The Banker's Niece 1: The tarot reading

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Jane stands outside the Old Market studying the board propped up on the pavement, her stomach knotted. Wishy-washy music and sickly-sweet incense waft from the hall, clashing with the roar and stench of the traffic behind her.

    What in God’s name is she doing here? Why did she even look at the flyer when it dropped through her letterbox? She hates large gatherings and she's far too old to be dabbling in such nonsense. What would her friends say? What would they say at work? She’s a living cliché: ageing spinster in dire straits turns to the occult.

    A pair of fake bay-trees in metal pots flank the hall’s green double doors. For Jane, they do nothing to make the place more welcoming.

    Clenching her fists, she walks in.

A babble of voices assaults her like a foul wind. Movements and shapes zig-zag across her vision. Battalions of middle-aged women in flat shoes and no make-up shoulder through tight rows of stalls. A sprinkling of bearded men slalom around the women apologetically.

    Her head tightens as it does before a migraine. A weight settles on her. Is this her world now? Is this all she can expect?

    She hurries into a side aisle, hoping to find somewhere less upsetting, but the stallholders watch her as she goes by and she has to keep moving in case they try to talk to her and interest her in their wares. For the umpteenth time she regrets her height. Why did she have to end up a 5-foot 10-inch freak? She can never be inconspicuous.

    She leans against a stone pillar. It’s cool and smooth with a musty smell that reminds her of church. To her horror, tears threaten.

    For the first year after her father’s death she felt nothing but relief. She was almost euphoric. Then last year something changed. She became a stranger to herself. She said goodbye to the disciplined book editor, the predictable 59-year-old. She’s been like a teenager again. Angry. Restless. She can’t concentrate. She paces the streets. She screams into her pillow.

    And she doesn’t know what to do to make herself feel better.

    ‘Can I help you?’ says a soft voice.

    She jumps.

    ‘Have a seat,’ says the voice and something bumps into the back of her legs.

    She turns. A young woman is pushing a chair at her. She has a heart-shaped face and dyed blond hair with dark roots showing.

    ‘I, er, I’m in a bit of a hurry actually,’ mumbles Jane, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand. ‘I’m, er, looking for someone.’

    Ironically, that’s the truth she realises, almost with relief. She is looking for someone – anyone – who can help her. That’s why she’s here.

    But she doesn’t think this woman is that person. She’s not impressive enough. If she hadn’t spoken, Jane would never have noticed her.

    ‘Sit,’ says the woman.

    Jane sits with a bump.

    The woman takes a chair the other side of a small table and fans a pack of outsize cards face down on to it. The card-backs are black with geometric designs in turquoise-blue. They look slightly evil.

    ‘Pick a card,’ says the woman.

    ‘Sorry,’ says Jane. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you do.’

    She needs to assert herself quickly, before she gets drawn in.

    ‘I’m Sharon,’ said the woman, ‘and I’m offering you a tarot reading. A free taster session. I thought that was what you wanted. I thought that was why you came here today.’

    Jane feels a prickle of fear. The woman is right. Something like a tarot reading, some sort of guidance about her future, is exactly what she wants, even if she hadn’t formulated it as such. Not only is the woman a mind-reader, but she knows more about Jane than Jane does herself. What else will Sharon say and does Jane really want to know? She’s not sure about this at all.

    ‘Go on,’ says Sharon. ‘Take a deep breath.’

    Jane’s head tightens again. She’s not a child. She doesn’t have to be coaxed. She’s here of her own free will and will do exactly as she wants.

    Trying to look unconcerned, she waves a hand over the fan and points at one of the cards.

    Sharon takes it and places it in front of herself, still face down.

    ‘Two more,’ she says.

    Jane obeys.

    Sharon flips over the first card. It shows a man standing on one leg. Swords lie on the ground in a circle, their points towards the toes he’s standing on. Jane reads the card’s name upside-down: Six of Swords

    ‘You have to move,’ says Sharon, index finger on the card.

    ‘What!’ says Jane. ‘How can I move? I’ve lived in London for thirty-five years. I have a beautiful flat, a good job, friends, family.’

    She notices that she hasn’t asked the obvious question. How does Sharon know this from a card?

    Sharon shrugs. ‘I just say what I see. You don’t have to believe me.’

    She flips over card number two.

    Jane shivers. The card has an ominous name: The Tower. It shows a tower on fire and people hurtling to their death. She’s almost there, in the picture, hearing the crackles and the screams.

    ‘Listen to me.’ says Sharon, looking Jane in the face. ‘You have to do something. The longer you leave it, the worse it will be.’

    Jane pretends to snort.

    ‘I mean it,’ says Sharon.

    She flips over the third card. ‘Ah,’ she smiles as if the card has confirmed her suspicions.

    The card is called Prince of Wands. It shows a young man with long wavy brown hair, a dimpled chin, a generous mouth and serious eyes.

    Jane’s breathing becomes shallow.

    Sharon taps the card with a forefinger. ‘And he’s behind it all. He’s an artist of some kind. Fiery, creative.’

    Jane stares at her.

    ‘D’you know who I’m talking about?’ asks Sharon impatiently.
    Jane dips her head a fraction of an inch.

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