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A Kind of Magic
Part-time witch, full-time glamorous high-flyer Esme McLeod rubs shoulders with celebrities for a living, has a sort-of-boyfriend …and just enough magic in her fingertips to solve life’s little irritations; why shouldn’t she cast a little spell to catch the busy barman’s attention, or to summon a latte to aid her all-nighters?
Called back to her small Scottish home town and meddling family, stiletto-clad Esme is way out of her comfort zone… But Esme must embrace her abilities as a witch, or watch her family lose their beloved café.
Except Esme has never claimed to be a whizz at witchcraft, and her charms are starting to go awry - she certainly never meant to cast a love spell on her ex-boyfriend Jamie! It’s time for urgent lessons in magic as well as love – it seems there’s only so much that muttering a few words over cupcake batter will fix…
Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013
Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2013
Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © October 2013 ISBN: 9781472054760
Version date: 2018-10-30
KERRY BARRETT was a bookworm from a very early age, devouring Enid Blyton and Noel Streatfeild, before moving on to Sweet Valley High and 1980s bonkbusters. She did a degree in English Literature, then trained as a journalist, writing about everything from pub grub to EastEnders. Her first novel, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, took six years to finish and was mostly written in longhand on her commute to work, giving her a very good reason to buy beautiful notebooks. Kerry lives in London with her husband and two sons, and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes is still her favourite novel.
Thank you to my parents for giving me a love of books, and to Anna and Nicky for being so excited; I’m excited too! A big hug to Gerda, who has known Esme almost as long as I have; thank you for your constant encouragement and excellent advice. And to Darren, Tom and Sam – I love you very much. You’re awesome.
For my boys, big and small.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Title Page
Copyright
Author Bio
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Endpages
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
I was completely out of my comfort zone. I perched on the high bar stool, legs swinging like a toddler in a high chair, and cursed Harry for insisting on meeting me here.
‘Seven o’clock, Esme, Cara Mia at Canary Wharf,’ she’d said in her message. ‘Don’t be late. It’s important.’
She was passing through town, she’d said, flying into Heathrow from the States and back to Scotland from City. Bad planning on her part. And even worse planning on mine to work spitting distance from the bar she’d chosen. I’d briefly considered changing jobs to get out of meeting her, but even I could see that was a bit extreme.
And so, here I was. With my legs uncomfortably wrapped around the chrome legs of a shiny stool, and my elbow in a puddle of something, in a bar full of the City types I spent a lot of time avoiding. And – I squinted at my watch in the dim light – it was now 7.25 and there was still no sign of Harry.
I shifted awkwardly on my perch and tried once more to get the barman’s attention. He’d been ignoring me since I arrived, despite my best attempts at eye contact.
Finally, I thought, as his gaze shifted in my direction. But no, instead he served the woman standing behind me, who had glossy hair and the kind of honey-coloured skin that comes from a lifetime of winters spent abroad.
That did it. I moved my arm out of the puddle, rested my wrist on the cold bar and waggled my fingers, gently, in the direction of the barman. A small shower of pink sparks – nothing anyone would notice – wafted from my fingertips. The barman looked puzzled for a moment, then he picked a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge, dropped it into an ice bucket and presented it to me, along with two glasses, with a flourish.
‘Nice,’ said a voice in my ear. ‘And you didn’t even have to ask.’
‘Hello, Harry,’ I said. Of course she would choose that moment to arrive. She didn’t kiss me. Instead she leaned over, scooped up the wine bucket and tilted her head in the direction of a booth.
I was expected to follow, clearly. I picked up the glasses, then had to put them down again so I could slide off the barstool without mishap. I resisted the temptation to turn around and descend backwards, but only just. Then I picked up the glasses again and trotted after my cousin, just like I’d been trotting after her my whole life.
As I approached the table she’d chosen, I noticed her normally immaculately made-up face was pale, with dark rings under her eyes. And her slouchy cashmere sweater hung off her. She grabbed the glass I offered, glugged wine into it and drained it. I felt slightly uneasy. Harry being in control was one of the constants in my life.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked as I shuffled sideways along the seat into the booth.
Harry waited for me to sit, then pushed a glass in my direction.
‘It’s Mum,’ she said in her typically forthright way. ‘She’s got breast cancer.’
I put my hand to my mouth in shock.
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘Poor Auntie Suky.’
Harry took another swig of her wine.
‘She should be OK because they seem to have caught it early enough. But she’s in for a rough few months.’
She looked at me. ‘You have to go,’ she said.
