A KARMIC PACKAGE

It was love at first sight. And why not? Paul Jameson had passed the age of thirty four without experiencing that frenzy, and a week before his birthday he was, as Carole said later, a fruit ripe for plucking.
It had been Carole’s idea that the three of them go to the party together, although Jeff ducked out at the last minute. The kids had exhausted him more than usual that day, he said, so he was only fit for television, after the pile of marking. Carole Ross had her own public relations company, Paul was a freelance designer who sat happily in front of his Mac all day, and both of them felt guilty that their lives were so much easier than Jeff’s, who did a job that mattered. For ten years they had shared Carole’s house in Horton Street, drifting into settled patterns without noticing, and co-existing with the ease of long-married couples for whom friendship matters more than passion.
By the time Carole, who was six years older than Jeff and Paul, had deliberated over her clothes, it was late. The room was already buzzing, and Paul had to push his way through the usual throng around the drinks table. He met one or two people he knew, and stopped to chat, before realising that he had left Carole for a long time. When he returned she was talking to a woman he had never seen before. Slight, in a short purple velvet dress, with slanting brown eyes and a pale, oval face framed by red-gold curls, she had the fragility of a pre-raphaelite model. Her face needed no cosmetics; he thought her the prettiest woman he had ever met. When she smiled at him, looking intently at his face, he felt a jolt, as when a car takes a hump-back bridge too fast.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,' said Carole politely,
‘Rowan,' she replied, not taking her eyes from Paul’s face.
‘This is Paul, Rowan.'
‘I saw you come in,' Rowan said. Her voice was musical. When he shook the offered hand the slight pressure hinted at complicity. Suddenly flustered, he spilt his wine, and some of it splashed on her pink suede shoes.
‘Oh God, I’m terribly sorry...’ he began, vainly searching his pockets for a handkerchief. ‘Don’t worry,' she said quietly, laying a hand on his sleeve, ‘It’ll just soak in, adding a little patina of you to my shoes! I don’t mind that at all.'
She did not remove her hand.
‘Lucky it wasn’t red,' said Carole dryly.
Disconcerted by Rowan’s gaze, Paul wanted to drop his eyes like an animal, yet was held by her steady gaze.
‘I have this feeling I’ve met you somewhere before,' she said.
‘No - never,' he smiled, ‘I mean - I’d remember.'
‘Oh, so would I,' she said, ‘But maybe we did.... in another age. You know? And that’s what I’m remembering.’
‘Ah - don’ - think - so!,' said Carole, in a mocking American accent. She moved away but he did not notice. He and Rowan stood talking for a while, exchanging standard information in such a way, he felt, that each word had significance far beyond meaning. She told him she was a freelance interior decorator, and held out her hands, palm down, with a rueful grimace.
‘Look at my nails - they’re always painty,' she said.
Paul took hold of one hands, on the pretext of examining it. closely. There was a trace of blue underneath two nails. ‘It makes your skin look even whiter,' he said. He wondered whether to let go, and decided he should. Then, attempting normality he asked, ‘Don’t you find it tough - being freelance? I know I do.’
Rowan smiled, shaking her head. ‘Ah, but you have to rise above all that, don’t you? I’m not materialistic at all. All I want is to live as simply as possible, and have the freedom to be me.'
‘So - freedom’s important to you?,' he asked.
‘Creatively, oh yes. But in my personal life.....ah, that’s a different story.'
‘I’d love to hear it.' said Paul.
‘And I’d love to tell you.’ She stared at him. ‘In that case, why don’t we get out of here and give ourselves the chance to talk properly?’
Paul found himself nodding, without speaking. The party sounds had quietened around them; it was as if this woman and he stood in a private space, blue and airy. He looked around briefly to see if he could see Carole, but the press of people was thick, and in any case Rowan had taken him by the hand. He felt himself drifting rather than being led and when they were outside in the street she turned and said, ‘Well!' with a little smile, as if something had been accomplished.
Her flat turned out to be a short walk away, and she took his arm as they strolled, murmuring, ‘It’s odd, I do feel I’ve known you forever.'
Much later, Paul found himself unable to remember much of what they talked about, sitting on the battered sofa of the small, chaotic rented flat she blamed on ‘a nomadic existence.' She produced a box of white wine which had been left out of the fridge and clinked his glass with the words, ‘Here’s to....friendship!.'
‘To friendship,' he echoed, thinking guiltily of Carole, left behind at the party with not so much as a goodbye.
‘And love - of course!’ she added.
Words batted backwards and forwards between them: the tentative game of strangers who want the rally to last . Yet they were not strangers, she insisted, repeating her conviction that they had met him before ‘somewhere in another life.' She said she had a sixth sense, when she first saw him, that they would be friends. Then, leaning forwards a fraction, Rowan asked if he was ‘in a relationship.' He shook his head.
When she discovered his birthday preceded her own by just four days she clapped her hands, face shining with wonderment. ‘How amazing! I mean, that is really weird, don’t you think?’
‘Quite a coincidence, I suppose,' he said, trying to sound impressed.
‘It means we’re the same sign, you know!’
‘Cancer?’
‘Yes - that’s important...don’t you think?’
‘Oh...uh...yeah,' he replied, with a little laugh.
At four in the morning he was fuddled with wine, conversation and the light fragrance of her next to him. She rested a hand on his arm once more and said, ‘This is perfect, isn’t it?,' Paul made as if to rise, but her hand stayed where it was.
‘Don’t go.'
‘Rowan...it’s too soon. It wouldn’t be right,' he said.
Once again he felt himself carried away by the undertow, breath ripped from his lungs, limbs flailing in deep, dark water. Yet this is wonderful, he thought, as he stretched out on the sofa, after her lips had brushed his cheek and the bedroom door had closed behind her. This is what I want - now. This is the woman I will share my life with. At last.
He slept until nine, and awoke puzzled for a few seconds - conscious of small movements in the room, and a smell of flowers. Light glittered on his face, and he opened his eyes to see tiny points moving, like polka dots, all over the ceiling. He raised his head to see a crystal suspended in the window, turning on its thread. Then she was standing looking down at him, curls back-lit , face in shadow. He reached up, and she took his hand, whispering, ‘Hallo.' Paul knew then that it was all up with him, that the blue and white kimono would fall open, and Rowan would rest on him, allowing his hands to move over her skin until he was powerless. Then she led him to her bedroom to finish the sweetness of that first lovemaking, but without greediness, without grasping too harshly at each other - simply with a promise of more.
