Some Like it Hot

by Amanda Brobyn

  “I guess we’re singing from the same hymn sheet there, Roni. There’s definitely something in the air.” Helena bit her lip as she looked from friend to friend, saving her best smile for Sophie who had rejoined the group empty-handed but for a few remaining business cards. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to miss though . . .”

  “What?”

  “The Curry Club. I’m really gonna miss it.” Helena looked momentarily dejected.

  “And it will miss you too, Helena, but you’ll be back in a year and we won’t be going anywhere, will we, ladies?” Kath declared proudly.

  A fierce nodding of heads followed.

  “No way!”

  “I propose a toast!” Sophie swiped a full bottle of champagne from Nancy as she walked past. She refilled the glasses to the brim, slurping at hers as it spilled over the top, the bubbles tickling her nose. “Here’s to the Curry Club!” she saluted.

  All five glasses shot in the air, resting against each other, close and dependable, just like they were.

  “To the Curry Club!” they cheered.

  “Some like it hot, eh, Soph?” Karl teased, closing in on Sophie. She looked irresistible in the black dress she wore, designed simply at the front, but scooped dangerously low at the back, stopping at the dimples just above her bottom.

  “Mhm. The question is, though, Karl, just how hot do you want it?” Sophie muttered in his ear.

  “As hot as it comes, Ms Kane. As hot as it comes.”

  If you enjoyed

  Some Like it Hot by Amanda Brobyn

  why not try

  Crystal Balls also published by Poolbeg?

  Here’s a sneak preview of Chapter One

  Slumped over the battered suitcase, she flings up her hood, protecting herself from the violent grey rain as it hurls down from the murky London skies. Each drop whispers words of failure, basking in its power to pelt her harder and harder. Gloating like a playground bully. Her torso is already numb but no amount of physical affliction can come between her and the gruesome mental punishment which holds her trapped in anguish and despair.

  Unable to hold back, a tear escapes from her tightly closed eyes, followed by another and another, and she begins to sob uncontrollably, not caring about the weird looks from passers-by. None of whom are bothering to ask if she’s okay. But hey, this is London.

  “This isn’t how my life is supposed to be!” she screeches hysterically, her voice breaking under the exertion. “I’m talented,” she whispers, sobbing, “and I don’t – know – what – else I can do – if I can’t do – this.”

  She breaks down once more and her shoulders convulse with each sporadic heave of breath as she cries wildly. Red eyes squint from beneath the oversized hood and her face glimmers with an iridescent wetness as she continues to weep in desolation. She is now oblivious to the awkward glances from the foot traffic around her. Her best monologue yet, wasted on their closed ears and selective eyes. Wiping her runny nose on the arm of her sleeve, she hangs her head in remorse, immersed in a fog of blankness.

  How can she tell her mother she’s failed? Failed her.

  Her mother had spent her own early years wanting to make it as an actress, under the constant repression of an unambitious family telling her to wise up and live in the real world. So from the moment her own daughter could walk and talk, she was pushed incessantly by a woman who was clearly living her dream through her offspring. Every ounce of energy her body possessed was injected into allowing her child to have the opportunity to become that very thing she never was.

  “And I have failed her,” the girl repeats again and again. “I have failed her.”

  The dream is no longer.

  She stands, slowly and painfully, cold from being static for so long and stiff from putting her body through excessive auditions day and night, year upon year.

  Dragging the heavy case behind her, she trudges heavily through the sopping streets of Soho, looking for a home and silently praying for someone to take her away.

  Chantelle clambers up the stairs, thumping loudly on each one, with all the grace of a baby elephant. How is it that weighing in at only eight stone such a little thing is capable of creating a mini-tremor?

  Breathlessly she knocks at the office door.

  “Tina, are you in there?”

  “No, I’m not here!” I answer with playful sarcasm. “I’m the boss and I’ve given myself the afternoon off!”

