Call Me Kismet Read online

  About Call Me Kismet

  Kismet’s destined to fall in love … but that’s not the future she had in mind. With all signs pointing to the one person who isn’t interested, fate is going to need a helping hand—if she’s to trust it at all …

  Fiona Johnson has embraced spirituality, taken on the name Kismet and considers her love life to be a past life. Between juggling Mandarin classes at night and a bitch of a boss during the day, she’s busy making plans to escape her mundane job and return to her beloved China—certain that’s where her future lies.

  Or she was … until her Energetic and Spiritual Healer throws everything into disarray when she sees a soul mate in Kismet’s aura, launching Kismet on a mission to fulfil her romantic destiny.

  All signs point to her mystery love being the local greengrocer she’s dubbed ‘the Singing Fruitologist’. But where she’s into self-help, he’s into sport. And there’s one critical thing he should be into but isn’t. Kismet.

  It’s going to take a lot more than her usual affirmations and Lovers Oracle cards to force the hand of fate and deal with the havoc that Situation Singing Fruitologist causes in Kismet’s life—it’s going to take an entire Spiritual Support Pit Crew…

  And even then, is it really written in the stars or can she create her own destiny?

  Call Me Kismet is a delightful and hilarious romantic comedy about faith, friendship and finding yourself.

  Contents

  About Call Me Kismet

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  My List of 20 Things I Will Know Twelve Months From Now

  About PJ Mayhem

  Copyright

  1

  ‘What do you mean there’s someone around you for a relationship?’ Catherine barks down the phone, all hard edges and elder-sibling superiority. ‘I thought you were off men?’

  ‘So did I, but Amethyst told me fate has other ideas.’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘Of course I’m serious. My Anahata was quite badly out of sync. Amethyst picked up on it when she was rebalancing my chakras.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Your Ana-what?’

  ‘My Anahata—heart chakra.’ I realise Catherine isn’t the best person to share my news with. She hates this sort of stuff, even though I’ve explained a thousand times that Amethyst is a qualified energetic and spiritual healer. ‘He’s hovering in my auric field, waiting for me to notice him.’ Now I’ve started I’m like a train gathering speed.

  ‘Of course he is.’ Catherine’s sarcasm curls her words like they’re old paper. ‘So who is it?’

  ‘Not absolutely sure yet, I still need to figure that out. But according to Amethyst, there will be signs. I just need to stay tuned in enough to notice them.’

  Amethyst had also said to me, ‘Oh, and my guides are telling me that it will help if you keep your head up. You need to look him in the eye, that’s how you’ll connect with him.’ I think better of sharing that last bit with Catherine—definitely one spiritual step too far for her.

  ‘Holy mother of God.’

  Maybe I should have stopped a step before.

  ‘Naturally, my Sahasrara—that’s my crown chakra, Catherine—had gone berserk …’

  ‘That wouldn’t be the only thing.’

  Higher ground, I remind myself. ‘With my Sahasrara whirring at a million miles an hour, my mind scrolled through the obvious potentials.’

  I don’t give Catherine the details: Desmond at work—absolutely no trouble looking him in the eye, although a 49-year-old finance officer who still lives with his mother is hardly relationship material. Jack, my morning barista—definitely not—he’s delightful and we’ve certainly got a connection, but under no circumstances should coffee ever get complicated. Bruce the courier who always asks for me when he comes in to work—sweet but unfortunately not with that halitosis … perhaps if I got him some Listerine—no, not a good way to start a relationship and I’d only find his lisp annoying after a while anyway.

  ‘Did you come up with anyone?’ Catherine’s voice is tight with exasperation. I’d suggest meditation but know that now isn’t the time.

  ‘Initially, no. But then waiting for the bus I had a spiritual epiphany.’

  ‘You mean you thought of who it might be.’

  ‘No, I mean a spiritual epiphany! Clear as day, a vision of the guy from Putney Gourmet Green Grocer appeared on my psychic relationship radar.’

  ‘What makes you think it could be him?’

  Oh Catherine, it is so not to do with thinking. That’s the whole point of it being a spiritual epiphany. I opt for the path of least resistance. ‘I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I’ve seen him watching me as I go by his shop some mornings. His eyes follow me.’

  ‘So, what’s he like? What’s his name?’

  ‘Well, he’s, um, he’s … OK, here’s the thing. I haven’t actually ever spoken to him, and as for his name, I’m not too sure of that either. I just know him as the Singing Fruitologist—for obvious reasons.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re wasting your money paying some crackpot psychic to tell you that crap.’

  ‘Amethyst is not a crackpot psychic. She’s a qualified professional, remember! Besides, destiny doesn’t concern itself with details.’

  ‘Whatever. I just think you’d be better off putting your money towards something practical rather than trying to catch smoke. You need to think about your future …’

  Spare me! One of Catherine’s boringly sensible lectures is the last thing I need. Not that I blame her; astrologically she’s a Capricorn—they’re obsessed with stability in all its forms, particularly financial.