It was Saturday. Paul had a brochure to finish. Normally he might work for a couple of hours on Saturday morning, before wandering to the flea-market with Carole and Jeff, to search for bargains and pick up second hand books. They would stroll arm in arm, Carole in the centre, to stock up with food wine and beer, wrangling amiably over what they would cook together that evening. That was the pattern, and they all liked it. Over the years each in turn had become briefly involved with other people, or decided to travel alone, yet nothing lasted and they returned to the shared habits of the household.
Now it was Saturday once more, Paul thought, but everything has changed. The thought terrified him for a second, before the sound of giggles banished the inexplicable anxiety.
‘Your hair’s standing up in a quiff - you look like Tintin!,' she giggled, and stroked his head.
‘I’ll be Tintin if you’ll be Snowy,' he grinned.
‘Darling, I’ll follow you around any day!’
‘Wagging your tail, of course!,' he murmured, reaching for her again.
Much later Rowan rose to make them toast and tea, then they lay on the sofa again, his fingers in her hair, curling its tendrils round and round, her hand stroking his face, as they listened to what she called her relaxation music: forest sounds pierced by guitar and flute. After a while Paul drifted off in a state of utter peace, and dreamt he was rooted in a dappled wood, feet buried in soft soil, leaves drifting about his head, as this woman, the Rowan tree, rustled all about him, small birds caught in her hair.....
When he surfaced, it was past noon, and the small head still rested on his chest. Incapacitated by a wave of protective love, he had to close his eyes again, dizzy and afraid. Then Rowan was gazing up at him, her eyes enormous.
‘Oh, what shall we do?,' she whispered.
‘Well, I could take you out to lunch,' he smiled.
‘No...I mean, what shall we do?,' she repeated.
They went to a small pub she knew, and he bought prawn salads and a bottle of overpriced white wine. Then they held hands as they wandered through the antiques emporium nearby, and she told him about her passion for old china and glass - fragile things, she said. Paul nodded and smiled, and told her one or two inconsequential facts about himself. None of it mattered, he thought - what you say or what you do.
Before they said goodbye she handed him a small chunk of rock crystal. ‘I want you to put this on top of your computer,' she smiled, ‘Because it will help your chakras.' Paul nodded soberly. ‘You know? Refocus your creativity right through the technology,' she explained. ‘Wait and see - it’ll work miracles.'
It was almost six when he returned to the house in Horton Street, promising to meet Rowan again at eight. Carole and Jeff were in the kitchen, drinking tea.
‘So!’ Carole said, with a wry expression.
‘Phew - fast work - you got lucky, you old bastard!,’ grinned Jeff.
‘She got lucky, you mean,' Carole said with a frown.
‘Yeah - it’s that instant Jameson sex appeal. Across a crowded room, and all that!,' crowed Jeff.
‘What do you mean?,' Paul asked, feeling uncomfortable.
His friend leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head, and looked Paul up and down with mock-appraisal. ‘Instant karma, man! Love at first sight an’ all that shit! Carole says you’re at Maya’s party five minutes, and you’ve gone off to get the drinks, when this redhead slinks along and asks Carole straight up if she’s going out with you. When she says no, you’re just great friends, the siren asks if she can be introduced...’
‘Like a heat-seeking missile,' Carole said.
‘Jesus, it never happens to me like that!,' said Jeff, with an envious whistle, ‘So - what’s she like?’
‘She’s wonderful,' Paul said simply. ‘She’s.....oh ....she’s the loveliest person I’ve ever met. It’s like - we’ve known each other forever.'
‘Just as well. I’d hate to think of you spending the night with a stranger,' Carole said, ‘And by the way, honey, talking of knowing people, if I remember rightly we’ve been friends for ten years, so it would be nice if, when we go to a party together, you don’t bugger off like that without telling me. So I don’t spend forever looking for you then have to get myself back here on my own.....’
‘Oh God, Carole, I’m really sorry,' said Paul, crossing the kitchen to hug her, ‘I just got carried away.'
'We bought a seabass,' Jeff said quickly, ‘Cost a small fortune, but we’re going to do it with ginger and lemongrass. And Carole went mad and bought some decent Pino Grigio for a change...’
Paul turned and opened a cupboard. ‘I’m going out,' he said, ‘I said I’d meet Rowan at eight.’
Their silence embarrassed him. Then Carole said slowly, ‘Why don’t you call her and invite her over? We’ve got so much food.’
Paul explained that he had not even taken her telephone number, that they had arranged to meet at a restaurant, that he had no means of re-making the arrangement. He did not say that he wanted to be alone with Rowan, that to introduce her so quickly to his friends would bring him down to earth in a way he did not seek. Conversation at the kitchen table? No.
That night Paul stayed with Rowan again, and did not return home until Monday morning, by which time his state of intoxication was total. On Sunday night she had whispered, ‘I think I’m falling in love with you, Paul,' and he could not help himself. ‘I know I’m falling in love with you.'
‘Oh, what shall we do?,' she murmured, clinging to him.
‘Have a good time!' he laughed.
A small sigh shivered through her. ‘But will that be enough?’
He returned to the brochure like one in a dream, forgetting what application he had begun with, vague about the ideas which had seemed so clear before Rowan. It seemed to him that his screen was full of images of her and found himself designing a spreading tree, roots curving below ground like tentacles. He put her name in different fonts on every branch, added stars in the sky above, and was pleased with his work. For a long time he stared at the crystal, noticing how it refracted light as he moved his head.
Just before noon the telephone interrupted his reverie. It was Carole. Too absorbed in this new obsession to detect hurt, he heard only the sarcasm in her voice
‘So you finally made it home?’
‘Of course! Why do you sound so surprised?’
‘Because the way you’re acting, with this woman you’ve known five minutes, it’s like the rest of your life has gone out the window.'
‘People fall in love, Carole.'
‘Oh, puh-leese....OK, anyway - I’m ringing to find out about Saturday.’
‘What’s happening on Saturday?’
