Call Me Kismet Read online

  ‘So no name?’

  ‘Not definitively.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘It might be Frankie.’

  ‘What’s he sing?’

  ‘Whatever’s on the radio.’

  ‘What station does he listen to?’

  ‘Just your average, middle-of-the-road commercial stuff.’ Jane will have a conniption if I tell her it’s Retro FM.

  ‘Oh well, I guess we all have to make compromises. Good singer?’

  ‘Buddha above and beyond, no—appalling! The fact that he does it anyway and doesn’t seem to care, even when he isn’t completely sure of the words, is quite … I don’t know … endearing.’ I feel like a tennis pro facing balls fired at a million miles a minute from one of those machines. I’ve broken out in a sweat.

  ‘Age?’ Jane fires again.

  ‘Hmm, I’d say he has a good few years on us … maybe forty.’

  ‘Marital status?’

  ‘Unknown. I haven’t seen a ring.’

  ‘Oh, OK. That’s not necessarily a deal breaker anyway. Owns the business or works there?’

  ‘Works there, I think, not one hundred per cent on that one either.’

  Jane laughs. ‘Jesus, Kismet. What exactly do you know about him?’

  ‘It’s not so much about what I know, it’s what I’ve seen.’

  ‘Good, that myth about it’s not what you’ve got it’s how you use it can only get a guy so far.’

  ‘Yes but no, not that. I’ve had a sign.’

  ‘Hold it right there. I need another drink for this.’

  Jane is off before I can stop her, a kaleidoscope swirling to the bar. I can guarantee it won’t be a mocktail she brings back for me.

  ‘So, a sign?’ She settles in even closer than she was before.

  I take her through my session with Amethyst and trip to PGGG. ‘After getting myself all het up then not seeing him when I went in, I took a walk through the park to clear my head and get rid of some of the nervous energy fizzing around in me. The fruitologist’s absence raised a bit of a question mark, so I put Situation Singing Fruitologist in my spiritual pop-up toaster …’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My spiritual pop-up toaster. When you don’t know what to do about something, you put it in a metaphorical toaster so an idea or answer can spring up from your subconscious when it’s ready.’

  ‘You distract yourself and wait for an answer to come,’ Jane says, somewhere between a question and a statement.

  ‘Exactly. When my toast was done it popped up with the solution. All I had to do was ask Spirit for a definite sign he’s the one. Why I hadn’t thought of that before I don’t know, put it down to the anxiety short-circuiting my brain. I mean, Amethyst even told me there’d be signs!’

  ‘I hope you didn’t say, “If I see a kid on a bike or people throwing a Frisbee it’s him”, given you were in a park.’

  ‘Thank you very much, oh, she of little faith. No, actually I was very prescriptive—miniature red short-haired dachshund.’

  ‘What else!’ Jane’s laugh inches towards a snort. She doesn’t need an explanation. She knows that miniature red short-haired dachshunds go beyond being my favourite dog; ‘besotted’ would be the appropriate term.

  ‘I was totally preoccupied with practising keeping my head up so as not to do my whole staring at the ground and avoiding eye contact thing, when for some reason, Spirit guided me to look down and there it was. A divinely delivered dachshund literally under my nose. Karma was almost kissing my feet.’

  ‘You’re insane.’ Jane gives a full snort this time.

  ‘Quite possibly certifiable,’ I manage through a countering snort.

  Pretty soon we’re snorting like we’re part of some carefully choreographed synchronised snorting team. But then, we’ve had a lifetime of practice.

  ‘Fuck, I can’t believe I forgot to ask. Celebrity lookalike?’ Jane wheezes.

  ‘Hmm … maybe a younger Kevin Costner but with a bit more, well, character.’

  ‘And by “character” you mean?’

  ‘A slight bald spot and eyes that have a bit of a seagull quality about them, but it works on him.’

  Jane doubles over, snorting into her knees. To most people it wouldn’t be that funny but a few years ago we’d watched The Bodyguard at a ‘Cheese & Sleaze’ evening and spent the six months or so afterwards singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ to each other very badly, very often.

  ‘Oh well, we can’t fight fate.’ Jane sits up, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  ‘Yep, that’s what Amethyst says. What is fated must be lived.’

