Pick A Card

There’s magic in the air in this enjoyable short story by Wendy Clarke.

It’s a magician’s job to fool people. But have I been fooling myself all along?

THE hen night is in full swing. The woman at the table takes a card from the deck I offer. From the way she’s leaning forward, giggling, I know she’s interested.

A few months ago I might have done something about it, but not now. I push the cards back together.

“Now, don’t let me see,” I say, making a show of turning away. “Just put it somewhere in the pack.” “Done it.”

Her lips are bright carmine. She smiles at me and I smile back, feeling nothing.

“Now I’m going to turn the cards over.”

One by one, I flip the cards on to the table. The others in the party have gathered round, glasses of Prosecco in their hands.

“Is this your card?” I ask. The woman shrieks and holds it in the air. It’s too easy to deceive these women with tricks I learned when barely out of primary school.

Sleight of hand, illusion – call it what you will, it all boils down to the same thing. I’m good at cheating.

I glance at my watch, wondering how long it will be before I can get away.

The air in the bar is thick and heady, filled with the sound of twenty women out for a good time.

How I long to be back in my flat with nothing but my Labrador’s snores to disturb my peace.

“Let’s see another trick!” A woman with bleached blonde hair leans across the table and runs a hand down my arm.

“Why don’t you do a Houdini and make those clothes disappear?”

There’s a burst of laughter, and I wonder if I’ll come out of this alive.

Surely, out there somewhere, there’s a girl who wants more than just a bit of fun. Someone I can walk hand-in-hand with, cook for . . . someone who’ll finally leave me spellbound.

I think back to the bitter end of my relationship with Sophie. The coldness in her eyes as she’d stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the living-room.

“Want to see a magic trick?” she’d asked, clicking her fingers. “Ta da! The disappearing woman.”

I’d deserved it, I know. I hadn’t treated her as well as I should have . . . I pulled the wool over her eyes once or twice. That was a year ago, and I’m ashamed of the way I behaved. She’ll have moved on by now. Found someone to give her more than just the illusion of love.

It’s been a lonely year, but it’s given me time to grow up.

My mother had tried to comfort me, telling me that when I met the right girl, I’d know it.

“We’re waiting.” The bride-to-be drapes an arm around my shoulders, her veil scratching my neck.

“Can you give me five minutes?”

Only twenty minutes left of my allotted hour, then I’ll be able to leave.

Pushing my way to the bar, I notice a girl sitting on a stool. Her eyes are fixed on the beer mat she’s stripping.

Unlike the other women, she’s wearing a pair of jeans and a simple T-shirt. She looks downcast.

“You OK?”

She lifts her head and I notice her pretty eyes, fringed with short, dark lashes.

“Just wondering whether it would be rude to leave.”

The women are now singing along to one of the songs coming through the speakers, their arms reaching high into the air.

“I think it’ll be a long night,” I say. “They haven’t had the stripper yet.”

“Maybe there won’t be one.”

“I’m afraid there will . . . I saw him go into the gents with a fireman’s uniform over his arm.”

She gives a grimace, then eyes the pack of cards in my top pocket.

“You’re the magician, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” I make a show of looking up my sleeve. “No rabbits in there.”

Her laugh is pretty, too. Not raucous, like the others in the room.

“I’m doing one last trick,” I say. “Before I go home to Sydney.”

“Sydney?”

“My Labrador. He gets worried if I’m late back.”

She smiles, and a dimple forms in her cheek.

“You can practise it on me first, if you like.”

I take the cards from my pocket and shuffle them. My hands are shaking, and I drop one. What’s the matter with me? I’ve done this trick a hundred times.

“Pick a card . . . any card.” Reaching out, she pulls one from the pack. Her hand is small, and I have an urge to take it in my own. Forcing myself to concentrate, I shuffle her card back into the pack.

“Is this yours?”

She shakes her head, and I look at her in mock horror. I know it isn’t her card – it’s just part of the act. Slowly, I fan out the deck.

“What about this one?” Why am I so nervous?

Her eyes meet mine. Her smile is breathtaking.

“No, that’s not the one.” I’ve never got this trick wrong before.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” she says. “I like that it didn’t work. Magic is the art of deception, and deception isn’t really my thing.”

For the first time in my life, it seems that it isn’t mine, either.

I realise I’ve been dealt a fresh hand, and it feels good.

The End.