A sudden sharp intake of breath. ‘Well, actually, it’s your birthday, and I’m giving you a dinner party to celebrate. Remember? This was planned six weeks ago? Apart from us three there’s Maya and Tom, Jess and Craig and Catherine. So I hope you’ll be able to make it?'
Paul resented her tone but said - of course, why should he have forgotten that? He heard relief in her voice.
Carole adored him and was easy to mollify. Ten years ago, introduced at a party, he learnt she needed a lodger. It took him one week to move in. Six weeks later, after a night drinking vodka and white wine, they had fallen into bed together, but decided through their shared hangover the next day, that it would not be a good idea to repeat the experiment, pleasant as it was. Since then they had gone to theatre and parties together, like brother and sister, husband and wife, best friends - secure in their mutual need. She depended on him, and usually he liked that. The house was hers and that was his dependency, when work was in short supply and she cared nothing for the rent. Jeff Richards had moved in shortly afterwards - a school friend of Paul’s, he fitted into the household perfectly. The ten years had been very happy.
Yet now, thinking of Rowan, Paul decided that old friendships could be an intolerable burden. His imagination slipped into a fantasy of licking birthday champagne off that pretty, pliant body under the star-points of the whirling crystal.
On Monday night Rowan suggested they ate in another of her favourite pubs, before going back to her place. On Tuesday they went round to see a couple of her friends for a drink, both women, and both unemployed. Rowan thought it would be fun if they went together for an indian meal, and Paul treated them all. On Wednesday she invited him round at six, and they fetched a Chinese takeaway before smoking a spliff together in bed, then making love so intensely he was shocked.
She asked if he felt the same inevitability about their relationship. ‘We were meant to be together. There’s no choice about it, is there? I know this is all pre-ordained - all a part of our karmic package,' she whispered.
’What shall we do on your birthday?,' she asked on Thursday morning, ‘Would you like me to cook you a special meal? We’ll start with crab!’
Suddenly Paul felt nervous. He cleared his throat and told her about Carole’s dinner party. There was a short silence, as a shadow crossed Rowan’s face. Then she looked at him and smiled, ‘But surely I can come too?’
‘Well, I don’t know....’
‘I mean - I am your girlfriend, aren’t I?’
‘Of course, but...’
‘She knows that, doesn’t she?’
‘Who, Carole? Oh, yeah, but....’
‘Don’t you want me?' she whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder.
‘Of course I want you! I want you more than anybody else. But there’s eight of us already, and we can only get eight round the kitchen table, and you won’t know anybody, so I think it’s easier to leave things as they are. We’ll have a birthday supper the night before, and then breakfast - how about that?’
She pulled away, with a faint shrug. ‘I suppose I don’t have any choice. But it does surprise me that she hasn’t thought to ask me.'
Paul returned to Horton Street at eleven, aware that he had made no progress on the brochure since Rowan had entered his life. The little rock crystal winked at him from on top of the screen. He looked around his square, tidy room, with its two tall windows, and felt like a stranger surrounded by his own possessions. Trying to imagine Rowan staying with him for a change, he realised how hard it would be. There was a bathroom and a shower room, but the three of them shared both with easy lack of false modesty. Sometimes Carole strolled into his room in the morning, bearing a mug of tea, and sat chatting to him while he drank it. How would she cope with red curls on his pillow? What if Rowan slipped through the unlocked bathroom door to find Jeff peeing?
He drifted into a fantasy of living with Rowan, and then, in time, having a baby with her. Maybe men felt the biological imperative too, he thought. The last few birthdays had made him gloomy, as he brooded on a future that loomed so much the same, here in Carole’s house, tapping the keys of his computer, not getting quite enough work, with little security. Suppose Carole and he quarrelled and she asked him to leave? He could not go on like this. For the first time he felt a longing to be like all those other people he saw in the street, ordinary couples with push chairs, living normal lives.
Jeff came home at 4.30, exhausted as usual, carrying a rucksack full of books. Carole would not arrive until 6.30, by which time Paul intended to be out. Rowan had called him to say she’d booked a table at the Blackstone Inn, a popular riverside pub. Presented with this fait accompli Paul could only brood on all this unaccustomed eating out with a pang of anxiety. She had offered to pay once, but he thought it unchivalrous to accept. He was bashing the credit card and dreaded the reckoning.
‘So - how’s it going, mate?’ Jeff asked, cradling the mug in his hands.
‘Fine - just fine.'
‘The real thing, is it?’
It was asked with a grin, but Paul’s face was serious when he replied. ‘Yeah, I think it is, Jeff.'
‘Phew! Going a bit fast aren’t you?’
‘What can you do? It’s like I’m out of control. Rowan says it’s all part of our karmic package, and I think I know what she means.'
Jeff snorted into his tea. ‘Yeah, yeah - the great wheel of fate and all that stuff! I never knew you bought into that kind of thing, old son.’
‘Oh, I don’t really,' said Paul, sounding unconvinced.
That night Rowan told him about her last boyfriend but one, who had hurt her badly. She said he was a Leo, which meant they were incompatible, and she should have known it from the start. Weeping, she described how he had been persistently unfaithful, picking her up and putting her down at will. She said she felt damaged by the experience, but had ‘come through into a learning state.' Paul was overcome by his desire to look after her, to ensure it never happened again.
‘Would you do anything for me, darling?’ she asked innocently.
‘Yes, I believe I would,' he replied.
‘Then why won’t you insist to Carole that I come to your birthday dinner? After all, if it’s your day you should have the choice. I don’t take up much room!’
Paul sighed. ‘Please, Rowan, don’t put me in an awkward situation. Let’s just leave things as they are. I mean, I did explain to you...’
Her little face closed off for a few seconds, so that it was like seeing a mask slip down - pale and expressionless. There was a chilly pause, before she looked at him again, and said, ‘Ah, but there’s two levels of explanation, aren’t there? On the surface it’s because this...thing was arranged and you don’t want to put Carole out. But underneath it’s because you’re unsure about your feelings for me, and the extent to which you want me to change your life. You’re afraid, Paul Jameson!’
‘Yes, I suppose I am,' he said, suddenly depressed.

