Here is Chapter One of The Lovers Arcana for you all to check out!

*This is a sample from The Lovers Arcana; this is chapter one from the book, however, it can be subject to mild change ahead of final release.* I.I

“I don’t believe in this shit,” I say without thinking.

I immediately want to apologise and stuff the words back into my big mouth. Luckily, I don’t think Dorian, the supposed ‘fortune teller’, is phased by my comment. In response, he gives me an unbothered shrug of his shoulders. 

My friends have dragged me to see him and get a palm reading as part of their extensive bucket list of activities. Since we all turned twenty-five, they have forced me to acknowledge that a ‘quarter-life crisis’ is now a thing. I have begrudgingly swum with sharks (kind of, I was in a cage), bungee jumped (they pushed me), and now find myself in this man's magic store.

They are trying to hold on to every second as it disappears like sand cascading between one's fingertips. I don't want to think about it, though. It all goes by quickly enough without remembering how old I am or acknowledging the time I may or may not have left.

Anyway, my mother raised me better than to give shit to a stranger, especially a good-looking one.

“Sorry, Dorian, I didn’t mean -”

He cuts me off, “No need, sceptics help keep me in business.”

His lips morph into a professional smile, but I imagine the words taste bittersweet. Then he winks at me, and it hits right on target. I hear my audible gulp as all the liquid in my mouth evaporates.

I stare at the well-dressed professional in front of me. He appears misplaced, sitting in a room that resembles the set of a cheesy horror movie. We sit facing each other in matching chairs, intricately carved patterns line the dark wood. The plush velvet cushions create a throne of comfort, only emphasising the uncomfortable silence between us.

Sometimes you learn someone's name, and you have this weird opinion on whether their name suits them or not. Like how I have always thought Steph could be a Maddie, but Dorian fit him as well as the shirt he was wearing, which was perfectly.

Surely, Dorian can't be his actual name, though? Who looks at a newborn in the twenty-first century and thinks, “Yes, I have the perfect name for my beautiful baby boy; Dorian!” I have no evidence to suggest that his name isn't Dorian, just making a wild assumption. It seems too old-fashioned for someone in their late twenties. The name does add to his mystical aura, which I suppose, for his line of work, is the point. I have to give him credit, if that is a fake name, it is some very clever marketing. I don't imagine you get to be a five-star rated fortune teller with a name like Dave or Barry, especially not in this part of London.

The store is tucked down the side of a busy high street, stuck between high-end independent shops with snobby clientele that love ‘hidden gems’.

If I didn’t have the name Daisy, I wonder if I would have become something more interesting. I am so uninspired in my job that I couldn't even tell you what the people in the building do. All I know is that I'm an office receptionist for some pompous corporation that is a copy and paste of the one that it bought out. Maybe I would have done something else if my parents had been more creative in naming me.

If I were called something else, maybe something like Florence, I could be restoring works of curated art at a famous London gallery. I would be dusting down the antique frames of works of art. Whilst snobby rich people walk around saying nonsensical things like “I can tell what the painter was feeling.” Then in my new persona, I wouldn’t want to make a shitty comment under my breathe in response but would take their comments seriously. I could even join in the conversation and input intelligent comments based on my Art History degree, which I obviously completed with honours because Florence would do that.

Fuck.

I have been avoiding eye contact and polite conversation with Dorian for an awkward length of time. I kick myself into gear, forcing my brain to re-engage and put all my effort into acknowledging Dorian.

There is nothing but the black varnished wood of the round table between us. A wide fake candle flickering a small orange hue across his strong facial features. Dorian is suave if that is even something people say nowadays. He has the stature and elegance of someone from a Jane Austen novel, dressed in a white shirt, cuffs rolled up, and his top buttons undone. He shows off a thin layer of neat hair flattened against the porcelain skin of his firm chest.

My eyes trace across the creases in his attire and follow up the curves of his neck to where near-black eyes are waiting. He has caught me and I have no defence for my blatant ogling.  His eyes grab hold of mine and pin me in place. He refuses to break, showing no mercy even as I start to get flustered.

Shit, I am an embarrassment to myself and anyone I associate with. I need to remain inside, away from any attractive guy, to avoid being labelled a sex pest.

Dorian refuses to back down in this intense staring contest I have found myself in. I slowly lower my hand, which was anxiously tangling my fingers through my copper hair. The heat rises in my cheeks as they flush a darker shade of red, even the atmospherically dim lighting won’t hide. His pupils enlarge and devious eyes are hooded under thick eyelashes that give him a look of effortless sexiness. There is a hint of danger behind those eyes, and I find myself curious to know what trouble I could get into with this man.