  Chantelle enters, panting heavily, and plonks herself at the opposite side of the desk. An immediate emission of stale cigarettes fills the air.

  “Chantelle! You told me you’d given up!” I exclaim with the disgust only an ex-smoker is capable of.

  “Well, I’ve kind of given up so I wasn’t lying,” she explains, straight-faced and earnest. “I’ve actually cut back which in reality means I’ve given up what I used to smoke.” She stares at me, looking smug and clever at her response.

  I can’t even contradict her – there’s logic in there somewhere.

  I trained Chantelle as a saleswoman, a better one than even myself, but the downside is that she has an answer for everything and at breakneck speed.

  I’m feeling mellow today after a joyous meeting with my accountant and it’s a day for celebrations. Let her kill herself with lung disease if she wants to, providing she abides by the rules of no smoking on the premises or in front of the building or during any type of hospitality event. I guess I can’t ask for much more, apart from asking her not to really kill herself of course. She’s my right-hand woman and I’m not sure I could survive without her, but as much as I tell her, I’m not quite sure she believes it.

  “Chantelle, don’t you know how unattractive it makes you look?” I preach. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous but you ruin it all by having a fag hanging out of the side of your mouth.” I laugh off the frustration. “Very ladylike! And why do you keep knocking, you daft sod? If the door isn’t shut tight, just come on in. Open-door policy, remember?”

  Chantelle nods approvingly. “You know what, Tina, I got so used to being treated like a skivvy and a nothing in my old job, it still seems, well, kind of weird that you’re the boss but you’re so nice at the same time.”

  Her honesty and respect are admirable qualities although I can’t help but feel that, at twenty-seven, she ought to be showing signs of greater maturity and aiming to work as more of an equal rather than being happy as a subservient. And this is why I made her the office manager twelve months ago, a recognition well deserved and well overdue in terms of her entire career span.

  Needless to say, I headhunted her from Goldsmith Kings which was easy given she hated it – well, hated the owner really, and for all the same reasons I had done. Her reputation promised her to be worthy of recruitment and, once the word on the street was out – that the chauvinistic pig’s success was practically off the back of Chantelle – I made her an offer I knew she couldn’t refuse and, after her obligatory notice was served, she was all mine. And I certainly didn’t intend to lose her. I love her, the punters love her, the wives and girlfriends are taken in by her natural charm and flattery, and Chantelle graces her way through each day with the ease and simplicity of a woman who works purely for the passion of it, never asking for anything but always giving. She has been and still is indispensable.

  “Earth calling Tina!” she teases.

  “Sorry, Chantelle, I’m in a world of my own.” I roll my eyes at her. I don’t want to keep telling her how valued she is, knowing how uncomfortable it makes her.

  “Penny for them?” She smiles at me affectionately. “Oh my goodness, talk about food for thought!” Bright-eyed, Chantelle suddenly jumps up, digging her hand deep into her jacket pocket and pulling out a newspaper cutting. Leaning over the desk, she quickly unfolds it, holds it in front of me, positioning it far too close to read. She dances around impatiently, hopping from one leg to the next.

  “Please say you’ll come, Tina, please!” she blurts out, looking down at me with
big dark-brown eyes set firmly in you-cannot-say-no mode. Although, to see those eyes, you have to look past her ample chest first.

  “Will you give me a chance to read it, for heaven’s sake? I don’t even know what it is!”

  I scan my eyes quickly over the article while Chantelle childishly bounces around, twitching like she has heavily overdosed on speed.

  She is clearly desperate to speak again and, seeing my eyes lower towards the remaining lines, she bursts out uncontrollably: “Will you come with me, please, Tina? I’ve always wanted to see one of those guys but I’d be too afraid to go on my own. Honestly, Tina, this means so much to me I can’t tell you. Please come with me!” She takes in my reluctant face. “Pretty, please?”

  “Chantelle, breathe,” I tell her. “Just take deep breaths.” I stare at her like she is a woman possessed. “I’ve never seen you like this before – you’re usually so collected.”

