Chapter 1
Taurus season
TAURUS
Season: April 20—May 20
Element: Earth
Themes: Self-care. Sensuality. Pleasure.
Best time to: Set goals to make your dreams come true.
Nina did not want to spend her thirtieth birthday in a prison cell. But unfortunately, it looked like that was exactly what was about to happen.
"Here we are." The fiftysomething police officer who'd been in charge of Nina ever since she'd been led into Leicester police station with handcuffs around her wrists and mascara down her cheeks stopped abruptly outside a heavy metal door. "Not quite the Ritz, but at least you'll be alone."
"Alone?" Nina looked up at him in alarm. "No, no, I don't need to be alone. I'll be fine in one of those group cells with the bars."
The police officer laughed at Nina's lack of knowledge. "Those only exist in America. In Her Majesty's police stations, you get your own cell."
"But I thought that being in isolation was a punishment?" asked Nina. She was trying not to panic, and up until now, she'd been fine. She'd barely made any drug smuggling jokes when the female police officer had seen her washing out her menstrual cup in the toilet, she'd handed over her shoelaces without pointing out just how difficult it would be to hang herself with them, and she'd only made one reference to the last time she'd worn handcuffs. But that had been before Nina realized she'd actually have to spend the night in a cell. Alone.
"It's normal procedure when someone has been arrested at night," said the police officer, struggling with the key to the cell.
"Not on Orange Is the New Black," muttered Nina.
"This isn't TV," he replied, pushing the door open. "It's Leicester."
"Please," said Nina, in one last futile attempt to avoid her fate. She looked at the name on his shirt. "Look, DC Spencer, you know I'm innocent. I didn't do anything wrong. Is it really necessary for me to stay the night? Can't I just come in tomorrow morning for the interview?"
DC Spencer sighed impatiently. "You're under arrest," he said. "Which means you're going to have to spend the night in this cell. So get in there."
He moved aside and jabbed his thumb toward the tiny room behind him. The whole thing was made of concrete and painted to look like faux marble. It hadn't worked. There was a ledge built into the wall with what looked—and smelled—like a blue plastic gym mattress placed on top of it, as well as a much smaller blue plastic lump that Nina presumed was the pillow. There was no bed linen.
"That's the toilet," said DC Spencer, pointing to a hole in a smaller faux-marble ledge. "But also where the water comes out to wash your hands."
"Oh good," said Nina faintly, trying not to inhale the musty odor. "An eco-friendly ensuite."
"If you like. At least you're dressed for it." He looked at her oversized jumper, checkered pajama bottoms, and large puffer coat.
"I only popped out of the house to get a falafel," she said, crossing her arms. "I didn't expect to get arrested."
They both looked down at a series of white stains on her pajama bottoms.
"Hummus," explained Nina. "It's not easy to eat a falafel wrap when you've got handcuffs on."
"Oh good, so you won't be wanting dinner," he said. "Right, well, that's it, then."
"Wait," cried Nina. "Is there anything I can do? I'm guessing there's no TV. But do you have any magazines? Books? A guidance leaflet? I'll read anything."
"God, I don't remember the last time anyone asked for books," said DC Spencer.
"Do you . . . think you'd be able to find something?" asked Nina. "Honestly, I don't mind what it is. I just know I won't sleep, so anything to keep me distracted would be great."
"I think all the books got ruined by a stag do."
Nina opened her mouth to speak, but DC Spencer shook his head. "Don't ask," he said, as he walked out of the cell.
"Hang on, before you go, would it be possible to get a hot drink or something?" she asked.
"Will tea do?"
"Oh, an Earl Grey would be amazing," said Nina gratefully. "Or a chamomile actually. I guess it's a bit late for caffeine."
DC Spencer barked with laughter. "Chamomile! The tea comes from a machine. It's powdered." At the sight of Nina's horrified face, his voice softened. "They have a hot chocolate that isn't so bad."
"My mum keeps saying I should eat less refined sugar," said Nina. "Apparently it's why my life is so bad."
DC Spencer raised his eyes to the concrete ceiling. "You're about to spend your birthday under arrest. You can have a hot chocolate."