Rowan said she would not be back from work until eight on Friday night, which meant he could not avoid seeing Carole before he left.
‘Hi, stranger!,' she said, too-brightly, ‘How are you?’
‘How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m just missing my friend, that’s all. Don’t you worry about me.'
Consumed by guilt, yet resentful, Paul patted her awkwardly and was rewarded by a sardonic lifting of the eyebrows. He said, ‘We’ll have a great evening tomorrow, love. Do you want me to help you cook?’
‘No way- you’ll be busy, and it’s our treat. Jeff and I can cope. But feel free to hang about the kitchen and make us tea. Oh, and you can set the table too.'

Rowan answered her door wearing a long cotton batiq dress the colour of a caribbean rock pool. He held her, reassured by her beauty, and by the way her arms clung around his waist as she pressed herself to him. Although it was still light, candles burned in a variety of holders shaped like moons and stars, and the air was heavy with the scent of joss sticks and burning oils. They failed to disguise a slight smell of burnt toast.
This was the first meal she had cooked for him. They ate with the food balanced on their knees, because the tiny table was covered with paraphernalia: books, a crumpled t-shirt, a pottery oil burner, a white box, a pack of tarot cards and a strange wooden sculpture that looked like a pregnant women without a head. The first course - tinned crab pate and toast - was fine, even if the toast was black at the edges. But then, after a very long time during which Paul finished most of the red wine he had brought, she brought out penne in a runny, under-seasoned bolognaise sauce, badly in need of herbs and cheese. Paul had to stifle the unworthy thought that if this was her idea of a special meal, he would hate to taste an ordinary one. Carole was a fine cook, and knew the art of throwing ingredients together to create something delicious. Paul took it for granted.
‘Is it OK, sweetheart?,' Rowan asked, beaming at him with a confidence that belied the question.
‘Wonderful,' he mumbled, cramming his mouth. Some of the sauce slopped on his chinos, and she fussed with a cloth whilst the food went cold.
‘Now,' she said when she had cleared the plates, ‘I've got four presents for you, but I’m going to give you the first one now, and the other three in the morning.' She went to the table and brought back the white box, placing it on his knees with a flourish. He saw the name of a well-known cake shop, and smiled.
The cake was heart-shaped and covered in soft chocolate. Piped on it were the words, ‘EAT ME, EAT ME - AND I WILL ALWAYS FILL YOU.'
‘Wow, that’s lovely!' he said, sincerely.
‘I mean it too,' she whispered softly. Paul felt himself stir. He laid the cake aside, still in its box - and took her hand, placing it on his groin.
‘Don’t you want to have some for pudding?,' she asked faintly.
‘No - I’m going to obey your orders,' he muttered thickly, feeling the blood beating in his head as he led her to the mattress.
Next morning he awoke early,with the taste of sex, wine and garlic in his mouth. For a second he wondered where he was, then rolled over to gaze at the woman lying asleep beside him. It was so strange....who was she? This was his thirtyfifth birthday and he had the sudden, panicky feeling that he would never go home again. He inched himself sideways, away from her warm, naked body, a knot like indigestion in his stomach.
But she woke, kissed him Happy Birthday, and rested her small, perfect breasts on his chest. ‘I love you, Paul,' she said.
‘Love you too,' he replied.
‘And here’s your first birthday present,' she said softly, sliding on top of him, slithering her skin over his, so that he closed his eyes and the room vanished.
When they had showered, she sat him down on the sofa, opened the little pine cupboard in the corner of the room and brought out three presents, wrapped prettily in blue tissue with silver ribbons. As a child, he had been frustrated that his father took so long to open gifts, when he wanted the paper ripped off and scattered. Now he took a long time too, untying the silver ribbons carefully and laying them aside, as if such deliberation gave due weight to what had been chosen and bought. She watched him. He looked up and smiled tenderly.
‘You’re so lovely,' he said.
The first present was a bottle of Lanson champagne. ‘That’s to go with the next one,' she said, ‘But be careful - it’s fragile.’ The first layer of blue came off, then sheaves of white tissue fell to the floor, until he revealed a tall champagne flute with a fine twist inside the stem. Engraved on it were the words: ‘DRINK ME’ SHE SAID, ‘DRINK ME, THIS GOBLET WILL NEVER BE EMPTY’
He stared at it for a few seconds, then said, ‘It’s a beautiful thing.... Where does the quote come from?’
‘From me, of course!,' she laughed.
‘It’s a really beautiful thing,' he repeated, ‘Thank you.’
She took the glass from him and thrust the third parcel into his hands. This one was soft. He unfolded the beige tee-shirt and held it up, smiling broadly as the design was revealed. A large portrait of Rowan in sepia gazed out at him, the expression knowing, almost suggestive. Superimposed on it was a smaller one, so that she appeared to be swimming out of her own face, naked arms like pincers, reaching out. Underneath the image were the words, ’HE’S MINE!’
‘That’s really clever!,' he said with a laugh. And it was.
‘Put it on!,' she cried.
‘You went to so much trouble for me,' he said in wonderment, surrounded by blue and white tissue, and silver ribbons.
‘That’s because I love you,' she said softly, holding out the tee-shirt with a pleading look, ‘and you are mine - I’ve decided!’
Obediently, Paul peeled off what he was wearing, and put the tee-shirt on, feeling a reluctance he could not quite analyse. Then he picked up the glass and turned it over in his hands.
‘So much trouble....’ he repeated, ‘Thank you.'
‘Now - how shall we spend the day?,' she asked.
‘Well, I should go home,' he said slowly, adding...’at some stage,' as her face fell.
‘Why?’
‘Well, Jeff and Carole will be shopping and cooking. The least I can do is set the table...’
‘Ah, the famous dinner party,' she said, in a voice like tinkling glass.
There was a short silence. Paul wondered why it was that each aspect of his life made him feel guilty. Caught - you’re always caught. So he cuddled her, then suggested they went out to lunch. He took the tee-shirt off first, despite her protests.
‘I can’t walk around with a picture of you on my chest,' he smiled, ‘Pretty as it is.'
After lunch in a french bistro with a fine local reputation Rowan insisted they return to her flat, where she took the champagne out of the fridge and filled his new glass to the brim. When he made as if to glance at his watch she pouted so prettily he allowed himself to be led to the sofa, where they finished the bottle, of course. It was a foregone conclusion that she would wind her arms around him, and start to take off her clothes. They made love amidst the tissue and ribbons.
Sleep sledge- hammered him; the sounds of the street receded. After a long time the ringing shocked him awake, and he groaned, making as if to rise. His head felt fuzzy, his limbs heavy, and her body weighed him down. ‘Let it ring,' she murmured. Fuzzy, he obeyed.
Fifteen minutes later he picked up the message, ‘This is just to say to Paul, if you’re there, or come back from wherever and get this message, that we are expecting you for dinner, if you haven’t forgotten. Bye!’
Paul disentangled an arm and looked at his watch in horror. It was six-thirty.
He struggled to his feet, damp and smelling of sex, and rushed for the bathroom. Bits of blue tissue were stuck to his legs. When Rowan followed him into the shower and began to soap him he felt trapped.
‘You know I have to go,' he said.