  Shiva, Shiva, Shiva. Why aren’t alarms more intuitive? It should have known I needed to get up! I jump out of bed in a panic the next morning. Last night’s vodka makes my head spin. It takes a moment to catch up with the rest of me. I really should have stopped a few drinks earlier or at some point when I was sober enough to remember to set my alarm.

  I should text my mother and tell her I might be late, seeing as I definitely will be. She’s not going to take it well. She’s organised a Mother–Daughter–Niece–Nephew day for us before I mind Sammy and Sonja tonight. I’ll text on the way.

  It’s grooming essentials only before I fly out the door to hail a cab.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, of all the times! Forgive my swearing, Spirit, but extreme circumstances—the fruitologist is out on the street chatting. I haven’t got time to breathe let alone try to negotiate an appropriate greeting and I so don’t want to be seen with my hair still wet and only a quick slather of foundation and mascara—eyelashes totally uncurled.

  Oh no … please, Spirit, no—but, oh yes, dharma it. He looks in my direction and something in my brain snaps. I put my head down and run across the road. I try to ignore the sound of the horns.

  ‘Fiona, what is wrong with you today? You’re all over the place.’ My mother looks at me as I sip my coffee at the zoo café. She refused my offer to get her anything with a pointed reminder that she’d had two cups of tea while she was waiting.

  ‘Nothing. Why?’ I say, thinking, Oh my Buddha, I don’t know—I’ve been wondering that exact same thing since the traffic incident myself. Now the fruitologist probably thinks I hate him and threw myself into traffic to avoid him.

  ‘Gran, can we go out there and play?’ Sammy points to the play area that, at ten (Sammy) and seven (Sonja), they’re a little too old for, but they’re kicking the legs of the table and rocking back on their chairs, prisoners of boredom.

  ‘Of course you can, my little daaarlings,’ Mum says before I can offer to buy them treats to save myself being alone with her.

  ‘So,’ she begins as my niece and nephew race to the door.

  ‘How’s Dad?’ I ask with enthusiasm.

  ‘To be honest he’s a little … well, he’s lost a little of his old spark. I’ve got him some vi—’

  Oh Great Ganesha, if she says Viagra I am going to die.

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright, dear? You’re looking a little pale.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Dad?’

  ‘I’ve got him some vitamins. I blame the golf! He’s obsessed with it.’

  ‘Nothing wrong him enjoying a game of golf, Mum. He could be up to a lot worse.’

  ‘He certainly could be up to a lot better too. I mean, look at Brian, whisking Catherine away like that. Your father wouldn’t do anything like that in a million years. Now, speaking of Catherine and speaking of men, she mentioned that you might have met someone.’

  Mum and Catherine, they’re two Capricornian peas in a pod. I stir the dregs of my coffee.

  ‘I’m so happy for you, Fiona. All a mother ever wants is for her children to be happy.’

  Oh Spirit, save me.

  ‘Sometimes I blame myself, maybe I should have been a better mother somehow. Catherine did OK but then again …’

  ‘Then again what?’ Snapping is a mistake, and I rub my temples as pain ricochets through my head.

&
nbsp; ‘No need to get huffy, dear. All I was going to say was that she was always a little more sure of herself. But now that you mention it, you always were a little—’

  ‘Different,’ I jump in, stealing her chance to declare me odd or weird—though it wouldn’t be the first time.

  ‘That’s one way to put it, but that aside, I don’t think you’re doing yourself any favours, particularly not today. Look at you, you’ve hardly made an effort.’ Mum is wearing one of her favourite pant suits, her dyed chestnut hair sprayed into a helmet and her face heavily powdered. ‘And with all that stuff you’re into these days, I mean there are certain things men like in a woman, Fiona …’

  ‘It’s Kismet now!’ I hiss—I’d scream if it weren’t for the fear my head may actually split in two. ‘And I’m fine. I am perfectly happy as I am and, yes, there might be a potential someone but you don’t need to go shopping for a mother-of-the-bride outfit yet.’

  As if.