"Oh all right," said Nina. "I'll take two."
#
Nina sat in the cell and cried. Ever since she'd broken up with the man who'd been planning her not-so-surprise thirtieth, she'd lost all hopes of celebrating her birthday in style. But it had never occurred to her that she'd turn thirty alone in a cold cell with watery hot chocolate and not even a bedsheet for company. Nina wasn't big on symbolism, but she couldn't ignore the fact that this was not a very good sign. Her twenty-ninth year had not gone as planned, so she'd been desperately hoping—no, she'd needed—for her thirtieth to be an improvement. Only, so far, it looked like it was going to be her worst year yet.
She really had just popped out for some emotional comfort food when she'd been arrested. It had been her last evening in the flat that she'd shared with Nikhil until a month ago, and she'd felt depressed being there with her stacked-up boxes piled high against all the IKEA furniture he'd painstakingly built—and thus claimed as his own. She'd felt so lonely. Lonelier than she had in years, and it hurt. She'd tried to fill up the empty pit inside of her, eating everything she could find in the flat, even Nikhil's tasteless protein bars. But it wasn't enough to plug the gaping, raw pain. So she'd done what any sane woman in the final hours of her twenties would have done: stuck a coat on over her pajamas to go and buy a takeaway falafel wrap with a side of cheesy chips.
The drama had started when she came across the activists on her way home, a group of loud, jovial women walking with flasks and placards. Nina had been staring enviously because she'd never been to a protest before, even though she'd seen Billy Elliot four times (even once in the West End), and she'd always felt it was something she needed to tick off her bucket list. So when one of the women had asked her to hold her placard for a minute, assuming Nina was also marching against the council's unfair closure of a local center to help refugee women, Nina had decided this was her miners' moment. The cause was perfect-as a brown woman, supporting refugees was basically in her blood—and the demonstration was conveniently going past her flat. It was time for her to make a stand.
Within minutes, Nina was sharing tea from their flasks and agreeing heartily that the council had their priorities wrong. She was so inspired by the convivial atmosphere that she'd even started up a "Save our center" chant, barely taking in the fact that a bunch of angry-looking men had joined their march. For the first time in a month, surrounded by her new friends, with a bag of cheesy chips in her hand, Nina had forgotten how miserable she was.
Until suddenly, plastic bottles were flying in the air, her chips were thrown to the ground, and people were screaming. Nina was left clutching onto her falafel wrap for dear life. By the time she had processed that she was in the middle of a fight, the police had arrived and arrested anyone who hadn't realized they were meant to run. Which meant that Nina was the only one they managed to arrest.
#
The cell door opened. It was DC Spencer. "You can have your phone call now," he said, pointedly looking away from Nina's sodden, teary face.
She rubbed her sleeve across her eyes and eagerly stood up to follow him into the corridor. "Oh, thank you. Hopefully I've got enough battery left."
He snorted with laughter. "Oh, you won't be using your phone. That's gone into evidence. You use the phone here in reception"—he pointed to a gray plastic desk at the end of the corridor—"and Jim will dial the number for you."
An elderly police officer pushed his glasses up with the tip of his finger and beckoned to Nina. "What's the number you want to dial, then, love?"
Did she even know any numbers by heart except for Nikhil's?
"Um. Okay." She recited his number slowly.
"Very good," said Jim, slowly tapping on the keyboard. "And what's the name of the person you're calling?"
"Nikhil Tripathi." She spelled it out for him before he even had to ask and thanked god for her Indian-enough-but-not-so-Indian-nobody-can-say-it-let-alone-spell-it name of Nina Mistry.
"Very good. And what relation is this man to you?"
"Well, he was my fiancé. I guess ex-fiancé. We still love each other though." Jim blinked in response. "Sorry," said Nina. "Can you just put . . . friend?"
Jim took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, while DC Spencer let out another snort of laughter. "I'm not sure it's the best idea for you to call this man," said Jim, looking up at her kindly.
"No, it's fine," said Nina. "I know it sounds strange. But we only broke up a month ago, and we were together for three years. He'll definitely still help me."
