You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,92

that she is, dutifully and carefully analysing each word until she came to the conclusion ‘He likes you.’ Which was hardly ground-breaking, but still.

‘Look, I think we just need to get a grip here,’ I say, trying to remain calm. ‘My name’s Lucy. I’m from Manchester. I wear knickers from Marks and Spencer. I don’t do spells.’

‘It’s only a teeny-weeny one,’ cajoles Robyn.

‘Burying bones, lighting candles and chanting?’ Pressing my foot on the pedal bin, I chuck the cartons in the recycling. ‘No, I’m not doing it.’

Robyn’s cheeks flush and she falls silent. For a few moments neither of us speak.

‘I picked up our laundry,’ I say eventually, to break the awkward atmosphere.

‘Thanks,’ she says mutely.

Then it’s back to the awkward silence as I untie the plastic bag containing our laundry and begin unpacking it.

‘Lucy, I really think you should reconsider,’ she says after a moment. ‘Don’t dismiss the things you don’t understand.’

‘You didn’t say that when you were trying to do your taxes,’ I point out, piling the laundry up on the table. That’s funny, I don’t remember us having white towels with monograms.

‘That’s different,’ she replies touchily.

‘I don’t care.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not going out at the dead of night to bury a bone and do some ridiculous rhyme in order to get rid of my ex-boyfriend.’

Hmm, I really don’t recognise these T-shirts either. Gosh, they do look rather large. I hold one up. ‘Is this yours?’ h€ this yoãrs?

Robyn shakes her head. ‘But you have to fight magic with magic,’ she argues.

I roll my eyes. ‘OK, Dumbledore.’

‘I’m serious!’

‘I know.’ I nod. ‘That’s what worries me.’

Hang on a minute, men’s shirts? And trousers? I frown.

‘I’m not the one who can’t break up with their soulmate,’ says Robyn tartly.

‘Look, I’m not doing a magic spell,’ I gasp. ‘So that’s that. Full stop.’

‘Well, I think you’re making a big mistake. There are greater forces than us out there, forces that we don’t understand . . .’

I can hear Robyn talking, but it’s like white noise. A buzz in the background. I’ve tuned out. I’m not listening. Instead I’m staring at my laundry.

Only it’s not my laundry.

Astonishment mixes with confusion, mixes with resignation. I let out a loud groan.

‘It’s his.’

‘What?’ Breaking off from her speech, Robyn frowns in confusion. ‘What’s his?’

I hold up a pair of pineapple boxer shorts and wave them at Robyn. ‘About that spell . . .’

‘Do you have any white candles?’

Fast-forward to the next evening after work and I’m standing in the cluttered confines of Burt’s Hardware Store with my shopping list. The sane, rational part of me that pooh-poohs horoscopes and strides determinedly under ladders still can’t quite believe I’m going ahead with this, but the other part of me that dragged all of Nate’s laundry back to Fluff and Fold is desperate.

Brenda, the assistant manager, couldn’t understand how there’d been a mix-up. ‘We have branches all over Manhattan, but I have no idea how this could have happened,’ she gasped in bewilderment. Apologising profusely, she poked the computer keyboard as if it was personally responsible. ‘Mr Kennedy is registered at an address over fifty blocks away!’

I actually felt a bit sorry for Brenda, and for a moment I was almost tempted to offer her an explanation. I say almost, but I decided that one involving centuries-old legends, Italian bridges and soulmates would only complicate things. Better that I play the role of the dissatisfied customer than that of the lunatic.

In the end it all got sorted out. If I had his clothes, then he must have mine. And sure enough, in the middle of Brenda jabbing at the computer, a text from Nate popped up on my mobile.

Let me guess. You have my laundry.

I text back.

Let me guess. You have mine.

‘Here you go. Anything else?’

I zone back to see Burt scampering back down the ladder, clutching a pack of candles. For a man who looks to be in his eighties, he’s exceedingly agile.

I glance back at my list. Robyn provided the hambone, garlic and all the exotic-sounding herbs. I already had some string. Now I’ve got candles. Which leaves . . .

‘Do you sell feathers?’

‘Feathers?’ he grunts brusquely. ‘What kind of feathers?’

‘Black ones, preferably from a raven or a crow.’

Scraping his bristly chin with his fingernails, he peers at me mistrustfully. ‘Did you not read the sign? This is a hardware store, not a pet store.’

‘Oh, yes, sorry, of course,’ I stammer, and I hastily pay and leave the shop. How embarrassing. I