My first mistake. I forgot my gloves.

They were navy lace, my favourite, and they completed my ensemble – matching sailor-style dress, buckle heels, beret and small handbag. I’d reached Fifth Avenue when I realised my idiocy. No time to turn back now.

‘Ahoy, Audrey!’ Fred called out, as I approached his newsstand.

Audrey wasn’t my name, but it was our joke since Sabrina, since my pixie cut. I was slight and passed for Hepburn. Fred always commented on my outfits.

‘Sorry, Fred!’ I apologised. ‘Can’t stop. Running late!’

It was the truth, but buying a newspaper would also mean fishing out money, exposing my palms.

Fred smiled and waved me off. Out of habit, my hand twitched up to wave back. I fisted my fingers fast.

Concentrate, Eve. Just get to the office.

I kept a spare pair in my desk drawer. White, so they’d go with everything. The other girls found it funny how I could type with gloves on.

Turning a corner, I collided with a sharp suit. My second mistake.

I staggered back. A hand closed around my wrist to steady me.

‘Sorry, miss. Didn’t see you there.’

He was a tall moose of a man with eyes brown as chestnuts. Memorable. I’d seen him before, lurking at the back at Madame Ophélie’s private salon. I prayed he hadn’t seen me perform.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, brightly.

I tried to pull away, but it was too late. His eyes had fallen on the unnaturally smooth plane of my palm. His grip tightened.

‘No lines,’ he gasped. ‘I thought it was a hoax, but it’s true.’

‘I only deal in truth,’ I said, grandly. ‘Now let go, please. I’m late for work.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘You have another job?’

‘I can’t charge for what I do at Ophélie’s. It’s against the code.’

His eyes widened. ‘So it’s a free service?’

I had to nod. It was the truth. And my third mistake.

He shifted his grip to my arm and, before I could protest, he hustled me a few feet down the sidewalk and into an alley, smiling at passers-by like we were married. He let go once we were shaded from the street. He also blocked the exit.

‘I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’m in a heap of trouble. I need you to read me.’

‘Here? Now?’ I unsnapped my bag, fumbled for my card and handed it to him: Eve Litho, Inkling

‘My telephone number. Please make an appointment.’

He popped the card in his breast pocket, then – damn him – thrust out his huge paw.

‘Sorry. No can do.’

A hand, once presented, could not be refused. He knew it.

I sighed. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Adam?’

I tugged his hand close. ‘Liar.’

A grin flashed. ‘Just testing.’

I dragged my thumb across the lines wrinkling his palm – marriage, heart, head, money and life.

‘That tickles.’

‘Quiet.’

I let go of his hand. Using my index finger, I drew his lines on the blank canvas of my palm. Black ink appeared where I mapped his fate. The rocky marriage. The kind heart. The smart mind. The lack of cash. The short life.

I made a fist. ‘Ask your question.’

His voice cracked. ‘How do I fix everything?’

I opened my hand, cupped it, so he couldn’t see. The lines of ink had snaked together into an image. A woman’s face. Almost Audrey Hepburn.

‘What do you see, miss?’

Rubbing my smooth palms together, I hastily reabsorbed the ink.

My life. It would never be the same again.

‘Trouble,’ I snapped. ‘You.’