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Chapter One
Carole King is an AlienCarole King Is An Alien is Yasmin Boland's first novel.
It was released in Australia on April 3 2000 and goes
on sale in the UK on May 3 2001.
Australia
United Kingdom
Sailing Out to Sea
There was a tall, dark and really rather handsome man gently running his fingers around my navel.
'Take a deep breath in, Cara,' he commanded.
I inhaled.
'Okay, now breathe out, through your nose.'
I exhaled.
'Good. Now, keeping your lips together, breathe faster. In and out. In. Out. In. Out.'
What kind of way was this to make a living?
I admit it. There are times when I feel unusual. I love artichokes more than chocolate; I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than squeeze a lover's zits; I sometimes sympathise with Ally McBeal; I think many penises are objets d'art.
All slightly weird, I gather.
Moreover, I can't see why anyone'd go for George Clooney, Leonardo DiCaprio or Keanu Reeves over Ewan McGregor, Edward Norton or Ben Mendlesohn. Even now, I sometimes still miss Princess Diana. And Michael Hutchence. I think Monica Lewinsky should (probably) cash in to her heart's content and – quelle horreur – I have almost no interest in shoes.
But, hallelujah, today was different.
As I listened to a statuesque, olive-skinned and sensuous-looking 'alternative therapies healer' applying something resembling chaos theory to my breathing patterns, I felt very 'normal', in comparison. If slightly over-oxygenated.
Shanti Deva worked by appointment in Central London, with various minor royals and major celebrities. I, on the other hand, was a lowly journalist, reclined in his lavish Mayfair rooms with my tape recorder and a list of standard questions. I was to interview him for an article I'd been commissioned to write for the Sunday News.
'Through your nose, Cara, not your mouth. In and out quickly,' he said in a soothing, Italian-sounding accent. He placed his fingers lightly over my lips to stop me 'cheating'.
Shanti's main treatment room was certainly ideal for this sort of carry-on. The ceiling was draped with violet voile, the walls painted deep red, and luxuriant velvet curtains all but masked the afternoon sunlight outside the open windows. Dozens of flickering candles created an ambience as seductive as Aphrodite's boudoir, while Hindu sitar music wafted into my ears like a brainwashing, primordial sound. The table I lay on was swathed with green silk, and surrounded by pink quartz crystals and the billowing scent of ylang-ylang essential oil.
'Good, Cara,' he soothed. 'Breathe out slowly now, breathe out your ego . . .'
Easier said than done, my friend.
In one hand, Shanti waved three long incense sticks above my stomach, while in the other, he wielded a large pink crystal.
'Okay. Let the fast breath subside. Start to breathe naturally, Cara,' he repeated, looking at me intensely. 'As in nature, after chaos comes peace. Float. Flooooooat. Forget why you are here, Cara. Take this chance to better yourself. Your aura is very scattered.'
Shanti Deva had reportedly enjoyed great success in treating Fergie for depression, with his own special mixture of herbs and colonic irrigation. Gwyneth Paltrow and Jerry Hall had apparently both seen him for eternal blonde beauty enhancement; he was allegedly treating Posh Spice for higher consciousness and Peter André for feeling démodé. I, meanwhile, was trying hard to keep a straight face.
'This is Nagchampa incense, queen of all aromas,' he told me, brandishing the fudge-coloured sticks above my eyebrows like a magician's wand. I resisted an urge to sneeze through their smoky clouds.
'Breathe down through to your solar plexus, Cara. It is your power centre. It can set you free. Your powers are restricted now . . . Breathe out your fear, breathe in the good of the universe, breathe out all that is Cara . . .'
He squinted down at me as he touched the pink crystal lightly and quickly to various parts of my (fully clothed) anatomy.
'Don't be afraid of your powers,' he implored, rolling the quartz under his palm and around my navel.
I confess that I felt a shock of energy move through my body as his hands touched me. It zapped from the tip of my head down through to my toes.
'For someone called Shanti Deva, you look very Italian,' I wanted to say. With his stunning green eyes, thick black hair, Roman nose and strong chin, he looked far more Mediterranean than Eastern. Quite where he'd picked up his strange Hindu-sounding name, I had no idea. I presumed it was in southern India, where fifty rupees bought you a more spiritual personality, a Bindi spot and an instant knowledge of karma and Tantra.
Now didn't seem the right time to start firing probing questions, though, despite the fact that I was growing desperate to talk about something other than my 'powers'.
'Don't be afraid,' he repeated, as if this should mean something to me now. 'I am using the crystal to work through your aura, Cara. Pink quartz has long symbolised love.' He clicked his fingers in an arc around my head. 'Your fear of your powers means you are restricting them, Cara. Just relax.'
I was honestly trying not to be afraid of my 'powers', whatever they were. Out of this little incense-waving session I was supposed to get a one-page article for the Sunday News; any 'healer' possibly in contact with Gwyneth Paltrow's solar plexus was good enough to warrant at least a one-page feature. Throw in a few crystals – and a heavy hint of Posh Spice – and you could easily stretch it to a double-page spread.
As it transpired, Shanti Deva was happy to treat me for the article, and to wax lyrical about my power centre, but he steadfastly refused to confirm or deny having celebrity clients. This wasn't surprising; it was a well-known fact in metaphysical circles that the quickest way for a 'healer' to lose a famous patient was to do more than hint they might be on your books.
Setting down the incense and crystal, Shanti started applying a sweet-smelling oil into a point between my eyebrows.