  ‘Thirty-five is hardly ready to be living for my retirement plan.’ I don’t bother retaliating to the jibe about my four uncompleted degrees that she throws in every time. Some people take a while to find their groove. None of those degrees were really me. What is me are my Mandarin studies that I’ve ‘fluffed around with at evening college for years’ (as Catherine put it). I would formalise them but it’s not that easy on top of full-time work.

  ‘And if you do want a relationship maybe you could do something where you’re likely to meet someone you share an interest with. Getting to know them first might be a good idea, Fiona.’

  ‘It’s Kismet! Six months. It’s six months since I took my spiritual name and you still can’t get it right. Honestly, I don’t know why you and Mum have such a problem with it. And Dad, it’s like he hasn’t got a clue.’

  ‘Excuse us if we haven’t managed to break the habit of a lifetime in six short months. Look, I haven’t got time to argue about that now, Brian will be home from work soon and I still haven’t started dinner.’

  It’s 6.05pm. Catherine will be striding from her Ikea kitchen breakfast bar to the Duck Egg Cream wall (I lived through the colour charts) where their family organiser hangs to check how fa
r behind schedule she is. In approximately ten steps she’ll reach the ‘bible’ that holds all the manoeuvres of the military-style operation that is their life. She’s probably a good three-and-a-half minutes behind by now.

  Before either Catherine or I have the chance to say anything more, Brian’s words rise over the echo of their front door thudding closed. ‘Catherine, where are you? I have a surprise for my darling wife.’

  ‘Gotta go. Bye!’ Catherine rushes off, leaving my love for the kids still forming into words on my tongue.

  What was I thinking? Catherine really doesn’t have a clue. She probably thinks the spiritual path is a new style of pavers available at Bunnings.

  Maybe Catherine’s right. My self-doubt is there before I’ve even opened my eyes to the bright January Saturday morning. She usually is—Catherine was busy being right before I was even born.

  Once I’ve intention set, done my You Can Heal Your Life affirmations, a heart-opening chant and a quick ‘powering up for positivity’ meditation, I flick on my radio. With Triple J to keep me upbeat, I open the back door and settle down at the kitchen table to create my Action Plan to Improve my Life list. I start with the heading, as good a place as any.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m still coming up blank when a gust of wind bursts in and whips the list off the table. Until now the morning has been deathly still. That has to be one of the signs Amethyst was talking about.

  Back in my bedroom, I fossick around the bottom of my wardrobe until I find the heart-shaped box of Lovers’ Oracle cards that my dear friend Stephanie gave me three years ago. Hope restored, I rip the plastic off the box, close my eyes and focus my energy on manifesting the perfect card as I shuffle. When the moment feels right, I pick a card, open my eyes, and shazam: Romance—Cupid’s arrow strikes.

  ‘No time to waste. Destiny awaits!’ as Amethyst would say.

  I’m about to rush out the door—in as much of a rush as changing three times, doing my make-up twice, curling my eyelashes four times and brushing my hair in every direction to add body allows—when I hear the whoop, whoop, whoop of my phone. A call from my mother. No one else warrants the emergency alarm ringtone. Although Catherine is getting there.

  There’s no way I’m answering it. One of Mum’s special Bev-style interventions—a Mumtervention—trying to save me from myself and my ‘whimsical acts and witchy-woman moon-worshipping pursuits’ (her words) is the last thing I need right now. I’ll be bashing my head against the wall before I can say, ‘I’ll have some raspberries, tomatoes and you, thanks,’ to the Singing Fruitologist.

  Mum wouldn’t understand that, as a Taurean, I don’t do whimsical anyway.

  Two hundred and five steps later, I’m looking at a sign that reads Putney Gourmet Green Grocer—Purveyor of Putney’s Finest Fresh Produce since 1963. My heart is beating so hard it could burst out of my chest and land on the other side of the street. I take a moment—something as monumental as meeting my destiny cannot be rushed—then step inside. Manfred Mann’s ‘Blinded by the Light’ is on the radio. Positive—it’s tuned to the fruitologist’s preferred Retro FM. Negative—I can’t hear anyone singing along.

  I walk between the produce—a panther could only dream of my stealth. In my ‘focussed on the Singing Fruitologist’ state I can’t think of anything I actually need. I really should have made a list to give this mission a more natural feel. I throw some mixed greens into a bag, put a punnet of strawberries in my basket—a nice romantic choice of fruit—but then take them out. What if he sees them and thinks I’m buying them for a passionate evening with a special someone?

  I’m heading towards the deli section at the rear of the shop when I hear the storeroom door open. I duck behind a towering display of pumpkins. I’m not at all prepared for this. I could be mistaken for a human pin cushion, the way every single hair on my body is standing on end. I have no idea what I’m going to do or say if I do see him. ‘Hello, you don’t know me but I think you’re destined to be my next relationship,’ could be a bit too full on for our first conversation—and where would we go from there?

  Up on my tippy-toes, I peer through the display to the storeroom door. Half of me is willing the Singing Fruitologist to come out, while the other half is tied up in the critical task of willing a badly balanced pumpkin to stay in place.

  ‘Frankie’s just texted me, he’s not coming in,’ a guy who isn’t the Singing Fruitologist announces as he emerges from the storeroom.

