Put a Spell on You

by Karen Clarke

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

On the eve of her 27th birthday, Josie Goodwin is feeling harassed. Her boyfriend Will has become a donkey-loving hippy and her best friend Lara has baby-brain. She desperately needs to find the perfect location for a film shoot, or her career may implode. Her eccentric grandma has always said that Josie will inherit a book of spells on her birthday, but since she doesn?t believe in magic, nothing will improve; or will it?

Release date: June 4, 2015

Publisher: Corsair

Print pages: 247

Sample

Things I would wish for right now if I could wave a magic wand:

1) My boyfriend Will to stop being a born-again hippy and propose before I’m shrivelled to the point where no other man will look at me.

2) To find the perfect location to film Sibling Rivalry before I get fired. (Preferably one that doesn’t involve the owner changing his mind at the last minute and chasing me off his property, brandishing a shotgun.)

3) Lara’s baby to stop bawling 24/7 so she can get some sleep and go back to being my lovable best friend instead of a slitty-eyed wreck in ill-fitting clothes.

4) Mum’s boyfriend, Del – a pervy, tattooed trucker from Letchworth – to disappear.

5) Glossy, flame-red hair instead of my cowpat-brown frizz. And to be a cup size bigger. With dainty fingers. And a smaller bum. (And to be less shallow.)

My twenty-seventh birthday started much like any other day, except that I was cross with Will.

‘You didn’t even buy me a card!’

‘I made you one, Josie. It’s more meaningful. Anyone can go to a shop and buy one.’

He spoke softly and without reproach, because that’s how Will speaks these days.

He did look hurt, though – his hazel eyes sort of bruised – but I was so disappointed I pretended not to notice. ‘You stuck some dried bits of pasta to a piece of card cut from a Bran Flakes box.’ I waggled it at him. ‘I made a better fist of this sort of thing when I was six.’

‘I’ve spelt out your name in a love heart,’ he pointed out, reasonably. ‘You’ve got to admit that’s romantic.’

‘But some of the bits have dropped off. It says “Joie”.’

‘That’s because you keep waving it about.’

I wondered whether to mention I’d been secretly hoping for an iPad and possibly a trip to Venice, but decided against it.

‘I’ve made you a commitment bracelet,’ he said, clearly deciding not to acknowledge his blunder. He pushed back his wavy brown hair, hoicked up his boxers, and loped across to the dressing table with puppyish eagerness.

Will never used to lope or have floppy hair, or be puppyish. Before he was coaxed into a trip to the Shambalaya – a spiritual retreat in Kent – by his brother Ben (or Moonfox, as he insisted on being called) he’d worked in advertising and was being tipped for big things.

He wouldn’t have been seen dead in tie-dye T-shirts and frayed jeans, but the retreat had forced him to ‘reassess his priorities’ – along with his dress sense, presumably.

When he returned, he’d claimed to be sick of exhorting money from the public for luxury cat foods, and went part-time at Ad Men. He started helping out at a donkey sanctuary called Ned and Eddie’s near Oxford – miles from our London flat – and when he wasn’t there he was either meditating, or growing misshapen vegetables on a poky allotment in Grove Park.

It was all very admirable in some ways, but I missed the old Will. I sometimes felt like suing him under the Trade Descriptions Act.

‘It’s . . . lovely,’ I said doubtfully, as Will trotted back and wrestled a scratchy, stretchy contraption over my wrist. ‘What’s it made of?’ I held up my arm to the August sunlight streaming through the window. At least it was nice and sparkly.

‘Recycled glass and tyres. I made it in my shed at the allotment,’ he said, dropping a kiss on my hand.

I softened. ‘A Will Hammond original,’ I said, and he smiled. ‘I expect you’re planning to surprise me with a proper present later.’ I flung back the duvet and grabbed my dressing gown. ‘I’ll make my own breakfast, shall I?’

‘I put some of my special recipe muesli in to soak last night.’ Will leapt up and helped me into my slippers as though I was senile. The fact I was naked under my dressing gown didn’t seem to register. ‘I’ve put your favourites in. Raisins, coconut, almonds – you name it.’