Paul arrived at Horton Street bearing Rowan’s gifts in a paper carrier bag, the cake in its box, the tall glass hastily swathed in tissue again, with the tee shirt wrapped round it too, for extra protection. Though Carole was putting the finishing touches to the table, the look she gave him was not angry, as he expected, but puzzled. Jeff shook salad dressing vigorously in a jam-jar. ‘Oh-ho, the lecherous wanderer returns!,' he crowed, without humour.
‘Look, you guys, I’m really sorry. Really sorry,' Paul said.
‘Happy Birthday,' said Carole, crossing the room to kiss him on the cheek.
Then she noticed the carrier bag. ‘Is that a present from Rowan?,' she asked,’Come on then, honey, let’s have a look.’
Reluctantly he laid out the cake in its box, the glass, and the tee-shirt. Jeff picked up the glass, and read the inscription aloud in a dramatic voice, then did the same with the cake. He examined the picture on the tee-shirt and said, ‘So that’s what she looks like! Mmmm, very tasty....’
Carole just stared in silence.
Paul babbled, ‘You can see she's so imaginative, so kind Look at the trouble she took! I couldn’t, you know, just leave her in the lurch today. Just look at all this! I feel quite overwhelmed, really.’
‘I’m not surprised,' said Jeff, ‘I’d run a mile, mate.'
Still Carole did not speak. She picked up the tee-shirt and examined the image, then fingered the glass thoughtfully. At last she looked at Paul, and shook her head. ‘My God - you don’t see, do you?’
‘See what?’
‘What all this means, Paul! This is nothing to do with being kind or wonderful or imaginative. It’s the work of an unbelievably massive ego! These presents are all about her - nothing to do with you.’
’How can you be so cynical?' he exclaimed.
‘Because I’ve been around a lot, darling!’
Jeff nodded, ‘This is dangerous stuff. Strikes me she’s a bit desperate...’
‘I think you’re both being bloody unfair,' said Paul, as the doorbell rang.
Offended, he scooped up the presents, and took them upstairs to his room, as the house filled with the babble of guests. He changed hastily, and when he came down again, Jeff was opening champagne, and their friends toasted him and offered packages. Jeff and Carole had clubbed together to buy him a new watch, the others gave him books, a Miles Davis CD, good wine.
From time to time he caught Carole looking at him, as she served vichysoisse, followed by melting osso buco with perfect saffron rice. When she brought in the chocolate gateau piped simply with his name and flaming with candles, the pain in Paul’s chest increased until he felt like crying. They sang ‘Happy Birthday’; the banter increased as the buzz of conversation between old friends rose to the ceiling. At 2 am the guests left and Jeff staggered up to bed moaning that he would have a hangover in the morning. Paul and Carole played Bob Dylan and cleared up in silence, the old companionable way. ‘This is more like it,' she said.
On Sunday morning it was Carole who was groaning with a hangover. Jeff left for a week’s Geography field trip. ‘Randy teenagers trying to get into each others’ tents,' he grinned, ‘ While I bleat on about soil erosion!.' Paul took Carole tea and toast in bed, laughing at her white face, and spiky hair. ‘I’m old enough to know better but I still do it,' she sighed, spilling crumbs on her duvet. He brought the newspapers up, and lolled reading, his back against the brass end of her enormous, Victorian bedstead, while she slept a little more. The house was still and calm.
Suddenly he was aware of her gaze. ‘How’re you feeling now, love?,' he asked.
‘OK...’she said dubiously. Then - ‘Paul, do you mind if I ask you to do me a favour?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Will you....will you stay here tonight? At home? I don’t feel like being alone.'
He looked away. As if embarrassed, she began to speak quickly, ‘I know you want to go and see Rowan, but you see, I’d just love to sit around and watch a video with you, or something. Like we always did. I can’t bear to think you’re leaving...’
‘I’m not leaving,' he said.
‘Oh, but you are. You’re somewhere else in your mind. At her flat. Even last night during dinner I found myself wondering if you wanted her there. That hurts, you know. It’s the speed of the thing, Paul - you’re being pulled away so fast! I can’t get used to it.’
‘Isn’t that good - the intensity?' he asked.
‘No,' she said slowly, ‘I don’t think it is.’
‘But you see - it’s what I want,' he said.
‘Please stay home tonight,' she asked, a note in her voice he had never heard.
‘I can’t,' he said desperately.