'This is a mixture of mint and neroli for your third eye,' he intoned. His finger rubbed lightly, in a circular motion. 'It dissolves blockages and sharpens the senses. Your third eye sees beyond this third dimension, but yours has been asleep for twenty-three lifetimes. It is opening up. I can see it blinking into the daylight –'
'What do you mean lifetimes?' I interrupted, wondering if third eyes wore mascara.
'Lifetimes, past lives, reincarnations, Cara.' He then ran his fingers in a light, spidery motion from my navel, over my stomach, between my breasts, over my throat, neck, forehead and to the top of my head.
'This clears your meridians and connects you with your past lives,' he said. 'So you won't be afraid of your powers any more . . .'
'How many past lives have I had, Mr Deva?'
'Eighty-seven. You and I have known each other in three of them.'
Lord.
His hand came to a sudden halt above my stomach.
'Power cut?' I asked, grinning.
'You've had an upset stomach.'
'Oh. I have, yes,' I admitted. 'I think I ate a dodgy curry the other night –'
'It's nothing to do with what you've eaten, Cara. The upset was a medium for the message. There is something in your life now that you can't stomach. What is it?'
'I'm not sure, Mr Deva.'
'Think about it.'
Could it be that I am sent to write articles about people like you?
'You are on a mission. Learn by your dreams, Cara,' he insisted. 'Promise me you will keep a dream diary, at least for a month.'
'What do you mean?'
'When you wake up, write down your dreams. Or even better, keep a tape recorder by your bed and speak into it when you awake . . .'
'Okay.' Anything for some peace.
'Good. Rest a while now.'
By the time I got home from Shanti's late session, it was well past dinner-time. Neither of my flatmates, Monique or Lucy, was to be found, so I took a cup of decaf to my room and prepared to settle in for the night. I loved my room; I loved that when the curtains were open I could lie in bed and see out onto our leafy, usually overgrown garden below. Back when I was in love and in bed with my ex, Jonathan, or even these days, single and with just our adopted stray cat, Mouser, for company (and the Sunday Times or the Guardian, and toast and tea and Radio One), I felt I could be happy here for the rest of my life.
Shanti's session had exhausted me, so I hit the hay around 10.30 p.m. – only to wake up during the night in a very weird dream state. As I gazed into the dark, I could see my bed, but somehow it looked foreign. The bed, all the bedroom furniture, even the walls of my room, now seemed to be made out of three-dimensional perspex. I was lying on top of a slab-like perspex bed.
As panic rose, I reassured myself I was a normal person having a strange dream. Shanti Deva would surely have an explanation for this. Stress? Exhaustion? Third eye thrombosis?
I saw a man.
Just gorgeous. Amazing. With deep brown eyes. Almost black. He had something like love or harmony emanating from him, his eyes and his cheeky grin. When I say I 'saw' him, what I mean is that I imagined that I could see him, I could feel his presence, his warmth. His brown eyes radiated beauty and loving. They loved me. He had a sort of naughty half-smile on his lips, too. A sexy smile. His skin was olive. He was beautiful.
My imagination wandered further. In my hallucinogenic haze I said goodbye to the man in my vision and felt as though I was floating up to the ceiling of my bedroom, able to look down at myself.
I could see myself tucked up in bed under my duvet cover with the pink, blue and white clouds on it. Attaching 'me' up on the ceiling to my body below was a long, shimmering silver cord. My body was like an anchor to the me floating about. I could control my movements up here above myself. I drifted left and right.
'Hey, you!' the me-on-the-ceiling said to the me-in-bed.
'Yeah?'
'Do yourself a favour.'
'What?'
'Go to Cameron Street.'
'What? Where's Cameron Street?'
'Good question.'
Weird.
Maybe I could fly around my room. Or even around the house. Moni and Lucy had to be home by now, and tucked up in their beds. I was sure they wouldn't mind an intrusion made in the name of metaphysics.
Feeling a little like Tinkerbell on acid, I floated through the crack between the wall and my bedroom door and up the corridor, onto the first landing and into Lucy's room. Blonde and doll-like, she was snuggled up in bed with her duvet up to her chin. Her bobbed strawberry-blonde hair was spread out in a messy fan behind her, lit up by moonlight which poured in through the windows. She looked so beautiful as she lay there asleep, I wished I had a camera. It was a shame she would never know how she looked tonight.
I thought of Monique and, in an instant, I was in her room. This time, no travelling was needed. What a dream. This was like magic.
Omigod.
Oh, shit.
Monique was . . . she was bonking someone. She was on top of him. Astride. Puffing and panting, her auburn hair flying as she gyrated on him. Shit. It was Rufus. Rufus! Moni was shagging our friend Rufus.
I whizzed out of her room and back to my own.
This was incredible. What a cool way to travel.
I stole a peek at myself below. There I was, asleep on my side, cuddling my pillow. My room was dark, but I could see myself. My dark brown hair, longish and straight, had fallen across my face. My eyes were closed. And I was, of course, bloody alone as usual. Even Mouser had deserted me, out through his series of cat flaps. I was just glad to look down and see I didn't have two chins. And at least I wasn't snoring.
I followed the silver cord towards my body, resumed my position inside it, stared at the ceiling and thought, 'Wow!'
The next day, as I wrote up the Shanti Deva article from home, I decided against mentioning the weird dream. Instead, I wrote the piece very straight, figuring that readers would interpret Shanti's aura-speak for themselves. In many ways, Shanti Deva was an easy target for a newspaper journalist like me – a rich millennium hippy in a white 'healer's' coat, a champagne New Age mystic who allegedly charged his celebrity patients hundreds of pounds per session. But he was right about one thing. I definitely should start keeping a dream diary.
Australia
United Kingdom
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