‘Sausages?’ I said, attempting to drag a comb through my tangled hair. ‘A chicken kebab?’

He squeezed my shoulders affectionately. ‘Grumpy-lump.’ It was fast becoming my new nickname, which used to be ‘Nigella’ back in the days when he thought I resembled the domestic goddess. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting worked up about anyway. You’ve got “The Party” tonight.’ He scratched quotation marks with his grubby fingernails.

‘Oh that,’ I said, abandoning my hairbrush. A funny feeling started rumbling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t work out if it was hunger or excitement. ‘Load of old nonsense.’

‘Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?’ His eyes sparked with interest as he located his jeans on the floor and pulled them on. ‘Tonight’s the night my girlfriend finally becomes a witch.’

‘Stop it,’ I said, with that funny lurch again. ‘I’m . . . I’m not a witch. I’m the opposite of a witch. Not witch material at all.’

‘Well, according to your gran you are. Fifth generation and due to inherit the Book of Spells on your twenty-seventh birthday.’ He did a passable imitation of my Scottish grandmother.

‘It’s all rubbish,’ I said, fussing with the belt of my dressing gown. ‘An urban myth like . . . like alligators living in the sewers in New York or the Loch Ness Monster. It’s family folklore, that’s all.’ Why was my pulse racing, then?

‘Abracadabra, fiddledy-dee, make me a 38 double G,’ Will chanted, mincing around the bedroom brandishing an imaginary wand.

‘I’d hate to be a 38 double G,’ I grumbled, too hot all of a sudden.

‘Hocus-pocus, witchety-wee, I want to have loadsa mon-eee,’ he sang in a high-pitched voice, tugging a holey T-shirt on.

‘Stop making me sound like that.’ I lobbed a pillow at him. ‘If I could cast spells they wouldn’t be that meaningless,’ I lied. With Will’s reduced salary and my job at Lotus TV under threat, I was more than a bit concerned about next month’s bills.

Although our Kensington flat could best be described as bijou – or too small to swing a dormouse, according to Mum – the mortgage certainly wasn’t. Will kept saying we should move out of London, but what was the point when we both worked there? We’d only spend a fortune on commuting.

‘Anyway, witches only say “abracadabra” in books,’ I added, hunting for clean underwear. ‘You’re thinking of magicians.’

‘Spoken like a true witch.’

‘Will!’

‘I’m just saying.’ He glanced at the clock, ruffling his hair into place. ‘Look, I’d better get going, Jo, I’ve got a meeting this morning.’

‘Dressed like that?’

He scratched the full beard he’d been cultivating that made him look like Jesus. ‘Not at work, at the allotments. Somebody’s pinched Maud Winthrop’s parsnips. We need to install CCTV or something up there.’

I stared at him. ‘It’s lovely of you to want to help, Will, but I’ve booked the day off work.’

‘Why?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘I thought things were dodgy on that front. Didn’t you say you might get fired if you don’t find a place to film your drama?’

‘It’s not my drama. And I was exaggerating,’ I said, though I hadn’t been, not really. ‘Look, if I can’t have a day off on my birthday I might as well . . . Oh forget it,’ I stormed, pushing past him and heading for the shower. ‘Maybe we can have lunch together.’

‘Sorry, Josie, but I’ve arranged to meet Giles, too. We’re discussing more fundraising ideas for the sanctuary.’

‘What?’ Giles Cornish was an old university friend of Will’s, an archaeologist, back from some dull-sounding excavation abroad. ‘I thought you were organizing a fun run,’ I said, guiltily recalling Will asking if I’d like to take part. I’d invented a weak knee.

‘We need more than one event a year to keep the sanctuary open, Jo.’

‘OK, I was only saying.’ He got a bit defensive whenever Giles was mentioned, just because I called him posh totty once. ‘Please can you talk him into hiring out Cotsworth House?’ I rushed on, seizing the opportunity. ‘It’s perfect for Sibling Rivalry and he’ll make loads of money. He can fix up that grotty bit where he lives, and still have money for his boats.’ Giles apparently renovated barges – for fun. ‘I don’t know what his problem is.’