Rowan was very quiet when he arrived. A book called ‘Star Signs For Lovers’ lay open on the sofa. He asked jovially what she had discovered. There was no answering smile. ‘We’re so incredibly close in the zodiac,' she said, ‘it means a very special affinity. I knew it all along. The most significant thing is we’re both in a state of becoming and yet we need security. That’s the crab you know - needing its shell, or a rock to hide under.’
‘You can hide under my rock any day!,' he smiled.
‘No, I’m being serious. You can’t mock these mysteries, Paul! We’re both afraid of change and yet we need new growth. Under the shell we’re defenceless and vulnerable, and that’s why we need each other so much. I can help you, you see.'
Help me do what?’
‘Be more independent! What you need is a new rock!’
He was silent for a few minutes. Then he looked at her, noticing how the light fell on her upturned nose and turned her eyes to gold. But it was as nothing compared with the zeal in her face, coming from inside.
‘How’d you know all this anyway?,' he asked.
‘I’ve been studying it. But I knew it already. I knew it before I met you even, which is why I connected with you so quickly at that party. Our creativities have locked on to each other already. Can’t you feel it?’
‘I certainly can....,' he said, putting an arm around her, .'..and talking of creative connections - let’s go to bed.'
Later, with a towel around his waist, he wandered into the tiny galley kitchen and opened cupboards. ‘I thought I’d make some supper,' he called, ‘Have you got any rice? And an onion?’
‘I don’t think so,' she said, at his elbow, ‘By the way, how was the famous dinner party?’
‘It was great. Just lovely.’
‘Did you miss me though?’
‘Of course I did.'
‘Did you tell Carole I wanted to come?’
‘No.'
‘Oh - why not?’
‘Because...I didn’t want to put her on the spot. I told you, there were eight of us, and the table seats eight. So - ‘
‘But I am your girlfriend....’
He sighed and suggested they went and got a Chinese takeaway again, since the cupboards were bare. He could not suppress a pang at the thought of Carole sitting alone in her marvellous old kitchen, its walls impregnanted with the essences of ten years: shared meals, shared ideas, shared love. For yes - that was certainly love, he thought, as Rowan’s curls bobbed down the stairs in front of him, and he admired the neatness of her bottom in blue denim.
On Monday morning Rowan had to leave early to drive ten miles for a new stencilling job. ‘What time will you come round tonight?,' she asked, ‘I thought we might go and see a film for a change.'
‘Actually, I think I’ll stay home tonight,' he said slowly, hardly daring to breathe.
The shutter came down over her face. He explained how Carole had asked him to stay home the night before, since Jeff was away and she didn’t feel like being on her own. ‘I said no - but I feel bad about it now. I hate to think of her feeling hurt. ‘
‘You depend on her too much,' Rowan said.
‘No - she...er...she sort of makes my life possible, love.’
‘In her house....’
It’s been my life for ten years. You must understand that.’
‘Oh I understand all too well,' she said.
Carole was pleased. She cooked wild mushroom risotto which they ate with a rocket and lambs lettuce salad, washed down with a good Californian Cabernet Sauvignon. Then they lolled in the sitting room and watched ‘Far From the Madding Crowd.' At the end she looked over to him, and smiled lazily. ‘I like that, you know. It’s the antithesis of romanticism. Whenever they look up they’ll see each other.’
‘Yeah - can’t be bad, can it?,' he said, feeling at ease.
She hesitated before asking about his relationship with Rowan. He told her she’d demanded to come to the birthday dinner. His friend raised her eyebrows, but here was no edge in her voice. ‘OK, Paul, what can I do to make it right? Shall I write her a little note inviting her round?’
Paul felt almost pathetically grateful. ‘Would you do that for me?,' he asked, ‘I’m sure she’d love it. I’m sure she’d love to be friends. I think you’d have a lot in common, you know.'

Next day he mooched around the shops, wondering what he could get Rowan for her birthday. She had made so much effort; how could he follow that? Half-heartedly, he bought her a hardback volume of love poetry, and wondered what else to do. Something engraved? No, he thought, that’s the kind of thing you do when you’ve been with somebody five years or something. Too soon. It was all too soon. So he gave up, and turned his tree design into a card.
That evening, the night before her birthday, Rowan cross-examined him about his supper with Carole. It was clear she had no inkling of why he had chosen to spend a night away from her. Her face was bewildered, then utterly blank when he repeatedly explained the importance of his friendships with Carole and with Jeff.
‘Ah, but Jeff wasn’t there,' she said, knowingly.
‘Sure - that was the point.'
‘I see.'
‘Well, I don’t think you do,' he said gently, ‘The thing is, Rowan - I also need my space.’
‘Well, as long as that’s all it is,' she said slowly.
‘What are you getting at?,' he asked.
‘Look, I had a dream last night. About Carole. It was a conflict situation - that’s all I want to tell you. But it made me aware of things, currents swirling about me I don’t quite understand. But my subconscious is getting attuned, I think...Look, Paul, we love each other don’t we?’
‘Yes’
‘So we have to be honest with each other. Have you slept with Carole?’
He felt something stuck fast in his throat as he croaked out a denial. It was clear she did not believe him, and so the questioning, the worrying-away at the nature of his life in Horton Street, continued for nearly an hour. She pushed him until he grew irritable, she broke down in tears, and he blurted a confession about that night, ten years ago.
‘Ah, I knew it!' she cried, as if pleased, ‘I just knew it. It’s what my spirit picked up...’
‘Look, love - forget it, OK? We were pissed, and it was just that once. Carole’s been my best friend for ten years and you’re my lover, and that’s how its going to stay.’
‘Aha - but things can’t stay the same. Don’t you see, Paul? For our love to rise to its true potential there has to be change. I know you’re frightened, but you’ve got me to help you now. You have to get out of there.'
‘What! But where would I go?’
‘We can look for somewhere together,' she said, gripping his arm with excitement, ‘That’s where we’re leading. I want to get out of this place. It’s meant!’
Paul was conscious of the pressure of her fingers. He shook his head slowly, tightness in his chest. ‘Oh, I’m not ready for that,' he murmured, ‘Look love, we haven’t even known each other three weeks yet.'
‘Oh, what does time matter between two souls?' she cried.