  I flick through the article once more. My gut reaction is a no, but her excitement and near-desperation have stirred something in me. She opens her mouth to speak again but I silence her with my finger to my lips like a kindergarten teacher. It works beautifully. Why have I never tried it before?

  “Hang on a minute. Just let me read it again. And will you keep still? You’re making me feel sea-sick.”

  I digest the article for the third time, reading it slowly and mulling it over in my head, but I begin to feel quite uncomfortable at the prospect of it. It’s fine for Chantelle but not for me. I’m not the lost little girl who needs to find herself. That was in the past where it will firmly remain and this is the here and now and, from where I’m sitting, it’s looking pretty damn good. I know exactly who I am and where I’m heading and I simply don’t see the point of paying thirty quid for some deranged spoof to impart a pack of lies. I can understand Chantelle’s interest, however, and in her shoes I might well share her sentiment.

  The article, a full-page spread, is promoting Liverpool’s first Psychic Fayre where it aims to demonstrate communication and contact with the spirit world, through mediumship and clairvoyance. Fine if you’re into that sort of thing, I guess, but the idea of it all fills me with ambivalence. I really don’t like it. What if they ask you questions? Personal questions? What if the next thing you know is that some crook has stolen your identity, cleared out your bank account and eradicated you from your own existence? You are not really you any more. Someone else is you.

  Shaking my head, I quickly attempt to figure a get-out clause.

  “You know what, Chantelle, I really don’t feel comfortable going if I’m honest. It’s a complete waste of money and probably run by a group of phoneys.” I hate doing this to her but in a way I’m also trying to protect her. “I mean, think about it logically, it can’t be authentic, honest gov.”

  Chantelle leans across the desk, practically lying on it face down. “Please, Tina, oh please!” she begs. “I really need someone with me and you’re just the person to keep me grounded. I can’t go with Colin because he doesn’t believe in that stuff and my nan would kill me if she knew what I was up to.” She laughs. “My nan says it’s the devil’s work, not that I believe that but . . .” her black-olive eyes widen with innocence, “but I can be a little naïve sometimes.” The corners of her mouth turn upwards and her thick lashes flutter prettily. “I get so taken in by it all. I really do need to have someone there with me.”

  What a performance, Chantelle! Move over, Hollywood.

  “Look, I’m not really the right person to go with you,” I point out adamantly. “I’m a cynic who is in control of her life because she made it happen. I am where I am because of sheer hard work and this time around I ain’t gonna fail!” My voice breaks a little as I recall that very phone call to Mother asking to be rescued. “It’s up to you, Chantelle. You have to create your own destiny and make your own luck in this life.” I feel a sudden stab of pain. The fight to turn my life around came at a price but, still, I live to tell the tale and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or so they say.

  I watch her despondent face and mellow slightly. I step down from my invisible soapbox. “It’s about action and about doing, Chantelle.” I look around me. “Blood, sweat and tears has been injected into this business. At one point I only had the clothes on my back.” I shake my head at her, conscious that I may have been a bit heavy. “A crystal ball can’t map your life out, Chantelle. All it will do is make your pocket lighter.” I take in her obvious disappointment. She’s as transparent as they come, and wears her heart on her sleeve. I find her simplistic approach rather endearing. I try to make light of the situation by grabbing her hand. With my index finger I trace the contour of her palm, holding the hand firmly as she tries to wriggle it away. My manicured nail trails slowly along her jagged lifeline, deliberately tickling it to torment her.

  “You have a long life in front of you, my dear,” I begin in jest, my voice quaking for dramatic effect. “You will live way into your nineties but your faculties will have left you long before.” I stifle a giggle. “Your chest will go south and your pelvic floor will join it after having nine children . . .”

  “Ouch!” Chantelle’s eyes begin to water at the prospect.

  “You will come into money, a lot of it, but you will always remain faithful to your employer!”