‘His problem is he doesn’t want a television crew charging round the family pile, ruining his inheritance.’

‘Some inheritance,’ I mumbled. ‘He can’t even afford to maintain it.’ Giles’s tight-lipped response the last time I’d enquired still stung. He hadn’t bothered hiding his contempt for my job; had been really dismissive, in fact. ‘It is my birthday,’ I pleaded, but Will remained impassive. ‘Oh fine, go and tend to your turnips or whatever they are,’ I huffed. ‘I’ll go round to Lara’s. She’ll understand.’

He chuckled softly, clearly no longer able to gauge my mood – if he ever had been. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ he said.

‘What’s up with you?’ barked Lara, from the doorway of her three-storey Georgian house in Hampstead Village. Olly was clamped to her hip, sobbing as though his heart had been broken. ‘You’ve got a face like a slapped arse.’

‘Charming.’ I felt like sobbing too. Didn’t anyone care that it was my birthday?

‘Oh God, Jo, I’m sorry, I forgot. Come inside.’ Lara beckoned me over the threshold, as though she was inviting a vampire in.

The hallway floor was scattered with pieces of Lego and crunchy underfoot. ‘Happy birthday to yoooou!’ she sang manically, jiggling Olly up and down as I inched along, clutching the dado rail for safety. ‘You’ll never be as old as me, though.’

‘That’s true.’ She’d recently turned thirty and never let me forget it. ‘How are you, anyway?’

‘Oh, you know.’ She nudged the kitchen door open with her forehead, as if she’d got used to functioning without arms. ‘Rob, can you please look after your son for ten minutes while I chat to Josie?’ she pleaded, dangling Olly in front of her husband like a badly wrapped parcel.

Rob put down his coffee cup and lifted his gaze from the Financial Times, with an air of vague surprise. He had an enviable ability to switch off from his surroundings, a trait Lara had once found adorable, but which now invoked murderous tendencies.

‘Of course, darling.’ He flipped his silk tie over one shoulder and held his arms out, and Olly immediately stopped bawling and snuggled into his father’s shirt. ‘Who’s Daddy’s little champ?’

‘Da-da,’ said Olly, obligingly.

Lara stamped round the kitchen and sloshed some black coffee into mugs from her espresso maker. I pretended not to notice when she wiped a plate with her sleeve and slapped some croissants on it.

‘Is it Auntie Josie’s special birthday?’ Rob said, looking at Olly. He and Lara often communicated through him, as though he was an interpreter. ‘Yes it is!’

Rob crinkled his eyes at me, and I couldn’t help smiling back. He was film-star handsome, with wide grey eyes, thick black hair and dimples; not remotely how I’d imagined a hedge-fund manager should look. (Lara once tried to explain his job, but we still weren’t sure exactly what a hedge-fund manager did.)

‘Are you coming to my party?’ I asked him, splattering coffee as Lara bullied me out of the kitchen.

‘We don’t have much time,’ she hissed, as though someone had planted a bomb in the downstairs loo. ‘Olly will want me back any second.’

‘Try to stop us,’ Rob said with a grin. ‘Although if anyone’s about to turn into a witch it’s my darling wife.’

His tone was light, but an ominous silence fell. I stared anxiously at Lara’s tired but beautiful face. Myriad emotions chased over it, and for a moment it looked like it could go either way. She flashed me a wicked smile. ‘The first thing I’d do is turn his nibs back into a frog,’ she said.

She seemed her old self as she herded me into the cosy snug, with its open fire and moody, purple walls. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she grimaced, sweeping stuff off the leather sofa onto the floor. As she opened the curtains, a cloud of dust motes danced in a beam of sunlight. ‘I can’t seem to get my act together.’ Her violet eyes despaired as she glanced around. ‘As soon as I put Olly down he either starts screaming or I fall asleep.’

‘Don’t worry, honestly, it’s fine.’