The plan was that Paul would escort her on a birthday outing, to a place of her choice, buy her lunch, and spend the whole day with her. ‘That’s my real present to you,' he said, awkwardly aware of the inadequacy of his single, unoriginal gift.
‘Proper time with you, just connecting in a meaningful way, is all I need,' she said - adding that his card was the most beautiful she’d ever received. ‘
Through country lanes she drove him, with the cow parsley high each side, their destination secret. After about forty minutes she turned into the drive of a ramshackle Victorian rectory, standing in a large garden at the edge of a village. There was the sound of windchimes in the air. A mobile of several crystals spun in the bay window to the right of the front door, reminding him of the tiny jewels that revolved around the walls and ceiling of her room, that first morning.
‘Where are we?,' he asked.
Her smile was mysterious. ‘A special place of mine,' she said.
The Golden Mandala Meditation Centre was full of ethereal music and tinkling bells. There was a heavy smell of incense, mixed with a definite trace of cannabis. They were welcomed by a young man with long fair hair and bare feet, dressed in baggy trousers of pink Indian silk and a purple singlet, who put his hands together, gave a tiny bow, and murmured, “Peace, brother,' as Paul walked by.
Rowan led the way to the Purple Meditation Room, where about ten people sat cross legged on the floor. Pale blue blinds kept out the sunlight and a fat white church candle burned on the floor in the middle of the circle The only decoration on the dark walls was a large, multi-coloured poster of the Buddha. As soon as they entered, a plump woman of about sixty, iron grey hair down to her waist, jumped up. She wore a crumpled yellow shirt over an orange sarong which gaped to show large, white hairy legs. She rushed to enfold Rowan in a long embrace, while Paul stood by, shifting from one foot to the other.
‘I knew you’d come,' said the woman, in a breathy voice.
At last Rowan turned to him, and he saw her eyes were bright. ‘Paul, this is Jasmina, who’s been a great influence on me. On my whole life. Jasmina - I want you to meet my boyfriend, Paul. Oh, this is such an important moment for me....’
She sounded almost overcome. Jasmina turned to Paul and placed both hands on his shoulders, gripping them and gazing into his eyes. ‘I know you must be a very, very special person, Paul - with a great spirit. A very great spirit,' she crooned.
To Paul’s horror, she stood back and motioned them to join the ring. People shuffled round, leaving a space for two, and Rowan pulled him down. As if on cue everybody reached out and held hands. Paul found himself grasping Rowan’s cool fingers on one side, and on the other the sweaty hand of a muscular young man with yellow dreadlocks and a goatee beard.
‘Let’s close our eyes now’ Jasmina intoned, ...’and take a deep breath...deep.... deep...so deep you can feel your spirit drifting away into the purple haze.....comunicating through your hands...’
Paul was sure his dreadlocked neighbour never washed his hands, and wondered if dirt was a barrier to the spirit. He allowed himself a sideways squint at Rowan. Her eyes were closed; her face rapt. She looked more and more like an angel in a Burne Jones window. Then he opened his eyes wide - quite safely because all the others had theirs tightly closed. There were all ages, dressed in an assortment of selfconsciously ‘alternative’ clothes, their mouths slightly slack, as if in sleep.
Jasmina’s voice droned on and on interminably, as the expressions of intense concentration became ecstatic. A girl of about nineteen, with a shaven head and multiple piercings, suddenly cried, ‘I feel you, great Goddess!' and Jasmina murmured, ‘Yes, focus all your powers on the force... visualise... visualise...connect and invoke the power of the great spirit each of you wants...’
Rowan gripped his hand more tightly, and to his astonishment he saw a tear trickle down her cheek. He focussed all his own powers on controlling the urge to laugh. For she would never forgive him...
After what felt like hours, Jasmina began a low, one-note chant of ‘Om,' and they all joined in. Except Paul. The air vibrated with the sound, the room became intolerably warm, and the hands that held his pinched with the strength of their grip. It was now that he closed his eyes, realising with dismay that he was unable to distinguish between Rowan’s hand and the unpleasant paw belonging to Dreadlocks.
At last it was over. Rowan did not let go of his hand, but led him after the others - through to a large sunny sitting room, strewn about with cushions, low tables, and carved indian chairs. The smell of hashish was stronger here, its sweetness cutting through musky sandlewood smoke that furled up from joss sticks. There were mandalas and other religious symbols everywhere: Krishna, Ganesh, Shiva, various Buddhas, the Virgin Mary, and a Christ in techicolour, with a fluorescent red heart. It inflamed Paul’s natural agnosticism; he longed to smash about the room, turning things over... But she was talking.‘There! Wasn’t that renewing experience? Don’t you think it’s the most wonderful sensation when the chanting starts and we’re all one?’
All he could think of was that his hands were damp and he longed to wash them in icy water. Gently he disentangled his fingers, and nodded at her with a smile, not trusting himself to speak. The young man who had welcomed them brought round a tray of drinks. Paul tasted elderflower and was overcome by the need for a Bloody Mary.
His fantasy of a delicious lunch in a small country pub was soon dispelled when Rowan asked if he minded staying with the group for the midday meal.
‘I don’t want to break the unity, darling,' she explained, ‘You do understand, don’t you. We’ll be alone tonight...’
‘It’s up to you - it’s your birthday treat,' he shrugged.
Rowan explained that the Golden Mandala Meditation Centre was owned by a weathy woman who had made thousands from her mail order cosmetics business, yet believed in helping people get in touch with the Inner Self. Since Paul’s inner self was starving, and it was clear the communal lunch was free, he thought it a good idea after all. They sat uncomfortably on cushions around low tables, as a mush of lentils and vegetables was spooned into bowls, served with chunks of brown bread so chewy Paul thought he would lose a filling. As if from a distance he heard Rowan chatting about chakras, crystals and astrological affinities, and was tormented by the desire to quieten her with his mouth. To feel the little goddess's inner light.
‘Are you able to sense true purity of spirit, Paul?,' said a voice in his ear, making him redden and jump. It was Jasmina, exuding a warm, sweaty smell as she leaned against him, brushing her huge breasts against his arm. ‘Because that’s what you have with our Rowan. Did you know that the moon rules her sign? It’s dark, and feminine, yet innocent...I can sense you’re tuned into a very great love - a very, strong bond rooted in a shared uniqueness. And pure - you know?’
Images crossed Paul’s mind - of Rowan leaning over him that first morning, the kimono falling open, and of her head working away down his body, and of her hips wriggling like an eel...
‘Uh..yeah. I know,' he said hoarsely.
They drove home playing dolphin music, and Paul daydreamed about swimming naked with Rowan in a tropical sea. When they reached the flat he was relieved to detect in her behaviour no sign of the spiritual purity Jasmina had identified.
After the birthday dinner in the best Thai restaurant in the neighbourhood, (chosen by Rowan and paid for by Paul) he announced he could not see her the following day as he had to go to London to see a new client. ‘It’s a favour Carole’s done me,' he explained, ‘This advertising company’s run by someone she was at University with. With a bit of luck they’ll give me some work.'
She made a moue. ‘There’s more to life than work,’ she said.

