I push by him, hurry out of the shop and walk until I’m far enough away to breathe.

  ‘So you can’t work with someone who desires you?’ Hugh asks, trying to wrap his head around it.

  He doesn’t get it.

  ‘It’s not the desire that’s the problem,’ an impassioned Poh speaks for me. ‘I’m glad you didn’t take the job, he sounds like he was a dirty, horrible man.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s only because she could see,’ Hugh says. ‘My point is most men desire women, but women work alongside them never knowing. Do you not take a job because someone is attracted to you?’

  Poh looks at him in such a way it makes me laugh.

  ‘No I don’t fancy anyone at work,’ he answers her silent question. ‘Seriously, Alice will you turn down all the jobs where you know someone’s in to you?’

  ‘Only the ones where they block the doorways and don’t keep out of her personal space,’ Poh argues with more bite to her tone than I’ve ever heard before. ‘Alice isn’t most women. She knows. And she shouldn’t have to settle for working in an environment where there’s a dirty little penis throbbing its desperate energy all over her every day.’

  It’s the way she says it; she never speaks that way.

  Hugh and I start laughing.

  On the floor of the apartment next door there’s a clay dish containing a white salt-like substance. While I’ve never seen who lives there, I immediately concoct the story that this person is a drug dealer and this is some sort of code for letting people know there are drugs inside. I’ve heard people coming and going at all hours of the day, so he’s certainly running a business of some sort. On numerous occasions while I’m sitting on the balcony, smoke drifts from his flat over to my side; not normal cigarette smoke but not cannabis either. I’m no expert when it comes to drugs, but I didn’t want to inhale it so I went inside and closed the door.

  From a young age I chose not to take drugs or drink alcohol or caffeine, and I’ve stuck to it. Alcohol lowers inhibitions, and while socially I could do with relaxing, after a few drinks I could easily flop into other people’s energy fields, and who knows what that would do to me. At school when I didn’t have a choice over the company I kept and our proximity, I changed moods a dozen times a day, felt like a different person so many times it was nauseating. I’ve learned from those experiences. Even if people’s energies are good, they’re not mine. They’re synthetic and they can disrupt my rhythm and my pattern. I’ve also realised that I’m a highly sensitive person – and I don’t mean emotionally. My body reacts strongly to anything I put in it such as alcohol, caffeine, sugar, mushrooms and truffles. My heart beats abnormally, instantly palpitates, warning my body to be on alert, that I’m in danger, that there’s an intruder within.

  I’ve wondered many times if I suffer from the same afflictions as my mother, when my moods swing as violently as I’ve witnessed hers, but I know the causes of our mood swings are not the same. I pick up on other people’s emotions, she is buried by her own. At least I can protect myself from others, she is hopeless against herself, having surrendered to the power of her thoughts a long time ago.

  There’s a knock at the door. With the chain across the door, I look through the peephole. Whoever it is, is blocking it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dimitri. From next door.’

  The angry man who fights with his wife.

  I reach for a pair of sunglasses, I have them all over the place, in drawers, in a pocket of every jacket and coat. I slide the chain across reluctantly and open the door a slit. He’s a ball of prickles, I’ve seen him in action. Anger is his core emotion, it flies from him in spikes like a porcupine’s quills, stabbing at predators around him with his fierce, piercing rage.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, hoping his porcupine prickles of anger won’t launch themselves at me.

  ‘I have a petition here signed by everyone in the building for next door. You’re the only one left. Here.’

  He slides a clipboard through the crack. I don’t take it. I won’t touch that pen, not if everyone has used it, not if it’s been in his pocket, next to his petulant body. I wonder how many people signed the petition at will.

  ‘Is he selling drugs?’ I ask.

  ‘Drugs?’ he laughs. ‘Is she up to that too? It wouldn’t surprise me, crazy old bat. No, it’s about those bloody chimes on the balcony. I’ve had enough of them. I’m taking the petition to the residents’ association to get her to take them down. You’re the closest to her, do they not drive you insane?’

  ‘That sound comes from next door?’

  His eyes widen. ‘Are you signing it or not?’

  ‘No,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘I like the chimes.’