  Frankie? That must be the Singing Fruitologist’s name—he’s the only regular missing. Or perhaps they’ve just nicknamed him that after Frank Sinatra.

  But maybe this means the Singing Fruitologist isn’t the one. Surely if it’s meant to be, he would have been here, waiting for fate to deliver me?

  2

  Tucked away at a corner table, I watch Jane approach through the crowd in the glow of the red silk lampshades. Brandishing two drinks as though they’re trophies, she blows at her fringe, which tonight is the same colour as the lampshades, to keep it from flopping over her eyes. Jane’s tights match the cerise velour of the couch against the wall that the early birds have secured. In between her hair and her tights there is an explosion of colour, like a bomb has gone off in her art studio and she hasn’t had time to change. Even though I’m wearing black, I feel positively beige—everyone here looks a bit like Jane. No wonder this is her favourite bar.

  Opposites attract. People have been saying that about Jane and me since we met in kindergarten. It makes us sound like we’re a couple. We’re not, but in lots of ways we might as well be betrothed, sans the sex.

  ‘Shit, Kiz, sorry I’m late,’ Jane says once she’s close enough to see my best attempt at faux anger—brows knitted above a smile. That’s as angry as I can manage with her. She plonks the drinks down, pulls her chair close to mine, sits. We wrap each other in a tight hug, and she doesn’t quite release me. Hands on my shoulders, she studies my face, as if I’m a subject she’s about to paint.

  ‘Holy Govinda. This is not a mocktail!’ I splutter, sipping my drink to break the intensity.

  ‘Oh God, shit, I’m hopeless tonight. Sorry, Kiz. I don’t know why I always forget you don’t drink anymore. I guess you can put it down to Mercury being in retrograde or whatever. I’ll go get you something else.’

  It dawns on me that Jane, in her slightly sceptical if supportive Aries way, is right. Mercury is in retrograde, which would explain why the Singing Fruitologist wasn’t there—our communication would have been stifled.

  ‘No, don’t be silly. One drink won’t hurt. We know I love a vodka cocktail as much as the next girl. Not like I’m on the wagon or anything. It just interferes with one’s alignment to the cosmic forces.’

  Jane raises an eyebrow. ‘Amethyst?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Speaking of being aligned, spill.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you “What?” me, Kismet Johnson! You’ve got the look. Something is going on, I know it. You look fantastic.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘What ridiculous? Lucky for me I got here when I did and no one came along and whisked you away, I’m telling you.’

  ‘You can’t be serious! I feel like such a wreck. Work’s a nightmare—I’ve been there all hours. It’s playing havoc with my biorhythms and my sleep patterns are completely haywire.’ I’m sure it’s probably Situation Singing Fruitologist that’s having the most effect on my biorhythms and sleep but I’ll fill Jane in on that later. I just need to hang onto it for a little bit longer. As soon as I mention it, Jane will do a full dissection, coming up with a plan of what I should do. But it’ll be a Jane plan not a Kismet plan. Jane plans are something only Jane can carry off. Withholding information temporarily technically isn’t lying, so karma won’t mind. This week I’ve been leaving home before Putney Gourmet Green Grocer (PGGG) opens and getting home after they close, so nothing has happened in the six days since I last ventured in anyway.

  ‘W
ork schmerk. I know you and this, my dear, is nothing to do with work. I think someone might be about to get back on the bike—and about time.’

  ‘Thanks for changing nights.’ I’m aiming for distraction.

  Jane waves a hand dismissively. ‘So? Have you got a date tomorrow night? You have to tell me—you know I’ll only drive you insane trying to guess.’

  True, Jane’s like a hound on a hunt once she’s onto a scent. ‘A date? Shiva, no! You know I don’t do dates. My perfect sister’s perfect husband has surprised her with a perfect gift so she’ll have the perfect birthday in perfect Phuket. So my perfectly adorable niece and nephew are staying with my perfectly—well, my parents, but Mum and Dad have to go out tomorrow night so their imperfect daughter is on child-minding duty.’

  ‘Oh, that all sounds perfectly lovely! And steering the conversation in that direction is the perfect deflection. But I’m still waiting for you to tell me what the hell is going on with you.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about you—how are you? What’s happening?’

  ‘Nice try. For the record, it’s deadly boring at the moment, I’m spending my days and half my nights locked in my studio to finish those dull office art commissions. A girl’s gotta pay the rent. Now out with it.’

  ‘I know this sounds a little out there.’ After my initial outpouring to Catherine, I’ve realised Amethyst’s prediction does sound a bit insane when I say it out loud. ‘Well, Amethyst sort of mentioned that there’s someone around me for a relationship.’

  ‘I knew it! I knew there was something going on.’ Jane leans in, so close now that her knees touch mine. ‘I could sense a little mo, or it might have been jo—whichever—part of your mojo is back. I felt it across the room! This is so exciting. Now tell me, who is it?’

  ‘The Singing Fruitologist.’ I hold my breath and brace myself.

  Jane frowns. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m a bit light on details but he works at the Putney Gourmet Green Grocer—Purveyor of Putney’s Finest Fresh Produce since 1963. And he sings.’ We spend a minute laughing at their purveyor tagline, then she’s off again.