  She snorts at me wickedly.

  “Oh, and all nine of your children will have different fathers!” I put her hand down. “That will be fifty pounds, please!”

  We both laugh as Chantelle examines her chest, thankful of its northerly position. Her face screws up and she pants heavily. “I’m about to drop another one!” She stoops down, holding the small of her back. “Get the towels, quick!”

  I grab the cutting, crushing it into a ball, and hurl it towards her. “You’re sick, Chantelle! And close your legs, will you? I can nearly see your kidneys!”

  “Hang on a minute?” She regains her perfect posture. “I’m sick? Pot and kettle come to mind.” She chortles. “I’m not the one who slept with a fifty-year-old!”

  Bitch! “He said he was forty!” I retort. “My God, don’t remind me of that, you big horror! I was only twenty-three at the time!”

  “Which makes it even worse!” She tuts. “Slapper!”

  My shoulders shudder with nausea. We were in the throes of foreplay when he asked me if I was ready? I replied yes but what was the question? After he noisily climaxed, alone, the cheeky bugger turned and said, “I thought you were ready? You’ve got a lot to learn, sweetheart.” He got out of bed, still semi-erect, leaving me there naked and humiliated and not knowing whether to slap him or try again. I told Chantelle that story after a few too many!

  Chantelle retrieves the crumpled cutting from the floor and throws it in the bin across the other side of the room. It lands perfectly. She smirks, turning back to face me. An impish devilry decorates her exquisite face – she truly has no idea how beautiful she is.

  Every piece of displayed flesh shines with a dark-gold hue. Her thick black eyelashes protect eyes so dark a shade of brown they can be mistaken for black from a distance. Her dainty nose, a Hungerford inheritance, portrays an air of aristocratic exquisiteness and dark red lips in a permanent yet unaffected pout add the penultimate finish to perfection. The finale, however, is a heart so pure and full of virtue that humility would serve her well if it bowed down. As is expected, Chantelle is unaware of the degree of influence and control she possesses and, what she uses, she uses in jest. With her charm, ravishing appearance and a bit of Machiavellian practice, she could actually be quite dangerous.

  “It ain’t worked, Ms Harding!” She shakes her finger at me. “Stick to what you know about, girl, cos palm-reading and comedy just ain’t your thing.” She struts about the room in gangster fashion. Terrible American accent – piercing to the ears in fact. At least my gypsy voice was believable even if the content wasn’t! “Seriously though, Tina, how about I just get a reading done and you can wait outside? At least then you
’re not wasting money and I get someone to go with?”

  When you put it like that! I suppose I could consider it. Conceding, I mean. What harm can it do really? It can’t be that bad if they’re using the Royal Fort. People use that hotel for weddings and conferences. In fact, it’s a pretty good endorsement for their business, using such a prestigious location. Perhaps that’s part of the master plan? I’m not interested in having a reading but I guess there are no reasons why I can’t support my own staff in doing so and it’s very rare for Chantelle to ask for anything.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll go with you,” I give in reluctantly. “But only book yourself in, Chantelle, seriously, and don’t try to convince me otherwise. Anything to get you out of my office. Some of us have got work to do.”

  A jubilant Chantelle runs around the desk, bending forward to hug me. She’s practically sitting on my knee!

  “Thanks, Tina!” she grins. “You’re the best. I can’t wait!”

  Skipping heavily to the door, she turns serious for a moment. “Oh yeah, Tina, Brian Steen’s PA rang earlier to remind you about the meeting.” Her eyes twinkle. “Don’t worry – I told her you’ve been looking forward to it all week.” With a cheeky smirk, she closes the door behind her and seconds later the floor vibrates with the thud of her descent.

  What is it with that girl and how, once again, have I managed to succumb to her charm?

  I thought I was the boss around here?

  If you enjoyed this chapter from

  Crystal Balls by Amanda Brobyn,

  why not order the full book online

  @ www.poolbeg.com