Imelda heard voices outside her booth and through a small gap in the curtains she recognised the young woman, Jeanie, who had sung so beautifully at the talent-spotting evening and her fair-haired friend Vivienne, the cool sophisticate.

‘Ooh! Let’s get our fortunes told. I can find out whether I’m going to be a star or end up back at the secretarial college pushing the mail trolley until I’m old and wrinkled like Miss Sharp, and smell of cat wee and Ovaltine.’

‘Surely you don’t believe in all that hocus-pocus? It’s complete rubbish. Gypsy nonsense. They just make it up, you know – preying on poor, feeble-minded souls who don’t know any better.’

Imelda swept back the curtains and was gratified to see a faint blush appear on Vivienne’s cheeks.

‘Can I help you ladies with anything?’

Jeanie was immediately flushed and flustered, but her friend regained her composure almost instantly.

‘No offence intended, of course,’ she reassured Imelda with a smile. ‘It’s just not my cup of tea leaves.’

‘None taken.’ Imelda lied. ‘And of course, I understand. Not everyone is willing to trust the things they don’t understand. But what about you, Jeanie? Would you like me to read your cards? Do you trust me?’

Jeanie glanced uncertainly at Vivienne, but then she nodded and followed Imelda into the booth. Vivienne was clearly a little irritated by her friend’s small rebellion.

‘I’ll see you back at the bar then. I’ve spotted a handsome man who I’m sure would like to buy me a drink.’

Imelda motioned for Jeanie to take a seat at the gypsy table. She placed three sets of tarot cards in front of her and asked her to choose a pack. Imelda handed the chosen cards to Jeanie and asked her to shuffle them and then she took them back and laid down a Celtic Cross, card by card, on the table.

_______________________

Imelda packed away her cards and crystal ball and decided to look in on the party before heading home. She’d had a busy and successful evening and was beginning to think that Larkins might be very good for business. She had not been allowed to bring Grisha with her this evening, but that would have to change if Marty Mount wanted her to make regular appearances. The entertainment lounge was festooned in all its Christmas finery. The palm trees were hung with coloured tinsel and the flamingos were wearing Santa hats. Marty Mount was dressed as Father Christmas and was brandishing a sprig of mistletoe with a lascivious glint in his eyes. Too many Bacardi and Cokes had loosened his tongue and livened his hands, and female guests and staff alike were on the receiving end of his largely unwelcome attentions.