Oh my god.

I am a sex pest.

I need to take a cold shower when I get home. I have to almost admire my ability to inflict so much shame on myself without saying more than a few words. It's becoming difficult to look in Dorian's direction or even be in his vicinity as desperation starts to radiate from me. What the fuck is wrong with me today? I have just met this man. I cannot and should not make any assumptions about his sexual prowess or how nice it would be for such a specimen to ravish me.

God help me. I cautiously look around the small room, half expecting someone to be lurking in the cluttered corners. No monsters are lurking in the dark; only decorative tarot cards, battery-powered candles and spooky paraphernalia. The walls are shades of black, purple and grey, mismatched together in a way that makes the room look cohesive. I almost began to ask where his crystal ball was. Thankfully, I engaged the switch in my brain that stops me from insulting people twice without thinking in one conversation.

A small, forced chesty cough brings me back to the present. He is aware my attention has been elsewhere for what I pray is only seconds. I hope the placid mask I have morphed my face into keeps the horror I feel hidden.

“Well, normally I get to offer a hot drink before sceptics start throwing their insults around and stop paying attention. At least this way we can get past the awkward pleasantries," he smiles as he speaks. His baritone voice and confident delivery suggest this may be a rehearsed line. A script used against all those forward enough to not even say hello before sharing their thoughts on his line of work.

Bollocks, I didn’t even say hello.

I just sat down at the aged table in front of him and blurted out the first insulting thing that popped into my head. Steph and Kris are lurking behind me. They chuckle like schoolgirls watching their friend get caught by the teacher sending love notes to their crush. I turn around to look at them, mouthing at them to stop. This seems to only cause further hysterics from the pair of hooligans I call my best friends.

It's hard not to smile at the pair of them, though; their energy is annoyingly infectious. They don’t take much seriously and haven’t a wrinkle or prominent grey hair between them because of it. We all met in a house share when at university. Together somehow we managed to survive in that shitty house for the full three years. Crappy heating, hostile neighbours and dodgy electrics only brought us closer. Since moving on with our lives, we have kept in contact, and now there isn't a day that goes by without a text passing between us.

I am grateful for the two women now heckling me, they made my life better since the day we met in that old, damp London Terrace we called home. Until now. Now they have sabotaged a nice coffee morning with random palm-reading magic and embarrassed me in front of this psychic hunk. Steph and Kris are on form today, or at least more so than normal, which says a lot for my golden retriever best friends. They were extra giggly; Kris snorting and Steph cackling like a Halloween witch. They must have noticed how attractive Dorian is, not that you can miss it. Which explains why, between them, they have so many nervous, flirty ticks that they need treatment from the vets.

Wait.

Wait a god damn minute.

Now that I think about it, neither of them has ever mentioned an interest in fortune-telling before today. They only decided to tick this off the bucket list when we were sitting in the coffee shop opposite this storefront, and Dorian stepped outside. He was watering the few plants along the small cracked windowsill of his shop. Then all of a sudden, we had to drop everything to go inside and get our fortunes told. I should have known by the high-pitched excitement and the sudden flurry of enthusiasm to go and check it out that something was afoot.

As always, though, I got drawn in by their excitement. I can be so dumb sometimes, or is it plain naivety? I should have been more perceptive to their scheme before I paid twenty pounds for a fifteen-minute palm read that I didn’t want. I am sure there were cheaper and less awkward ways for them to speak to Dorian without my hand being tickled in the process.

Steph and Kris start hushing themselves as Dorian starts to move. He reaches out a tattooed hand that teases a full sleeve of black and white ink. I am mindlessly picking at the damaged skin around my fingernails when he reaches over with a flat hand, encouraging me to take it.

His patience with me is incredible. He hasn’t let slip an annoyed sigh or made demands for me to take this seriously, even though I have been outright defiant. Instead, he happily waits for me to be ready before proceeding with every step of what should have been a simple activity.

Steph and Kris have gone silent, watching in heightened suspense. Reluctantly, I place my hand in his and observe as he starts to trace a gentle finger around its creases.

I am not sure what he said after that. There were a couple of minutes where I became oblivious to everything but the feeling of his hand on mine. The spark of electricity that rumbled down each of my lines overwhelmed me. All my effort went into controlling my breathing in an attempt not to give away the loud thumping in my chest.

Dorian's deep voice fills the room again, and like a deer in headlights, I look at him, dazzled.