I was already shaking my head.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘My mum needs you,’ Harry said.
‘You go.’ I tipped my wine into my mouth and poured another glass. ‘She’s your mum.’
Harry looked away. I thought for a moment she had tears in her eyes, but perhaps it was just the light in the bar.
‘I’ve got some stuff going on at the moment, Esme,’ she said. ‘I just can’t leave work just now. I’ll come as soon as I can.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not going.’
I was annoyed she’d even asked. Going to see Suky meant seeing my own mum and Harry knew how shaky my relationship was with her.
‘I know you’re annoyed I even asked,’ she said.
‘Don’t do that.’ I scowled at her. I hated when she poked about in my head and read my mind.
‘What?’ she said, her pretty face full of innocence.
Infuriated I shook my head again. Harry ignored me.
‘I spoke to your mum,’ she said. I felt a flash of anger that she’d spoken to Mum when I hadn’t. ‘She says there’s been a bit of trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘A few things have gone wrong at the café.’
I shrugged.
‘There’s nothing I can do about that.’ My career as a lawyer was far away from my family’s quaint tearoom.
Harry caught my fingers and squeezed them.
‘You can help,’ she said. ‘You have to help. You know I’d be there if I could – it’s just really tricky for me at the moment.’
‘I don’t do witch stuff any more,’ I said.
Harry arched her perfectly plucked eyebrows.
‘Then what was that at the bar?’
She had a point. What I’d done at the bar –and what she’d done when she echoed my thoughts back to me – was witchcraft. Because, though I deny it and ignore it, I am a witch. So is Harry. And our mums. And our gran before them. You know how it goes.
But a long time ago, I’d turned my back on my mum and witchcraft, and now I only ever used it secretly, quietly and – often pretty badly – to make everyday life a bit easier. If I needed a parking space, one would appear. A mess in my kitchen? No problem. Couldn’t find the remote control? It would just appear like – well, like magic. Anything more complicated though, and it didn’t always go as smoothly as I’d liked so I tended to avoid pushing my luck when it came to spells. It was a strategy that worked for me and I had no intention of that changing any time soon.
‘I’ll come up as soon as I can,’ Harry was saying. ‘Next week, probably. Your mum needs you, Ez. My mum needs you. I…’
There was a pause. I looked at her in expectation. But apparently she’d finished.
I pushed my glass of wine away and picked up my bag.
‘Sorry,’ I said, shuffling back along the bench. ‘I have to go back to the office. Don’t you have a plane to catch?’
Chapter 2
‘So I told her, there was absolutely no way I was going,’ I said to Dom, my sort-of-boyfriend later that evening. I’d bumped into him when I’d gone back to the office to pick up my things, and persuaded him to come back to mine, which hardly ever happened. He looked out of place in my tiny flat; too big and too male as he lounged against my Cath Kidston cushions and smiled at me as I ranted and paced the floor in front of him.
‘Absolutely no way,’ I repeated.
Dom looked at me, a glint of mischief in his brown eyes.
‘So when are you leaving?
I screwed up my nose.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said miserably. ‘Straight after work.’
He chuckled, but to give him his due, he didn’t labour the point. Instead he patted the cushion next to him and pulled me down on to the sofa. I cuddled into him, enjoying the rare pleasure of having him all to myself.
‘I’m in court all day tomorrow,’ he said. ‘So I won’t get to see you before you go.’
‘Well, we’d better make tonight count then,’ I said, looking up at him in what I hoped was a coquettish, flirty manner.
Dom leaned down to kiss me, when suddenly his phone rang making me jump and ruining the moment. I glared at him as he answered and motioned for me to be quiet.
‘Hello, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘Yep, got stuck in the office, but I’m just finishing up here.’
I pulled my legs away from Dom, stood up and flounced into my tiny kitchen where I slumped against the work surface. Rebecca was the reason Dom was only my ‘sort-of boyfriend’. Because she was sort of his wife. Well, if I was being honest, there was no sort of about it. She was his actual wife. Which made me his actual mistress.
I wasn’t proud of myself. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But Dom had charmed me and I felt as though I had no control over my actions. He’d broken through all my defences. And actually, the secrecy and the subterfuge suited me quite well.
Dom and I had been working together for two years. We’d been sleeping together for nearly a year. The first time it happened I’d been working late in the office, desperate to make my mark in a company full of overachievers. As I pored over files and wrote reams of notes, Dom appeared at my office door.