  ‘Sign the letter,’ he says, shaking the clipboard that’s still hanging in the air, teeth gritted in anger. ‘You’re the only one who hasn’t.’

  ‘They’re comforting, they block out the noises you make next door when you’re arguing with your wife.’

  I start to close the door and he moves his arm out in time. Parts of his anger fire through the crack in the door before I close it. I grab a hairdryer and blow his red porcupine needles through the air and out the balcony door. I lean over the balcony bar as far as I can without falling over to see into next door. It’s decorated with potted plants, which I stupidly thought were drugs. I’m reminded to get a move on with setting up my new balcony garden. Above the door, a wind chime blows in the gentle breeze. The red rage needles from Dimitri move towards the balcony and the chimes. As if sensing his proximity, a breeze blows and the chimes swing their legs and kick it away. The red needles drift away and up, up into the air.

  I think it’s time I meet my neighbour.

  Naomi Williams, a retired midwife, moved to London from the Caribbean when she was six years old in 1960, a proud daughter of the Windrush generation. Salt-and-pepper locs rest on her shoulders, her face and smile are warm and welcoming, encouraging you to speak, to laugh, to share, to smile. Her presence is a warm hug on a sunny day, her home is a womb-like embrace, it holds you tight and nourishes you. There are crystals all around the place, in random spots, in the corner on the floor, balancing on a picture frame on the wall, on the rim of a flowerpot.

  ‘Come in,’ she says as soon as I identify myself. I step over the salt substance outside.

  ‘Himalayan salt,’ she says, ‘to purify the air. Some of our neighbours are cloudy.’

  I sniff the air and smell the familiar smoke scent.

  ‘I was burning sage,’ she says. ‘My last client was … troubled.’

  I almost laugh at the ridiculous tale that I’ve concocted about her in my head. She is the very opposite of what I’d imagined. I take in the room and it’s hard to believe it’s the same flat as mine, in the same building. There’s a portable fold-up bed in the centre of the room. It reminds me of Esme immediately and, despite Naomi’s warm welcome, I feel cynicism for the fake guru wash over me. If you’ve met one, you’ve met them all. I remember having such hope that other people like me existed, people who could sense more than just what you see, but I’ve never met one, one who isn’t lying, anyway.

  ‘Tea?’ she offers.

  I could always leave. I should leave. I don’t need another phoney wasting my energies, but I’m curious.

  ‘Herbal, if you have it,’ I say. ‘No caffeine.’

  ‘Peppermint, chamomile, hibiscus, raspberry, ginger, mushroom.’ She looks at me. ‘No, not mushroom. No psychedelics for you.’

  I feel like I’m standing in an X-ray machine under her gaze.

  ‘Take a seat, wherever you feel comfortable,’ she calls.

  I sit in a green velvet wingback chair with large buttonholes, an orange blanket draped over the back. I’m not used to being in other people’s homes. I’ve avoided it as much as I can, but here, it feels filled with positive energy while also feeling refreshingly cleansed.

  ‘That was my mother’s chair,’ she says, placing a cup and saucer on a mosaic table beside me.

  ‘She must have loved this chair,’ I say, taking a sip and watching the glow around the chair I’m sitting in, feeling it hug me.

  She pauses. ‘Yes. She did. It was her knitting chair.’

  I rub my hand over the orange blanket draped over the back of the chair. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘How did you know she knitted that?’

  ‘How did you know I wouldn’t like mushroom tea?’

  ‘Lucky guess,’ she says. She cocks her head to one side and examines me. ‘Have you settled in well? I’ve tried to catch you a few times but I’ve been … unlucky.’

  ‘I’m settling in fine, thank you. I’ve been busy with job interviews.’

  ‘I see, and how are they going?’

  ‘Not very well.’

  ‘What industry are you in?’

  ‘I was a carer, but I’d prefer not to work with people again.’

  ‘Limits things,’ she says, sharing my smile. ‘Nature, perhaps,’ she says, lifting her cup to her lips. ‘Not mushrooms.’

  I laugh, to my own surprise. ‘I’m here because Dimitri has a petition signed by everyone in the building to have your wind chimes removed.’

