tarot | Inappropriate Footwear

Ok, so why have I paused by this roadside timber crucifix? Latent Christian heebie jeebies?

I guess a little anxiety’s ok. Melody reckons Ms Monvoisin drove Willie Naverson to a nervous breakdown, but Melody then also believes that she once saw Patrick Swayze’s ghost in the Pak ‘n’ Save butchery. And that she looks like a Scottish Beyonce.

I rip into a snow white Snickers bar, gnawing at the chocolate shell. The sugar hit gets me moving again. That’s it Danni, time to be brave, time to validate my suspicions. If I’m right, I’m about to spend an hour with an old school influencer. Besides, the alternative’s a drudge-walk back to Josh, a supermarket lasagne, and the 1pm COVID count on TV.

Yip, must be dozens of women that have headed up to your house on the hill. You see each and every one of ‘em coming, don’t ya? Three tarot readings in and you’ve got old lady Flammel quitting her legal career and packing up for Queenstown. Just one session and Jennifer Laycock’s kicking Joffrey out and turning his garden room into an AirBnB.

Me though, I’m not coming for divination, nor implied permission. Nup, I’m coming for tuition.

I’m not completely artless. I know if I drop my voice by an octave Josh’ll fetch me a glass of wine, even three minutes out from the full-time whistle. I’ve got a talent for reading people, learnt that from navigating Mum’s…let’s say mercurial…moods. I know if little Grace lifts her left hand a little before she speaks, no matter what she says, she’s hoping for validation. And I can see Josh’s lies six months before he mouths them.

You though, you’re on a whole new level. These modern-day influencers, they’re all pretenders, right Monvoison? All on the paycheck of this man or that. Not you, nuh-uh, you kicked your man out two years back. And somehow you kept the house and custody of sweet young Delilah.

So sure, I might be slowing a little as I approach your driveway as the light fades and I get to shivering. I’m not stopping though, this girl’s ready to level up.

I look up as a light appears on the porch. She’s a silhouette and I’m grit and determination. And maaaaybe just a wee twist of fear.

I poke the remote at the telly, hitting the power button forcefully ‘til that thick Trumpette Judith Collins disappears. Used to be that politics required a degree of cunning, ‘til the Russians figured out they could pay dissidents in Adidas sportswear to rewrite the results. Matt used to call me that, before I helped him understand he was better off without me. Or the house. Cunning. The way I see it, there’s an elegant emotional mathematics to it, clever multiplied by duplicitous. I always let my ego trip me up though. Too happy to crow about how I got one over someone, instead of keeping quiet enough to realise the benefits of my manipulations. I wised up though, now I’m all about influence. That’s a cleaner kind of power. No forensics. No DNA. It started with the tarot readings. Fascinating how far some fools will go to have you tell them what to do. Then pay you for the privilege. All they need is a little push, and pretty soon I’m choreographing the whole damn neighbourhood. Whoops, there’s the front gate. Delilah’s home. She’s a good girl, if easily manipulated. Of course I’m pushing her in good ways. Taught her to draw in colours. Blue for those you love the best, red for those you want to be your friend. Green for those you can’t trust. The bad-feeling ones. Each fridge picture is now a coded journal. “Draw Mum a picture of school pickups love, all those other Mums. What colour is Mrs Petrie?” Mrs Petrie forest green, filthy forest green. Uh oh. Young Miss is wearing a frown. Dumping her bag to the ground. “No picture today angel?” “I showed Mrs Clugh my homework. She laughed at it, said she didn’t know why I used all my colours. I chucked it out. I don’t want to draw all the thoughts, it’s dumb.“ “Oh love, I’ve told you, Mrs Clugh is sad because her husband is on the verge of leaving her. Don’t you pay her no mind.“ “Are you mad at her Mama?” “Not mad baby, I just feel sorry for her. You go put your bag in your room. I’m going to have a wee chat to Peggy Clugh, maybe I’ll give her a free reading. Help a sister out, right De-de?” “Sure Mama.”