Mrs Cadwalader grabs the cup and frowns into its depths. ‘Oh, hang on.’ Her brow clears. ‘That’s because he hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘Ah!’ I suppress a smile. ‘So will he be along any time soon?’ I ask, looking at my watch. ‘I think they close at six.’
‘Hard to tell,’ she murmurs. ‘But I do see a turkey. Hang on, is that a kangaroo? No, definitely a turkey.’
A laugh escapes. I can’t help it. ‘A turkey? Really? Alive or dead?’
‘Can’t be specific. But what I can tell you is there’s definitely a storm brewing.’ She laughs and raises her hands to the tempest that’s currently giving the High Street a good battering. Then she bends to the cup. ‘Yes, a storm brewing around a lifelong friendship. A girl you’ve known since schooldays?’ She frowns and peers closer. ‘It’s all a bit of a mess, really.’
‘Isn’t that just the tea leaves clogging together?’ I suggest helpfully. I’m not at all sure I like where this is going.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Mrs Cadwalader, whose irony radar is obviously either on the blink or still in the shop. ‘You were close as sisters, you two. But not any more. Ooh, she’s a sad, sad person.’ She looks up. ‘Any of that ring a bell, dear?’
Surprisingly, it does – and as guesses go, I have to admit, it’s genius. Mrs Cadwalader can’t possibly know about Carol and the Cold War that broke out between us several years earlier. Frosty relations have since grown icier than a neglected chest freezer.
‘She’s sad, all right,’ I mutter.
Mrs Cadwalader nods in sympathy. ‘You let each other down.’
I sit forward abruptly. ‘Er, I’m sorry, but you’ve got that completely wrong.’
‘Have I, dear?’
‘Yes!’ Self-righteous indignation rises up in my chest. ‘Carol let me down. End of story.’
Mrs Cadwalader places her soft, plump hand over mine and says gently, ‘Except it’s not the end of the story for your friendship.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel stupidly close to tears.
Why am I getting emotional about a strange woman’s ramblings? Carol and our friendship are history. There is no going back, not after the way she’s treated me.
‘Three – um – ghosts will come to your rescue.’
‘What?’
Mrs C looks up worriedly then gives her head a little shake. ‘No, that can’t be right. Does that sound right to you?’
I shrug expansively, completely lost for words.
She means well, I’m sure. But the last thing I need is my past raked over and a farcical tale about ghouls coming to sort it all out.
She smiles. ‘Silly me. They’re not ghosts at all. They’re messengers! Three messengers.’
Oh, that’s all right, then.
I have to hand it to her. She’s very entertaining. Either she’s a really good actor or she genuinely believes that the guff she’s spouting is actually going to happen.
‘Heed the messengers’ advice and both your lives will be … er … ’ – she leafs urgently through her notebook, finally finding the right page – ‘enriched beyond measure!’
Homework complete, she sits back and beams at me, as if she deserves a gold star and a lollipop.
‘Well, thank you for that.’ Now is definitely the time to make my exit. ‘I’m – er – not a huge believer in this kind of thing.’
Mrs Cadwalader gives an understanding nod. ‘Neither was I, dear. But since I left Brian, I’ve been opening my mind to a whole host of different things.’
‘Brian?’
‘My ex.’
‘Oh.’ I glance at her vacant ring finger. ‘Didn’t you love him?’
‘No, I did not.’ She grows even more Welsh in her indignation. ‘Well, he never appreciated me, did he? Never really talked to me.’ She purses her lips. ‘He had to have his meal on the table at six on the dot otherwise he would sulk for days.’
‘How awful.’
‘It was, it was.’ She stares bleakly into the distance for a moment.
Then she snaps to, with a smile. ‘So anyway, I put up with it for all those years and then one night, I said, “You know what? You can bugger off, Brian.” I mean, getting the veg to the precise level of tenderness at the same time as the meat is practically impossible. It was doing my head in keeping to his tight schedule and trying to make him happy. So I threw down the tea towel and I said, “Brian, you’ll have beans on toast tonight or lump it!”’
I nod admiringly, remembering Bob the Knob’s delightful little ‘quirks’.
‘Well, of course he went off it, didn’t he? Threw me out of the house. So I went to a really posh hotel with his credit card and called my friend, Doris. Then you know what we did?’
‘What?’ In spite of myself, I’m intrigued.
‘We went to the bar and drank our weight in brandy.’
She sits back with a little smile and her eyes go all dewy. ‘Great friend, Doris. So supportive. Kept knocking them back even though she’s actually a port-and-lemon-once-a-month kind of girl.’
‘Just the sort of friend you need in a crisis,’ I say, suddenly thinking that’s exactly what Carol would have done for me. Once upon a time.
Mrs Cadwalader nods. ‘How true. Doris, bless her. Couldn’t get back on the stool that second time, she was laughing so hard.’
‘Sounds like a great night.’
‘Oh, yes. We did the can-can in the restaurant and the waiter refused to join in. It’s all a bit of a blur after that.’
‘And Brian?’
‘Well, he’s moved his secretary in!’ Her eyes are wide with disbelief. ‘So I said to him, “Brian, you’re a walking cliché and by the way, I’ve never had an orgasm in my life, but watch this space.”’
‘But you’re okay now?’ I picture her hot on the trail in her quest for the big ‘O’.
She leans forward and lays her hand on my wrist. ‘Oh, I’m more than okay, girl. I’m fabulous! I’ve always been a bit psychic so I decided I’d try to make a career of it. Use my natural, God-given talents, so to speak. The sky’s the limit, really. If you’ve got a dream, go for it, that’s what I say!’
I nod, slightly cowed by her exuberance. When was the last time I felt that excited about life? Too long ago to remember.
‘Anyway, I gotta go now, bach.’ She gathers up her things and peers anxiously outside. ‘I’ll have to make a dash for it. Meeting Doris. We’re going on the prowl. Panthers, we are!’
‘Don’t you mean ‘cougars’?’ I chuckle, as she stands up and shrugs on her strawberry mac.
She spins round and points at me. ‘That’s it! I knew panthers didn’t sound right. By the way, bach, I forgot to say. The first messenger will arrive tonight.’