  ‘Gran!’ Sonja wails from just inside the doorway. It’s as though Mum’s wearing a jetpack, the way she launches across to her. She coos and fusses over Sonja for a moment before giving me a ‘come on, let’s get going’ look. The wailing was obviously the result of a minor sibling altercation.

  ‘I’ll carry mine, Aunty Fee.’ Sammy skids to a halt beside me as I gather our bags.

  ‘What, don’t you trust me with it?’ I wink and pass him his precious South Sydney Rabbitohs backpack. He stops just long to put it on, then speeds off—a blur of red, green and white.

  3

  They say you shouldn’t define someone by their job, which I’m pretty happy about. I’d hate for people to think I’m nothing more than the Academic, Operational and Compliance Coordinator at The Centre for Strategic and Financial Excellence. I didn’t choose that role. When I started three years ago I was employed to do straight admin, which is bad enough. But then private colleges were hit hard with regulatory and funding changes—one additional task after another made an emergency landing on my position description until my role became something else entirely. Now I do—it’s quite hard to define—everything I used to do plus really boring stuff like coordinating government compliance requirements and trying to make sure we maintain accreditation and a whole lot more all equally as dull. And all things that don’t align with my aura in the slightest.

  ‘Fiona, where’s Broomstick?’ It’s Monday morning and Desmond is leaning on the low petition at the front of my desk, a cascade of grey from hair to Hush Puppies. This isn’t the sort of place that could cope with a Kismet, so at work I’m still Fiona.

  I’m not really in the mood to talk at this hour, least of all about our boss, Broomstick—Dr Cybil Raynard. It’s not even 9.30am. I don’t do mornings, apart from with my caffeine dealers, then I’m no better than a crack ho with her pimp. After Jack on Putney Bridge Road, there’s Bing downstairs. I see him at lunchtime too. Bing calls me ‘Mei Mei’—‘little sister’ in Mandarin. In return I call him ‘Da Ge’—‘big brother’. My visits to Bing are right up there on my list of favourite routines—a chat in Mandarin and a caffeine fix. Who could want for more?

  Back to Desmond. I don’t want to discourage his conversation. It’s so rare that he manages to scramble out from the piles of folders and financial documents that tickle at the ceiling and cover half the floor of his office. But he’s so caught up entertaining himself he fails to notice the collective sucking in of air from around the office.

  ‘Fiona, I need you to find a compliance consultant and organise a meeting for next Tuesday. Oh, and Desmond, it’s Dr Broomstick to you.’ Dr Raynard says, all tense under her beige trench coat. She really does look like a broomstick with a bun.

  Desmond’s face goes from grey to red. He scuffs across the carpet back to his office with such speed, I’m sure I see sparks. The archetypal Cancerian mummy’s boy, he’s bound to phone Mummy (he still calls her that) as soon as his door is closed. I’m pleased he at least has someone to debrief with. I don’t do emotional crises verbally before 11am—via email I’m good for 10am.

  ‘Sure, Cybil. How was your weekend? Monday certainly came around quickly, didn’t it?’ I chirp, despite the time. I’ve been trying to get a smile out of Broomstick ever since she started six months ago and I don’t like my chances today. I’m convinced she’ll die of some horrible disease, with all those toxic emotions stewing and festering inside of her. I can literally feel them bubbling away in there. I get quite queasy whenever she’s near me.

  ‘Oh, you’ll need to do up an interim internal audit report to send to the consultant before they come,’ she shoots as an afterthought. She’s another Aries, so bossiness is built in. I do try to make allowances but, seriously, there’s no need for her to go spreading her toxic misery around so liberally.

  I get to work on finding a compliance consultant. By the time I’ve narrowed it down to a list of ten to make initial enquiries and emailed them all, then dealt with some of Broomstick’s other random demands, my usual work and a last-minute crisis for a lecturer who couldn’t fix the paper jam in the photocopier and needed the notes for his class immediately, the day is over.

  Unfortunately so are my plans of going into PGGG tonight. It’s already 6.50pm so I’ll never get back in time. And to think I’ve wasted my favourite workday outfit—a super short black sheath dress with subtle grommet trim, which also serves to cinch the waist a little. But my favourite feature is the great asymmetrical mesh panel at the hem that runs three-quarters of the way around. It gives movement, so I feel feminine without being girly. Today I’d combined it with my black cigarette pants—I avoid bare legs at all costs.

