Putting Alice Back Together. Carol Marinelli

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      Build it and they will come sort of thing.

      It was an eBook, which was just as well, because I’d have been too embarrassed to go into a shop and buy it. I typed in my details and waited for my credit card to be declined, but—well, the universe must have wanted me to have it because, despite my late payment, or rather no payment, there it was in my inbox.

      I loved it.

      It was so positive. All I had to do was write lists (well, there was a bit more to it than that, but I went straight to the good stuff) and tell the universe what I wanted in a partner.

      And not some vague wants either, a specific order.

      So I did.

      I did everything Yasmin told me.

      Well, except the clearing-out stuff part, but Nicole had had a big tidy before she left. And I didn’t bother with the cleansing shower to get rid of past loves, and visualising and snipping the threads that bound and letting them go and all that mumbo-jumbo crap.

      Be sure that you are ready, Yasmin warned, and that you’ve done your preparation.

      Oh, I was ready.

      I loved this book—I toddled off to the kitchen and made another jug and got some scissors so I could cut out the pyramid that came with it.

      If I had ink in the printer.

      I did.

      It was all aligning that night.

      I had to write what I wanted—I could be as specific as I liked and for a second there my mind did flick to Dan, though Yasmin had warned me not to manipulate—and really, even if I could turn Dan straight, would I want to? I mean, you’d never relax, would you? Anyway, Yasmin said it was better to trust the universe, that the right guy would always come back if he was the one.

      I had to print out the pyramid again because when I was cutting it out I chopped off the end.

      God, I was pissed.

      And, yes, I trusted the universe and everything, but not completely.

      I wanted blond or raven, not someone with my affliction. I mean, I had to think of our children and, anyway, people might think we were brother and sister when we went out. So I knew it couldn’t be Hugh. Nicole’s cousin held no charm for me, but perhaps he was a means to an end. One look at me, and Hugh’s eyes would widen. ‘There’s the type of girl to take to the neurosurgeons’ Christmas party. That’s the type of girl who would look marvellous at the Kids with Cancer Christmas fundraising ball.’

      Well, maybe not Kids with Cancer, just underprivileged or burn victims or something and I’d be there, radiant and smiling all ready to meet the love of my life.

      I added a few little extra requests, and then I wrote MR.

      It stood for Mr and Massive Ring.

      Clever, huh? No one, if they found my list, would work that out.

      I followed the instructions as best as I could, but I didn’t have a compass, so I guessed as to the south-west corner of the flat. And then, given I was sorting out my love life, I decided I might as well go the whole hog so I went back to the computer and read again the application procedures and the qualifications required to be a music teacher. I even filled in some forms to ask for them to send me some forms. It was all so daunting—the more I looked, the more overwhelming it seemed. Impossible, actually.

      I had barely scraped through my exams at school. Even if by some miracle I was accepted, how could I give up my job? I was in debt to the eyeballs as it was.

      I thought of the pile of unopened envelopes stuffed in my drawers and under my mattress, the credit-card statements that were too scary to open—let alone think about—so I didn’t.

      While my credit card was behaving I bought an online tarot reading and then poured another margarita instead.

       Ten

      I woke at two.

      Just shot awake, wondering what had woken me, my heart racing and trying to catch my breath, sure that I must have had a nightmare—except I still couldn’t breathe.

      I was soaked in sweat, and I dragged myself into the bathroom, gulped icy water from the tap—it didn’t help. I had to concentrate on breathing. It wasn’t happening. Every breath was an effort and I couldn’t seem to get enough in.

      I rang Roz—I knew she was on a date, but surely she’d be home by now. I didn’t even care at that point.

      ‘Roz…’ I could barely get the word out as her voice came on the phone. ‘I can’t…’

      ‘It’s okay…’ I could hear she was groggy and asleep but just the sound of her voice calmed me. At least someone knew, I mean, if I collapsed this second Roz would send for help. ‘I’m on my way.’

      She didn’t even dress—mind you, Roz’s sleepwear is pretty much the same as her day wear: tracksuit bottoms and a vast T-shirt, except, horror of horrors, she wasn’t wearing a bra.

      All this I noticed as she bundled me into her little car. My breathing was a bit better. Since I had known help was on the way, it had improved a fraction. And as we drove to the hospital I managed to get my breathing into some sort of a rhythm right till we got to the doors. Security was waving her on.

      ‘You can’t park here, love.’

      ‘She can’t breathe!’ Roz said.

      ‘Then she’s in the right place, but patient drop-off is down there.’

      Roz was muttering and swearing and then I saw my hands do this strange thing: they were tingling but it was like my hands were spastic, my fingers all curling up, and I couldn’t straighten them.

      ‘She’s going unconscious…’ I could hear Roz panicking, but the security didn’t panic, he rolled his eyes and got a nurse, who helped me out of the car. She didn’t seem to be particularly worried either.

      They took me straight into the triage room; the nurse put a little probe on my finger and told me to calm down.

      ‘I can’t breathe…’

      ‘Your oxygen saturation is ninety-nine per cent’ There was a bored note to her voice which infuriated me as she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around my arm. Did she have any idea how hard it was to get it to that? Breathing should be natural, you shouldn’t have to think about it, but I did. I had to pull in air and hold it in, and it still didn’t go deep enough. My hands were doing strange things, and she was giving me a bloody paper bag and telling me to breathe in and out slowly.

      ‘You’re having a panic attack.’

      ‘No!’ I pushed the bag away.

      ‘How much have you had to drink tonight, Alice?’

      What did that have to do with anything? ‘I’m allergic…’

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