‘Come for a drink,’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ I replied, not even looking up. Dom had been circling me for weeks, months even, flirting and going out of his way to pay me attention. I wasn’t interested. I avoided relationships and preferred to spend all my spare time working.
‘You work too hard.’ He walked towards my desk and sat down on the chair in front of me.
‘So do you.’ I turned a page in the folder I was reading and carried on making notes in the margin.
‘Pleeeease,’ Dom whined like a little boy. ‘I’m sooooo bored.’
In spite of myself I laughed and finally looked up. His wide, blue eyes with a hint of mischief met mine, and a tiny bud of lust curled in my stomach. How could I resist?
‘I can’t go for a drink,’ I said firmly. ‘But if you go and get me a coffee, I’ll take a break and we can chat for five minutes.’
Dom had brought me a coffee – and a bottle of wine – and we chatted for hours that night. And the next night, when we both worked late again. And after a few ‘dates’ in the office, we went out for dinner. Just an above-board business dinner between colleagues at a restaurant near work.
Except the restaurant was expensive and softly lit and we didn’t talk about business.
When we finally staggered out into the street, dizzy with red wine, good food and lust, I raised my arm to hail a cab. Dom caught my hand and pulled me to face him.
‘What now?’ he asked. His face was close to mine and I could feel his breath on my lips. My legs were like jelly and although I knew I should pull away, I couldn’t.
‘You’re married,’ I whispered.
Dom nodded. A flicker of something – guilt? – crossed his eyes.
‘The ball’s in your court, Esme,’ he said, pulling me closer.
I opened my mouth to tell him to go home to his wife. But instead I found myself leaning forward to kiss him. He tasted of garlic and coffee and fun and I was bewitched.
So when a taxi pulled up beside us and Dom got in with me, and gave the cabbie my address, I didn’t protest. And that was that.
A year of snatched meetings and illicit evenings later I still felt terrible whenever I thought of Dom’s wife. And I still hated it if she called when I was with him.
I didn’t want Dom to leave her, I told myself. I was happy working long hours and spending time alone in my flat or at the gym. Having a full-time boyfriend would cramp my style. Plus, it suited me to have some distance between us. I may not have been an enthusiastic user of magic, but all my family were. Just the thought of inviting a boyfriend home and watching his face as Mum made Sunday dinner in her own special way gave me chills. And my family’s track record when it came to my love life was not good. But still my heart ached when Dom slipped out of my bed at night and went home to his wife.
I ignored the nagging voice inside me that told me what I was doing was wrong. I ignored my guilt about Rebecca, and, most of all, I ignored the feeling that despite my fabulous, well-paid job, my gorgeous flat and my handsome, sophisticated sort-of boyfriend, I was lonely.
‘I’m going to miss you.’ Dom interrupted my thoughts. He had finished his phone call and come to find me in the kitchen. He snaked his arms round my waist and planted a kiss on my neck.
‘No you won’t,’ I said, pulling his arms off me. ‘You won’t even notice I’m not here.’
Dom winked at me. ‘Of course I will. I love you,’ he said. I gaped at him. He’d never said that before. Ignoring my silence, Dom picked up his car keys.
‘Bye,’ he called from the hall, as he blew me a kiss.
I pretended to catch it. ‘Bye then,’ I whispered.
Chapter 3
The next day at work was mental. My boss, Maggie, almost tipped me over the edge because she was frantically preparing for a meeting with another Hollywood couple about the baby they were trying to adopt, and she couldn’t decide what to wear. I was trying very hard to tie up any loose ends and pass on the cases that I could pass on before I went to Scotland. And I was wrestling with a client who’d decided to start Tweeting vindictive messages to her cheating husband despite my desperate voicemails begging her to stop.
I am a family lawyer. That sounds quite fluffy but believe me it isn’t. In my experience, family law is about as nasty as it gets. Especially the bit I’m involved with. Think cheating Premiership footballers, wronged pop stars and celebrities buying African babies and you’re pretty close. Still, it’s a living. And it keeps me very, very busy, which is the idea.
Eventually, things calmed down enough for me to sit back in my chair and look at my phone. I knew I had to phone Mum and tell her I was coming up. Harry had emailed to say she’d passed on my flight details, but if I was expecting to stay it was only polite to call. It’s not like Mum and I never talk. We do, of course. But we’re not mates, not close like Harry and Suky are. I would never tell her about Dom, for example, or really fill her in on anything happening in my life – because the last time I did, when I was sixteen, it all backfired on me in the worst way and Mum and I had a major falling out. Major.
