Page 69 of The Wedding Forecast

‘You cannot shake my New York high. I welcome all unidentified liquid substances.’

And because the universe finally wants to reward me at this moment, a group of slightly drunk people get on, wearing Santa hats, and they start singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs.

I look at Mac wide-eyed and he grins. We are squished together on a seat, and I feel a shot of pure happiness surge through me. We goofily smile at each other and I join in the singing.

The magic show we are going to is not a traditional magic show. It’s a literary magic show, is the best way I can think to describe it to Mac. A kind of memoir in words. It’s classy, I assure him. I first heard about it on an NPR podcast.

‘I don’t like my emotions being manipulated,’ he says.

‘You’re an actor.’

‘I mean by a magician.’

‘Why are you resisting? Today is all about the beauty and brilliance of art.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘What did a magician ever do to you?’

‘Took my hat.’

‘Oh wow, you actually have a history with a magician?’

‘I do, yes. A serious history. When I was thirteen. Luke and I went to a magic show, I can’t even remember why, and the magician used my hat for a trick and he never gave it back.’ ‘That is serious.’

‘It was a really good hat. It was the cap I wore everyday, it was part of my trademark look at the time.’

‘You should have sued.’

‘I should have.’

‘Thank god you’re not wearing a hat tonight,’ I say, and he grins.

‘He’ll probably go for my Christmas jumper.’

When we walk in, we are greeted with a huge wall of square white cards. There are hundreds of them, and each one has the words I am at the top, and then at the bottom, they each have a different ending: I am a game changer, I am an introvert, I am the life of the party, I am a doctor, and so on. We’re told to pick a card that represents who we are. I hover; it’s overwhelming. There are so many options. I could go with an obvious one—I am a writer and I am a novelist are both there. I see Mac standing in front of I am an actor, but then he moves on. I want to pick something other than my career too, even though writing feels bigger than a job to me, it’s one of the things that make my life worthwhile and meaningful. It anchors me to the world, it makes me feel like I matter. But still. I want a card that captures that, and more. I want a card that captures everything I am still hoping for, that I haven’t given up on and more, even if I don’t know what the more is.

I see I am a dreamer, and I pick it up.

I watch Mac take a card, but I don’t see what’s on it, and he doesn’t show me. We’re instructed to rip the card in half, and keep only the I am top half. The bottom half, with the description, goes in a pile on the stage.

The show goes for an hour and a half, and I’m mesmerised. The magician is an excellent storyteller. I want to take notes, the way he reveals parts of a story and withholds others. I can tell Mac feels the same way about how he holds the crowd’s attention. It’s like a beautiful, intimate one-man play about identity, and longing, and figuring out who you are. He also does really good card tricks.

At the very end, he asks the audience to stand up if the card you chose at the beginning really meant something to you.

I stand up. I look at Mac. He is hesitating—the same thought occurred to me, if we stand up, then we might be sucked into audience participation of some kind, a lose-your-hat moment—but also it’s not that kind of show, and we’re at the very end. Mac stands up next to me.

The magician then points at each person, looks through the pile of torn-off cards, and accurately chooses the card they picked at the beginning. ‘You’re a risk taker,’ he says, holding up the card, ‘You’re a mother,’ ‘You’re a loner,’ he says, going along the line, and it feels powerful in a way it’s hard to explain, like he can see into our true selves. He reaches our row and I stare up at the stage. He looks at me, and flicks through the cards he has left. He stops on one.

‘You’re a dreamer,’ he says, and smiles, and I nod and try very hard not to cry, because I really can’t cry again today. Why is it so emotional to be seen, in any capacity? And you, he says, looking at Mac. He pauses. Thinks. Looks at the cards. Mac is staring back at him, his face unreadable. ‘You’re a survivor,’ he says.

Later, as we leave, we chat about the show and the way we think he did the magic, but neither of us mentions the I am cards. It feels too personal.

Mac says he’ll walk me back to my hotel.

‘But your apartment is so far away. In the opposite direction. You’ll have such a long trip back home.’ I say. ‘I’ll just get a cab.’

‘Let’s walk. The Christmas market might still be open,’ Mac says.