek herself.
“Ha, The Angel of Displacement,” said Sheba. “Does that resonate at all?”
“I was kind of expecting you to do the talking.” Alice was none-the-wiser.
