Kevin walked the New York streets, cursing silently. Once again, his elaborate disguise had failed to prevent an onslaught from fans: he had already signed what felt like a million autographs since leaving the hotel twenty minutes earlier. He heard a group of teenage girls to his right scream and squeal his name loudly, informing anyone that hadn’t noticed yet that Backstreet Boy Kevin Richardson was in the vicinity. He sped up to try and escape the commotion, eventually ducking into a side alley. It was a dead end. I hope no one saw I turned in here, he thought. I’ll never get out.
A scuffling to his right caught his attention. Possibilities flashed through his mind: a rat, a dog, a mugger. He thought about what his band mates would say if he came to an untimely end in some dodgy alley in New York. Then he considered it some more, and realised he didn’t really care. He turned to the source of the noise.
It was a tramp, semi-conscious, sat propped up against the red-brick wall of a building. Kevin breathed a sigh of relief before taking a proper look at the man in front of him. His clothes and hair were dirty and unkempt. Little of his face was visible due to his matted grey facial hair. He was sat, back against the building wall, a bottle wrapped in a brown paper back in his hand. Next to him was a ripped canvas bag containing his belongings, which he was clutching tightly with his spare hand. He stared at Kevin before taking a swig. Pulling the bottle from his lips, he held it out to Kevin, who declined with a shake of his head.
The man made a noise and shrugged, unconcerned. “You just looked like you needed it,” he slurred. Kevin turned and made to leave the alley, preferring to face the crowded NY streets than stay here and make small talk with a drunk.
“Kevin!” called the man, making Kevin jump. He was surprised that the man knew his name, but reasoned that he was pretty famous across America. Perhaps this guy had seen his picture on a billboard somewhere.
“I know more about you than you realise. I know that you were just running from strangers that know little more about you than your name and image.” The man was having trouble forming his words and was drunkenly punching the air sporadically to emphasise his point.
“I also know that you are close to running from people that know the man behind the name and image, but who are becoming more like strangers themselves with every day that passes.”
This guy unnerved Kevin. He edged towards the street he had come from, wanting to be in the sanctuary of a crowd and away from the semi-cognisant and barely coherent drunken tramp whose odd yet accurate comments were scaring him. How could this guy with liquor as his only company know so much about how he was feeling? The man was bordering on consciousness! He dismissed it as a lucky guess, and turned his head to check out the distance to the main street.
“Before you leave, you should know that you are one of the lucky ones. Look out for your other half. Her name, remember her name.” Kevin turned tail and left. The man shouted out after him:
“Little Nikita. Don’t let her slip through your fingers. Her name is Nikita.”
* * * *
Nikita was bored. She was sitting in a corner of the giant ballroom. She’d won an argument with her mother, and chosen her own dress, but still felt uncomfortable in the light blue ball-gown. She had resigned herself to spending the night as a wallflower at her eccentric uncle’s lavish New Year party. It was times like this she missed Melinda the most; if she had been there, Nikita knew they would be having a much better time. They would be making fun of the other guests, or running off and exploring the palatial house, or going swimming in the huge pool in the grounds.
Nikita got up and wound her way through the dancers, deciding that she’d go swimming anyway. She passed various amusements that her uncle had hired: ice sculptures, acrobats, a fortune teller, a guy who spat fireballs. Hold up, she thought. A fortune teller? Now that was Mel’s kind of thing. If she were here they’d be straight in there. Resolving herself, she wandered over to the tent and entered, bracing herself for a load of shit predictions.
“Hello Nikita.” The misty voice made Nikita jump. She looked around, not seeing anyone in the smoky darkness of the tent. This is just so clichéd, she thought. The tent looked much larger from inside. The ground and walls were covered in intricate tapestries and huge cushions, all in dark reds and browns. The only light emanated from numerous red candles distributed about the tent, and incense was burning in many decorative holders, filling the air with its heady perfume. In the centre of the tent was a table, swathed in deep red velvet.
From seemingly nowhere, a woman stepped in front of her, holding out a hand. Nikita accepted, and was lead to a table in the centre of the tent. She looked critically at the woman. Her pale skin was accentuated by her red lips and a mass of dark brown hair, which was held out of her face by a maroon headscarf. She was dressed in billowy, layered clothes in various dark hues, and was weighed down with silver jewellery. She certainly looks the part, thought Nikita, stifling a giggle.
“Nobody would ever accept me if I didn’t wear what they expect, dear,” said the woman, as she set up a crystal ball on the table. She raised her eyes to Nikita, looked at her critically and stopped what she was doing.
“You aren’t going to buy the crystal ball mumbo-jumbo. You aren’t going to bother listening if I make some vague, cryptic predictions. You are here because it seems a fitting way to remember your friend. You would prefer it if I set it to you straight.”
“That wasn’t a question, was it?” said Nikita with a wry grin. The woman shook her head. “I guess that makes you either psychic or a good judge of character.”
“Bit of both, dear. Sit down and give me your hand. My name is Kate, by the way.” Nikita laughed out loud, unable to help herself. The name seemed so out of character.
“My stage name is The Mystic Isabella,” smiled Kate. “You don’t get fortune tellers called Kate, apparently. It pacifies people if I have a more fitting name. With a name like Isabella, they can take all this more seriously or with a pinch of salt, depending on their level of cynicism. Take it seriously, it fits. Take it as a joke, it fits.” Kate smiled and shrugged.
“You could be the first Kate. Maybe you should consider Kate the Great.”
Kate chuckled and studied Nikita’s hand. “You write in that diary too much.” A look of shock must have flashed across Nikita’s face as a result of Kate’s accuracy, because the fortune teller laughed out loud. “You have calluses from holding the pen,” she choked out.
She dropped Nikita’s hand and looked into her eyes, holding eye contact before speaking. “Take your friend’s advice. About escaping. It’s imperative; if you stay here for much longer, it’ll kill you. I can’t tell you how: maybe it’ll be self-inflicted because you hate being controlled by your mother, ignored by your father, abused by your lover and you miss the only friend you ever had. Or maybe it will be that boyfriend of yours…”
Nikita had frozen. She was a cynic by nature; past experience preventing her from trusting and believing anyone.
“You can believe me dear. I know you trust few. I know your father leaving and your boyfriend lying broke your trust. But you must trust and believe me when I say that you must leave.”
“You say you don’t know what it is that will kill me if I stay…” Nikita trailed off.
“So I can’t be that great a psychic? I don’t know what it would mean if you were to stay here, because I already know that you will leave. You will take the escape route option. Nikita, I don’t deal in making wild stabs at predictions. I try to tell people what they already know, but haven’t admitted to themselves yet. I’m not going to tell you what will happen once you leave; how your life will pan out, because I don’t know. You will have choices. Only you can know what you will make of those choices, and you will only know when the time comes to make them. I can’t tell you yet.”
Nikita sat quietly, taking in what she had heard. She pushed out her chair, knowing she had heard all Kate had to say. She was wrong. As she pushed open the curtain to step out into the real world, Kate spoke again.
“You are one of the lucky ones. You have a soul mate. Watch out for him.”
Nikita turned to look at Kate. “You seem to know everything else about me. Do you know his name?”
“Of course. His name is Kevin.”
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