OK, so it wasn’t the show house Lara had created when she and Rob moved in, but she’d been a high-flying interior designer by then, and, if I was honest, I’d always felt nervous flopping around such perfection with my big feet and clumsy hands. It was a long way from the nice-but-average suburban homes we’d grown up in.

‘I don’t know how Rob can sleep when Olly’s still waking in the night.’ She hooked a strand of caramel-coloured hair behind her ear while she searched the drawers of a Louis XVI writing desk.

‘That’s men for you,’ I said. Will had once slept through a storm so violent it brought down a tree in the street outside, and the fire brigade was called out. He’d said the next morning he vaguely remembered dreaming he’d heard a siren.

‘I can’t imagine ever feeling awake enough to comb my hair, never mind working again.’ Lara’s face was slack with bewilderment, and I bit back the moan I’d intended to have about Will. She really did look tired.

‘Come and sit down,’ I said, patting the cushion beside me, but she shook her head.

‘I was sure I’d got you a card.’ She began moving things about in a desultory fashion. ‘Do you mind if I bring your present to the party?’ she added, and I knew in an instant she hadn’t bought me anything.

‘Of course,’ I said, pushing the words past a sudden knot in my chest. ‘You are coming?’

‘Oh my God, are you kidding?’ Brightening, she finally dropped on the sofa, hands squeezing her skinny knees in their leopard-print leggings.

‘Good,’ I said briskly. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without you.’

A flush appeared on her razor-sharp cheekbones. ‘What do you think will happen?’

‘Something hideously embarrassing I’ll never live down, I expect.’ I tried to smile, but my mouth had gone dry.

‘It seems more real now, doesn’t it?’

‘I still can’t believe it is, though.’ I studied my fingernails, which were chewed to the quick and rather unsightly. Maybe I could wish for a nice, unbreakable set in a permanent shade of pearlescent pink, or deep lilac or—Stop it, Jo, you’re a grown woman.

‘Do you remember when you wished old Grinchy would disappear after he gave us detention, and he did?’

I snorted. ‘How could I forget?’

It wasn’t long after Gran had confessed she was a witch, over a fish supper in her cosy kitchen one Friday evening, quite casually, as though it were normal. ‘A good one, mind,’ she said sniffily, dishing up mushy peas. ‘Not like those evil hags you see in films, banishing people to hell.’ She explained that the legacy, as she called it, traditionally skipped a generation and said I’d inherit the book of spells on my twenty-seventh birthday, when my power would be unleashed.

‘Why twenty-seven?’ I’d queried, my curiosity piqued.

‘Because it’s divisible by three, and spells are commonly cast in threes.’

Though part of me longed to believe it, I assumed it was one of her tall tales, but her story stirred something within me. After telling my best friend, Lara, who lived across the road from me, I couldn’t resist trying a spell. It was very basic, along the lines of, ‘I wish old Grinchy would disappear’, but to our astonishment he didn’t come to school the following day, or the one after.

‘He turned up in Buenos Aires six months later,’ I reminded her. ‘He’d had a nervous breakdown, probably because of us. Remember he caught you pretending to smoke a tampon?’

‘“You’re older than Josie, you should be more responsible,”’ she mimicked. ‘It was so weird, though.’

We’d scared ourselves silly at the time, and in the end I blurted it out to Gran. She laughed and seemed pleased I’d taken her seriously, but promised I couldn’t do anything without The Book, which wouldn’t be available for another thirteen years.

‘That’s silly,’ I’d pouted, suddenly keen to get my hands on it and start honing my skills, but Mum had come into the room and Gran clammed up. Mum didn’t like her filling our heads with nonsense.

‘Say it is true, what would you wish for?’ asked Lara, nudging my arm. ‘I know what I would,’ she added, before I could answer. ‘To sleep for twenty-four hours and wake up on a tropical island with a toned tummy.’ Her eyes went dreamy. ‘There’d be an army of waiters with no shirts on, attending to my every need, and I’d be floating about on a magic carpet.’

‘It would have to be a pretty big carpet to support a bunch of waiters,’ I pointed out, thoughtfully. ‘Anyway, of course it’s not going to be true.’ I straightened up and assumed a sensible tone. ‘It’s Gran being eccentric; you know what she’s like. She thrives on drama. Remember the panther in the garden?’