“Sorry, what did you just say?” 

“This line is your heart line, it is the future of your love life. I am afraid to say it is broken. You will have an intense love that suddenly breaks off.”

He pauses, his full lips stoically hiding the feelings his eyes are portraying: sadness. His finger gently traces a small V over my palm repeatedly.

“But, a fork stems from the break.” He says empathetically.

Surprised by my sudden investment in the reading, I ask him, “What does that mean?”

He shakes his head a little, and there is a tinge of sadness now creasing his forehead.

“It’s not clear-”

He leans closer, taking in the deep grooves of my fortune. “It looks like you will face a loss of love, followed by a difficult choice involving your heart.”

I sigh, exhaling heavily.

“Okay then, that’s morbid enough for me, I don’t need to pay you to tell me how messy my love life is.”

Turning around in my chair, I lean over the back to look between Steph and Kris. Steph is ruffling her mane of curly blonde hair, trying not to laugh at me, and I glare at her in response. Her manicured nails are covering her mouth, but she is unable to hide her smile as it reaches her blue eyes.

“Steph, it's your turn.”

I start to pull my hand back from his, but he clamps down. His grip is firm, stopping me in my tracks. The purple cushion of the chair moulds further around me as I forget how to move, weighted down by his touch.

Losing the sadness that had lined his face, he softly asks. “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry on? Not all change is bad.”

There is a moment's pause, but I don’t hesitate long before reaffirming my decision, “I am sure.”

I pull my hand back successfully this time and start to lift out of the seat. I feel heavier now, carrying the burden of this knowledge on my shoulders as I strain to get up. Steph and Kris try to playfully push me back down into the chair, but I bat them away.

I cry out as one of Steph's long acrylic nails catches the skin on my collarbone. She sits down quickly in my place by way of an apology. Steph and Kris both take their turns handing Dorian their palm. They are high with anticipation, eagerly holding on to every one of his words. Unsurprisingly, not put off by the bleak foretelling of my future.  Steph's tanned skin seems to glow brighter as Dorian shares her fortune. “You will travel, and there is a lot of adventure in your future. Then one day later in life, you will come home and settle down with a partner and children.”

“Really?” Steph exclaims, her shrill voice leaving a ring in my ears.

Ocean waves move in her eyes, enamoured with the possibilities in front of her.

“I am sure you will have many stories to tell them.”

He gives her a playful wink, which causes her legs to give way a little when she tries to rise from the chair.

Kris slouches into the seat. She runs a hand through her half-buzzed hair, moving her long, dark fringe to the side so she can watch his every move. She nods along with Dorian's words, accompanying the movement with the occasional “uh-huh.” 

“Your lifeline is an island, you had some troubling times, but-"

Kris interrupts him, "You can say that again!"

Steph, standing a few inches taller than me, leans down to whisper in my ear. “I could have told you that from her haircut.”

Kris swings around.

“Oi!”

Dorian clears his throat and continues the reading, still smiling as he does.

“The struggle will pay off, though. Your life will become very rewarding both financially and in happiness, too.”

This is the exact news she would want to hear, being the workaholic of the group. When it's time for her to get out of the chair, she does so with smugness radiating from her.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous of my friend's future. Maybe a lot jealous, as their futures sounded so promising and bright, whereas mine stunk. Nothing but heartbreak and difficult decisions.

Nonchalantly, I walk down the busy cobbled street, trying to ignore my envy. We continue to look at each other's hands like we can now interpret the lines ourselves. My friends recount the good fortunes that Dorian predicted. I join in the "oooing" and “ahhing” even if it is a little lacklustre.

I allow myself one last look back towards the store and see Dorian watching us as we go. He must be proudly observing his happy customers who are now making a nuisance of themselves in the crowds. I squint under the midday sun,  trying to get a good look at his face.

He is not wearing the look of a satisfied shopkeeper who just conned sixty pounds from three lust-struck women. Instead, he looks only concerned. I can’t escape the niggling feeling that it was my reading that made his tidy brows furrow in unease. Dorian’s mouth is a solid, unsmiling line on his pale skin, as he watches us shrink into the distance.

Even when he is no longer in view, the look of worry he wore haunts me. I see it in the faces of the passing shoppers as we make our way around the streets. Kris must notice something is up as she pushes her hand through my arm to link us together and drags me into a random bookstore. The concern I feel drifts away the more time I spend strolling the shelves. I allow myself a couple of deep breaths as I get lost in the rows of pre-loved words.

The Lovers Arcana Signed Paperback

Buy Now