To be honest, it had been brewing for years. I was a shy, clumsy teenager whose desperation to fit in clashed – badly – with my family’s bohemian side. But until the big drama, we’d all rubbed along pretty well. Harry was ten years older than me and thick as thieves with Suky, who’d had her when she was barely out of her teens herself. Back then I adored Harry – whose real name is Harmony. She was beautiful, funny, clever – still is, I suppose – and amazingly talented in the witchcraft department. She’d long since left home and was living in Edinburgh, but we still saw a lot of her.
My mum – who is Suky’s twin sister – and I were less close but we still got on – pretty much. My mum – who is Suky’s twin sister – and I got on pretty well back then. We weren’t as close as Harry and Suky, who were more like friends than mother and daughter, but we did ok. And unlike many teenagers, I also got on with my dad, who’d split up with Mum before I was born and now had a glamorous wife and two little boys.
As for the cause of the rift, I won’t bore you with all the sorry details but imagine a spiky teenager who had fallen in love for the first time and a mum who – in some misguided attempt to make us as close as Suky and Harry – decided to meddle.
After the sparks had stopped flying (and I mean literally of course) I fled. I took off to Edinburgh, to my big cousin who would make everything OK. Except she didn’t. She sat me in the kitchen of her tiny top-floor flat in Leith and listened as I poured my heart out. And then do you know what she did? She laughed. She laughed and she told me not to take myself so seriously. In short, she took my already fragile heart and shattered it into a thousand pieces.
That was that really. Luckily Dad came to my rescue with an offer of paying for me to do A Levels at a school near where he lived in Cheltenham. I packed my bags, moved to England and never looked back. Until now.
Nerves jangling, I looked at the phone on my desk. Then I grabbed it and dialled Mum’s number before I had a chance to change my mind.
‘It’s me,’ I said when she answered. There was a brief silence and then I heard her breathe out, almost in relief.
‘Esme, darling,’ she said. I immediately felt guilty at how pleased she was to hear from me.
‘Harry said you’re coming.’
‘I’m coming,’ I told her. I bit my lip. ‘Is that going to be OK?’
‘Of course it is,’ she said. I could almost feel her smiling down the line. ‘It’ll be good to see you.’
Maggie appeared in the door of my office holding up two blouses. I pointed to the one on her left, knowing she’d wear the other one.
I knew Mum wanted me to say it would be good to see her too, but I just couldn’t lie. Instead, I asked her about Suky and told her when to expect me. And I was relieved when my phone beeped to tell me I had another call, and I could say goodbye.
As I tried to talk my vindictive client out of emailing indiscreet pictures of her philandering husband to all the contacts in his address book, my assistant Chrissie stuck her head and an arm round my door and put a large latte on my bookshelf. She gave me a quick, sympathetic smile and I wondered how much of my phone call to Mum she’d heard (or listened to, more like).
I stared at my coffee, lacking the energy to walk over and pick it up. Then I checked Chrissie wasn’t lurking outside, and gently waggled my fingers in the direction of my cup. In a shower of pink sparks the latte flew across my office. It landed neatly on a pile of papers and a drip plopped on to a super injunction I’d been preparing for a TV presenter. I wiped it off with a tissue, thinking that coffee spills were the least of my worries. The two halves of my life – two halves that I kept far, far apart – were coming together and I felt very uneasy.
Chapter 4
‘We do have one car left,’ the woman at the car hire desk told me much, much later. She tapped some keys on her computer and the printer began spewing out the reams of paper that I apparently needed to sign to hire a Nissan Micra.
I looked past her shoulder at the rain lashing the windows and sighed. Inverness never changed. Mindlessly I scribbled my signature on the many bits of paper the woman pushed towards me and tried to ignore the Tannoy that was announcing a flight to London. I’d be home soon, I told myself.
‘It’s a silver car,’ the woman said, handing me the key. ‘The registration number is on the fob and it’s in space 60, row Z.’ She gave a rueful chuckle. ‘Oh dear, it’s rather far away…’
Together we turned and looked at the rain streaming down the glass behind her. I was not traipsing past rows A to Y in this weather – for a Micra. I draped my jacket over my arm so it hid my hand, and wiggled my fingers. Her computer gave a loud beep.
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve made a mistake. The only car we have left is a Mini – oh and it’s in row A. That’s lucky.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I agreed. I took the new key she gave me and turned to leave with a self-satisfied smile. I tried not to listen as her computer beeped three times in a row and she banged the keyboard, cursing. My magic did sometimes backfire.