Lara nearly choked on her coffee. ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten that. She got the newspapers involved and everything.’

It had turned out to be Tiddles, the cat from next door, caught in the glare of a security light, his shadow blown out of proportion on the garden wall.

‘There you go then.’ I glanced at my watch. I’d made a last-minute hair appointment, hoping to tame my unruly frizz for the party.

‘Do you think she’ll make a big announcement?’ Lara pressed, stiffening as Olly screeched like a parrot in the kitchen.

‘I’ve no idea.’ I couldn’t deny I’d wondered over the years; even tried to discuss it with Mum a couple of times, but the closer it came to the moment of truth the more ludicrous the whole thing seemed. ‘If it was real, and Gran was a witch, surely we’d have seen some evidence of it. She wouldn’t be living in the same old house, still married to Gramps, breeding springer spaniels.’

‘Why not?’ Lara’s eyes widened. ‘Maybe that’s her idea of a perfect life.’

It seemed unlikely. ‘What shall I wear tonight?’ I fretted.

Lara swiftly assessed me. ‘The floaty, maxi-dress you bought last summer. Wear a thin belt, to show off your waist.’

‘Wasn’t aware I had a waist,’ I said, but instead of reassuring me like she always did, Lara was heading for the kitchen where Olly was crying, ‘Mum-eeeeee,’ at the top of his lungs.

‘More to the point, what am I going to wear?’ She glanced back. ‘My breasts are still leaking like taps and I’ve got a paunch.’

‘You always look lovely,’ I said truthfully, trotting after her. ‘Maybe it’s time you gave up breastfeeding though. It’s becoming a bit obscene.’

‘Jo could always lend you a cape and pointy hat,’ Rob joked, handing Olly over and scooping up his jacket and briefcase.

‘Not funny,’ Lara yelled, but he was already heading out the door. He folded himself tidily into his BMW and pulled away from the kerb.

‘I’ll see you later,’ I said, giving her a quick kiss, wondering about the sour smell that seemed to be hanging round her. ‘Wear that lovely perfume Rob bought you for Christmas.’

Gran had insisted on hosting a combined birthday and ‘becoming-a-witch’ party for me at Brambles, the wisteria-draped farmhouse she shared with my grandfather.

Excitement pulsed as I pulled the car up the familiar dirt track outside. Despite having lived in London for nearly four years, Buckinghamshire still felt like home.

There was a home-made banner in the trellised porch with ‘Happy Birthday, Josephine’ daubed in bright pink paint, and fairy lights twinkled in the crab-apple tree outside.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ I called, checking my lipstick in the wing mirror.

Music drifted from a downstairs window, and a mouth-watering smell from the barbecue hung in the air.

‘Look at you! Another year older!’ Mum dashed out and pulled me into a bosomy hug. She smelt musky, with an undercurrent of wine – nothing like the Mum who’d worn nothing stronger than deodorant when I was growing up.

I returned her hug. ‘Only a day older than I was yesterday,’ I said, in the cheery tone I seemed to have adopted since she announced her engagement to Del.

‘Here’s the birthday girl!’ As if on cue the pervy trucker from Letchworth appeared, rubbing his hands together. ‘You know, you’re the spitting image of your mum,’ he said, the light bouncing off his bald patch. The rest of his hair was grey, and tethered at the nape of his neck with an old shoelace.

‘Thanks,’ I said, forcing a smile. Maybe I was being a bit unfair. Del was a trucker, and he did have tattoos, but he wasn’t actually pervy. In fact, he seemed nice and jolly whenever I saw him, and he obviously cared about Mum.

It was just that he was so different from Dad, who’d been solid and handsome, with twinkly blue eyes and a leathery tan, and loved playing cricket, and was always writing letters to the local paper. OK, so he could be quite grumpy at times, but that was due to his high-pressured job with the police. Sometimes he’d been a teensy bit judgemental too, especially of Pippa and me. I always felt guilty thinking that, because if he came across as disapproving, it was only beca. . .