Page 19 of Hexed Up

They could be right, because in this moment, I try with all my might not to register on my face the absolute shock I feel spiralling round my body. I will not concede that point to Mr Hottie. He will not be proved right.

Beautiful, me?That stupid potion is way more effective than I realised.

“Thank you,” I spit out.

He smirks at me, probably detecting how hard I’m fighting not to let my jaw spasm and my eye twitch.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Wanna head back? It’s getting a little busy here.”

I peer over my shoulder and find the brow of the hill is already filling with day-trippers, picnickers, and tourists. I genuinely hadn’t noticed.

“Sure, let’s go.”

McGruff isn’t best pleased about being woken from his impromptu nap and dragged down the hill. He walks at a snail’s pace, stopping every few minutes to sniff at some mystery scent.

“Have you taken him to a vet?” Horatio asks as I cajole McGruff into moving again.

“He doesn’t need a vet. He’s just old.” Vets are also expensive. I had to sell half my precious record collection to afford McGruff’s last trip. “And lazy,” I say, clipping the lead back onto McGruff’s collar and dragging him onwards, dodging the crowds charging around the Heath now. “You wait until you’re seventy-seven!”

“He’s not–”

“He is in dog years.”

“Is he like a …” he eyes McGruff with suspicion, “familiar?”

I burst into laughter, proper full-on laughter, the force of it preventing me from walking and forcing me to clutch my sides.

Mr Hottie stands there, hand on his hip waiting for me to finish.

Finally, the chuckles subside, and I’m able to wipe the tears from my eyes and speak again.

“I don’t know what was so funny,” he says, a little petulant, “it’s no weirder than finding out the woman who lives across the hallway is a witch!”

That sets me off again and Horatio walks off to read one of the information boards about the Heath. When I’ve regained my composure, I join him.

“Sorry, it’s just, have you met McGruff? If,” I make inverted comma with my fingers, “‘familiars’ existed he’d be the most hopeless one known to witch-kind.”

“The whole thing is so … utterly–”

“–Ridiculous.”

“Incredible,” he says, “and I have no idea how it works.”

“Then I’m sorry,” I say, “ask me anything you like. Within reason,” I add hurriedly.

“Did you always know you were a,” he lowers his voice as we pass through the shadows cast by tall rhododendron bushes, “witch.”

“I suppose I did, but my whole family is witch-folk. I grew up with magic, spells, and potions. It was more strange to discover the majority of the world didn’t, and that I had to hide who I am.”

“That must be hard.”

“Yes, it is sometimes. I guess that’s why I don’t have a lot of civilian friends. I’m hopeless at lying and I really don’t enjoy it.”

“Civilians?” he asks.

“Oh non-witch folk like you.” I prod him in the stomach without thinking, finding his stomach is no more soft than it was yesterday. Still the same washboard. He gazes down at the point where I touched him, eyes a little wide, as if I’ve just scorched him or something.

We pass out of the park, walking back past the pub and the cafe and along the row of tall Victorian houses, returning to our block of 1920s apartments. Rumour has it – with all its art déco features – it was once used as a location for an Agatha Christie film. Sometimes I like to lie in the bath and pretend I’m about to get dressed for a glamorous drinks party.