Oh God. My mind roams around my life, sheering away from one painful, embarrassing area after another. Could I write A different life?
No. Too vague. What if they gave me an even crappier life instead? I have a vision of myself stuck on a desert island, yelling at the universe, I didn’t want this life!
Manifesting is risky, I realize. No wonder you have to be specific. What if you asked for riches and the universe misheard and gave you bitches? Note to self: Write clearly. I look down at my phone again to see if there’s any more help, and see a section on inspiration.
If you are stuck, just allow your soul to speak. Let your pen sit on the page, then write the first words that come to you.
I rest my pen on the page, gaze out to sea, and find myself writing, A HALLOUMI AND FALAFEL WRAP.
No. Don’t be stupid. That’s not manifesting, that’s a lunch order. I rip out the page, feeling embarrassed and hoping that the universe didn’t see it. Right. Try again. Proper manifesting.
I set my pen on the page again and look steadily out to sea, trying to empty my mind of visions of choc bars and think of something that I actually want, deep down.
SEX, I write, then stare at the page, taken aback. I didn’t intend to write that. Why has my mind gone there? Do I even want sex?
No. I don’t. I don’t want sex, and that’s the problem. It stings me, this lack I have. What’s happened to me? I enjoyed sex with Stuart. Well, I did for a while. But then, gradually, I didn’t. We kept arguing anyway, which isn’t exactly conducive. Or did we argue because of the sex? It’s all a confused jumble of memories now, and all I know is that I’m hollow. My body feels numb. I don’t react to anything anymore. Hot guy on the tube: numb. Get chatted up in Pret: numb. Sex scene on TV: numb. The whole activity seems kind of awkward and pointless, even though I can remember once thinking it was the best thing in the world.
So it’s not that I want to have sex. I want to want sex. I want to crave sex. I want to wake up that appetite.
It’s all very well, Kirsten saying I should see a doctor. As if I’m really going to walk into an overstretched GP’s office and say, I’d like a pill to make me fancy people again, please. Anyway, I’ve been so busy with meetings and emails, it’s almost been a relief not to be juggling work with dating. So I’ve just parked the problem, thinking, It’ll pass.
But what if it doesn’t? What if the universe could help me?
Put it like this: What have I got to lose?
I change sex into SEXUAL DESIRE. Then, to clarify, I add LIBIDO.
How else can I put it to the universe? Because now I’m actually doing this, I really want to state my case. In fact, I want to jump to the head of the queue, if possible. After some thought, I add a few more words of clarification:
Sexual hunger. Sexual fantasies. Craving for sex.
Then it occurs to me that it’s no good having a craving for sex if there’s no one there to sate it with. I’d better make that plain to the universe too.
A man.
No. I must be more precise.
A man with a cock.
I stare at my words, chewing my pen, yet again wondering if that’s specific enough for the universe. I feel no detail is so small that it can be safely omitted. Surely the universe is just waiting to crow, Ha ha, you didn’t say what sort of man, did you? You didn’t say what sort of cock.
A SEXY MAN WITH A WORKING COCK, I write, with more conviction. BIG, PREFERABLY.
No, wait. Is that greedy? Will the universe punish me? Also, am I phrasing my requests politely enough? I hastily cross out BIG, PREFERABLY and replace it with ANY SIZE, THANK YOU.
Then I feel a wave of guilt. Is this really all I’m wishing for? I’m a terrible, selfish person. I should want to manifest something more noble, like world peace. Hastily, I add it.
World peace.
I stare at my words, then feel a wave of embarrassment. This is stupid. I fold the paper up and tuck it into the pocket of my hoodie. OK, I’ve manifested. Maybe I’ll meditate now. I focus on the shoreline, watching the ebb and suck of the waves, and try to contemplate the beauties of the world.
God, I’m hungry. I’m so hungry. How can I exist on melon and salad? My stomach is rumbling so hard, it’s practically drowning out the sound of the sea.
I consider going back to the hotel, ordering a cream tea for four, and scoffing the lot. But no. I’d have to eat it with Nikolai watching my every bite. And put up with Cassidy exclaiming, A cream tea? But we thought you were healthy! Plus there’s the hammering and drilling, not to mention the sawing …
OK. New plan.
Filled with determination, I heave myself off the rock and tramp over the sand to the lodge, where I grab my rucksack. I’ve been meaning to look round the town anyway, and I’ve got two twenty-pound notes in here. I’m going to buy myself a feast.
Walking into town is weird. It’s the same place I remember, with its narrow streets, cute cottages with pitched roofs, shops and cafés … but dead. It looks so sad and empty. During my childhood summer holidays, it used to teem with life and music and people. There would be tourists in every street. Bright inflatable toys and fishing nets for sale on every corner. Surfers carrying boards back to their lodgings, children dropping ice creams and wailing, and dads drinking beers in the pub gardens. The narrow streets would be so full of pedestrians that cars would have to nudge through slowly, the hot sun gleaming off their roofs.
Today there’s no hot sun, no people, no nothing. The shops are silent and the air is full of drizzle. I pass a row of guesthouses and shudder at the net curtains in the windows. They look so dreary in the winter light, and one is drooping half off its rail.
The White Hart pub is closed—otherwise I might have popped in there for some crisps. It’s an old coaching inn that Dad used to visit every time we came, and I slow down as I approach, remembering him standing at the bar, sipping his beer in that deliberate way he had. I stand motionless for a moment, full of memories, then give a kind of little shudder. Come on. Food.
The old-fashioned fudge shop is still here but to my disappointment has a sign across the door: CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. The Tea Shoppe is also closed for the season. This is ridiculous. Where am I going to get my feast?
The place has become more chichi, I realize as I turn in to a street full of galleries. One contains watercolors of the sea, another has glass sculptures … and oh my God! There’s an open café! I quicken my pace and almost burst through the door into a warm, fuggy space smelling of cinnamon. Greedily, I scan the display of cakes in a glass case. There’s a Bakewell tart, fat iced buns, cheese scones, doughnuts, brownies—everything.
“Excuse me?” It takes me a moment to realize that the girl behind the counter is addressing me.
“Oh.” I look up. “Hi.”
“Sorry, but I’ve got to ask. Are you the lady staying at the Rilston?” She peers at me avidly. “The kale lady?”
The kale lady?
“I’m Bea. Cassidy’s my friend, and she’s told me all about you,” she continues in an enthusiastic rush. “How healthy you are. Salads and kale and yoga on the beach all day long. Noni juice—that’s a new one. Cassidy called me, asked if we had any. I said, ‘Never heard of it!’ What’s it do, then, noni juice?”
Oh God. This bloody noni juice. I have no idea what it does.
“It benefits you,” I say vaguely. “It has various … benefits.”
“Benefits your noni?” She giggles and bites her lip. “Sorry. It’s just that’s what Cassidy and I used to call … you know.” She glances down at her crotch. “Those bits,” she adds, in case I haven’t understood. “Down below. Privates.”
“Right. Yes. Got it.”
“Anyway, how can I help?” she asks, as the door tings and another girl comes in, wearing an anorak. “Paula, it’s the kale lady!” Bea points at me excitedly, then adds, “We’re not the healthiest shop in the world.…” She looks around doubtfully. “I don’t know what you’ll have.”
“The spelt scones are gluten-free,” offers Paula as she takes off her anorak.