Jim looked worried. "Is there anyone else you can call? Anyone at all?"
Nina sighed. Maybe he was right. She knew Nikhil would help her if she called, because he always did. It was one of the reasons she'd fallen in love with him. But they had promised to not speak after the breakup, and considering she was the one who'd broken his heart, that was probably the least she could do.
She tried to think of who else she could call instead.
She knew her mum's phone number, but having to deal with her critical judgment was not an option. "Typical," she'd say, even though being locked in a cell was actually very atypical behavior for Nina. "It's always one thing after another with you. You bring shame on me by insisting on living with your fiancé before marriage, and then, after I finally come around and admit to Auntie Hetal you've been cohabiting, you end it! Do you know how humiliating it was to take back the invitation I sent my friends? Oh yes, I know you didn't want me to invite anyone to the wedding before you had a date, but this is how our community works, Nina. You have no respect for any of it. And now this; arrested! I'm embarrassed to call you my daughter."
They'd had variations of this conversation so many times before—"Writing about your personal life for these websites and calling it journalism! Do you have no shame?"—that Nina could recite it word for word. There was no way she was going to voluntarily put herself through it whilst having one of the worst nights of her life.
But the sad truth slowly dawning on her was that she wasn't sure who else she could call. While she had scattered friends who were free for a quick drink on a Tuesday, none of them was ever around on a Saturday night, let alone for a "Help, I'm in prison" phone call. Everyone was always so busy—putting in long hours at work, on a romantic weekend away with their partner, or going to yet another wedding. Nina didn't get it; even when she'd been with Nikhil, she'd never been that busy, and even if she had been, she would have dropped it all for her friends. But it seemed that while Nina's priorities hadn't changed, everyone else's had.
She ran through the options of who she might call. Most of her university friends had stayed in London, and when she'd left to go back to Leicester, she'd fallen out of touch with them. She did have some work friends, but even after countless boozy Friday night drinks, she didn't feel close enough to them to reach out in a moment of crisis. The only one she'd even been truly close to was Elsie, who'd spent hours crying with Nina in the work toilets at their first job at a magazine they both hated, but now that she'd been promoted to features director at that same magazine, she was always too busy to hang. Which left Nina's school friends.
Jo had been her best friend ever since they'd bonded over Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging in Year Seven. They'd spent most of the 2000s racking up huge phone bills, discussing everything from what happened on Saturday night to how unfair it was that they both had such dysfunctional families, laughingly competing for the title of Most Fucked-Up Family. And when Nina unequivocally and tragically won that title in Year Nine, Jo—and her therapist mother—had been the main reason she hadn't had a total breakdown.
They'd admittedly been drifting for a while now, and Nina was slightly annoyed at her for only sending a string of broken-heart emoji after she'd told her about ending things with Nikhil, but Jo was Jo. And Nina was running out of options.
#
With a slightly despondent sigh, Nina turned to Jim and recited the phone number she'd known by heart for fifteen years.
"Hello?" Jo answered instantly, her voice echoing through the station on loudspeaker.
"Oh my god, Jo. It's so good to hear your voice."
"Who is this?"
"Oh sorry! It's me, Nina."
"How come you're calling me on my private number so late? Were you out? Anyway, it's amazing you're calling."
"Um, I'm not sure it is," said Nina. "Because I'm actually in—"
"GUESS what just happened?"
"What?" she asked, very aware that this one-sided conversation was not going the way it should.
"I'm engaged!!! Jaz just proposed!!!"
"Oh my god, wow," said Nina weakly, turning away from both the police officers so they wouldn't see her face. "Congrats! That is super exciting for you. Look, I don't want to—"
"Thanks!" cried Jo. "I'll fill you in on all the deets later. Obvs you're going to be a bridesmaid."
Nina tried again. "Jo, sorry, I don't want to make—"
"OH MY GOD, I'm the worst!" screeched Jo. "I forgot it's your birthday tomorrow. That's why you're calling, right? I'm so, so sorry but I can't do brunch anymore—we're having a family celebration for the engagement. But I promise I'll make it up to you."
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