  She looks surprised. ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Not me. I like them.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looks out at them and they tinkle as if sensing the attention. ‘Perhaps if they’re bothering everyone, I should remove them. I wonder why nobody ever said.’

  ‘I’m guessing they just signed it because he told them to. He’s bringing the petition to the residents’ association.’

  She laughs at this. ‘Of which I’m the president. That puts me in a predicament. I’ll have to call a meeting with myself to discuss whether to remove a thing I love so dearly. But these meetings with ourselves are sometimes important.’ She studies me over the rim of her cup as she sips her tea.

  I shift uncomfortably in the chair, nothing to do with the chair. ‘Like I said, the chimes don’t bother me. I’m thinking of getting some myself, so it would be pointless for you to remove yours if mine will be even closer to him.’

  ‘Alice,’ she says. ‘You be careful of him. Perhaps he could do with a free session with me. I’ll sort him out soon enough.’

  ‘Reiki?’ I ask, feeling the flush of cynicism again. Esme, the fake guru, has left a bad taste in my mouth.

  ‘Among other things. Reflexology, homeopathy, crystal healing.’

  It all makes me hot with anger. All nonsense. Nothing works. Delusional people. Phonies. Con artists. I’ve heard enough. ‘I should go. It was nice to meet you.’

  Surprised by my abrupt end to the conversation she rushes to her feet to catch me.

  ‘Maybe you could sit in on one of my sessions some time,’ she says.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘To see what I do,’ she says. ‘To help rid you of that cloak of doubt you wear. You’re too young to be so cynical.’

  ‘You’re not in trouble,’ Esme says, sitting opposite me.

  Her words don’t do anything to relax me. We’re sitting in her prefab, in the two comfy chairs by the window.

  ‘You think I’m a fraud,’ she begins. ‘But I’m not. I’m not, perhaps, as good as you are, as naturally talented as you are. You see what I can feel.’

  ‘You don’t feel it.’

  ‘I’ve trained at this for years. Do you know how long it takes to become a reiki master?’

  ‘Training to do something doesn’t actually mean you can do it. I think you’ve done very well fooling people into thinking you are this great wise one. Maybe you’ve even fooled yourself. Maybe you’re clever at figuring people out, or manipulating people, but you don’t fool me. You scattered Gospel’s energies around like you had turned a mixer on without the lid. It went everywhere. He couldn’t play football because you left the orange over his knee.’

  She frowns. ‘Orange. What does that mean?’

  ‘It meant he couldn’t play football that day. He’s a striker who couldn’t trust his striker leg.’

  ‘Really,’ she says breathily, kind of excited, instead of feeling the shame and guilt I expect her to feel. She leans forward and reaches out to take my hand.

  I pull away.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Perhaps we could work together, Alice.’

  I laugh. ‘Work together? I’m fifteen. I’m a student.’

  ‘Yes, but here in the school you could help your fellow students and friends, or after here, after school, I can offer you a huge opportunity. You can be my eyes. We could do it together. We could make a lot of waves in the world. We could make a lot of money, Alice. I could make you rich.’

  Her excitement is causing a turquoise to develop, a dark turquoise that’s beginning to take over. It’s about personal status and glory. She doesn’t want to help people, she wants to use people for her own personal gain. The harsh magenta of the wannabe guru has almost faded against the strength of the ambitious turquoise. Her desperation is embarrassing. My disappointment that she isn’t the real deal takes me by surprise. I’d really wanted to find someone like me. I get up and leave.

  Saandeep headquarters is a modern buzzy office building, dynamic and diverse, the Saandeep website brags, with over one thousand employees and two hundred shops in the UK and Ireland. They’re looking for talented people to help keep pushing them forward with big ideas and big ambitions. There’s a ping-pong table, an outdoor seating area with colourful seat coverings on giant steps. Long tables and benches for dining, sculptured trees in fancy oversized pots. White and wood, sleek like a Miami Beach restaurant.