Carole Ross was sitting in her office alone when the phone rang. ‘Ross PR?’
‘Is that Carole?,' said a woman’s voice.
‘It is - who’s speaking?’
‘It’s Rowan. Listen, I got your note, and I appreciate the fact that you wrote to me...’
Carole leaned back, struck by the tone of Rowan’s voice. It was not as she remembered it from the party, soft and flirtatious, almost purring - especially when Paul arrived. There was something mechanical about it now, like an old-fashioned Speak-Your -Weight machine, or the Speaking Clock.
‘That’s OK,' she said, ‘I just thought p’raps I should explain a bit how close Paul and I have always been - all of us, actually. But I don’t want you to feel left out. Jeff and I would love to make you welcome at home...Maybe for a drink on Friday?’
‘This is very difficult for me,' said Rowan coldly, ‘There’s a lot that confuses me...’
Carole thought quickly ‘Just a minute - can you hold on a second?’ she said. Then she did something rarely necessary, unless dealing with a client she hardly knew - since you do need to be wary when dealing with strangers. Without fully understanding the impulse, she pressed the ‘Record’ button before picking up the receiver again, ‘Sorry about that,' she said lightly, ‘Now, explain to me just what you mean....’
Paul got back to the house just before ten, to find Carole at the kitchen table, looking grave. She gestured towards a chair, and poured him a glass of St Emilion without asking if he wanted it.
‘Something wrong?,' he asked.
‘Listen, honey, I’ve got to bring you bad news and actually I don’t like it. That woman you’re being netted by - she’s mad. A total psycho...’
‘Oh come onnn!’
‘She phoned me today! I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. I dropped her a note, like I promised, and thought she’d be pleased. But you should have heard the stuff she came out with! As a matter of fact, you can hear it.'
She raised a finger to silence his protest, and rose to press ‘Play.' Paul sat in silence as the voice he knew yet did not recognise filled the room.
‘I don’t want to be in a situation where I have to share, I have to be first..... When I met Paul I knew we were meant to be together, we had no control over things, we knew it was all part of our karmic package.....He loves me very deeply and we’re going to live together as soon as possible, because he knows he has to get away from you....He’s thirtyfive now and it’s time he sorted out his own life, like I’ve had to do, living alone with my creativity...And now I won’t have to be alone any more, I’ll be with Paul.... But I don’t want to be involved with somebody with baggage - some kind of triangle situation where he has divided loyalty?....I’m working very hard at my life and I really like the person I’m becoming and Paul is the person I’ve picked to help me define my own life...It’s all to do with us not only being the same sign, you see? but so close in date too?....That’s incredibly significant.....Anyway, I can’t accept a situation where I’m coming round there to your house and entering into a confusing situation which isn’t of my making...To be absolutely honest with you, I feel there’s something very unclean and incenstuous about his relationship with you....You’re very controlling and I can’t handle that....It makes me very uncomfortable......I need to live in a clean, almost hygenic way, even if it means being ruthless......He needs to break free…he’s deeply unhappy....living in your clutches numbs his soul.....'
It went on. Paul’s face settled into a mask of disbelief. All the way through the recording Carole’s voice interjected calmly: ‘I see’ and ‘Oh really,' and ‘You think so?’ Finally she asked, ‘So where do you see things going from here?’
‘I will honour the process as it happens,' Rowan said.
‘What do you mean?,' asked Carole.
‘I said I will honour the process as it happens and that’s all I’m prepared to say to you.’
Carole pressed Stop, and they looked at each other for a long time in silence, before Paul put his face in his hands and groaned, ‘Oh God.'
Carole grinned, ‘All afternoon and evening I got the giggles thinking of her as ‘KP.’ That stands for ‘Karmic Package’ - and it’s also a brand name for nuts!’
‘Don’t laugh,' he said, sounding near to tears.
‘Come on, babe, one of us has gotta laugh!’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that voice, those phrases - that it’s the same person. How can you feel so strongly about someone, and be so wrong?’
Carole shrugged, ‘Karmic rubbish. It’s life, actually.’
She rose and put her arms around him from behind, lightly kissing the top of his head. ‘Big sis’ll give you one more piece of advice before she goes to bed. Next time, boy, take it easy a while. Get to know the woman before you decide she’s the one - OK?’
Paul sat brooding until the bottle was almost empty. Then he went up to his room, and stood looking about with such a sense of liberation his heartbeat quickened, as if he were falling in love. It took a second to pluck the little crystal off his computer and drop it in the wastebin. Then he picked up the engraved champagne glass, and contemplated it, before going downstairs again.
Back in the kitchen he searched through what Carole called her ‘Cooking CDs’ until he found what he wanted. The sound of Tina Turner filled the room:

You must understand
Though the touch of your hand
Makes my pulse react....

Paul gyrated, whirling round the kitchen table. He sang along at the top of his voice, knowing that if Carole heard she would not mind:

It’s physical
Only logical....

Then he upended the last drop of wine into Rowan’s glass, draining it at a gulp, before holding it out it in front of him. So desirable, so prettily wrapped, such a gift to him. The twisted stem caught the light, the engraved words danced before his eyes in time to the music: ’DRINK ME, SHE SAID, DRINK ME.....’

‘What’s love got to do, got to do with it?
What’s love but a scond hand emotion.?..’

He sang, not taking his eyes from the glass. Now he held it up high, between thumb and forefinger.
He sighed. The goblet was as full as his frenzy, as empty as air, as distant as the stars. There was beauty there, but so much trouble. A pity. He knew that when something fragile and fanciful is in fast collision with a tough old tiled floor, one of them must shatter. It’s elementary physics.
Or , as some might say, an unfortunate aspect of the karmic package.

Bel Mooney has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.