  Even at 6.45am, Jack’s café oozes warmth. I know it’s summer, but still. The rusticness of the furniture and the open hessian sack of coffee beans beside the door is immediately comforting.

  ‘You’re early, Fiona, this must be a record.’ Jack checks his watch as I stumble up to the counter somewhere between asleep and awake.

  ‘Don’t remind me and definitely don’t expect it to become a habit.’ I thrust my KeepCup at him.

  ‘If you were that desperate for coffee all you had to do was call, I would have brought it round for you … well, call and give me your address.’

  ‘Coffee delivered to my door? Then I’d never leave home.’

  While Jack chuckles and gets on with making my coffee, I lean on the counter to flick through the paper. People probably assume I’m the sort of person who goes straight to my stars but I don’t. With Amethyst and my own intuition, who needs a newspaper column for guidance? Astrology’s more a tool to help me understand people and where they’re coming from. I don’t know what sign Jack is yet. To ask would ruin the fun and challenge of figuring it out. Last time I really thought about it I had him down as either a sexy Scorpio or playful Sagittarius. He does have that eternally youthful Sagittarian way about him.

  ‘Thanks, Jack, have a good day. See you tomorrow.’ I’m running on autopilot but my reflexes are still quick enough to whip my fingers away before he has time to grab them during our coffee and change exchange.

  Of course PGGG isn’t open yet, I hadn’t expected it to be. I’d just hoped that maybe destiny would see fit to throw a little miracle into the mix. Everything is as it is meant to be, flowing in perfect harmony, I remind myself, repeating my mantra.

  I don’t really have time for a miracle right now anyway. I need to focus on how I’m going to get Broomstick her report by Friday. So for the next four days, this is my life. My Lovers’ Oracle cards go back to gathering dust, my I-Ching itches for attention, even my intention setting is lacklustre—nothing more than a token effort as I dry my hair. There’s certainly no time for any ‘powering up for positivity’ meditations and I can’t fit in a chant to save myself. When I do arrive home from work somewhere between nine and 10pm, I fall into bed in a crumpled heap. My phone lives at the bottom of my bag until I get to it on the train on the way home in the evenings. I listen to messages that I’m really too
tired to take in, let alone return calls.

  Jane calls on Monday: ‘Just calling for an update on Situation Singing Fruitologist. Did you carry out the action plan?’

  Tuesday, it’s Mum: ‘Oh good lord, Fiona, your father is driving me insane. Jealous of his own grandchildren, can you imagine! Just needed to get that off my chest while he was out at golf and with Catherine away … Hope you’re well, would be nice if you called sometime.’

  It’s 8.45pm on Friday before I hit send on the email to Broomstick with her so ‘super urgent that she went home hours ago’ report attached. At least she can’t say I didn’t meet my deadline. Now that’s out of the way I can focus on getting on with Situation Singing Fruitologist. Maybe finding a new job should be up there too.

  On the train home I check my voicemail. Catherine has called.

  ‘OMG, Fiona, you have to go to Phuket! It is amazing. Did you see the photos I posted on Facebook? Oh, that’s right, you don’t do social media. I’ll show you at Mum and Dad’s at lunch on the weekend. Mum said you’d been ignoring her, or maybe it just wasn’t in your stars to call her this week.’

  ‘Oh, go screw yourself, Catherine,’ I say to my phone, throwing it back in my bag. Why I bothered listening to her message when I was in anything but the mood for Catherine, I’ve no idea.

  ‘Oh Buddha, have mercy!’ Saturday morning, I jump back from my bathroom mirror in fright. My solid eight hours’ sleep has done nothing to repair the ravages of the week. I look like a corpse that’s been dug up and dragged through a hedge backwards.

  Still, there’s no getting out of heading down and sorting out Situation Singing Fruitologist. I committed to it in a text to Jane—unfortunately before I saw myself in the mirror. All I have to do if I see him is muster the courage to keep my head up, look at him, attempt a smile and hope he doesn’t scream and recoil in horror.