  By all accounts it’s a vibrant and exciting place to be. It’s empty when I step inside. Just security doing the rounds. It’s 5 a.m. and I’m part of the cleaning team before the workers arrive, young, glossy and fashionable, gliding through security like a fashion parade. I watch them after my shift from a coffee shop across the road, not really thinking of anything other than how great they all look, how smart they must be, how exciting their lives must be, days filled with dynamic talk in smart meeting rooms with high-tech and ping-pong tables. I enjoy feeling their energy, fooling myself into believing that I too am a vibrant, dynamic, smart person, part of the team. I try to keep their energy with me all the way home. I experiment with my wardrobe, trying to become as stylish as they are. That buzz lasts me a while, until I’m standing in front of the mirror all dressed up with nowhere to go and realise I don’t have any smart ideas, I don’t have the platform to share them or the ears that will listen. I rapidly deflate at the realisation I have an empty day ahead of me and a cleaning job that won’t pay the bills. I long for the feeling I get when I’m in there, even if the staff haven’t yet arrived, because their energy of the previous day has been left behind.

  I’m not sure why I’ve joined the cleaning team exactly; maybe self-sabotage, maybe curiosity, maybe desperation, maybe because I don’t know to reach out directly. I hug the walls and slither along until I find a way in. I remember Saloni’s parents pulling up to the school in their silver Maybach; to me they looked like movie stars. Her mother wore a coat draped over her shoulders, never put her arms through the holes, and I wondered how the coat would stay there. Her hair was rich and glossy, with designer clothes and handbags. Saloni’s dad was so handsome, dressed in expensive suits and polished shoes, always with a smile on his face, blow-dried hair with a quiff, teeth so white. They both smelled expensive. Their skin looked filtered, healthy and glowing, so you knew their insides were as good as their outsides. With hundreds of fashion outlets they were the best models for their business, and they needed their compulsive liar of a daughter to get herself straight if she was going to have anything to do with their successful business. Saloni, Gospel and I, we were a team for that terrifying first year.

  The head offices are situated in a busy part of London, right off Oxford Street. It’s a good way to introduce me to the underground. The night Tube is quiet and I wear a cap, sunglasses, a face mask and gloves. I ensure that my skin is covered at all times and as soon as I go home I wash everything and hang it on the balcony to air everyone else’s grievances off my clothes.

  I clean Saloni’s office. Dust her desk and polish her photographs, including a framed collage featuring almost every landmark in the world, the many photos featuring Saloni and her girlfriends travelling the world on hiking tours, water-skiing, skiing – a regular action girl. At only twenty-four years old, with the big job as marketing director, she has worked her way up the ladder of her family’s business. She works hard and plays hard, maybe finally living out the multitude of stories she used to concoct.

  As I’m cleaning the sinks, a toilet flushes, the door opens and Saloni steps out in gym gear and looks at me.

  ‘I don’t really get why you’re here, Alice,’ Saloni says, lifting her perfect Lulu Lemon arse in the air and in my face for downward dog. We’re outside the grounds of the academy in the local village’s park, ten of us doing yoga on the grass.

  ‘To be in the moment. Or whatever.’

  ‘Not here,’ she says, smiling.

  A playground is nearby; I can see the bright colours of the equipment peeping out from behind the trees. It holds the promise of fun and innocence, along with being dirty and seedy at the same time.

  I know what Saloni means. It’s been four weeks and I’ve been relatively normal compared to everyone else in Clearview. It turns out Saloni is not here for being a pathological liar but for her biting, which is her physical reaction to not being able to lie, and Gospel is not here because of Tourette’s but because he’s prone to violent outbursts. I haven’t been the target of either of their aggressions, but it’s been interesting, and at first surprising, to watch the rather grand and perfectly poised Saloni charging at someone who looked at her the wrong way and sinking her expensive teeth into their flesh. That only happened once; the rest of the time she’s turned to her own arm, or a pillow, or whatever biteable furniture is around her. I know now where the term ‘spitting feathers’ comes from. Gospel is less violent with people and more so with objects. Chairs, tables, whatever he can get his hands on are transformed into missiles without a moment’s notice. Neither of them can understand why I’m here. I haven’t told them why either, and they’ve had fun trying to figure out what my ‘quirk’ is.